DC: Rise Of The Kryptonian Tyrant

Clouds rumbled ominously overhead, and occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the darkened sky.

In the underground alley, the atmosphere was heavy and unsettling.

A family of three walked together, still talking and laughing about the plot of Zorro. They were already planning their next outing, their voices warm and full of joy.

Bardi walked some distance behind them, neither following them too closely nor attempting to walk together. He was simply going his own way, though, for now, their paths aligned.

It wasn't until a disheveled homeless man appeared out of the shadows, raising a pistol and shooting the father of the family, that Bardi realized the kind of scene he had stumbled into.

"Bruce, run! Run!" the mother screamed, shielding her child behind her with trembling arms, her expression frozen in disbelief and fear.

*Bang!*

The gun fired again, and the mother fell to the ground, her body crumpling lifelessly, her final moments slow and agonizing.

The young boy, Bruce, collapsed onto the corpses of his parents, crying out in despair as tears streamed down his face.

The homeless man, clearly panicked, didn't linger. He ran off, stumbling over their bodies in his desperate escape. His erratic movements carried him directly past Bardi, who continued walking down the alley.

The difference between the two was stark: one was frantic and terrified, while the other was calm and indifferent.

"Bruce Wayne," Bardi murmured to himself, his eyes flickering with a faint glimmer of recognition. His right thumb absently rubbed against the palm of his left hand as he observed the tragic scene, his expression composed.

Two people had just died in front of him, but Bardi remained unmoved.

It had nothing to do with him. He was just passing through.

His steps remained steady, echoing against the walls of the alley as the only sound besides Bruce's heart-wrenching sobs.

Bardi's cold, calculating nature had no room for sentimentality. He had no interest in taking Batman for his own use. In fact, he found himself disliking Batman entirely, the way he endlessly captured criminals, only for them to escape Arkham, perpetuating the same cycle of crime and so-called justice.

"What's so hard about killing someone?" Bardi thought. "Afraid of becoming like the Joker? Afraid of tarnishing some idea of morality? Overthinking it all."

To the vast world of 7 billion people, Batman wasn't worth mentioning. The earth didn't revolve around his ideals.

Bardi glanced briefly at the lifeless bodies of Bruce's parents, their features already etched with the cold finality of death.

"Dad… Mom…" Bruce choked out, his voice trembling with despair. His small hands clutched at their still forms, desperate and helpless. Through his tears, he noticed Bardi passing by.

"Please! Help me!" Bruce's voice cracked as he cried out to the only living soul in the alley. His pleas were raw, desperate, and childlike in their simplicity.

Bardi's cold gaze flicked toward him, pausing for only a moment before replying with chilling indifference.

"No."

His words were blunt, emotionless.

He continued walking, his steps neither hurried nor slow, his demeanor detached.

There was no malice in his response, no cruel laughter or mockery. It was just a simple truth: he would not help.

The simplicity of his rejection was brutal in its honesty.

It was the pure, unadulterated indifference of humanity at its coldest.

Why should he help?

Bruce, overwhelmed with grief and pain, could only hold onto his parents' bodies and cry. At ten years old, he didn't know how to handle such despair. The indifference of the world around him only deepened his anguish.

The alley echoed with his heart-wrenching cries, a sound of utter despair.

Bardi walked to the end of the alley. Just as he was about to turn the corner, he suddenly stopped.

Something in the darkness caught his attention.

Activating his enhanced vision, he peered into a narrow, shadowed alleyway. There, a figure stood cloaked in black.

The figure wore a tight, sealed suit with lenses over the eyes that resembled magnifying glasses, giving the appearance of an owl's gaze. Knives and daggers were strapped across his chest and waist, and his posture was tense, like a predator ready to strike.

"The Court of Owls?" Bardi muttered, his tone low and contemplative. The outfit was unmistakably similar to that of the Talons—the assassins of the Court of Owls.

If this figure truly belonged to the Court of Owls, then Bardi could infer the cause of the Waynes' deaths. It would explain the presence of the assassin here, and why the head of the Wayne family had been targeted.

The figure's posture stiffened the moment Bardi spoke, his body tensing as his breath quickened. His composure wavered under the weight of being identified so easily.

The Talon's instincts flared. His owl-like lenses focused intently on Bardi, his murderous intent palpable.

If Bardi knew his identity, there was only one solution: eliminate the witness.

There was no time to dwell on how a man in white had managed to detect him so easily, nor why Bardi seemed unfazed by his presence. All that mattered was completing the mission.

The Talon lunged forward like a leopard, his movements swift and deadly.

The Court of Owls.

A secret society shrouded in Gotham's nursery rhymes, composed of Gotham's oldest and most influential families. Their power ran deeper than that of Carmine Falcone or any other criminal boss, woven into the very fabric of Gotham's history.

The nursery rhyme about the Court of Owls had persisted for over 400 years:

"Beware the Court of Owls that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime.

They watch you at your hearth. They watch you in your bed.

Speak not a whispered word of them, or they'll send the talon for your head."

The Wayne family, as one of Gotham's most prominent names, had long been on the Court's radar.

To ensure the death of Bruce's parents, the Court had orchestrated a foolproof plan. They had bribed a homeless man to act as the killer and positioned a Talon in the shadows to ensure the job was done.

The plan succeeded. The Wayne family's bright legacy had been extinguished.

Bardi's presence was merely coincidental, his indifference mocking the so-called light of Gotham.

Perhaps if the Talon had chosen to retreat earlier, he might have survived. But the moment he subconsciously released his murderous aura, like a predator poised to strike, his fate was sealed.

As soon as the Talon's intent to kill manifested, Bardi moved.

With a single step, the ground beneath him fractured into a pit, and a deafening sonic boom erupted at the end of Crime Alley.

Boom!

The hem of his white trench coat flared upward as he launched forward like a cannonball. The sheer force of his movement created a circular white fog sound barrier, which he pierced through in an instant.

Bardi's fist connected with the Talon's body mid-air.

The impact detonated with a massive sonic boom, propelling the Talon's figure backward like a ragdoll. He crashed into the wall more than ten meters behind him, smashing a deep crater into the bricks and mortar.

The Talon hadn't even had the chance to react.

The force of Bardi's punch completely caved in his sternum. The shockwave spread through his body, shattering every bone. His head drooped lifelessly, his internal organs obliterated by the impact, and his brain scrambled from the violent vibrations.

His body hung limply in the wall's crater, reduced to a grotesque mess of crushed flesh, a smear of meat and blood embedded into the brickwork.

The resounding boom of the impact reverberated through the alley, kicking up clouds of dust and debris. The explosion echoed like thunder across Gotham, startling the city into panic.

Even Bruce, who was over 100 meters away, felt the shockwave. His ears rang painfully, and his mind went blank from the sheer force of the sound. Overwhelmed by grief and disoriented by the noise, he collapsed unconscious next to his parents' bodies.

Bardi, his expression indifferent, lightly dusted off his fist.

Before the Talon could even make a move, he had been reduced to nothing more than a stain on the wall.

Not just anyone, let alone a mere assassin was qualified to challenge him.