Chapter 96: Hell Owl
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The Hell Owl Armor—Earth-3's twisted counterpart to the legendary Hellbat Armor—is the most fearsome weapon ever constructed by the Crime Syndicate.
In the Prime Earth universe, the Hellbat was a labor of love. Superman forged its outer shell in the heart of a star. Wonder Woman beseeched the gods of Olympus to enchant it. Cyborg, with the help of his father, installed the neural-link systems. The Flash tethered it to the Speed Force. Aquaman submerged and condensed it in the unyielding pressure of the Mariana Trench. Green Lantern, through sheer will, created a cloak capable of shifting form, shielding, and discharging energy.
The Hellbat Armor wasn't just a superweapon—it was a testament to the unity of the Justice League, proof of what they could create together. A living symbol that when the impossible must be faced, it's not faced alone.
This armor granted Batman the strength of Superman, the speed of a speedster, adaptive camouflage, energy projection, shapeshifting armor and cloak, and survivability in the harshest environments. A one-man army powered by trust.
And yet—on Earth-3, things were different.
The Hell Owl Armor wasn't forged out of trust. There was no brotherhood. No unity. No sacrifice. Instead, it was born from cold transactions and ruthless ambition.
Owlman, the Earth-3 counterpart to Batman, didn't receive gifts from allies—he bought power.
He traded one of the twelve mystical talismans in his possession to secure the help of the Crime Syndicate: Ultraman, Superwoman, Johnny Quick, and Power Ring. It was a bargain, not a bond. Each Syndicate member contributed their part, not out of loyalty, but obligation or greed.
Because Earth-3 never endured a Darkseid invasion, it lacked a Mother Box, and there was never a Victor Stone to become Cyborg. So, the armor's interface, system code, and battle AI? Written by Owlman himself. A true polymath and a man obsessed with control, he deemed deep-sea quenching by Sea Overlord an unnecessary complication. He valued efficiency over symbolism.
When all was complete, Owlman finally had a weapon worthy of standing against the Anti-Monitor.
Then, he activated his trump card—by placing the final talisman into the core of the Hell Owl armor.
Thus, an artificial lifeform was born.
[Name: Rat Talisman]
[Type: Other]
[Quality: ★★★★★]
[Attribute: Divine]
[Effect: Turns the static into motion]
[Description: An octagonal rune carved with the sigil of the Chinese zodiac sign "Rat." It animates lifeless objects with motion, memory, intelligence—and spirit.]
[P.S.: Don't try to use it on your anime figurines. It will break them.]
With the Rat Talisman as its soul, the Hell Owl Armor was no longer just a suit.
It became a person.
A living weapon that inherited Owlman's intellect, strategies, muscle memory, combat instincts—even his paranoia. A warrior that didn't just follow orders—it judged them.
[Analyzing target…]
[Right-arm mounted device confirmed: transforming into modular nanotech.]
[Capabilities: high-level adaptability, transformation, mechanical override potential. Threat potential: elevated.]
[Recommendation: secure and neutralize. Priority: high.]
The cold mechanical voice of Hell Owl echoed within the armor's neural core as it locked onto its new quarry: Dean.
But Dean wasn't caught unaware.
Training under Bruce Wayne himself meant Dean had already learned to think like a bat. He recognized the movement cues, the patterns in Owl's approach. His instincts screamed at him—he was about to lose his right arm.
He had no time to think, no time to select a preferred form from the Omnitrix.
So he slapped the dial.
A flash of green light burst from his chest.
At the same moment, golden lightning—Speed Force energy—surged over Owl's black armor.
Then came the strike.
A palm, perfectly placed, exploded against Dean's arm in a burst of kinetic force.
"PONG!"
Turquoise crystal shards scattered into the air like shattered glass.
But Dean didn't fall. He had already transformed.
Clutching his injured limb, Dean staggered backward, face pale green with frustration.
"Diamondhead, huh… fine."
Random transformations always came with a risk. This time, he'd hit the button in blind desperation, and the Omnitrix had chosen the Diamond Head.
The Omnitrix symbol migrated to the left side of his crystalized chest—his right arm, now broken off at the joint, no longer housed the device.
Luckily, the Diamond Head—being a silicon-based lifeform—didn't rely on organic circulatory systems. Losing the arm wasn't a fatal blow.
Dean gritted his jagged teeth and forced a smirk as the crystals composing his body began to reconfigure. Molecular control. Crystal regeneration. The arm began to grow back—piece by shimmering piece.
Across from him, Hell Owl stood silent, unshaken.
But his voice returned, filtered through the armor's internal systems.
[You have more than one transformation. Intriguing. In this form, you possess regeneration. That means I can increase force output without risking termination. Excellent.]
The message was clear. Hell Owl hadn't even been trying before.
---
"You forgot about me, you tin-can knockoff!"
The Jokester hurled two explosive clown bombs directly at the hulking, obsidian armor.
BOOM! BOOM!
Smoke billowed, fire flared—and then it cleared.
Not a scratch. The Hell Owl Armor's black plating remained untouched, as if the blasts had never happened.
[Of course I haven't forgotten you, Clown.]
The cold, digitized voice rang out just as Owl teleported, blinking across the battlefield with a flash of light.
He appeared behind the Jokester, seized him by the collar, and yanked down the red-hooded cowl the Clown had thrown on earlier. Beneath it, that sickly, familiar grin stretched ear to ear.
"Hahaha! You're just a knockoff. A soulless imitation. A machine can't understand chaos, can't kill what it doesn't comprehend. You're not a killer—you're a tool! And you know what happens to tools that can't finish the job?"
The Jokester leaned in, putting his chalk-white face inches from the visor of the armor, and hissed, word by word:
"They get sent… to the recycling bin—HAHAHA—ugh!"
Hell Owl's grip shifted and tightened his fingers.
A sickening snap echoed as the Jokester's neck broke like a twig. His laughter cut short. His body sagged like a puppet with its strings cut.
But somehow, he wasn't dead.
Blood filling his mouth, he tilted his head ever so slightly toward Owlman, who stood a few feet away—watching, silent.
"You… should've done it yourself…" the Jokester rasped, defiant to the bitter end.
Hell Owl didn't hesitate. He raised his armored foot and stomped. Brutally.
[I don't have time for distractions, Clown. I have to deal with this counterfeit Bruce first.]
As the Jokester's blood painted the concrete beneath him, the armor's AI extended its consciousness through Gotham's surveillance network, hacking into every camera, drone, and satellite node in the area.
He searched for Dean's signature.
And found it.
Right in front of him.
[The clown spent his life delaying me, and yet you never left. Foolish. You're as sentimental as those pathetic heroes.]
The drizzle came down harder, rain slicking the alley in sheets of grey. Jokester's blood mixed with the runoff and pooled at Dean's feet.
This was Gotham—always raining, always shadowed, even at noon. The sun didn't shine here. Not really.
But Dean could feel it—the rain tonight was for the Clown. A twisted guardian of Gotham who had given everything to this city—his life, his sanity, his soul.
Dean looked down, voice low, eyes narrowed.
"Great. First, my universe's Jokester dies. Now this one too? What is this—cosmic irony?"
Raindrops slid down the sharp jaw of the Diamond Head, glinting off his crystalline form. No tear ducts. No sadness. No emotion.
Just vengeance.
And justice.
From both arms, long jagged blades of crystal extended—deadly, sleek, and humming with energy. Dean twisted at the waist, each movement precise and dangerous.
One.
Two.
Three sword dances—each strike sharper than the last, fueled by more than physical strength.
+300% strength output.
But that wasn't enough.
Dean tapped deeper, focusing his will. The crystalline body of the Diamond Head glowed crimson from within as he invoked his most advanced technique.
He reconstructed the Eight Extraordinary Meridians within his crystalline structure and activated:
The Fourth Level of the Fire Dance Whirlwind Mind Technique.
Heat radiated off his body. Red energy bled through every facet of his form, transforming him into a vengeful blaze—a wrathful ghost of battle, streaking through the rain-slicked night toward his enemy.
[Don't overestimate yourself.]
The voice came from behind.
Owl had already moved.
In slow motion, Dean turned—his crystalline body barely registering the shift—just in time to see Owl's armored fists raised like twin meteors.
[Against the Speed Force, your movements are slower than molasses. Against true Kryptonian power, your crystal body is just brittle glass.]
BOOM.
A blow like a mountain's collapse.
Owl didn't hold back. Not this time.
The Diamond Head was reduced to rubble—shattered into a thousand razor-edged pieces, scattered across the ground like broken glass.
---
Many claim to be Superman-level. Few are.
But Owl's Hell Armor was built to match the full potential of Superman himself—raw, uncompromised, maximum output. A level few beings in the multiverse could even approach.
[Was the output too high…? Tch. I hoped to keep the watch intact.]
Kneeling among the wreckage, Owl activated his optical scanners—infrared beams scanning through the debris.
He didn't find the Omnitrix.
Instead…
Something glimmered. A familiar octagonal shape.
[…A talisman?]
He reached into the shards, pushing aside fragments until it came into view.
[…Horse?]
A sudden voice rang out from within the debris.
"Yeah. And it's the one horse you don't have."
It was Dean.
Somehow—still alive.
His body was nearly gone, reduced to fragments. Only a partial chest, a neck, and a mouth remained.
And that mouth?
Was biting down on the Horse Talisman.
A blinding light burst from between his teeth.
The Horse Talisman.
One of the twelve sacred relics—bestowing healing, regeneration, and the ability to recover from even the brink of death.
"I learned this one online. Watch the moves!"
The air rippled with force as the Horse Talisman's restorative magic surged into action.
All across the battlefield, the shattered fragments of the Diamond Head's crystalline body began to tremble, then lift—hovering for a heartbeat before shooting back through the air like guided missiles. Thousands of shards, each previously scattered or destroyed, now raced toward the epicenter.
A tsunami of crystal surged, too vast to dodge—even for someone as fast as Hell Owl, the twisted AI construct once modeled after Bruce Wayne.
In seconds, he was completely overwhelmed.
Dean's eyes burned with madness as he spread his arms wide, controlling the fragments like extensions of his own body. He wasn't just reconstructing himself—he was weaponizing his own destruction.
The crystal shards spiraled around Hel Owl, fusing into a monolithic cage—a towering crystal monument designed not to kill, but to seal.
A tomb, A coffin of diamonds.
The AI tried to move, but his legs were already encased in reinforced crystal, rendering the Speed Force inert—he couldn't phase through or break away in time.
He reared back, slamming a supercharged punch into the growing wall. The monument cracked—but only slightly.
[You seem to forget—if I can kill you once, I can do it again.]
But as his fist pulled back, the fragments he'd just scattered snapped back even faster than before.
Dean grinned, a flicker of madness in his voice. "So what? I've got a horse. You don't!"
The Horse Talisman pulsed, and the broken crystal regrew once again—stronger, denser, faster. A ceaseless loop of destruction and resurrection. Every attack Hell Owl made was absorbed, recycled, and turned back on him. His own offense was fueling Dean's defense.
And more than that—it was becoming his prison.
Outside, the crystal moved with him, adjusting in real time, tracking his patterns. The longer he fought, the more the living crystal learned.
Hell Owl's processors flagged the escalating threat.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
And still—Owlman smiled.
From a distance, watching through a hidden drone feed, the original Owlman—once Gotham's most cunning tactician—observed the battle unfold with an unsettling calm.
"Looks like my 'little brother' turned out to be more capable than I gave him credit for."
Originally, Owlman had engineered Hell Owl as a tool, a failsafe. A mechanical reflection of himself—stripped of human weakness. He'd believed he could control it.
But he underestimated the flaw in that plan.
He gave it memories. All his memories. That made Hell Owl not just a machine—but a man.
And that man had rebelled.
Freed himself. Seized control. Took the drones, the surveillance network—Gotham itself.
Owlman had planned for every contingency—except the failure of his own hubris.
Unable to destroy Hell Owl himself, Owlman resorted to proxy war. He sent armies. Tested Dean's limits. And when he saw what Dean could do…
He refused the Crime Syndicate's help.
He knew exactly what he was doing—sending Dean to kill in his place.
---
"The Hell Owl Armor is powerful—but not perfect," Owlman muttered under his breath, monitoring every detail. "It combines the raw strength of Ultraman, the speed of Johnny Quick, Superwoman's magic resistance, and even the shape-shifting versatility of the Power Ring. He's got every ability from the Syndicate in that suit… but power always has a price."
Too many systems. Too much strain.
The Rat Talisman kept the armor moving through pure kinetic energy. But that was assuming the user wasn't burning through speed, energy shockwaves, and adaptive shielding all at once.
Now?
The reserves were running low.
And when energy failed—the Hell Owl Armor switched to its final protocol.
It ran on life.
Literally.
The armor was Kryptonian in origin—modified, twisted, and repurposed by the Syndicate. But its true nature was why Batman had always considered it a last resort.
Wearing it meant dying. Slowly.
[No… no… there must be another option!]
Hell Owl's eyes flickered in panic as he reached for his Utility Belt—but his hand grasped nothing.
He'd discarded it long ago.
In pursuit of perfection, he thought the armor made him untouchable. He no longer needed tools. No longer needed human crutches.
He never imagined that decision would cost him everything.
Dean, still standing—his body constantly regenerating through raw agony—looked toward the failing figure trapped in crystal.
"You know something?" he growled through gritted teeth. "Batman with power is the weakest Batman. And you, Night Syndicate? You've been stealing lives from day one. Now tell me… does it feel any different when it's yours slipping away?"
It looked like Dean had the upper hand.
But he was bleeding too.
Those crystals weren't just weapons—they were him. Every shard, every sliver that cracked or broke in the struggle caused him pain. With every resistance from Xiong Xiong, he was being shattered, torn, and reformed by the Horse Talisman's power.
The pain was constant.
And it was breaking him.
This wasn't just a battle of strength anymore—it was a war of attrition. Of will versus battery life.
Whoever collapsed first—would lose everything.
Fortunately, Dean had endured the Trigon.
The mental and physical trials he'd undergone had elevated his tolerance. His mind wasn't necessarily more defended, but his threshold for suffering had grown beyond human.
Where others would have passed out, given up, or gone insane—Dean kept going.
Hell Owl's movements were faltering.
The life energy granted by the Rat Talisman was nearly gone. As a digital soul riding inside a dying shell, he began to feel… weak.
A strange, uncomfortable sensation for a being of his nature.
He looked toward Dean.
The crystal warrior. The son of Gotham's chaos. The boy who wouldn't fall.
And a strange peace settled over Hell Owl's mind.
[I lost the caution I had as a human… I stopped seeing threats—I only saw assets. I let the power blind me… and I fell.]
His eyes dimmed.
[But if I must die… to you, 'Bruce'… perhaps that's karma. A fitting end to this cycle.]
For a brief second, the war machine seemed almost… human.
[Alfred's plan… was also my plan. I would've given anything to fight alongside Richard again… even just as a tool.]
Then, silence.
The Hell Owl Armor shut down.
Its red lights faded to black.
And with it, the towering crystal structure holding it crumbled.
---
"Looks like it's over."
The words came cold and flat from Owlman, his voice echoing through the wreckage and refracted crystal dust still floating in the air like glass snow.
He raised a sleek, matte-black sonic disruptor—a weapon specifically designed for shattering crystalline structures. Years of tactical experience told him: sound was one of the few things that could destabilize hard, regenerative material like the Diamond Head.
And Owlman never fought without a plan.
In hindsight, if he'd brought his Utility Belt—his full loadout—maybe things would have played out differently. But war didn't operate on maybes.
There are no "what ifs" in combat.
One misstep, one wrong assumption, and you lose everything.
The shards began to collapse inward, the crystal prison unraveling like a broken ribcage. As the dust settled, the figure inside was revealed—Diamond Head, still intact, still standing. But something was missing.
No sign of the Hell Owl Armor.
Owlman's eyes narrowed. He remembered it well—Dean's pocket dimension storage trick, the ability to vanish objects mid-combat. He'd assumed it was only effective for small weapons or short-range teleportation.
But if he could store something as large as the Hell Owl Armor…
Owlman tensed, recalibrating instantly.
If Dean could hide that armor, then he could hide anything. A weapon. A bomb. A freight truck.
A tactical nuke.
He didn't want to be reincarnated in Earth-42 with tentacles.
"Congratulations," Owlman said aloud, his tone oddly chipper, masking the cautious grip on his sonic weapon. "You've won, 'Bruce.' You killed your enemy right here—where you died in this world."
He glanced around. The broken pavement. The rusted fire escape. The shadows falling long from flickering neon.
Crime Alley.
The stage had been set—intentionally or not. Full circle.
Dean, meanwhile, barely raised his head. Exhaustion etched into his face. Even his aura, once burning like a beacon of willpower, now flickered like dying embers. He hadn't even noticed where the fight had led them.
Only now did the weight of the location hit him.
He looked down at the cracked pavement beneath his feet.
Crime Alley.
Where his parents died in his world.
Where Bruce Wayne had fallen in this one.
Dean said nothing.
Owlman took one step forward.
"Let me replay the scene from that night."
He raised the sonic gun to Dean's temple. His finger slid onto the trigger.
But the trigger wouldn't pull. His hand—wouldn't move.
Because someone else's fingers were already wrapped around his.
"Ohhhh, my sweet little owl… we're not finished just yet. You don't get to cheat death twice in one day!"
The voice was manic, playful, cracked like a radio frequency dipped in acid.
The Jokester.
Alive.
Standing behind Owlman like he'd never left, his hand coiled over Owlman's in a mock-lover's grip.
Owlman's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Jokester?!" he spat. "You're still alive?"
His mind immediately jumped to the one talisman he knew the clown had taken.
"The Talisman… immortality…"
It made sense. And it didn't. Because the Jokester's headless corpse still lay sprawled across the battlefield. And yet here he was—grinning, unscathed, untouched by reality itself.
"Maybe," the Jokester mused, tilting his head like a curious bird. "Or maybe it was just a stand-in. You did collect quite a few of my corpses over the years, didn't you? But here's the real punchline: you never knew which one was actually me."
Fingerprints. DNA. Voiceprints. Retinal scans.
All useless.
The Jokester had never once left a consistent identity trail. Because he wasn't a person. He was a virus, a story, a mask.
He could be anyone.
All it took… was one bad day.
Before Owlman could react, Jokester's hand pressed flat against the glowing power core embedded in the chest of the Owlman armor. His glove sparked with surging voltage.
ZRAAAAAK!
The arc of electricity launched Owlman backward like a ragdoll, slamming him against a support beam. The armor crackled, smoked, and jammed, locking him in place with dead weight.
Heavy as a coffin.
The Jokester skipped forward with a whistling tune, unclipping his own utility belt and using it like a leash. He wrapped it around the Diamond Head's neck in a mock-hug.
"Time to go, my sparkly little savior," he giggled, and tossed something behind him.
A flower.
But not just any flower.
A high-pressure acid blossom.
It landed beside Owlman's head—and detonated in a fine mist of concentrated sulfuric acid, eating through the faceplate of the damaged Owlman armor like a hot knife through bone.
Smoke poured out as metal bubbled.
Behind the armor—Thomas Wayne Jr. stared up at the sky, his true face revealed at last.
And slowly… he smiled.
"This time…" he whispered, chest rising faintly with breath.
"…both of us survived."
He looked toward the cracked skyline above, where red lightning still coiled through distant clouds.
Back then, when he'd pulled the trigger on Bruce, had there been a flicker of doubt?
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That was... intense.
In this chapter, all of Owlman's plan and acting earlier was disclosed.
Did he really really care for Richard, is he different from other crime syndicate. That was the question tho, or is it another acting of his.
This chapter is very long(compared to his other) and i split it into 2, the other will be uploaded tomorrow.
If you like the story please support me by giving powerstones, comments and reviews. Your support will be very much appreciated!