Chapter 86: Asserting Dominance, with my cute daughter(灬º‿º灬)♡
Chapter 86: Asserting Dominance, with my cute daughter(灬º‿º灬)♡
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Orm didn't even glance at Clayface, who had asked the question. Instead, he slowly turned his gaze toward the opposite side of the room and spoke with a measured tone. "That's an excellent question. I imagine everyone here is wondering what the Bat-Signal in the sky represents, what kind of message it's trying to send." He paused briefly, letting the anticipation build before shrugging casually. "The truth is, I don't know either."
A murmur of intrigue spread through the crowd of villains.
Orm continued, his expression unreadable. "I was invited here just like the rest of you. The only difference is that my venue was… borrowed for the occasion."
The villains shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances. Their instincts told them something was off. Almost as if on cue, their eyes followed Orm's gaze, landing on two individuals who had been standing in the background until now. One was the bespectacled man who had spoken out earlier, a seemingly unremarkable figure. The other was far more unsettling—shrouded in a thin veil of mist, his presence radiated an eerie sense of mystery.
The man with glasses, who looked more like an unassuming walk-on than a central figure, stepped forward and ascended to the high platform. As he moved, he casually snapped his fingers. Out of nowhere, a plush velvet sofa materialized beneath him, and he sank into it with an air of casual arrogance. Behind him, the mist-shrouded figure remained perfectly still, as if waiting for his cue.
The bespectacled man leaned back, crossed one leg over the other, and smiled faintly. "Ladies and gentlemen, first of all, let me thank you all for accepting my invitation and making the effort to be here tonight. I know Gotham's nightlife can be… distracting." He smirked before continuing.
"Now, let's get to the question that's been on everyone's mind: Why hasn't Batman shown up?"
That got everyone's attention. Even the Joker, who had been watching a starfish slowly devour something on the other side of the glass, turned his head with mild interest.
The bespectacled man chuckled, clearly reveling in the moment. "The answer is simple." He gestured vaguely toward the night sky. "This city no longer belongs to the Bat. It belongs to me. And, of course, to all of you."
Clayface, who had seen plenty of upstarts in his time, scoffed openly. "Yeah, yeah. I've heard this speech before. Plenty of guys have stood where you're standing, claiming they've got Gotham all figured out. They always think they're different. And yet, somehow, Batman always proves them wrong." He folded his arms, his shifting, mud-like face contorting into something resembling amusement. "So before you go on with this little monologue of yours, why don't you start by telling us who the hell you actually are?"
The bespectacled man didn't seem offended. In fact, he smiled as though he had been waiting for that exact reaction. "Ah, Clayface… always so quick to dismiss newcomers. But don't worry, I'll introduce myself."
Clayface narrowed his eyes. Then, suddenly, his face twisted in shock. "Wait—how do you know who I am?"
The man in glasses reached up and, with a slow, deliberate motion, removed his spectacles. A strange ripple passed over his face, like the surface of disturbed water, and the air around him shimmered.
Then, as the mist cleared, the villains were met with an unsettling sight. The man's face was completely blank—smooth and featureless, like a mannequin.
"I am the Inquirer," he declared, his voice unnervingly calm. "The most sinful man in the world. I have spent my life chasing answers, but there is one question I no longer need to ask—Batman is no longer a factor."
The room fell silent.
Of course, the real "Inquirer" was nothing more than a fabrication. This faceless figure was Dean, using Manaphy's water magic to alter his appearance and create the illusion of an enigmatic new presence. The deception was necessary, and Orm had willingly played along, knowing that this elaborate display would solidify Dean's influence over Gotham's criminal underworld.
Dean continued, his voice steady. "I am no outsider. In fact, I know this city better than any of you. I have moved through its shadows unseen, influencing events that even the world's greatest detective could barely trace. The deep infiltration of the Court of Owls, the destruction of Black Mask, Falcone's imprisonment… all of these events bear my fingerprints." He let those words sink in before delivering the final blow.
"Batman found me. He pieced together the clues and uncovered my existence. So I dealt with him."
The weight of his statement rippled through the room like a shockwave. The idea that Batman had been bested was difficult to accept. Even for Gotham's most hardened criminals, it was nearly impossible to believe.
Clayface let out a rough, gravelly laugh, breaking the tension. "And we're just supposed to take your word for it?" He gestured toward Dean dismissively. "You bring us all here, claim to have taken out Batman, and expect us to bow to you? Hate to break it to you, pal, but words don't mean much in Gotham."
A few others murmured in agreement.
The Mad Hatter, twirling his golden pocket watch between his fingers, let out a giggling, breathy laugh. "Oh, my dear faceless one, if you truly wish to gain my loyalty, it's ever so simple. Give me a perfect Alice, and I shall trade you everything I have in return."
Then, just as quickly, his manic smile vanished. He removed his tall hat, revealing the brain-controlling device strapped to his scalp. His eyes gleamed with madness. "But if you cannot grant me my Alice… then I'm afraid you must pay for wasting my time."
Dean, still masked as the Inquirer, barely reacted. His expression—if one could call it that—remained unreadable.
"Alice in Wonderland, of course," he mused. "A girl lost in a world of madness." His voice was almost thoughtful before he turned his gaze back to the Mad Hatter. "I can give you your Alice, Jervis. But everything comes at a price. What are you willing to trade?"
The room grew eerily quiet.
Mad Hatter urged impatiently: "Hurry up and tell me what you want from me."
Dean raised her hand, and the raven behind her immediately understood, dispersing the fog surrounding her body, revealing her demonic true appearance.
"I want your soul."
The raven held a black light spot in his hands and let it sink into the Mad Hatter's eyebrows. His whole body was shaking violently, two sharp corners bulged on his forehead, and his skin began to turn red.
"Ahhh!"
After letting out a scream, the Mad Hatter slowly raised his head, his six eyes emitting evil light.
"I saw Wonderland. Wonderland really does exist. I'm going to find Alice, Alice! Where are you!"
The Mad Hatter yelled crazily, looking around with six eyes, as if he saw something that didn't exist, and then his eyes shot out lasers, which almost hit Clayface who was watching the show next to him.
"Fuck, look what you're doing." Clayface looked at the Mad Hatter who was staring at him and felt shuddering.
Dean squinted his eyes and kept laughing, but the faceless illusion covering his body was not lifted. To others, it looked like a face without facial features that kept making strange laughter.
"I helped the Mad Hatter solve his problem. He wants to idealize Alice. Why not find someone who can change his appearance and force him to keep changing his appearance until he is satisfied."
Clayface was stunned upon hearing this, and watched as the Mad Hatter who's been transformed into a demon rushed towards him, pinning him down and was unable to move.
"Change, change quickly! Become Alice, or I will kill you!" The Mad Hatter grabbed Clayface's neck and kept shaking it from side to side.
His life was threatened. In the face of dignity and life, Clayface chose the latter. His body muscles twitched and shrank, and he turned into a blond and blue-eyed little lolita.
Upon seeing this, the Mad Hatter immediately let go of his hand and lifted up the lolita's clay face like a doll
"Alice, my Alice!"
As he spoke, he thrust his mouth into Clayface's face.
Such a disgusting scene made the villains present frown. They knew that this was the Inquirer's way of threatening them, and that he was trying to scare the monkeys.
What the raven gives to the Mad Hatter is a soul seed, which is modeled after Trigon. It can brainwash the target and give it powerful abilities. The weaker ones will have their appearance changed and grow sharp horns and six eyes.
Dean was very satisfied with the effect. He stood with his hands behind his hands, floated above the heads of the villains, and said indifferently:
"Those who follow me will prosper, and those who go against me will perish. Everyone, choose one."
Bane stood up and said, "I don't accept it." He was about to slap Dean's back with his bare hands, but in the blink of an eye, Raven knocked him out with shadow magic.
Pure physical warriors are embarrassed by this. They have no countermeasures when encountering a powerful mage. Dean saw Bane's miserable situation and decided to take a lesson from him. Both magic and physics are blooming, and neither one can be missing.
"The warrior has fallen, who's next?"
He knew Gotham was a city of chaos, where even the most powerful figures could fall with the slightest misstep. But this wasn't just any part of Gotham—this was Orm's territory. That meant fewer unexpected troubles, fewer betrayals lurking in the shadows. For now, at least.
The gathered villains exchanged uncertain glances. Two-Face, ever the man of fate, flicked his infamous coin into the air, letting it decide whether he would bend the knee.
Dean, with the barest flicker of concentration, reached out with his telekinesis, subtly influencing the coin's path. His manipulation was minute, almost imperceptible—but not to Two-Face. The moment the coin was touched by an unseen force, his sharp eyes snapped toward Dean, scrutinizing him.
Without a word, he flipped it again. This time, it landed on the clean, unscarred side.
A slow smirk played on Two-Face's lips. He nodded, as if speaking to fate itself. "Lady Luck bids me surrender to you, Inquirer."
That single concession set off a chain reaction.
One by one, the other villains followed suit, stepping down from their positions of defiance and acknowledging Dean's rule. It was a moment of unity—Gotham's most notorious criminals, all bowing their heads before a new leader.
But Dean wasn't naïve.
Would Gotham's villains truly surrender so easily?
Of course not.
Dean didn't need to be a mind reader to know what they were all thinking. Every single one of them was already scheming, plotting the best way to take him down. Their compliance was an illusion, a temporary facade masking their betrayal.
That was exactly what he wanted.
After securing their "loyalty," Dean kept his promise. He gestured to the raven, allowing it to distribute powerful gifts among them. But the true power of these so-called "blessings" went beyond raw strength.
The soul seeds implanted by the raven weren't mere enhancements. Unlike the corrupted seeds of Trigon, which would drag heroes into darkness, Dean's version had an entirely different effect. These seeds carried subtle yet unbreakable mental directives:
"No killing."
"No arson."
"The Riddler is gone."
"Leave Gotham alone."
They were programmed commands, buried deep within the subconscious, twisting the very nature of those who received them.
The process by which a hero falls into evil is called corruption.
Perhaps this was something new—"redemption through corruption."
Villains who accepted the seeds were allowed to leave, each of them unknowingly bound by the restrictions Dean had set. As they departed, a strange stillness settled over the room.
Only one person remained.
But of course, they all knew who that was.
Dean let out a quiet sigh as he turned his gaze downward, looking at the lone figure still seated below him. The man in question was completely unbothered, drinking lazily as if none of this concerned him.
Dean exhaled. "This world can't be a DC fan novel," he muttered. "Only idiot authors would make the Joker the center of everything."
If a normal writer had control over Gotham, they'd handle the Joker properly. They'd introduce him early, establish his chaos, and then erase him immediately—no drawn-out nonsense, no grandstanding. They'd obliterate him with fire, incinerate him to pure carbon, crush him with neutron-based weaponry, and then drown whatever remained in a magical purge. Just for good measure, they'd have a speedster ensure that time itself couldn't be reversed to bring him back.
That was how a rational person would handle the Joker.
And yet, here he was, doing the opposite.
Fate was a cruel comedian.
The raven at Dean's side tilted its head in confusion, unable to comprehend his musings. But the Joker? He understood exactly what Dean was thinking. That was why he had come in the first place.
A slow, drunken grin spread across the clown's face as he swirled the drink in his hand. "I gotta say, Dean," he chuckled, his voice slurred but sharp. "I really oughta thank ya."
Dean arched a brow but said nothing.
The Joker leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. "With Batboy outta the picture, I needed a safe place to kick back and relax. If it weren't for you, I might not have made it out in one piece." His grin widened, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Not that I don't enjoy a good chase now and then, but even I know when to cash in my chips."
Dean silently floated downward, lowering himself to sit across from the Joker at the table. The faceless illusion still concealed his true features, but that didn't seem to matter.
"How did you recognize me?" he finally asked. "I don't even have facial features right now."
The Joker's grin never wavered. He tapped his temple. "Posture. Stride. That dead-inside aura. Doesn't matter how much you change your face, you still move the same." He tilted his head. "Besides, I listen when Batboy talks. And I really liked that little stunt with Clayface. Classic."
Dean didn't respond.
It was remarkable, really. A Gotham officer and the Joker, sharing drinks like old friends.
They sat in silence for a while, the dim glow of the room casting long shadows against the walls. Then, after a few more glasses, the Joker leaned back with an exaggerated sigh, stretching his arms out.
"And y'know," he added, his voice turning oddly bitter, "I wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for you."
Dean's fingers tapped against the tabletop. "Oh?"
"Oh?" the Joker mimicked, laughing. "Ya think I'm kidding? Thanks to you, the GCPD's a goddamn nightmare." He gestured broadly. "There are over a dozen cops running around that can fight on par with Robin! And they actually work as a team."
He groaned dramatically. "Do you know how annoying that is? It's not just a couple of overachievers anymore—now the whole department is filled with little Bat-brats running around like they own the place."
Dean smirked. "Sounds like you're upset."
The Joker pouted. "I am upset! You're killin' my vibe, kid. And don't even get me started on Gordon."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "What about him?"
Joker scoffed. "The old man's basically got divine intervention on his side. It doesn't matter where I hide—he always finds me. Every. Single. Time." He threw his hands up. "How the hell am I supposed to enjoy myself when I'm getting hunted down 24/7?! My gang can't even stay together anymore—we've had to split into pieces just to survive!"
Dean chuckled, swirling his own drink in thought.
The Joker's complaints were valid, but they didn't really matter. Gotham had changed. He had changed it.
And at the end of the day, no matter how much the Joker whined, he was still here. Still laughing.
Still part of the game.
Dean took a sip of his drink, tilting his head slightly as he looked at the grinning madman across from him.
Maybe that was the real joke.
---
The Gotham Police Special Forces team, formed under Dean's leadership, was the reason the Joker had been forced into hiding. This elite unit was unlike any force Gotham had ever seen before. They were relentless, precise with their swordsmanship, and deadly accurate with firearms. More importantly, they were led by Jim Gordon himself.
But it wasn't just their skill that made them unstoppable—it was their weaponry. Armed with Hoshikudaki, a weapon with near-mystical properties, they were nearly untouchable. The Joker had always been slippery, always found a way to wriggle free no matter how tight the noose around him got. But against this team? Even he couldn't find an opening. There was simply no space left for chaos.
And Gotham changed because of it.
In just a short time, the city's crime rate had dropped by a staggering five percentage points. The people of Gotham rejoiced. The air felt lighter, the streets felt safer. For the first time in years, parents dared to let their children play outside without glancing over their shoulders. News stations flooded with reports of the city's newfound peace, praising Gordon for his leadership and Dean for his strategic brilliance.
But while the civilians celebrated, the criminals suffered.
For Gotham's underworld, this was the worst period in history. One by one, their operations were dismantled, their men arrested or driven out. Every corner of the city felt suffocating under the watchful eyes of the special forces. The fear that once belonged to the citizens had now shifted onto the villains.
Dean watched this unfold with a blank expression.
"This is all because of me," he murmured to himself. "And I thought it was the right thing to do…"
His voice trailed off, his thoughts darkening.
Something about this situation didn't feel right. He had assumed he was the one pulling the strings, that he was the one shaping Gotham's future—but now, he wasn't so sure. It was almost as if someone else had been nudging things along, carefully orchestrating events from behind the scenes.
If there was one universal truth about the world of heroes and villains, it was this:
For a hero story to continue, new villains must always rise.
A never-ending cycle, an unspoken rule of the universe. Every time a villain was defeated, another would emerge from the shadows—stronger, more dangerous, more insidious. It was the only way to maintain balance, to keep the story moving.
That was why, no matter how many times Gotham was "cleaned up," darkness always found its way back.
The proof was everywhere.
Darkseid. The Anti-Monitor. The Outcast. The Great Darkness. One by one, they appeared, each more terrifying than the last. No matter how many times the heroes won, there was always another evil lurking just beyond the horizon.
And now, lurking somewhere in the background, hidden in the very fabric of history itself, was Shendu.
The Holy Lord had already entered the DC Universe. He was biding his time, waiting in the shadows, letting the forces of righteousness grow stronger. Because only when the light reached its peak could the darkness justify its return.
Dean understood this pattern.
And he knew exactly how to break it.
He thought back to the story of Lo Pei from The Adventures of Jackie Chan.
Lo Pei had found a loophole in the balance of good and evil. By sealing away the most powerful fire demon—Shendu—he had tipped the scales. Without a great evil to replace him, the world remained in balance, and peace endured for thousands of years.
Dean decided to follow that example.
If Shendu was waiting for righteousness to flourish before making his move, then Dean would cut him off before he had the chance.
He would become the villain.
He would seize the last available position of darkness and force Shendu into revealing himself. He would drag the demon out of hiding and make him fight now—on Dean's terms.
He wouldn't let the story play out the way it was supposed to. He would rewrite it.
---
Elsewhere, in a dimly lit bar bathed in shades of green, a lone figure sat at the counter, nursing a drink. The man took a slow sip, exhaling as he stared into the glass. His voice was low, contemplative.
"Five years ago, Darkseid came to Earth," he murmured. "I waited for that moment. I waited for the universe to grant me an opportunity."
He swirled the liquor in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light.
"A team, forged by destiny, was born. They carried righteousness in their hearts, justice in their hands. But when I looked at them—truly looked—I realized something." He chuckled bitterly. "My share of darkness was pathetic."
No matter how much evil he cultivated, it was never enough. The balance was already tipped too far in the wrong direction.
Even across universes, it was the same.
There was still too much evil in the world. So he had devised a new plan.
"I decided to create a Saint Seiya," he mused. "A Jackie Chan for the DC Universe. Someone who would purge the filth, cleanse the world."
His gaze flickered to the side, landing on a poster pinned to the wall. It was a Gotham Police promotional ad—a photo of Dean and his Special Forces team.
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
It had worked.
"Until recently, everything was going smoothly," he admitted. "But I might've been too eager. I moved too fast, and the Saints noticed."
And then, just like that, the game changed. In his observations, he discovered something peculiar—something unprecedented.
This new Joker, the one who had risen in recent years, wasn't especially strong. He wasn't a metahuman, he wasn't a god, he wasn't even that different from the Jokers of the past. And yet—the amount of darkness he possessed surpassed every other villain in Gotham combined.
It was disproportionate. It shouldn't have been possible. So he had made his move.
The Joker had become his soft target.
He had orchestrated everything, pulling the strings behind the scenes, subtly guiding Gordon and the police force to hunt the Joker down. Whenever the Joker fled to a secret hideout, he made sure the location was leaked. Whenever he tried to disappear, he whispered to the people of Gotham, nudging them toward the police station to report what they saw.
He had driven the clown into a dead end.
And the best part?
The Joker knew it.
Had it been Batman leading the charge, the Joker wouldn't have minded. He would've laughed in the face of death, grinning until the very end.
But this wasn't Batman.
This was something worse. This was a lingering force that refused to die, an undead presence that wouldn't stop hunting him.
And that—that—was something the Joker wasn't willing to accept. So, like a rat in a maze, he had scurried toward the only exit left.
He had run to Dean. And now, with the Joker under his protection, the game had changed once more.
"He used some kind of magic to strengthen them," the man mused, taking another slow sip of his drink. "Now they don't fear the police anymore. Interesting."
The corners of his lips curled into a grin.
"The hero has become the devil, protecting the villains… The devil has become the hero, driving the forces of justice to cleanse Gotham of evil."
Everything was backward. Everything was wrong.
And yet, somehow, the balance was still intact. He finished his drink, setting the glass down with a quiet clink.
"Well," he murmured, "since you've made your move… I suppose it's time for me to play my next piece."
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