The Memoirs of Cultivating Immortals

Chapter 89 Assassin
Christmas is coming.

Pedestrians thronged each other on the street, colorful neon lights were shining endlessly, and the melodious and nostalgic Christmas jazz month was played outside the stereo outside the shop facade, which made people feel nostalgic for the good times of the 90s and [-]s.

The naughty toddler broke free from the hand of his parents and ran wildly along the street, while waving the colorful swirl-shaped lollipop in his hand, while stepping on the slightly gray-black under the steps of the shop with the newly bought small leather boots of semi-melted snow.

pat,

He hit someone.

He raised his head and looked at each other.

It was a majestic and solemn middle-aged man, with short black hair, a beard, and clear and deep eyebrows and eyes. The decent suit on him did not add a bit of elegance, but revealed a burly and muscular figure, which made him look A more deterrent oppressive force,

Like a sleeping lion resting in the shade of a tree——the urchin thought so.

The middle-aged man squatted down, pulled out a square piece of coarse cloth from his breast pocket, and helped the naughty boy wipe the sewage off the leather boots expressionlessly, without making any sound during the process.

The parents rushed over and kept apologizing to the man. Until then, the naughty boy found that the corner of the man's expensive suit was covered with crumbs of his own lollipop, and there were tiny traces of crystal saliva, like an ugly sore.

"I'm very sorry, sir," apologized the urchin's father, and his wife duly suggested that there was a good laundromat nearby that would remove the marks.

"No need," the man refused, and left straight away, walking into a dark alley.

He was an Arab, and it was obvious that the years of wind and sand had lingered like dents made by a carving knife.

The vast sea of ​​sand in the center of Eurasia has buried countless generations of wise, stupid, brave, or cowardly people. Together with the real name and past of this Arab, they were filled into the soft and gentle quicksand.

People called him Ars al-Ghul, Ra's-Al-Hhul, which means the head of the devil in ancient Arabic.

This complicated name has a deep meaning. Since he is called the head of the group of demons, then there must be corresponding villains who serve as minions.

The League of Assassins, or the Shadow Warriors, this organization created by Ars Al Ghul thousands of years ago has been hiding in the dark side, with the so-called "Ultimate Peace" as the ultimate program, secretly destroying what they thought of evil.

In 541, the noble character left by ancient Rome has fallen, and the League of Assassins concocted the Justinian plague, which severely damaged the Byzantine Empire in one fell swoop.

On September 1666, 9, when London was about to embark on the road to modern times, the League of Assassins created another raging fire. After the fire demon lasted for three days and three nights, only a mess of ruins remained.

And these are just a few cases that can be named.
The League of Assassins is like a razor held in the hands of Ars Al Ghul, using what he considers to be morality to eliminate the so-called "evil".

And in this narrow alley, only this vicissitudes of life man stood alone, gazing at the gloomy night through the gap between two tall buildings.

"Long time no see, Mr. Ars Al Ghul."

Untimely hoarse voices sounded from the corner, and the Arab turned around, staring at the dark place without a ray of light.

It was a man wearing a full-body armor. He was wearing a yellow mask on the left and a black mask on the right, with the central axis as the boundary and two crossed samurai swords on his back.

"Death knell."

Ars Al Ghul whispered the name, "The best killer in the world, the most competent mercenary, as long as he has money, there is no dirty job he dare not undertake."

"Indeed, someone paid [-] million U.S. dollars to ask for your head," Deathstroke curled his lips and walked out of the darkness, "It is true that this price is really good, but for you, the leader of the Assassin League It’s still a little cheap.”

"Then I'm really relieved," the Arab raised his lips indifferently, and said calmly, "What are you doing in Gotham?"

"Some people spend money on food and drink, and some people spend money on ordering songs," Deathstroke said indifferently: "As a killer, I just obey my employer's request and kill people."

The Arab raised his eyebrows. "Who hired you? Hydra? Or that fat, bloated penguin?"

"Sorry, business secret." Death Bell spread his hands and asked, "However, I would like to know why you came."

"This city."

"Huh?" Deathstroke was a little puzzled.

"This city." The Arab repeated, turning slightly so that Death Knell could see the lively and colorful street scene beyond the alley, "What did you see?"

Deathstroke remained silent, and his expression could not be seen clearly under the mask.

"I always thought that Batman exists to protect this city." The Arab sighed: "But without him, Gotham has become even better."

"What you see is only one side," Deathstroke said indifferently: "There are dark corners everywhere, and that's where people like us hide."

"No," the Arab shook his head, "not enough."

"What's the meaning."

"I once destroyed the whole of Europe with the plague, and I used the fire to destroy London. Whenever the filth floods the world, the Assassin's League will appear and maintain the essence of civilization."

The Arab slowly said in a gentle and generous tone, "I see the hope of Gotham, but this hope will soon be drowned out. If you kill a bad guy, there will always be a second or third person. They are like bloodthirsty flies looking for the smell of rotting corpses, killing them endlessly."

He spread his hands, as if holding something in his arms, "This city is corrupt."

Deathstroke regretted negotiating with the Arabs, but he still maintained the reserve of a loyal listener, listening to the other party's long speech.

"As you can see, the beauty in front of you is like a sandcastle by the sea. As long as the tide comes in, Gotham will collapse like before," the leader of the Assassins League clenched his fists, as if he wanted to grasp everything in his hands. "Instead of letting Gotham rot and crumble over and over again, let me end it all."

The death knell finally came back and said, "You want to destroy Gotham?"

"That's right." Ars Al Ghul nodded, "But first I need to find out who killed Batman."

Death Bell clicked his tongue and said hoarsely: "It seems that our goals are the same."

"What information do you have?"

"No comment." Deathstroke shook his head, turned and left.

"That snowy field on the outskirts of the city," said the Arab behind him, "maybe it will be very lively tonight."

"." The death knell turned back and stared at the sharp-edged face of Ars Al Ghul, "I don't like people interfering with my mission."

Before he finished speaking, he had rushed to the head of the assassin,
The samurai sword was out of its sheath, and the mirror-smooth back of the sword reflected the deserted moonlight.

(End of this chapter)