Chapter 149: Allen's Punchable Face

Chapter 149: Allen's Punchable Face

Seeing Allen acting all coy, Russell couldn't help but smile knowingly, thinking to himself: "This little secret of yours, I'll be milking it for life."

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"This is so embarrassing," Allen whined, covering his face as he trotted off with deliberately playful steps.

Russell's smirk grew more devilish—he was now fully convinced there was some world-shattering dirt to dig into.

Unable to resist, he opened the plastic bag and gave it a sniff.

"Smells like Batman... hehehe..."

But not even a second later, his expression froze.

Somehow, Morbius had silently appeared, hanging upside-down from the ceiling nearby, staring at him in disbelief.

The undisguised shock and contempt in Morbius's eyes instantly made Russell realize how wrong this looked.

He rushed to explain, "It's not what you think! These are Batman's underpants. Allen gave them to me to help track him. I don't have any weird fetishes, I swear!"

"Mm... I believe you," Morbius replied awkwardly.

No, you don't.

You hesitated.

As Morbius turned and left without another word, Russell hurled the underwear to the ground in frustration, stomping on them repeatedly.

"This is a sin!"

…

Midnight in Gotham.

For once, the skies were clear. A half-moon hung high, bathing every corner of the city in silver light.

Most of the city was fast asleep, save for a few businesses still open into the early morning.

"Don't chase me! I'm scared!"

A young man in a hospital gown was sprinting down a quiet street, constantly glancing behind him in terror.

Suddenly—smack!—he ran straight into a graceful figure that had silently appeared in front of him like a ghost.

With a loud thud, he landed flat on his rear.

"Whoa... bouncy."

Allen's nostrils flared as he panted excitedly—then caught himself and quickly corrected, "No, wait. That's not in line with my 'innocent victim' persona."

He instantly shifted into a bashful, vulnerable pose. "Big sis... I'm just a sweet and pure boy, okay? Don't start having naughty thoughts, or I might not be able to resist…"

Just then, another vampire bride emerged behind him, blocking any escape route.

But as she looked at her target, the enthusiasm in her eyes flickered with slight hesitation.

They had followed Dracula to Gotham and had been feeding on the homeless and criminals, trying not to attract the Justice League's attention. It made them miss the good old days back home—where food was plentiful and they didn't have to worry about being hunted.

Recently, drinking homeless blood had gotten downright nauseating. Now, finally, a young, fresh-skinned man appeared before them—too tempting to pass up.

Sure, he seemed a little... off. But he was good-looking, which made his blood all the more appetizing.

It was like comparing processed gruel to a gourmet meal.

Or more accurately—Eastern cuisine versus... River cuisine.

The former: full of color, aroma, and taste.

The latter: smells like food, tastes like food, looks like... a pile of warm sludge.

"Sweetie, you're not getting away this time."

One of the vampire brides approached, slowly licking her fangs with a look that said she wanted to devour him whole.

"Ooh, a real pure-blooded Eastern boy," the other bride said with glee. "I've never tasted that before."

Dracula's domain was in Transylvania, a near-empty speck of a European country—not exactly a hotspot for Easterners with thriving businesses.

"Dame yo... dame…"

Allen's behavior confused the two vampire brides. He slipped off his top, hugged himself with both arms, and gave them a look of submissive surrender.

Wait—what's this guy doing?

We just bite necks, why are you stripping?

Still, with such a willing participant, it would be rude to act too reserved.

"Don't be scared, darling. We'll send you straight to paradise."

"You're absolutely mouthwatering."

The two vampire brides blew teasing breaths around Allen, circling him like cats toying with a mouse before the kill.

As seasoned vampires, they knew that warming up the blood before feeding improved the taste. Unlike newbie hybrids, who'd bite straight into a meal cold—disgraceful behavior that ruined the flavor.

Sophisticated vampires had to keep it classy.

"Stop blowing on me! I'm ticklish... dame yo…"

Allen was clearly enjoying himself, but still played up the shy act, tilting his head to expose his neck like some seductive little scamp.

"Who's there!?"

Suddenly, both vampire brides froze—the air now filled with the presence of a muscular, buzz-cut man.

It was Drake, who had been lurking in the shadows, planning to strike silently.

But the moment he saw Allen's flamboyant antics... he felt a strange, itchy urge stir inside.

"Surprise."

THUD!

Seizing the moment, Allen grabbed both vampire brides by the necks and smashed their heads together with a loud crack.

Stars danced in their eyes as the impact dazed them.

"Mada ge, ausu longdong wodio, arashi boudie…"

Allen shot Drake a look, picked up his hospital gown, and strolled off down the alley, muttering, "I sacrificed so much for this—you better not let me down."

Sacrificed?

You looked like you were having the time of your life.

Dracula's vampire brides would no doubt try to save their own—it was a sure way to provoke Dracula himself. Allen had already taken one of them out during their first encounter. No way Dracula would let his remaining brides fall.

Just as Allen exited the alley—

A Claw Warrior ambushed from the rooftop above.

He lunged down with a blade, the gleaming edge reflecting moonlight like a flash of lightning.

Clang!

A sharp ring echoed through the night.

Orm blocked the strike with his gleaming silver trident. With a full sweep, he forced the attackers back, then raised his weapon vertically into a combat stance.

Trained under the same master as Aquaman, Orm's fighting style was nearly identical.

His past defeat had come down to one thing—his weapon wasn't as powerful.

After all, the Golden Trident was practically a divine artifact.

"I'll handle them," Orm declared, his aura shifting to a commanding presence.

Just a while ago, he'd been a skeletal wreck—looked like he was on death's door. After a quick soak in a bathtub, he was back to full strength, like an inflatable doll getting pumped with water.

"You acting like Run Tu really throws me off," Allen blinked innocently. "Remember the time under the full moon in the watermelon patch? Yup, I was the sneaky weasel."

"…Seriously?"

Orm rolled his eyes. Allen had completely ruined the dramatic atmosphere. He couldn't help but comment, "Can you put your damn clothes on?"

"You're so mean, teehee~"

Allen giggled, turned, and ran off while holding his clothes to his chest like a bashful girl. With tiny fists tucked in front and exaggerated hip-swaying steps, he pranced away like a bratty schoolgirl—Orm nearly chucked his trident at him on the spot.

"Damn it, I'm gonna kill him. I can't take it anymore."

"Don't get in my way—I've been dying to smash this lunatic."

"If I don't gut him now, I'll explode."

The Claw Warriors had suffered through Allen's antics many times before. His sheer outrageousness made their blood boil.

And now he was out in the open without his Batsuit—a golden opportunity.

"Your opponent is me," Orm said as he stepped forward.

The battle erupted right in the middle of the street.

By now, Allen was so far beyond human that even without his suit, the Claw Warriors were no match for him.

After all, he had maxed out three classes, boosting every aspect of his body to superhuman levels.

Still, he wasn't about to fight personally—after all, he was the leader of the Midnight Bruisers. It would be beneath him to deal with grunts himself.

Orm was practically their hard counter.

Not only was he a master of close combat, he also commanded Atlantean water magic. His trident could manipulate moisture in the air to freeze enemies on contact.

And Gotham's naturally damp atmosphere gave him an even greater edge.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Gotham…

A different team had mobilized: Morbius, Russell, and Nick—a squad assembled specifically to target pureblood vampires.

Russell tracked their scent; Nick, transformed into a mummy, soared above Gotham to provide directions and surveillance.

Morbius stood ready, using his superhuman hearing to wait for the call—no need to roam when he could listen for the signal.

"Found them," Russell said, eyes locked on an old mansion.

He could smell something distinctly not human—and the blood in the air was unmistakable.