Multiverse: Deathstroke-Chapter 511: Recruitment Drive

Su Ming had no plans to rest tonight. Instead, he was hunched over his desk, furiously writing textbooks for the school. His academic credentials weren’t exactly stellar, but when it came to ideological education, he trusted no one but himself to set the tone.

"Still short on talent," he muttered, sighing. "Good people are hard to come by these days."

Far off in Hawaii, an old man sleeping in a thatched hut jolted awake, a chill running through him. In his dream, his life’s work was stolen by Hydra spies, and he died with a bullet in his chest, unable to speak, only pointing at Steve’s heart, urging him to stay true.

But then the dream shifted. A black-and-yellow mask loomed, cackling as it seized him and rocketed out of Earth’s atmosphere.

Dr. Erskine awoke, shaken but clear-headed. He hadn’t been killed—just abducted by Deathstroke, the demon of New York’s streets. Instead of death, he’d been dumped in Hawaii, forced to grow pineapples under watch.

Erskine had imagined many fates, but becoming a farmer wasn’t one of them. Two years in this eternal spring, harvesting crop after crop of pineapples—when would it end?

The next morning, Su Ming handed Hamir a stack of "Moral Education" textbooks thick as a dictionary. Thanks to his super-soldier speed and mind, he’d churned out the opus overnight.

Hamir flipped through a few pages, raised an eyebrow, and closed it. "I will study it."

"Good," Su Ming said. "I’m off to Europe to visit some friends, hunt for useful items, and maybe recruit some students for you."

"Safe travels," Hamir replied, opening a portal straight to the London Sanctum.

Having a mage around was convenient. Hamir’s sling ring portal wasn’t as effortless as The Ancient One’s, but it beat detouring through hell’s transit hub.

The London Sanctum was as opulent as ever, bustling with apprentices. The resident master, lounging on a sofa and stroking his beard, greeted Su Ming with a glint in his half-moon glasses. "Master Wilson."

"Master," Su Ming returned, noting The Ancient One must have spread the word—everyone was calling him "Master" now.

The old mage rose, leaning on his cane. "Master Wilson graces the London Sanctum. Please, join me for tea."

Su Ming wanted the lowdown on London’s recent events, so he humored the playful old man. They navigated the sanctum’s maze-like halls, finally reaching a lavish parlor. The furniture was Indian rosewood, the tea set edged in gold—like a palace.

"Tea with sugar?" the old mage asked, pouring with a clink of fine china.

"Sugar, no laxatives," Su Ming quipped, setting his helmet on the table.

The old man chuckled, sitting beside him. "Always the joker, Master."

Su Ming sipped the tea—ice-cold, a proper iced tea. "I’ve got questions. How’s Mr. Sinister doing? The one I sent over, red dot on his forehead."

"Mr. Sinister?" The mage looked puzzled.

"You know, the guy with the red mark here," Su Ming tapped his forehead.

"Oh! Test Subject 9527!" The mage slapped his thigh. "He’s doing fine. Still alive."

"Good. Don’t kill him. His X-gene is valuable for research."

"Indeed," the mage said calmly. "We’re observing how he reacts to a seventh-dimensional psychic octopus parasite."

Su Ming nodded. 9527 was probably his permanent codename. "If you think it’s worth studying, go for it."

Why was The Ancient One building a Hogwarts while this guy was playing Lord of the Rings? Was he trying to breed orcs? With Sinister gone, what did that mean for Cable’s future? Something had shifted, and Su Ming wasn’t privy to it.

For now, it didn’t matter. Over iced tea, he got the rundown on London. The mage confirmed that British sorcerers were dominating the mystical frontlines in the war’s shadow battles. Civilian life? Same old—potatoes, fish and chips, rationed biscuits as a luxury. The sanctum’s mages, though, could dine at Kamar-Taj whenever they pleased.

Thanks to Monarch’s influence, the old mage had been tracking superheroes. Steve Rogers, aka Captain America, was leading the Howling Commandos in Nick Fury’s place, though he and Colonel Phillips were at odds.

The issue? Fury.

Phillips pinned the blame for a failed Paris mission on Fury, who was now relegated to sweeping floors and brewing coffee at headquarters. Steve insisted the fault was his, trying to take the fall, but Phillips wouldn’t let him. Captain America was a wartime icon—untouchable. Mistakes were never his; they belonged to subordinates.

The mission had failed, and someone had to take the heat. Steve’s report mentioned an encounter with Deathstroke, but no one dared pin it on him. Deathstroke waltzed through SSR headquarters like it was a picnic, and nobody wanted to wake up to that red eye glaring in the dark.

Agent 13, Peggy Carter, was technically responsible, but her rumored romance with Steve made punishing her tricky—it’d tank his morale. Phillips, following military tradition, decided the black guy would carry the blame. Perfect.

Fury, sly as ever, saw the opportunity. He took the fall with theatrical heroism, earning Steve’s loyalty. Steve kept protesting to Phillips, who, fed up, sent the entire Howling Commandos to Norway to "organize local guerrillas."

The old mage shared more: SSR’s London headquarters location, even details on the Cosmic Cube. Red Skull was hiding it well.

"I’m leaving my gear here and heading to SSR," Su Ming said, stripping off his armor and keeping only a dagger and pistol. "Don’t touch my sword. It’ll kill you."

"Cough, I’m too old to lift such weapons," the mage said, feigning frailty.

Su Ming wasn’t convinced. He sent his gear to Kamar-Taj for The Ancient One to hold. As he stepped through the portal, he caught the mage’s disappointed "Tch."

He’d definitely wanted to poke at Deathstroke’s weapons. No surprise— even The Ancient One was drawn to the Godslayer’s glow.

Now in a Stranglehold-formed suit and coat, with the Cloak of Levitation as a scarf, Su Ming’s face was bare. Back in London, he exchanged dollars for pounds and made a call through military channels, requesting Phillips pick up "the U.S. Army’s biggest food supplier" in a car.

Su Ming could funnel more funds to SSR, but he wanted something in return: a female teacher for the school. Hamir alone wouldn’t cut it.

Lorraine swore she’d never seen Colonel Phillips smile so wide. Escorting the one-eyed businessman in a sleek coat, they toured SSR’s latest achievements before retreating to a meeting room for a long, private talk.

After her last run-in with Deathstroke, Lorraine had quit fieldwork for a desk job—typing reports and answering phones. Dull, but she could chat with Peggy when she was around.

Now, seeing Phillips emerge from the meeting room, grinning so hard his eyes disappeared, Lorraine couldn’t help but chuckle. Capitalists really held all the power, didn’t they? The call to fetch this guy had come from General Pershing’s secretary. Phillips had grumbled about bringing someone to a secure base, but orders were orders.

His mood had clearly improved, though. Lorraine guessed the businessman had offered something big—not for Phillips personally, but for SSR.

"Funds? Food? New uniforms?" she mused, propping her head on her desk, eyeing her fraying sleeve.

Then she saw them approaching, soldiers snapping to salute.

"Sergeant Lorraine!" Phillips called, barely containing his grin, his voice oddly chipper.

"Sir!" Lorraine stood, saluting, her eyes wary.

"Congratulations, you’re promoted. Direct orders from Army Command," Phillips said, his expression turning awkward. Selling ranks to please a tycoon? Rear-echelon nonsense. Not like him—he’d agreed to let Lorraine go for SSR’s sake. Totally different.

"Thank you, sir!" Lorraine perked up, sensing more was coming.

"You’re now a lieutenant," Phillips muttered, barely audible. A sergeant to lieutenant? Unheard of.

"What?" Lorraine blinked, expecting a promotion to master sergeant, not an officer’s rank.

"Don’t thank me," Phillips said, stepping aside. "Thank him. Slade Wilson, head of Wilson Enterprises. Your next assignment comes from Command. You’re no longer under me."

Su Ming stepped forward, taking Lorraine’s hand and brushing it with a kiss. "Your perfume’s from my factory. I think we’ll get along splendidly."