DC: Rise of the Kryptonian Tyrant (Re-Upload)

Leon and his crew stared at the gleaming Colt Python revolver in shock.

With… a gun?

This wasn't the outcome Leon had anticipated. This man wasn't playing by any rules Leon understood.

His face twisted into an ugly grimace as he glared at Bardi. He wasn't insane, there was no way he would take that revolver.

The Suicide Slum might be chaotic, filthy, and rife with violence, but even here, certain lines weren't crossed. Killing someone outright in broad daylight wasn't something you just did.

The few unwritten rules that existed allowed people to live here without total anarchy. Even the most desperate criminals in the ghetto understood that breaking those rules could lead to a spiral of retaliation, drawing police attention and upsetting the fragile balance of power.

Leon wasn't some big-shot gang leader who could shoot someone and walk away without consequences. If he pulled the trigger out of anger, he'd be a marked man, forced to flee and hide unless a powerful gang decided to take him in.

His face flushed with frustration, and he spat angrily on the ground beside him. His voice low but filled with resentment, he snapped, "Get lost."

Then, without giving Bardi another glance, he turned back to the drunkard and resumed beating him. After delivering a few more kicks to vent his frustration, Leon motioned for his crew to leave.

Before walking away, he loomed over the drunkard one last time and issued a warning, his tone sharp and venomous: "You either pay me back, return the goods, or I'll beat you every time I see you."

It was an empty show of bravado, the typical posturing of a small-time gangster asserting dominance.

As Leon walked off, his shoulders stiff with irritation, he threw one last venomous glance at Bardi. His anger flared at the thought of the man in the pristine white trench coat mocking him so blatantly. Leon let out a huff of frustration as he disappeared down the alley.

Bardi watched him leave, his expression calm but thoughtful. He admired Leon's restraint. The young man had the ability to read the situation and hold back his anger. He understood his place in the world and wasn't reckless, a quality that showed intelligence and survival instincts. Moreover, Leon had enough charisma to lead a group of followers, despite his lack of experience. It was just bad luck that his first attempt at hustling for money had been ruined by an old drunkard's schemes.

"Keep an eye on him," Bardi said casually, sliding the revolver back into Mike's waistband. "He might be a colleague of yours one day."

Mike watched the group of young men retreat with a scowl on his face. Another one? The boss was already favoring someone else?

Mike muttered internally, "This won't do. I need to make sure they know I'm the boss's first and only right-hand man. No way I'm letting someone else steal my spot. Not when the chance to become someone powerful is finally within reach!"

"Get up," Bardi said flatly, glancing down at the drunkard.

The drunkard groaned on the ground, bruised and battered. Despite how vicious the beating had seemed, the blows had been more for show than actual damage. These were experienced street kids, they knew where to hit to make it hurt without causing any real harm.

The drunkard, a veteran of this kind of life, knew how to take a beating. Lying still for a while, he caught his breath and slowly looked up through the messy strands of his hair. His murky eyes focused on Bardi's towering figure, which seemed to glow with an aura of power.

In an instant, the drunkard scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly but quick to recover. He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand and coughed a few times. His gaze sharpened with a mix of hope and excitement as he asked, "Are you with the family? Did the family send you to find me?"

Bardi remained silent for a moment, studying the man. He had no idea what "the family" referred to, but the drunkard reeked of cheap alcohol and desperation.

Once again, Bardi rubbed his right thumb against the palm of his left, his habitual motion when thinking. His voice was calm but firm. "Find a place where we can talk."

The drunkard's eyes lit up, his stooped posture straightening slightly. He was overjoyed, clearly interpreting Bardi's words as an important opportunity.

Looking around nervously, as though he were being watched, the drunkard whispered, "Come to my place. My place is safe."

He gestured for Bardi to follow, his movements jittery but determined. As they walked, the drunkard frequently glanced over his shoulder, making sure Bardi was still there. It was as if he feared Bardi might vanish if he looked away for too long.

With every step, he began recounting stories of his past glories, boasting loudly about his "achievements" and how he had once been someone important.

Only then did Bardi understand that the "family" the drunkard referred to was actually a gang, a criminal organization formed by Metropolis's upper-class elites for their own convenience. Through the chaos of power struggles among these elites, this organization had evolved into the "family" gang.

The drunkard's home, located deep in the Suicide Slum, was predictably dismal. It was a crumbling structure, with walls shedding layers of plaster and dust, exposing the bare masonry beneath. On what was left of the second floor, clothes were strung out to dry, faded and worn.

A small window with iron bars, resembling a prison cell, allowed a glimpse inside. Behind the bars sat a skinny boy, no older than thirteen or fourteen, engrossed in a book.

Knowing the state of his home was far from presentable, the drunkard hesitated at the door. "Wait here," he said quickly, slipping inside to "tidy up."

Bardi waited at the door, his imposing figure radiating calm authority. His right thumb absently rubbed against the palm of his left hand, his habitual motion when in thought. His mind was already turning over a plan.

"Go find that young man, Leon," Bardi instructed Mike without looking at him. "Bring him to me. When I understand the dynamics here, I'll start controlling this place. I need people."

Mike nodded, though inwardly he cursed his misfortune. "Damn it, now I've gotta go invite someone else to compete with me for the boss's attention," he thought bitterly.

Still, Mike knew better than to protest. The consequences of showing incompetence in front of Bardi would be far worse than dealing with some punk. Grumbling inwardly, he turned and left to track down Leon and his group.

---

Inside the house, the drunkard wasn't tidying up.

The moment he saw his son sitting in the only decent chair, his face twisted with rage. Without a second's hesitation, he swung his beer bottle.

"Bang!"

The bottle struck the boy's head with a loud crack. Caught completely off guard, the boy dropped the yellowed book he'd been reading. Pain exploded across his scalp as he clutched at the growing lump on his head.

"Get off that chair!" the drunkard roared, his voice thick with fury.

Before the boy could react, the man kicked him to the ground. His small frame hit the floor hard, his hands and knees scraping against the rough surface. The rags he wore shifted, revealing bruises and scars that littered his skinny body, evidence of years of abuse.

Grabbing the boy by the collar, the drunkard hauled him up, his face twisted in rage. "I've fed you for over ten years, you ungrateful little bastard! And what do you do? Sit in my chair? Eat my food? Read your useless books?"

The boy's eyes filled with terror as his father's words grew harsher.

"Listen to me, you little shit!" the drunkard spat, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. "Get into that shed, close the door, and don't come out. You hear me? Don't you dare ruin this for me. And don't even think about complaining."

The boy froze, his breath hitching in shock and horror. His face turned pale, the pain from the lump on his head forgotten. Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled toward the small room next to the main area. Without even looking back, he climbed inside, shutting the creaky wooden door behind him.

The drunkard straightened his clothes, forcing a smile onto his face. When he stepped outside to invite Bardi in, his demeanor was entirely different—obsequious, almost friendly.

"Please, come in!" he said, bowing slightly as he gestured for Bardi to enter.

His only concern was the absence of the bodyguard who had been with Bardi earlier, but he quickly brushed it off.

---

Bardi entered the house and waited for the chair to cool down before sitting. His calm, composed demeanor contrasted sharply with the chaotic energy of the drunkard.

The man, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with impatience. "So… which family do you represent?" he asked eagerly, trying to gauge Bardi's intentions.

Bardi's expression remained neutral as he replied, "Not a family. I'm here to ask about Metropolis. If your answers are satisfactory, perhaps you'll have the chance to work under me. If your answers are mediocre, you'll still walk away with a few hundred dollars."

The drunkard stiffened, his mind racing.

He recognized the significance of this moment, someone new challenging the established order of the Suicide Slum. Bardi wasn't from around here; that much was clear. Perhaps he was from another city, looking to carve out his place in Metropolis.

The drunkard's heart pounded with excitement. Memories of his past failures surged to the forefront of his mind. This was his chance for redemption. If he played his cards right, he could rise to prominence under this new leader.

"I understand! I understand!" the drunkard said, his eyes gleaming with a newfound intensity.

Bardi nodded, his gaze drifting over the dismal surroundings. His eyes settled on the battered book lying on the ground. Its yellowed pages were creased and worn from frequent reading.

"Quantum Theory."

The title stood out against the grime of the room.

"I can help you," the drunkard blurted, eager to make an impression. "I used to work in the big city, you know. You've probably heard of me!"

He licked his lips nervously, hoping his name still carried some weight.

"My name is Lionel Luthor," he declared, his voice filled with pride.

Bardi's eyebrows lifted slightly, his attention shifting back to the man before him. His gaze sharpened, and he glanced toward the small, dimly lit room behind Lionel.

Through the narrow crack of the door, a pair of young, hate-filled eyes stared out.

The boy's gaze shifted from his father to Bardi, his expression filled with resentment and bitterness.

For a brief moment, their eyes met.

The boy's pupils shrank in shock, and then, as if caught, he quickly pulled back into the darkness. The door closed with a soft "click."

***

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