Su Ming issued the command with action: attack.
The city's arrays were all set up—just this last step to go. Retreating now would mean all their prior work was for nothing.
He wouldn't stand for that.
No matter how many enemies there were, even if it meant genocide today, he'd carve the array's center into this hall's floor and blast the city into the abyss.
He immediately made Godslayer flare with bright light. For deep-sea creatures, light was a double-edged sword.
Their eyes couldn't handle the glare, but they'd also be drawn to a strong beam from miles away. Anglerfish—lanternfish—used that trick to hunt.
For now, though, the light just bought Su Ming time. He saw the Trenchers' pupils shrink fast, turning into tiny dots.
He knew the light tactic worked.
So he followed up with flashbangs. His custom stock wasn't just waterproof—they popped off underwater with full effect.
Only problem was, after a few moves, he'd burned through them all. Back in Marvel, he'd used up his grenades and C4. Now the flashbangs were gone too.
He'd never restocked—regular gear wasn't worth his time.
Fireballs were great, but useless underwater.
Still, there was one reliable method anytime, anywhere: body and blade.
One hand on Nightfall, the other on Godslayer, he charged through the door.
As the two godly weapons danced, the water started clouding up.
Fishman guts and blood floated with the currents.
Daniel opted to block the door. Good thing the sword had cut a one-person gap—he could hold it.
His blazing hellfire trident shredded the fishmen, turning them to ash on contact.
Sure, seeing stuff burn underwater was weird, but who said this world wasn't nuts?
Superman could juggle the moon for fun—why couldn't Blue Devil torch things down here? Hellfire was that stubborn. As long as Hell existed, it'd burn wherever it damn well pleased.
Underwater? Sure. Vacuum of space? You bet.
Meanwhile, Nightshade actually slipped past Blue Devil and rushed inside with a bold plan.
Since they were setting up an array, why not "test-run" it? Shove these endless Trenchers into the Shadow Dimension first.
She waved a hand, opening a small portal. A Trencher lunging for her, expecting a meal, got swallowed by the black hole that popped up instead.
The Shadow Dimension wasn't a nice place—nothing but shadows, pure black all the way.
Spinning like a top, Su Ming was hacking away in a frenzy. Venom sprouted tendrils from his back, snapping Trencher necks like corn on the cob.
Catching Nightshade casting shadow spells while closing in, Su Ming got her play right off.
Solid idea.
No one knew how many Trenchers there were. He and Venom could kill forever, but it'd waste time with no room for error.
If Nightshade opened a portal by the hole in the floor, the Trenchers would dive into the Shadow Dimension themselves, trapped there.
The Shadow Dimension was Nightshade's turf—easy in, but getting out needed magic, and the Trench clan were all grunts.
So he moved toward her, ready to guard her while she set up.
Just then, with Nightshade deep inside, her back wide open, some Trenchers spotted their shot and pounced.
Eyes are up front, back's a blind spot—surely they wouldn't miss this time, right?
Normally, yeah, Nightshade might've been toast. Sorceresses were fragile—backstabs were trouble.
But Eve wasn't alone now. She wasn't alone.
Lori was physically bonded to her.
As a symbiote, Lori had her back covered. When the Trenchers struck from behind, she stretched out tendrils just like Venom.
Wrapped their necks, then yanked hard.
Through the vibrations, she felt their necks shatter. That black gooey thing's power was way scarier than she'd thought—mimicking it, she'd inherited the real deal.
Snapping necks didn't kill instantly, but cutting the brain-body nerve link was a killer move for anything with a spine.
These fishmen turned into "plant-fish" on the spot.
Lori found it fresh. Usually, mimicking someone, she'd kill with magic or superpowers.
Wiping out a hundred at once was easy, but "personally" snapping necks? You couldn't feel that standing far off.
Her killing itch got louder—hunger and other urges too.
With their teamwork, black tendrils and magic swirled through the water, and they linked up with Su Ming smooth.
"Good job," Lori sent Eve a thought.
"You too. Thanks for watching my back," Eve shot one back.
"Nah, it's what I'm here for."
"…You're great."
"Hehe, you… you're pretty great too…"
The two girls started passing mental notes, all shy and flustered.
So Su Ming quickly noticed—they were spacing out again.
???
What the hell? Weren't they all badass rushing in? Why were they suddenly standing there, all coy and fidgety?
On a battlefield—heads down, toes tracing circles, fingers twisting together—that sure didn't look like array-casting.
He had Venom smack their heads to snap them out of it.
Man, he was beat. How'd Nightmaster ever lead these women into fights?
Eve jolted awake from the hit. Right—battlefield, not the time for that.
She eyed the hole still spitting out Trenchers, figuring how to get close.
She needed to hook the Shadow Dimension passage to that opening.
But turns out, they just had to stick behind the legendary merc.
Seeing them snap to, Su Ming shook his head a little. No super-brain? Then don't overthink mid-fight.
Just a mental grumble, then he charged the hole.
Blue Devil swam over too. Everyone was inside—guarding the door was pointless now, so he'd cover the rear.
In the murky water, all he could see was the trident's lit patch. Limbs and chunks drifted by now and then.
A brain with half an eyeball splatted on his face. He swiped it off fast.
He took a deep breath—still just sulfur in his nose. He used to hate this suit's curse, but now he was kinda glad.
Without that familiar brimstone stink, he'd have puked in this blood soup.
How many fishmen had Deathstroke offed in ten seconds flat? Two hundred? Three? Too many to count—just that black-and-yellow blur pushing forward.
Where he went, it was like a storm had blown through.
Those black and yellow swords blurred with afterimages. Any Trencher brushing a shadow lost a body part instantly.
All fatal—Deathstroke's strikes were fast and dead-on. Before they even got close, his blades were waiting.
Lots of fishmen looked like they'd rammed themselves onto his weapons—chests and heads catching the steel.
Was that all in Deathstroke's math?
Blue Devil watched, heart pounding, and yeah, he started zoning out too.
The Trenchers in the hall thinned out—array setup was a go. Nightshade jumped into focus amid the chaos.
Su Ming and Blue Devil stuck close, slashing down any Trenchers that got near.
He wasn't Aquaman—"respect for sea races" was worth squat.
His rule was simple: blockers die. Why keep unstable trash like the Trench clan around? Wipe them out.
Truth is, Su Ming knew the Trench were one of Atlantis's secret weapons. They wouldn't dream of scrapping them.
With Poseidon's Trident in hand, these sea lunatics hit wherever you pointed—destructive as hell.
Sure, Su Ming mowed them down like mosquitoes, but he was a juiced-up Deathstroke. The main-world old-man version wouldn't have it this easy.
Against regular folks? Forget it. Minus infection powers, they'd outclass a zombie horde.
Thick, slick scales and skin—bulletproof. Strength worth ten normal guys, driven by endless hunger.
If you ruled a nation, you'd have a super-force you didn't need to babysit—just let them fend like stray dogs.
Then, at crunch time, wave a bone, and they'd clinch your win. Would you ditch them over "humanitarian" gripes?
Arthur'd been here once and even thought about curing or caging the Trenchers. Mera hauled him out fast—said they were ex-Atlanteans, how tragic and dangerous they were, keep people away.
Arthur tried arguing, but Mera dragged him off, told him to shut up and kiss her.
Mera wanted to keep a trump card for Atlantis. If they ever clashed with Amazons or humans, the sea'd have a killer army.
Beauty won—Arthur got distracted. One kiss from Mera, and he forgot everything.
They weren't married yet then, but girlfriend's always right. Mera was smarter than him anyway.
Arthur figured since they were kin once, leave them be. Living in the trench, they weren't hurting the world, right?
So good-guy Arthur listened to Mera, went topside to drink and crash, leaving the Trench clan stashed in the deep sea.
Until Orm grabbed Poseidon's Trident and led the Trench army to hit the surface—human casualties piled up fast.
Arthur had no choice—beat Orm, took the throne, married Mera, brought peace.
But Orm was his brother. Arthur couldn't kill him—just locked Ocean Master in a Poseidonia tower with Batman-funded promethium super-chains.
The Trench army? Mera wouldn't let him kill them either. He just used the trident to herd them back here.
That's why Arthur didn't want the "Seven Seas King" gig. It sucked.
His word barely counted—wifey called the shots. He was a mascot on a throne, no fun at all.
Mera was good to him, sure, but on state stuff, she got all serious and stubborn, with some Atlantis-first vibes. Lame.
Humans were hitting space while Atlantis was stuck underwater—folks couldn't even take UV without armor. Where's the superiority come from?
Plus, Arthur never got ruler training. He was a sailor, a lighthouse keeper's son—no interest in thrones, just nonstop petty crap.
Take this case: a resident, Berekalortuva, accidentally ate his neighbor Hunakarinamos's fish. Atlantean court ruled the first guy owed the second an identical fish.
He couldn't cough one up, so he came to the throne to plead for another payment option.
That's Aquaman's job—throne judgment, a king's sacred right and duty since forever.
Arthur could skip it, but then the whole nation'd call him a slacker king, even dragging his mom's rep down.
The case wasn't even complicated, but those names alone gave him a migraine. It's just a fish! Few bucks at the market—I'll buy you one, good?
Nope. The king had to judge fair.
"A new fish isn't the same fish. Fish are fish, sure, but they're different. You can't say they're the same just 'cause they're the same type. Actually, that fish you think's the same? Totally different from the old one. Oh, and the dead fish had a cozy name—Slakuhudvasas."
The high judge lectured Arthur for hours, making damn sure the king got Atlantis's laws' weight and gravity before letting him off.
Arthur had no other thoughts—just wanted to die.
Right then, he felt being king was way worse than sticking with the Justice League as a hero.
Out there, smacking small-time crooks—or getting smacked by big ones.
But he was happy!
Batman says charge, he charges. Diana says chop, he chops.
After, they'd all grab food, drink, and brag—ten thousand times better than the seafloor!
Can you smoke, drink, or get a perm down there? Nope.
His long, wavy hair made him look wild and rugged—pure man—but it wasn't natural curls. Human barbers did that.
And booze? Couldn't live without it. He loved chugging a bottle of hard stuff, smashing it, then striding into crashing waves, leaving Batman a badass silhouette.
So he handed the crown to Mera. In Atlantean law, queen regent was legal—that damn code had some humanity left.
He took his Aquaman trident back to the surface—to roll with his Justice League crew, fight for bigger goals.
And, y'know, live happy.