THE DEATH KNELL-Chapter 18: SHADOW OF VENGEANCE

Slade Wilson stood in the dimly lit interior of the moving vehicle, his sharp eye studying the two passengers across from him. He had made many difficult calls in his life, but this one was non-negotiable.

I can't let them know about that place.

Barbara Gordon might have the fortitude to handle it, but the reporter? Absolutely not. Some secrets couldn't afford to be spilled, no matter how persistent the people trying to uncover them were.

Vic Vale ,ever the opportunist, tried to leverage his position. "Well, if I bring you another clue, can we skip the blindfolding next time?" Her tone was casual, but there was a calculated curiosity behind it.

"No." Slade's response was immediate and final. He didn't bother with pleasantries. Ripping a towel into three makeshift blindfolds, he swiftly covered their eyes before they could protest.

Vic Vale groaned in frustration. "But your strapping is really uncomfortable. Even if I wanted to touch it, why would you break my toes?" She fidgeted in her seat, shifting in an attempt to find a more bearable position.

Slade didn't bother looking at her. "Because I feel like it," she said flatly. "Now, where's your evidence?"

Vic Vale huffed, irritated. "You won't even let me see, so why should I tell you anything? Just kill me already." She turned her head in Slade's direction, as if daring him to follow through on the threat.

Slade shoved her back into place with minimal effort. "I never said you wouldn't see it—just that we're going somewhere." His voice was even, unwavering. "The person you're after is going to die tomorrow."

From the driver's seat, Cindy barely glanced back, too focused on navigating the rain-slicked road. The car hummed violently beneath them, vibrating at a frequency that suggested it wasn't in the best condition. The storm outside was getting worse, the rain hammering against the windshield in relentless sheets.

Vic Vale chuckled, undeterred. "Alright, remember what you said." Her voice held an edge of amusement, as though her own luck never ceased to amaze him. "That 'boss in black' you're looking for? I know who it is."

That piqued Cindy's interest. She spared a brief glance in the rearview mirror. "Oh?"

Slade, however, was more skeptical. Many had tried and failed to uncover this information—what made Vic Vale so different? Cindy, for one, wasn't convinced a reporter had outperformed Gotham's most skilled operatives.

But Slade understood something Cindy didn't: Vic Vale was one of those people the universe seemed to favor. No matter what impossible situation she found herself in, things just... worked out. If a gang tried to mug her, a superhero would coincidentally be nearby. If she needed a lead, it would practically drop into her lap. If her boss wanted to fire her, someone higher up would intervene at the last second.

That was why Slade kept her around. Sure, using the TV station as leverage was one thing, but sometimes, dumb luck was just as valuable as skill.

Then again... could luck itself be a superpower?

Slade gestured for Vic Vale to continue. "Go on."

Vic's smugness was barely contained as she cleared her throat. "I examined the wounds on the body. They were precise—almost surgical. The cuts avoided non-vital organs like the intestines and stomach while directly targeting critical ones like the liver and spleen. That means the killer used a long blade, not a dagger, and had extensive training in this specific technique. So I thought of ritual killings."

Cindy lit a cigar, exhaling a cloud of smoke that was instantly snatched away by the wind. "I don't recall anyone in Gotham killing like that," she muttered. "Not even the Riddler's got that kind of patience."

Vic grinned beneath the blindfold. "Hold on, I'm not finished." She leaned forward slightly, savoring the moment. "If this wasn't an original method, then it had to be based on something—a classical execution. And then I remembered reading about this exact kind of wound."

Slade crossed his arms, eyes narrowing as he processed the information. "An ancient punishment?"

Even with his enhanced mind, he couldn't immediately place it. The closest matches he could recall were brutal execution methods from ancient history—drawing and quartering, slow slicing, all manner of horrifying techniques. But none of them quite fit.

Cindy, just as perplexed, let her cigarette dangle from her lips.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freeweɓnovēl.coɱ.

Vic took her silence as an invitation to continue. "I didn't get a close look at the corpse—it was disgusting—but I estimated the murder weapon to be about 60 centimeters long, with a blade width of around five. That lines up perfectly with a method called the caesarean cut. I stumbled on it while covering another ritualistic killing a while back."

A flicker of recognition passed through Slade's expression.

"This was an ancient Roman punishment," Vicbexplained, her voice tinged with satisfaction. "The victim was tied to a post, and a blade was thrust into their abdomen from the side—deliberately avoiding non-essential organs to prolong suffering while ensuring death." SHe let the implication hang in the air for a moment before adding, "Now, if we're talking about Rome and Gotham... who comes to mind?"

Slade exhaled sharply. "Roman Sionis."

Cindy clicked her tongue. "If it's him, this makes sense. He's got a grudge against both Gordon and Batman."

"A grudge?" Cindy smirked. "Gordon locked him up, and Batgirl literally tied him to the Bat-Signal and roasted him half to death. I'd say he hates them." She shook her head. "Bats can be a little twisted, huh? Won't kill anyone, but setting people on fire? Totally fine."

Slade wasn't laughing. If Sionis was behind this, then things were far more complicated than they had anticipated. He wasn't just some low-level thug—he had once ruled Gotham's criminal underworld. If he was openly challenging the League of Assassins, he had a plan.

Barbara, silent until now, finally spoke up. "Could it be a setup? Last I checked, Sionis was locked up in Blackgate Prison."

Vic Vale snorted. "Aw, Gordon's daughter is so adorably naive," she teased, reaching as if to pinch Barbara's cheek—only for her to dodge him with ease. "Sionis was released on medical parole two months into his sentence. Word is, he went to Hong Kong and did well for himself. Looks like he's back now."

Cindy nodded. "Yeah, no one would frame a guy who's been off the grid for a decade. If he's resurfacing now, it's because he wants to be seen. No one else is bringing up his name—he's dragging up the past himself."

The rain intensified. Cindy had turned onto a muddy back road, the tires struggling against deep ruts and potholes. Outside, the storm was raging, trees bending and swaying in the violent wind. It wasn't just heavy rain anymore—it was a full-blown tempest.

Slade stared out the window at the flickering flashes of lightning illuminating the landscape. "Wayne Manor's really out in the middle of nowhere," he muttered. "Bet even the plumbing's a nightmare. Wouldn't it be easier if Bruce just lived next to the police station? That way, when the Bat-Signal goes up, he'd be there in two minutes."

But his mind wasn't on Bruce. It was on something much darker.

If Sionis had declared war on the League, there had to be a reason. The League's assassins were skilled—they didn't go down easily. Except, of course, for their leader—the undying Demon's Head, Ra's al Ghul.

This didn't add up. Why provoke the League when he could just hire them? And where did Gordon fit into all of this?

Something wasn't right.

Slade narrowed his eye. The real game hadn't even started yet.