Multiverse: Deathstroke

Chapter 200: Ch.199 Change

He also inherited a part of that heritage—his elf-like pointed ears.

Namor\'s father was the captain of a long-distance cargo ship who accidentally rescued the Atlantean Queen, Namor\'s mother, after she got tangled in a fishing net.

They fell in love, and soon after, Namor was born.

But the Atlanteans quickly found their queen, and they believed that humans had kidnapped her. As a result, they killed Namor\'s father.

The Queen, bound by her royal status, could not admit to falling in love with a human. She had no choice but to take Namor back to Atlantis, where he would grow up.

However, because of Namor\'s unique skin color, he was subjected to discrimination from an early age. He blamed everything on his human father—if it weren\'t for him, he wouldn\'t have this skin color.

Maybe it was the intense pressure of the deep sea, combined with the fact that Atlantis never saw the light of day.

Everything around him made him increasingly paranoid. He grew to hate all humans and saw himself entirely as an Atlantean. After his mother died, he had to use violence to claim the throne, which only deepened his paranoia.

This madness was caused by his mixed bloodline. Staying too long on land or in the water drove him insane, though he didn\'t know it yet. He had already spent decades underwater.

Compared to Arthur from next door (DC\'s Aquaman), though both were kings of the sea, their abilities varied significantly.

Arthur\'s strength was 1,500 times that of an ordinary human, with super-strong defenses that made him bulletproof. He wore a finely crafted suit of armor, had a few loyal followers, and maintained a balanced view between humans and the people of the sea.

Sometimes, Arthur would even offer fish to help people in need.

But, like the Sea Queen Su Ming dealt with before, Arthur was impulsive, and his lack of intelligence was his greatest weakness.

Namor\'s power level was capped at around 250 tons. He often went shirtless or wore a leather vest, wielding a trident or longsword, though he mostly fought barehanded.

He had no followers and disliked surface-dwellers. He could control sea creatures and tidal waves with his mind. Most of the time, he was in a frenzy, losing all reason until someone could bring him down. He was a madman filled with power, and the worst part—he could fly.

He had a pair of tiny wings on his ankles, like a pigeon\'s, which allowed him to fly at about 65 miles per hour.

It wasn\'t fast, but it gave him a distinct advantage, making him a tough adversary for Su Ming.

In the comic stories, Namor would often mistakenly believe that Americans had killed his people, leading him to flood New York in retaliation, only to end up becoming allies and saving the world together.

But now, things were different. The timeline was off, many things were uncertain, and with so many factions involved, the complexity had undoubtedly increased.

Su Ming had already ordered all factories and offices under his corporation to prepare for flooding. If a tidal wave hit, they were to strictly follow emergency evacuation protocols.

However, he couldn\'t confirm the exact time of the tsunami—or even if it would happen at all.

Meanwhile, a German Z-class destroyer sailed across the Atlantic, approaching the Bermuda Triangle in a storm.

This was a famously mysterious area, and recent intelligence confirmed that Atlanteans had been sighted nearby.

The ship flew the Third Reich\'s naval flag, with dark waves crashing against the red, black, and white fabric.

High up, the lookout stayed vigilant for potential American warships, while the sailors on the rear deck struggled to load modified depth charges onto the launchers.

As the ship reached the designated coordinates, the enormous bombs were dropped into the water, creating towering white water columns amidst blue electric flashes on the dark ocean surface.

The bombing continued for nearly half an hour until they had exhausted their supply of explosives. The captain then ordered the crew to lower the fishing nets and return to the area they had just bombed.

"This feels wrong. I mean... those people look like civilians."

Initially, the Germans had paired warships with fishing boats for these missions. But being so close to American shores made it difficult for fishing boats to escape if discovered. So, Hitler had specially modified several destroyers for this purpose.

As the nets were raised, water rushed back into the sea, and a soldier operating the machinery whispered to his comrade, complaining quietly.

They had joined the Kriegsmarine to defeat the British, to avenge the High Seas Fleet, but now the Führer had them engaging in mass slaughter.

The net rose higher, revealing the blue bodies within. Some were intact enough to distinguish gender—the blue-skinned women looked no different from human women in their facial features, with small seashell necklaces adorning their necks and earlobes. They lay silently among the fish.

Aside from their skin color, they were just like the wives back home—civilians.

The officer next to him tapped his shoulder. "Keep your voice down. If the Gestapo hears, we\'re finished."

"Don\'t worry, sir. In this storm, no one\'s coming up to the deck," the young sailor replied, though he still glanced nervously toward the hatch leading to the lower decks. "Besides, I think those guys aren\'t Gestapo... they\'re Hydra."

The officer took over the task of handling the bodies, hauling them into the hold and freezing them like fish. "Doesn\'t matter what these bodies are. The scientists need them, and we\'re soldiers. We follow orders."

The ship rocked violently as they tried to steady themselves. The ocean seemed angry, and the blackened sky felt as if it would crush everything.

"Yes! But these depth charges... they\'re incredibly powerful. I saw them glowing blue in the ammo hold last night. Will the rest of the fleet get these?"

"Maybe these blue-skins are the source of that glow, but it\'s not our concern. Germany above all."

"Germany ab—wait, my God, what is that?!"

The young man shouted in terror as a towering wave rose ahead, reaching tens of meters high. On top of the wave stood a man, shirtless, riding the crest like a dark-blue steed, glaring down at them with fury and madness in his eyes.

Though the storm and rain obstructed their view, it was clear that this man\'s face was filled with uncontrollable rage as he locked eyes on the ship.

The massive wave nearly capsized the destroyer, but German engineering held strong. However, the deafening boom that followed sent many of the crew scrambling to the deck, pale with fear as they took in the sight before them.

The explosion came from the black-haired youth who had leaped onto their ship.

Rainwater, seawater, or perhaps even tears streamed down his face, though it was hard to tell which. Standing firm on the deck, he ignored the crew and rushed straight to the freezer where the blue-skinned bodies were stored.

They were all dead. Twisted bodies told of their agony in their final moments.

"So many..." Namor whispered in a trembling voice, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He turned his gaze to the humans aboard the ship. "Humans! You will all die!!!"

"Open fire!" the captain, the oldest man aboard, regained his composure first after witnessing this inhuman figure.

Countless bullets rained down on Namor\'s bare body, but he remained unscathed. The bullets simply fell to the deck as he raised his fist and charged at the crew.

"It\'s not working, Captain!"

"Use the anti-aircraft guns!"

"The shells are bouncing off!"

The sailors tried everything—whaling harpoons, rocket launchers, every weapon at their disposal. But nothing worked.

Apart from blackening the deck, all the attacks were useless. The young man continued his relentless assault.

"Blood for blood!!!"

Namor unleashed his fury, tearing apart anyone in his way or tossing them into the sea, where the sharks he had summoned eagerly awaited their feast.

These humans were too weak. How dare they provoke the might of Atlantis?

Namor, with his immense strength and invulnerability, launched a counter-slaughter.

He didn\'t bother flying. Instead, he chose to slowly torture these humans with his bare hands, making them experience the same pain his people had felt, crushed by the sea.

Slowly, painfully.

Until a group of men in black leather coats blocked his path. He had planned to rush them, but they carried strange weapons that made him hesitate.

"Hydra, open fire."

The officer in black gave the order calmly, hands clasped behind his back as he stood tall on the deck, his face expressionless as he gazed at Namor.

His voice didn\'t carry far through the rain, but in the next second, everything around them was bathed in blue light.

The dark sky, the scorched deck, the terrified faces of the sailors—all turned blue in an instant.

Beams of energy struck Namor\'s torso, sending him flying across the deck like a ragdoll, skidding along the rain-soaked surface.

"Damn humans!"

Namor struggled to rise, his chest charred black, the flesh split open like an ocean trench, revealing the bones beneath.

The terrifying weapons had hurt him. For the first time, he felt weakness and pain. It only fueled his rage, but he could hardly move.

His fury couldn\'t alter reality, and without preparation, he couldn\'t summon a tidal wave or massive sea creatures.

The officer in black leather flexed his jaw and sighed indifferently. He raised a gloved hand.

"Close in and fire at will. I want him alive."

The Hydra soldiers, carrying equipment resembling milk cans, advanced while firing. Namor dodged as best he could, but soon he was surrounded.

Concentrated fire struck his head from multiple angles, nearly tearing it off his neck. Finally, with his face battered and bloodied, Namor lost consciousness.

"Take him to the freezing hold. This specimen is valuable," the blond officer wiped the rain from his face, rubbing his cheek with the back of his gloved hand. His crazed blue eyes gradually dimmed, returning to a calm state.

Just like the surrounding ocean.

Their original mission was to secretly capture the Torch in New York. The plan was to sail near the coast and then transfer to a submarine for an undercover landing. But now... it seemed this catch alone would fulfill their mission.

The Torch had sparked interest in artificial beings, and Germany had considered using the Atlanteans for similar purposes. Now, they had captured a promising hybrid—essentially a finished product. The mission was complete, perhaps even saving their scientists the trouble of experiments.

"Captain, prepare to return home. I\'ll recommend you to the Führer for a commendation," the blond man smiled at the captain, exuding an aristocratic air.

"Thank you for your favor, Major," the captain, stroking his graying beard, wiped the rain from his face, water droplets still clinging to his mustache.

He politely thanked the major before shouting for the crew to bind Namor securely and assist the Hydra soldiers. He then returned to the bridge to issue orders.

Though the blond man was a Hydra operative, his rank outranked the captain\'s, and he carried secret orders from headquarters. He was the highest authority on this mission.

"There\'s no need to thank me. We all serve the Führer."

The blond man smiled, turning as one of his subordinates held the door open for him. He slowly made his way toward the lower deck.

Standing in the doorway, he smiled into the dark unknown, then extended his index and middle fingers onto the railing, pretending they were a little blue man walking down the stairs with him.

He laughed like a child, pausing occasionally to let the little finger man catch up.

The mission had changed, and he needed to report back home. But what was the rush?

The Führer didn\'t want Hydra to know about this mission. It had been assigned to Himmler\'s right-hand man. But really, was there anything in the Nazi Party that Hydra didn\'t infiltrate?

With a bit of negotiation—perhaps a share of the X-compound—it was easy for Hydra to join the artificial human project.

The blond man reached his cabin, removing his soaked leather coat and hat, and straightened his uniform. He sat at the telegraph machine, its keys worn smooth from years of use.

They had a telegraph machine that didn\'t require typing—just speak, and it would translate words into code, transmitting it back to headquarters.

Clearing his throat, the blond man pressed the switch on the cryptograph, beginning his message. Of course, as a proper aristocrat, he couldn\'t forget the formal greeting at the end.

With a serene smile, he gently closed his eyes and uttered that honored name.

"Hail Hydra."