A blood-red robe billowed violently in the cold wind, its edges snapping like a living thing. The towering figure beneath it stood close to two meters tall, broad enough to dwarf any normal man. A wide crimson mask covered his face, jagged bone-like protrusions stretching from its edges, giving him a monstrous, inhuman silhouette. Every inch of his presence radiated something primal and suffocating, a pressure that pressed down on the entire street.
The residents watching from a distance fell completely silent. No one spoke. No one even dared to breathe too loudly. The sheer weight of that aura seemed to shake the air itself, as if something ancient had stepped into their world.
Inside the shop, the rioting gangsters instinctively turned their heads toward the entrance.
Locke—now fully transformed into his Blood God state—slowly bent down. His massive hand reached out and gave the stunned old man a light pat on the shoulder, the gesture almost gentle despite his terrifying form. Then, without a word, he stepped past him and began walking toward the interior of the store.
"…What the hell…"
"Is that… the Judge?"
"Are you kidding me? That thing looks like some kind of monster!"
Confusion and fear spread instantly.
Bang!
A sharp smack cut through the noise as one of the gangsters was struck across the head by his own leader. The blond man rushed out from the back room, his clothes disheveled, traces of chaos visible even through his expensive suit. He slapped his subordinates aside, forcing them to focus as he stared at the approaching figure.
"Who the hell is this?" he barked, though uncertainty crept into his voice. "Don't tell me this freak is supposed to be the Judge!"
One of the men stepped forward, pushing past the others. His hand slipped behind his back, pulling out a pistol as his expression hardened.
"Doesn't matter who he is."
He raised the gun and fired.
The gunshot cracked through the room, sharp and deafening.
But the figure didn't move.
Not even a flinch.
The man froze, disbelief flashing across his face. For a split second, he thought the weapon had malfunctioned. He fired again. And again.
A bullet tore into the wooden door nearby, splintering it apart and leaving a deep, smoking hole. The evidence was undeniable.
"…What the hell…" someone whispered, his voice hollow.
The gun worked.
It just didn't matter.
Before anyone could react, a red blur flashed through the room.
The man standing near the door was gone.
A split second later, his body slammed into the wall outside like it had been fired from a cannon. Bricks shattered on impact, fragments scattering as his limp, broken form collapsed into the street.
Silence followed.
Locke stood where the man had been, as if he had simply stepped through space itself.
Another gangster turned to run, panic overtaking him completely. He didn't make it far.
A massive hand came down on his back.
In an instant, flesh split open under the force. Blood sprayed outward as his body was driven into the ground with a sickening impact. He twitched once, then went still.
Gunshots erupted all around.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The cramped store descended into chaos, men shouting and firing wildly. But it made no difference. Every bullet either glanced off or was simply ignored, as if the laws of the world didn't apply to the figure standing among them.
The blond leader emptied his magazine, pulling the trigger over and over until it clicked uselessly. His breathing grew ragged as he threw the gun aside, his confidence completely gone.
Before him, Locke moved like death itself.
One man was grabbed by the leg and lifted effortlessly. Before he could scream, his body was swung like a weapon, smashing into another with a loud crack of bone. Blood splattered across the leader's face.
The sound broke something inside him.
The arrogance, the cruelty—it all collapsed under the weight of what he was seeing.
Locke stepped forward slowly, stopping in front of him. Their eyes met—one filled with terror, the other empty of emotion.
The same man who had been untouchable just hours ago now looked like nothing more than prey.
Locke raised his foot.
A sharp, wet crack echoed through the room.
He didn't even look down afterward.
Instead, his gaze shifted slightly toward the side of the room, where a trembling figure stood half-hidden in the doorway. The girl peeked out, her expression caught somewhere between fear and awe.
Locke paused for a brief moment, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Then he turned away.
One by one, he dragged the corpses out of the shop. Each body was tossed aside like discarded trash, their blood leaving dark streaks across the ground. Outside, the old man had already dropped to his knees, his voice shaking as he thanked him again and again.
Locke didn't respond.
He simply stood in the middle of the street, his gaze sweeping across the surrounding buildings.
Eyes met his from every direction.
Some were filled with fear. Some with disbelief. But more than anything else, there was something else beginning to grow.
Reverence.
The blood-soaked robe dripped slowly as he pulled the last body outside. Just as he turned to leave—
A shadow dropped from above.
A flash of silver cut through the air, a blade aimed directly at his shoulder.
Clang!
The sound rang out like metal striking metal.
The attacker's eyes widened in shock as his sword was caught mid-swing. Locke's hand had closed around the blade itself, stopping it cold.
The man tried to pull back.
He couldn't.
The weapon was locked in place, as if trapped in a vice.
A blur of motion followed.
A whip-like kick tore through the air.
The attacker released his grip instantly, dropping to the ground and rolling away just in time to avoid being crushed. He landed several meters back, his breathing sharp as he stared at the figure before him.
"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice low but tense. "Where is the Judge?"
He didn't get an answer.
A red flash crossed the space between them.
Locke appeared beside him in an instant, his palm slamming into the man's shoulder with casual force.
Boom!
The man's body shot backward like a projectile, smashing through a nearby storefront. Wood and glass exploded outward as he crashed inside, his bones feeling like they had been shattered apart.
He lay there, staring in horror as Locke slowly turned toward him, as if what he had just done required no effort at all.
Then—
More shadows moved.
Three figures leapt out from the darkness, blades gleaming as they struck in perfect coordination. The attacks were fast, precise, deadly.
Locke smiled.
In this state, his body had been pushed far beyond its previous limits. The Blood God transformation, layered over his already enhanced physiology, elevated every aspect of him—strength, speed, endurance, regeneration—into something completely different.
They weren't even on the same level anymore.
Before their blades could land—
His legs moved.
Three afterimages overlapped as his kicks struck their chests almost simultaneously.
The impact was immediate.
All three were sent flying, blood spraying from their mouths as they crashed to the ground. None of them could get back up.
The street fell into stunned silence.
Even the remaining attackers hesitated, frozen in place. The realization hit them all at once—this wasn't something they could fight.
This wasn't something they could even touch.
"When did Gotham get someone like this…" one of them muttered, his voice trembling.
"I thought the Judge was already terrifying…"
"This is something else entirely…"
They didn't move.
They didn't dare.
Locke looked at them, his lips curling slightly beneath the mask.
"My name is the Blood God," he said, his voice deep and resonant, echoing like it came from another age. "Since awakening from ancient times, I have fed on sin. I am one of the Twelve Judges of the Judgment Council."
The words rolled across the street, heavy and absolute.
Every hidden observer, every terrified resident—everyone heard it.
Before anyone could even begin to process what it meant—
The blood-red robe surged outward.
In an instant, it fragmented into countless streaks of crimson, shooting forward like living shadows.
The assassins didn't even have time to react.
All they saw were hands—silent, inevitable—passing over their heads.
....
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