The bar had slipped into something close to peace.
Deadpool was still at the table, now doing tequila shots off a bounty hunter's cybernetic arm. Joel and Kratos remained at the counter, locked in a slow, meaningful conversation between men who didn't need to raise their voices to command respect.
The bartender had just started polishing a glass.
That was the moment everything went to hell.
BOOM.
The front entrance exploded inward, fire and debris slamming into the wooden floorboards like a warhead.
The streetlight flickered outside.
Smoke poured in.
Then boots. Dozens.
A group of heavily armed men stormed in — half of them metahumans, the other half just crazy enough to follow.
Masks. Rifles. Tattoos that pulsed with arcane circuits. One of them had molten hands. Another had eyes like black holes. One woman hovered off the ground slightly, electricity dancing off her fingers like a song she hadn't quite finished composing.
And leading them was a tall brute with a thick jaw, metal plating up his arms, and a massive hammer resting over his shoulder.
"WHERE ARE THEY?" he barked.
"The Bat and the Alien. We were told they were here."
Behind him, one of his crew snarled:
"And the red freak too. Wade. That bastard owes us teeth."
Deadpool stood from his booth, arms raised.
"Aww, guys! You remembered! Is this an ambush or an intervention?"
"Both," one growled.
"Hot."
Customers started screaming.
Some ran.
A few dove behind tables.
The bartender didn't move.
Kratos turned around, slowly, gaze like an avalanche mid-slide.
Joel just swiveled his stool.
"Shoulda known it was too damn quiet," he muttered.
Three bounty hunters near the wall stood up, pulling weapons. One fired a bolt at the lead thug's chest.
It bounced off his armor.
He laughed.Then snapped his fingers.
Three red dots blinked across the bounty hunter's body.
BLAM. BLAM. BLAM.
They dropped.
Another tried to run.
Caught a firebolt to the back.
Screamed once. Didn't make it to the door.
The bar's calm shattered. Bottles clinked. Jukebox died.
And then…
CRACK.
A glass hit the counter.
Hard.
Not shattered.
Slammed.
Everything froze.
Even the metahumans turned.
The air shifted.
Standing at the far end of the bar, still seated but now fully facing them, was a tall man in a black cloak with silver-lined buttons. His fingers still gripped the base of his glass — the echo of that slam still vibrating through the wood.
His eyes glowed faintly. His expression unreadable.
You could feel it — the weight of something ancient, something known.
An aura pressed against the walls, pressing down on the lungs of everyone present.
Deadpool turned, tilted his head.
"Oh damn. That guy's either from an anime… or is one."
Kratos stared.Joel slowly lowered his glass.
Even the lead metahuman's cocky grin faltered.
The bartender leaned slightly toward the counter, and finally whispered:
"You picked the wrong night."
Silence gripped the bar like frostbite.
That glass slam still echoed, caught between the walls and the skin of every soul inside.
The man at the far end of the counter didn't move.
Still cloaked. Still seated. His face half-hidden beneath the hood's shadow, eyes just barely visible — dark, coiled with something old. Something brutal.
The metahumans hesitated.
Then, predictably, the dumbest one in the bunch stepped forward.
Spiky blond mohawk. Chrome arms. Big mouth.
"You some kinda spooky bartender extra?" he barked, pointing."You think slammin' a damn glass scares me, trenchcoat?"
No answer.
He snorted.
"Fine. Let's make it personal."
He marched across the bar, boots slamming the floor. Walked right up to the cloaked figure and — like every story that ends with a hospital trip — swung a punch.
THWMP.
His fist landed square into the man's side.
It didn't move him.Didn't tilt him.Didn't even make him blink.
Just a dull thud, like hitting a slab of stone with your knuckles.
The guy froze.
"...What the—?"
The cloaked figure finally moved.
Slow.
Deliberate.
His gloved left hand rose… and pulled back the hood.
The bar fell into total silence.
The man beneath was a giant.
Broad shoulders, dark hair spiked from dried sweat and rage. A deep scar carved across the bridge of his nose. His left arm — unmistakably mechanical. Bulky. Brutal. Fused into steel knuckles and a hidden cannon.
And behind him…
The Dragonslayer.
A sword so massive it didn't even look like a weapon — it looked like a slab of hate forged into steel.
Deadpool's mouth opened under the mask.
"Ohhhh, sh—"
The thug tried to backpedal.
Too late.
CRACK.
The man's steel fist slammed into the thug's gut.
Ribs cracked like dry wood.
He flew backwards, smashing into a table, rolling across the floor like a broken doll.
Panic rippled through the gang.
"Who the hell is that?!"
"He's not on any registry—"
"Get him!"
Three charged.
The first came in swinging a baton crackling with red plasma.
Guts stepped into the strike — didn't dodge — let it hit his shoulder.
No effect.
CLANG.
He swung once with the flat of the Dragonslayer.The force launched the guy through the far wall, splinters and blood misting the air.
Second one fired at range — glowing bolts from a wrist-mounted blaster.
Guts raised his mechanical arm. A quick shift of gears—click-CHNK—and the arm cannon roared, sending a blast of compressed powder straight through the shooter's chest.
Smoke. Ash. Gone.
The last one?
She tried to phase — shimmered midair like a ghost.
Guts didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward, gritted his teeth, and swung upward with the full force of Dragonslayer.
SSHHHHRRAAK.
Half the bar's air split with the sound of metal through flesh.
She didn't get to phase again.
Deadpool was sitting cross-legged on the bar now, sipping from someone else's abandoned glass.
"Yup. That's Guts.
Man's a walking middle finger to physics and feelings."
Joel just muttered:
"Damn."
Kratos didn't speak.
He simply watched, head tilted slightly — the only other man in the room who understood what kind of hell it took to move like that.
The rest of the gang?
Gone.
Some ran. Some froze. One guy dropped his weapon and whispered "we were lied to" before booking it through the shattered door.
Guts stood among the wreckage — broken stools, shattered glass, bodies moaning on the floor.
He reached for the bar again.
Picked up his glass — still half-full.
And calmly took another drink.
The bartender gave him a quiet nod.
Guts gave one back.
No thanks. No questions.
Just warriors acknowledging each other across an ocean of violence.