Grifter’s back heel whipped toward Red Hood’s ankle, the sweep was clean and calculated. The guy was a strange mix of military gear, ninja tools, and the movement of a seasoned assassin. Hell, Grifter wouldn’t have been surprised if he actually knew some kind of ninjutsu.

It didn’t matter.

A slight telekinetic push layered onto that sweep would be enough to send him crashing down on his evasive ass.

At least, that was the plan.

His leg cut in, moments from connecting—setting the first move in a chain meant to tip the fight decisively in his favor. Everything after that depended on how cleanly this landed.

Red Hood was fast, no doubt—but Grifter was already primed. The moment contact hit, he’d follow through with his psychic edge, shutting down any chance of recovery and stripping him of those insane reflexes that might rival his own.

Checkmate, set in motion.

The instant before impact—

Jason moved.

Off balance, no time to properly reset his footing, he pushed off the leg he had planted—unstable, awkward, but enough.

His body snapped into a sideways flip.

Grifter’s sweep passed beneath him by a hair.

But before Grifter could finish the motion, Red Hood struck back mid-air. The crowbar left his hand during the flip, spinning fast—

—and drove straight through Grifter’s leg, pinning him to the ground as pain exploded through him.

The sharp and immediate pain shattered his focus—one he needed to properly channel his psychic abilities.

While Red Hood completed the flip and landed clean.

The moment his boots touched the ground, he flowed straight into a downward diagonal strike, channeling all the momentum from the landing into speed and power—his blade cutting toward Grifter’s neck with lethal intent.

‘Let’s see you regenerate from that,’ he thought coldly, the strike meant to take his head clean off—to finally cut down the obstacle that had appeared out of nowhere and disrupted his plans at getting Black Mask’s ass that night.

‘Oh, shit.’

Grifter’s eyes snapped shut just as the blade came down. In that split second, he yanked on every ounce of psychic power he could muster.

‘Shit—’ Jason felt it immediately, his blade stopped mid-swing.

His body locked up, joints stiffening as if frozen in place. No matter how much force he tried to apply, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t finish the strike.

But even through the restriction… he felt something was off.

Weakness.

There was strain behind the telekinetic grip holding him in place.

“You are one insane son of a bitch, you know that!?” Grifter barked through a grunt, reaching for the crowbar driven through his leg, blood streaming down the metal and pooling beneath him.

‘Trust me, you’ve got no idea,’ Jason mocked inwardly as he focused on resuming motion.

Not his whole body, but parts. Arms. Hips. Muscles that mattered to complete his swing. Like forcing movement back into a numb limb.

He poured everything into it—every ounce of willpower, every bit of strength—trying to push past the invisible hold and complete the strike before Grifter could rip the crowbar free.

He had him pinned.

He couldn’t afford to lose this.

Grifter strained against the weapon anchoring him, struggling to yank the crowbar out of his leg and the ground.

‘Come on, goddamn it.’

Jason could feel it slipping—the perfect opening, the one chance to end this right here.

Then—

A voice.

“Strength isn’t the answer to everything, dumbass.” His own voice.

Even with the unsettling realization that he was hearing voices, Jason felt his muscles slowly loosen as his blade shifted.

Just an inch along its arc.

But it was enough.

Grifter saw it and reacted instantly, yanking at the crowbar with everything he had. With a sharp pull, it tore free from the ground and his leg.

Just in time.

Because Red Hood’s sword was already coming down.

In a last-ditch effort to avoid being split in half, Grifter threw himself into a desperate evasive leap, the motion breaking into a rough roll. It wasn’t clean, neither was it enough to fully escape Jason’s blade which cleaved through him.

He gritted his teeth, clutching his side as the blade carved into him—a deep, ugly gash ripping across the left side of his torso.

The injury wasn’t a big deal to him, it was already regenerating. He was just glad Rex Hood did not succeed in his attempt to behead him.

“You almost got me, you crazy bastard!” Grifter let out, adrenaline mixing with something close to excitement. It had been a while since a fight had pushed him like this.

“Almost got you?” Jason replied, calmly, a bit too calm. “Who decided that?”

Grifter frowned, the words not quite sitting right with him—then something shifted within him.

His body dipped.

One knee hit the ground as he experienced weakness, sudden and unnatural.

‘What the hell…?’

His gaze snapped to the gash on his side—the one already healing.

‘Poison…’

That had to be it.

Even as the flesh mended, a sluggish heaviness crept through him, dulling his movements.

“I had you thinking I was betting everything on that one strike,” Red Hood said, advancing with slow, deliberate steps, sword still in hand. “And I was.”

A slight pause.

“But not the way you thought.”

“Even… if it is poison…” Grifter forced out, his voice strained. ‘Shit, I can’t even feel my fucking face. No—scratch that, I can’t feel anything.’

“It shouldn’t hit me like this… what the hell are you carrying? The damn plague?”

He could feel his body resisting it—but at the same time, a creeping drowsiness set in, like his system was grinding down piece by piece.

“Nah,” Red Hood replied casually, slipping a hand into his jacket as he circled him. “Nothing too fancy. Just the essentials.” he added as he took calm strides towards him.

Grifter’s fingers twitched faintly as sensation slowly returning—but not fast enough.

Not nearly fast enough.

And whatever this lunatic had planned next…

Yeah—he wasn’t sure he’d recover in time to stop it.

“What the fuck are you doing, you creep?” Grifter spat out, trying to buy himself enough time to feel his toes again and spring a surprise counterattack.

Red Hood didn’t give him the satisfaction. He closed in with a coldness to his aura and an icy look in his eyes beneath the mask. “Remember what I said,” he muttered, voice modulated through the hood, “when I kill you, your blood won’t be on my hands… only your employer’s—Black Mask’s.”

As he spoke, he slid a hand into his jacket. Moving behind Grifter without a second’s hesitation, he pulled out a small disk and pressed it to the back of Grifter’s head. Simultaneously, his grapple hook shot upward, clinging to a piece of overhead machinery used for hoisting cars.

A sharp hiss sounded as the line tightened, yanking Red Hood upward. Grifter’s senses returned just enough to reach for the disk, desperate to stop whatever insane device had been attached.

“Oh no, you don’t.”

Red Hood didn’t wait another fraction of a second. Spotting Grifter’s hand inching toward the device, he hit a small detonator midair, the grapple line pulling him out of reach. “Checkmate.”

The blue light in the center of the disk flickered once. Grifter’s eyes widened behind his mask, a flash of recognition—and terror—crossing his face.

Boom.

The explosion tore the upper half of Grifter’s body apart. Even as the gruesome aftermath left nothing but the lower half on the ground, Jason’s gaze lingered, making certain there was no chance of regeneration—no miraculous recovery of brain or heart.

“Told you to mind your business and not interfere with mine, new guy,” Red Hood said to the empty air, his modulated voice cutting through the night as he surveyed the remains.

He paused, then muttered under his breath, “Might’ve been delayed… but I’ve still got one last stop before the night’s over.” Pulling a small GPS device from his jacket—no bigger than a phone—he studied it carefully, ready to resume his hunt.

‘Good, you didn’t run off. Although that was pretty damn foolish of you,’ he thought, eyes fixed on the blinking red dot—the tracker he had cleverly disguised as a normal bullet and shot into Black Mask.

‘One more stop,’ he told himself, leaving the scrap yard behind as he resumed the hunt for his original target.

Black Mask.

– – –

The Gotham City Hunters—a biker gang turned mercenary that specialized in bounties—managed to retreat to the bar they used as a base. The back room served as their primary meeting place during business hours, though what remained of the team was a fraction of its former size. 

Morgan had led a small contingent of his men, but even with the element of surprise on their side, they had been nearly wiped out by the vigilante they were hunting.

“What the fuck was that?” one of the hunters muttered, settling at the bar with a drink in hand, trying to make sense of the carnage they had just witnessed.

“A bloody massacre, that’s what,” Morgan replied, downing a gulp of beer. “That bounty isn’t worth the guy’s head.”

“Those things weren’t human,” another added, voice trembling. “If we hadn’t retreated, every last one of us would be dead.”

“The intel on Red Hood? Doesn’t even begin to describe how terrifying he really is,” Morgan said, resting his elbows on the counter, his bottle in hand and eyes distant in thought.

“No one said he could swing a sword like some goddamn ninja–samurai!” another chimed in, a haunted look crossing his face as he recalled the massacre of his comrades just moments ago.

“Boss!” someone called out, looking toward Morgan. “You said he was just a bit more violent than Batman… I’ve never seen Batman launch a man through the air with a thrown crowbar before.”

Morgan didn’t respond, only staring in silence. The hunter shivered, lowering his head, reminded of his place.

“Who the fuck is that other guy?” a man from a table in the corner shouted, desperate for an answer.

Everyone shook their heads, glancing at one another, none claiming to have a clue. “Any idea who the guy was?” the man behind the counter asked Morgan. He hadn’t been at the scene that night, so his knowledge of the other man was limited to what the shaken gang members had described—aside from Red Hood, of course.

“Beats me,” Morgan replied, taking a swig from his bottle and signaling for another, “but for him to hold his own against Red Hood when we arrived…he’s no small fry either. Hell, even with numbers on our side, we couldn’t injure either of them.” His frustration was clear, the failed attempt at claiming Red Hood’s bounty still gnawing at him.

It had been a devastating loss for the Hunters, and they walked away with three hard-earned lessons. First, no matter how absurd a rumor might sound, or how much truth it holds, it hardly ever captures just how dangerous someone really is.

Second, always assume the danger of a bounty is higher than reported—never underestimate, always step it up.

And finally… never, under any circumstances, fuck with the new guy wearing a red bat on his chest.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep