DC: Rise Of The Kryptonian Tyrant

The faint chill of air-conditioning mixed with the thick stench of gunpowder smoke filled the room, suffocating everyone present. The oppressive atmosphere weighed down on the soldiers, gripping them with dread.

Under the harsh glow of incandescent lights, the soldiers—momentarily frozen in shock lifted their heads to gaze at Bardi. He loomed over them like a giant, holding the limp body of a soldier in one hand, his expression a twisted mask of tyranny and malice.

Bardi stood there, illuminated by the stark light, his figure monstrous, his grin cruel. In that moment, the scene seemed frozen in time, capturing the image of a demon king risen from the depths, his malevolence etched in terrifying clarity.

And then the silence broke.

"Ahh!"

The soldier in Bardi's grip let out a piercing scream, his face contorted in pure terror. His voice echoed through the suffocating air, shattering the eerie stillness.

Chaos erupted.

The soldiers snapped out of their stupor, and the air was filled with the deafening roar of countless gunshots. Thousands of bullets blazed toward Bardi, streaking like meteors in the confined space.

But Bardi didn't flinch.

Instead of using the soldier in his grip as a shield, he boldly spread his arms wide and thrust his chest forward, welcoming the bullets with open defiance.

The bullets peppered his body like relentless needles, sharp but fleeting. Each impact sent a slight sting through his nerves, a sensation that only heightened his awareness and grounded him in the moment.

He laughed. His mouth stretched into an unnerving smile, his cold eyes glinting with a maniacal light. The storm of bullets wasn't an obstacle—it was a thrill.

Bardi stepped forward once more, advancing through the torrent of gunfire as though it were a mere drizzle. Each step cracked the ground beneath him, the floor fracturing into larger and deeper webs with each impact.

A bullet struck the center of his palm, lodging itself with a sharp prick, but he barely reacted. The pain was insignificant, a faint irritation at best.

In fact, it ignited something dormant within him—a bloodlust, a madness he hadn't felt in a long time. His heart pounded with exhilaration, his blood boiling with the long-forgotten thrill of battle.

With an explosive step, Bardi reached the nearest soldier. Dust swirled into the air from the force of his movement, and the ground beneath him shattered into a deep crater.

He raised his palm, still smoldering from the heat of the bullets and pressed it against the soldier's forehead.

The soldier barely had time to let out a strangled scream.

The residual heat from the bullets seared his skin, and his eyes bulged with terror.

Then, in an instant, he was gone.

Bardi didn't simply kill him, he annihilated him. The man's head crumpled under the force of Bardi's attack, leaving nothing but death in its wake.

The soldiers around them stared in horror, their faces pale, their bodies trembling. The sight was grotesque enough to freeze them in place.

For the soldiers, it was a nightmare made real, a monster they couldn't fight, couldn't kill, and couldn't escape. The chill that ran through their hearts was unlike anything they'd ever felt before.

Slade bit his tongue, the metallic tang of blood snapping him out of his stupor and sending a chill down his spine. Through the blur of his fear and adrenaline, he caught a haunting image—Bardi, grinning wickedly, his cold, frantic eyes watching as he casually caught bullets with his fingers.

Bardi's raw strength was staggering, fifteen tons of power, not as a peak, but as his base, his norm. When unleashed fully through his precise control and skill, that force could exceed one hundred tons.

For the first time, Bardi was indulging in the sheer destructive potential of his power. Amid the sea of bullets, he reveled in the experience. Even as the flesh of his fingers was worn away, exposing stark white bone beneath the relentless friction, he remained exhilarated.

The bullets slammed into his fingers with supersonic speed, their rotational kinetic energy grinding against his skin. The flesh was peeled away bit by bit, yet Bardi pressed on, until the bullets finally stopped, wedged at his fingertips, lodged against the exposed bone.

And then, as if to defy the violence of it all, his fingers began to regenerate. Flesh and muscle reformed, itching as they healed in mere moments, leaving his hand pristine once more.

Slade, his body trembling uncontrollably with terror, saw all of this as if in slow motion. His heightened state of fear and the flood of adrenaline coursing through him sharpened his senses, forcing him to take in every horrifying detail of the scene.

The relentless gunfire roared on, but it was a hopeless, futile act.

Slade's carefully laid trap, using the soldiers to bait Bardi into trouble with soundwaves, high-voltage currents, and poisonous gas was nothing more than an inconvenience.

The battlefield was a nightmarish tableau of carnage. The air reeked of gunpowder and blood. Soldiers' terrified screams echoed intermittently, only to be cut short by the sound of their bodies being obliterated. Corpses littered the ground, some flung violently against the walls, reduced to unrecognizable smears of flesh and bone. Heads were blown apart, spines snapped like twigs under Bardi's brutal onslaught.

It was a massacre, a macabre one-man show where Bardi was both the star and the director.

In his world, there was no one else, no other voices, no colors but his own.

This time, Bardi didn't rely on guns or calculations. He didn't need to plot trajectories, adjust for airflow, or predict his enemies' actions. He didn't even use his superhuman senses to dodge bullets.

He simply let himself loose. No strategies. No overthinking. Just pure, unrestrained physicality.

He exhaled softly.

"Ahhh..."

The release felt incredible.

So this was what it felt like to fight without thinking.

No wonder Superman, despite having the most advanced brain on Earth, so often resorted to brute force in his battles against alien threats. It wasn't just effective—it was exhilarating.

When the chaos finally subsided, the battlefield was silent.

No cries. No gunfire.

Except for Slade, every soldier was dead.

The room was drenched in blood. Corpses were piled high, painting the scene in visceral horror. The floor beneath Bardi's feet was slick with crimson, and his boots were soaked in blood.

He exhaled again, the maniacal glint in his eyes fading. His face returned to its usual calm indifference, his expression unreadable. The madness that had consumed him moments before was gone, replaced by a chilling detachment.

Bardi looked down at the carnage without the faintest hint of emotion. He didn't care about the lives he had just taken or the blood pooling around him. To him, their deaths were insignificant.

He stood above it all—untouchable, untamed.

Perhaps, in his moments of apathy, he didn't even care about himself.

Suddenly, a sharp metallic sound pierced the silence.

Shhhinnng!

The unmistakable ring of a blade being drawn echoed across the bloodied room.

"You're not getting out of here alive, Bardi," Slade growled, his voice cold and firm. "This base will be your grave."

Slade's eyes were narrowed, trembling with fury yet alight with a feral determination. He knew the only way to confront this alien monster was to steel himself completely, to pour every ounce of his being into a single, decisive act.

His spine straightened, and his hand gripped the hilt of a samurai sword at his side. The blade gleamed under the harsh light, its edge tempered to lethal perfection.

This wasn't an ordinary weapon. This was a blade Slade trusted, one that gave him a sliver of hope—a faint confidence that, if aimed properly, it might just pierce Bardi's body.

But before Slade could strike, he raised his left hand, holding a Desert Eagle.

The gun roared to life, unleashing bullets that screamed toward Bardi.

Slade didn't expect the bullets to harm him. He had seen what they could and couldn't do.

He was only buying himself an opening.

Bardi, as if humoring Slade, raised his right hand to meet the gunfire. His palm faced the Desert Eagle's barrel, welcoming the impact.

Bullet after bullet slammed into his hand, seven in total, each one piercing deeper than the last. Some reached the bone, embedding themselves within his palm.

The sting from the gunfire coursed through Bardi's nerves, spreading a faint, fleeting pain. His regenerative abilities immediately went to work, pushing the bullets out as granulated tissue began to close the wounds.

He stood there, unfazed, his expression calm and indifferent. His cold eyes never left Slade, who was now charging straight at him.

In a swift motion, Slade discarded the Desert Eagle, gripping the samurai sword with both hands.

He roared, channeling every ounce of strength and courage left in his body. From the soles of his feet to the tips of his fingers, power coursed through him, his blood roaring in his veins. His spine straightened like a coiled spring about to snap, and his muscles bulged with effort.

With a single, focused movement, he swung the blade upward, pouring all his energy into one decisive strike.

The sword sliced upward, gleaming like a streak of moonlight reflected on still water. The arc was flawless, a clean, deadly trajectory aimed directly at Bardi's neck.

For a brief moment, Bardi's pupils shifted, catching the flash of the blade.

And then he did something extraordinary.

Bardi tilted his head slightly, his grin widening.

And as the blade came down, he caught it—with his teeth.

The clash of steel and teeth resounded in a shrill, echoing hum.

Slade's eyes bulged in disbelief. His face reddened with effort and rage, veins bulging from his neck and arms as he pressed against the blade with all his might.

But Bardi didn't flinch. His teeth gripped the blade firmly, his cold, indifferent gaze locked onto Slade.