Multiverse: Deathstroke-Chapter 483: Bait

Truth be told, when Su Ming methodically snagged six colored Lantern rings, the leaders of those Lantern Corps had some inkling.

After all, the rings came from their central batteries—dispatched from each Corps' HQ with logged destinations.

Six rings, one after another, flew to the Moon in Sector 2814. If they compared notes, they'd see something fishy.

But the Corps didn't share intel like that, and right now, they were too busy. Except for the Yellow Lanterns, the other five were at the Source Wall, fending off the wall's giants.

Sinestro had ditched his yellow ring, leaving the Fear Corps leaderless. The rest were scrapping for control—not the first time, either.

Hal was conjuring fighter jets with his ring, strafing the giants. Watching countless Corps members get pulped or turned to cosmic dust under enemy fire gnawed at him.

But the central battery on Oa, and the little blue Guardians parasitizing it, didn't care about troop losses.

This was war—lives were just numbers.

The battery kept chugging, doling out rings to any qualifying beings across the universe per its preset rules.

So when Oa comms told Hal that, in the last Oan hour, the battery had sent out over 3,000 rings, he didn't bat an eye.

"Oh."

That's all he said before diving back into the fight.

He'd rather spend the brainpower saving newbies than pondering that.

The only ones with a clearer picture were the Blue Lanterns, the smallest Corps.

No kidding—with just over twenty members, one extra stood out like a sore thumb!

But Saint Walker only mulled it over briefly before letting it slide.

He sat cross-legged, floating in space, murmuring an obscure language like a chant.

The Indigo, Star Sapphire, and Red Lanterns were in the same boat—too swamped to care.

These giants were insane—weakest ones were cosmic-tier, and there were tons!

One slip in battle meant death. Who had time to track how many rings the batteries spat out?

Normally, ring-chosen hosts were like-minded comrades—same-color ring, same team.

But Su Ming, using outside tricks, deliberately stoked his emotions, cheating his way into multiple emotional spectra.

It wasn't a universal hack, though. Without the right foundation, it wouldn't work: X-Metal, emotion-jamming gear or pets, self-hypnosis, external help—all required, and you had to strike while the Corps were distracted.

Timing, location, and allies—all had to align for the plan to click.

Like now.

Thanks, Unity. Thanks, Justice League. Thanks, Doom Legion. A perfect window.

But Su Ming wasn't grabbing these rings for evil—it was for the universe's survival! Yep, totally that.

All for the universe—not a shred of self-interest. Nope, none at all!

Sector 2828, Vega System, Okarro.

Larfleeze was holed up in his cave, tallying his treasures.

As the Orange Lantern Corps' sole leader—and member—he'd killed the rest, sucking their souls and wills into the orange central battery, turning them into "Orange Lantern Phantoms" under his command.

They'd been comrades once, but Larfleeze didn't hesitate. Everything on this planet should be his.

Anything—everything—was his treasure!

So his cave was stuffed with "treasures" he didn't even know the use of.

Empty tin cans, Coke bottles, KFC chicken boxes, and random junk from other planets.

Tattered clothes, busted shoes—once it hit this planet, it was his!

While other Corps played grand strategy, Larfleeze was on Beggar Simulator.

"491,587, 491,588, 491,589..."

He was counting his haul. Last time, a cosmic shipping crate crashed on his planet—full of shiny screws. He had to keep checking the count, lest someone swipe his treasures.

Per his old deal with the Guardians, Larfleeze owned Okarro outright, but no Orange Lantern could leave.

After he offed the others, the Corps' threat level tanked. With so many Guardians dead, the rule wasn't enforced strictly anymore.

So Larfleeze roamed freely, scavenging. Whatever he saw was his treasure.

He used to be sharp, but endless greed clouded his mind. Now, he couldn't even think why he hoarded.

Hal, that jerk, often exploited this—trading Earth trash or pretty marbles to trick Larfleeze into helping.

Right now, Larfleeze planned to finish counting his screws, then hit the Source Wall border. Other Corps leaders had called him a bunch, begging for aid. He did want to snag some battlefield loot.

War zones were treasure troves.

But he'd barely tallied a tenth of his stash. He couldn't leave—had to finish counting first, or he'd fret.

Okarro's orange-red mist cloaked everything. He loved this homey vibe. The star's light didn't reach his cave—his treasures piled up across the planet blocked it.

Hal called it a junk planet, like Earth's scrapyards or landfills.

Towering peaks of scrap metal pierced the clouds, leaking battery fluids formed lakes—pure garbage, no doubt.

Larfleeze once had good stuff, but he couldn't keep it. He wasn't strong enough to protect his treasures from cosmic big shots.

If a heavyweight lost some killer gear in space, they'd just come here and thrash Larfleeze.

Beat his endless Orange Phantoms and the Lantern Beast "Glomulus," and Larfleeze himself was a pushover.

Mid-screw-count, Larfleeze let out an "Hm?"

His dog-like nose twitched. His species was more dragon- or demon-like, but those big nostrils gave him a killer sniffer.

He caught an odd scent—new, fragrant, spicy.

Sniff sniff...

For some reason, it made his mouth water like crazy—pure instinct.

Then he noticed a small, opened bag slide in from the cave entrance.

A soft plastic pouch—only backward civilizations used those. But his focus wasn't the bag—it was what was inside.

Red sticks, about finger-length, lined up in the bag, coated in grease and plant powder.

That weird, enticing smell came from them.

The distraction made him lose his count—he'd have to start over.

But it also got him to drop his treasures and pick up the bag.

It was clear, with red patterns and designs top and bottom, plus a small circular logo—half black, half yellow.

"Ring, what's this treasure?"

Language barriers? No problem—rings were cosmic translators, letting wielders master any tongue like natives.

The ring answered: "Spicy Gluten Sticks," a primitive food.

Food? Then he could eat it. Everything on this planet was his. No clue where it came from, but it was his, no question.

Last time, he'd snagged a KFC delivery crate from space—pissing off the Green Lanterns—but he didn't regret it one bit.

He'd only eaten a little before Colonel Sanders and Hal snatched it back, but Larfleeze admitted Earth food was tasty.

These spicy sticks smelled even better than the chicken.

Slurp, slurp...

Since they were stick-shaped, he instinctively sucked them into his mouth. Soon, his orange skin turned red.

They were delicious but way too spicy—even his constitution couldn't handle much.

Maybe to aliens, the twelve chili icons on the bag were just decor, but spice-loving Earthlings knew what that meant.

Su Ming's Wilson Enterprises was legit. Per the 1912 International Spice Standard (SPH), twelve-level heat was no joke—full potency, no shortcuts.

No watered-down booze, no fake cigarette flavors, no hormones in cosmetics—business had to be honest.

Last trip back, he'd hit Kamar-Taj. The Ancient One was munching these.

When Su Ming showed up, she couldn't hog them—offered him a few bags. Wilson product or not, hospitality demanded it.

Su Ming knew his factory's stuff—he couldn't handle that heat himself. He'd pocketed them anyway.

Now they were clutch.

The bag had just a few sticks. Larfleeze downed them fast. Then he spotted another bag at a nearby fork in the path. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

Barely a pause—he grabbed it and ate again.

Finished, he looked up. Huh? Another bag on the left, not far off.

"Mine! Hiss, all mine! Hiss..."

Larfleeze lunged, tearing the bag open like a pro and stuffing the food in his mouth. Something about it was addictive—he couldn't stop.

Bend, rip, shove.

The spice jolted his brain. His scalp—and mind—blurred, but his eyes locked on the red hue, his nose on that scent.

So he followed the spicy trail, zigzagging through the junk mountains...