Somewhere beneath the ruins of what once was Eastbridge Bank—a crater now masked by debris and a dozen fake zoning reports—a secret meeting convened.

The lights flickered in the room like the eyes of restless predators. Around a circular table carved from black obsidian, twelve of the most dangerous villains on Earth sat cloaked in shadow, arrogance, and ambition.

“Hybrid,” a thick-voiced cyborg named Mechshard growled, “is the only reason we haven’t stormed Capitol Spire and ripped the hero league to pieces.”

“She’s not even the top rank,” hissed Basilika, a serpent-eyed alchemist cloaked in bio-tar. “But she’s the only one who can fight like a damn army.”

“What if we kill the others first?” said Ignir Void, a flame entity fused with nuclear-grade reactors. “We round up the top five, snap them in front of her, and then we watch her shatter.”

There were murmurs of approval—grins of carnage, whispers of blood.

But then a voice cut through the darkness.

A voice that didn’t shout.
Didn’t hiss.
Didn’t gloat.

“No.”

All turned.

At the head of the table sat a man in gold-rimmed glasses, impeccably dressed in obsidian robes stitched with encrypted sigils. His name was Magelord Dirian, once dubbed The Philosopher King of Catastrophe. Most of them owed their freedom—or their fear—to him.

He was old now. But his eyes saw everything.

“We don’t touch Hybrid,” Dirian said coldly.

“We don’t touch the League.”

“Not yet.”

“Not while he breathes.”

“Who?” Mechshard asked. “The old clown again? Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of Professor Deathjoke.”

Snickers echoed. Scoffs followed. But Dirian didn’t flinch.

“You mock him because he chooses mockery.”

“You mock him because he makes toys instead of war machines.”

“You think him a buffoon.”

He raised his hand—and a projection glowed in the air above the table.

Deathjoke, grinning, dancing in a holographic loop, being pummeled by Hybrid and left a black-eyed, swollen-mouthed mess in cuffs.

“But what you don’t see…”

He changed the feed.

A satellite image. An explosion in the Mariana Trench—one that didn’t make headlines, but registered higher than nuclear tests.

Another: a freeze-frame of Hybrid flying out of a now-demolished island lab—no life signs left inside, except for confetti.

“He built twelve cities under the ocean that don’t exist on any map.”

“He’s escaped from the unescapable prison twenty times.”

“He crafted a gravitational bomb that, had it been activated, would’ve turned the Earth’s core into a singularity.”

The room went silent.

Dirian’s voice dropped.

“And yet… he pulls out whoopee cushions instead.”

“You don’t see the horror because he doesn’t want you to see it.”

He looked each villain in the eye.

“You think you’re monsters. You think you’ve caused fear.”

“But Deathjoke?” He tapped his temple. “Deathjoke has cracked the equation of destruction… and laughed in its face.”

“Why hasn’t he destroyed us? Because to him… the game is funnier this way.”

Silence.

Then Basilika muttered, “So he’s protecting Hybrid?”

Dirian shook his head. “No. He’s provoking her. Shaping her. Testing what kind of chaos she can absorb.”

Mechshard spat oil. “So what? We do nothing?”

“No,” Dirian replied. “We plan. But not through brute force.”

He stood.

“We survive by staying out of his spotlight. Not until we understand him. Not until we know what happens when the fool decides to stop laughing.”

Meanwhile…

In a hidden bunker outside the city, Hybrid slammed her fist into a reinforced wall.

“He escaped again! Again!”

The concrete cracked.

She hadn’t slept in days.

No other villain escaped this often. No other villain left trails of gags and genetically twisted chaos in his wake. No one else tested her patience—and her power—like Deathjoke.

Her team of analysts reported rising underground activity from minor villains, warlords shifting territories, criminal syndicates stirring.

She clenched her fists.

“He’s not just a clown. He’s infectious.”

Elsewhere, in the dark

Back in the lair, Smiley walked through corridors pulsing with biochemical light.

He entered the central lab, where Deathjoke was trying to teach a hybrid octopus-dog creature to play ping pong.

“They’re afraid of you now,” Smiley said.

Deathjoke chuckled. “Of course they are. They’re villains. Villains are boring when they aren’t afraid.”

“Even the Philosopher King told them not to mess with you.”

Deathjoke paused, then turned with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Then he’s the smartest corpse still breathing.”

He looked down at the creature.

“You hear that, Flufftopus? We’re famous again.”

Smiley watched him.

“Why don’t you destroy them all? Prove them right?”

Deathjoke didn’t answer at first.

Then:

“Because a broken toy is no longer fun.”

He looked up, and his grin widened.

“But a toy you wind… and wind… and wind… until it snaps?”

“That’s where the real punchline begins.