The clash of two tireless blades rang sharply through the vast stone corridor that connected the twin towers of the League of Shadows fortress. The steel sang with each strike, sparks scattering like fireflies in the gloom.
A katana swing met another, then forced me back under the heavy pressure of the gleaming weapon I struggled to counter.My left arm hung limply by my side, weakened and sluggish. Thick streams of blood cascaded down my long fingers, painting red streaks over the flawless white marble floor.
Earlier, Talia al Ghul had marked me with a deep cut on my shoulder, and her father hadn't wasted a second exploiting it. Ra's al Ghul, ancient and merciless, pressed harder with every strike, each slash aimed where I was weakest, capitalizing on my injury with the precision of someone who had a thousand battles etched into his bones.
If not for my abnormal physiology, that last blow would have cost me my arm. A human fighter would already be crippled—but I wasn't human in the conventional sense. As a supersoldier, my flesh couldn't regrow lost limbs, but shredded tissue stitched itself back together with unnatural speed.
My healing factor wasn't as absurd as Wolverine's feral regeneration or that irritating mercenary's freak show of immortality, but it was strong enough to keep me alive when any other would have collapsed.Already, the bleeding had stopped. My shoulder, though still raw and throbbing, had sealed itself shut, threads of muscle knitting back into place. But those few open minutes had drained at least two liters of blood from me—enough to send an ordinary soul spiraling toward either delirium or death's doorstep.
I wasn't ordinary. Even weakened, I stood firm, legs braced and chest heaving. Pain gnawed at my body, but my endurance anchored me, keeping me balanced where others would crumble.
"The Detective trained you well," Ra's al Ghul observed, his emerald eyes never leaving mine. His tone was calm—too calm for someone whose sword blade had nearly just taken my arm. "But no amount of training alone can sculpt such unnatural resilience. How did you manage it?"
I seized the pause, lunging for precious air with every breath. His curiosity gave me a narrow window, and I wasn't one to waste even seconds in the Demon's Head's presence.
"You really want to know?" I asked between haggard breaths. Ra's raised no brow, offered no hint of sarcasm. His silence was invitation enough.
"Fine then, listen carefully..." I began, my tone sharp despite my exhaustion. "Push-ups—one hundred, every single day. Sit-ups—one hundred. Squats—one hundred. And to finish, a ten-kilometer run. Every day without fail."
The immortal assassin blinked. His lips parted, and for the first time in the entire fight, he looked almost… confused. "What…"
I wasn't done.
"And you've got to stick to three meals a day. For breakfast, even one measly banana will fuel you enough. Forget air-conditioning, summer or winter—your body has to temper itself with heat and cold. At first, it feels impossible. Miss one day and you're tempted to think skipping won't matter. But you keep at it. Always. No matter how agonizing. When my legs felt like stone, I did the squats. When my arms crackled under the strain, I pushed out two more push-ups. And then I did it again the next day." I clenched my fist, raising my arm to show him hardened muscle.
"The result? Strength! Pure and undeniable! Yet one thing haunts me still…" My voice dropped mockingly. "The side effect. Baldness. May the gods preserve what's left of my hair!"
"I see," Ra's murmured, inclining his head. His expression remained thin, drawn in that particular way that suggested he recognized the absurdity of my words—and dismissed them entirely. "I expected no honest reply to my question. Its purpose was rhetorical."
"Well, that's gratitude for you," I sighed dramatically, shaking my head. "You open your heart, share the discipline that makes you great, and people scoff. Nobody ever believes me. And yet, it's the truth. I did train daily, hoping—foolishly—that some hidden function of the 'system' would unlock. It never did. My powers stayed as flimsy as before. Still… the routine became my habit. It carved me into someone far stronger than that naïve boy who began this path."
Ra's eyes hardened, the patient calm replaced with grim resolve. "You will remain here," he declared sharply, the weight of command in his voice. "I cannot allow you to leave Nanda Parbat. Do not expect rescue from the Detective. This ends here. The League will have order again."
"Agreed," I replied, a faint smirk curling across my lips. "We can begin… once I step out of this cozy little prison. I've lingered here too long. It's time my sails caught wind."
"You still think you can leave?" The Demon's Head's lips curled in derision. With a sharp snarl, he swung his vibranium blade, its silver arc whistling toward me.
I blocked with my cursed katana, the two blades ringing out in violent collision. Step by step, I retreated as he pressed forward, denying me any chance to breathe. Yet for all his centuries of mastery, one moment was mine.
A sudden strike—my blade cutting across his midsection and hammering against his solar plexus. He staggered back, wind stolen from his lungs.
The opening was fleeting, too slight to swing the battle in my favor, but enough to shift the rhythm. He coughed, his body bent for a fraction of a second. That was all I had.And then it was time.
I extended one palm. A smooth, metallic orb dropped into it as though conjured from thin air. Ra's stiffened, wariness flashing across his ancient features.
"This… Could it be?" he sneered with mockery. "Your infamous 'Heavenly Punishment'? I've heard whispers of it. A light drizzle that barely tickles. Do you think it will help you against me?"
I chuckled, low and sharp. "Oh no. Not drizzle this time. Last time I held back—let myself be captured so your League could drag me in alive. I shackled my own strength. But now? Restraint no longer serves me. You will witness 'Heavenly Punishment 2.0.'"
The corridor was barely four and a half meters high—not nearly enough distance for falling projectiles to build devastating force. That was why Ra's mocked me. Any warrior with his skill could cut bowling balls and cannon shots alike from the air with ease.
His smug disdain told me all I needed: he would underestimate. Round steel spheres began plummeting from nowhere, breaking through illusion, filling the hall in a thunderous rain. The corridor, once cloaked in dim shadows, lit in fiery orange as glowing cannonballs struck the marble floor, steam hissing where heat kissed stone.
What Ra's did not know—what he could not know—was that time froze inside my personal inventory. Long ago, I had gone to a forge, ordered balls of tempered steel, and bathed them in searing fire until each radiated with infernal heat. I stored them.
Now, they fell burning, red-hot at 1500°C.The League's fortress, built of marble and stone, would endure. The air warped with heat. A hell-storm had descended.Ra's al Ghul reacted instantly. A warrior tempered by centuries, he read the threat—not of the heat, but of me. His vibranium blade flashed, cutting down molten meteorites screaming toward him. A blur of steel, his sword was a butterfly in motion, batting away balls that could sear through armor and yet, my heavenly punishment wasn't merely molten rain. Mixed among the infernal shots were harmless steel orbs. Or so they seemed. And that was his mistake.
Focused only on dodging the glowing threats, Ra's dismissed the darkened spheres, ignoring them as irrelevant weights. He closed the distance, sprinting toward me—until one nondescript orb brushed his shoulder. Instantly, his body convulsed. Muscles seized. It lasted less than a second, but that moment was enough. I surged forward, driving my knee into his scorched chest.
The ancient assassin flew backward, coughing blood.
"How?" his eyes screamed more than his mouth. The truth? That "harmless" sphere he ignored carried a concealed generator, discharging current strong enough to floor a buffalo. Ra's endured it, recovering almost instantly—a testament to his ungodly resilience. But even that momentary hesitation cost him dearly.
Six searing cannonballs landed true, battering his body mercilessly. His immortal form staggered under their wrath, blood now marking his lips.
His sword swung wildly, unfaltering, batting away everything—molten or not. The mistake he would never repeat. Ra's al Ghul's cold eyes cut through firelight, pinning me beneath their weight as though daring me to approach.
The temperature pressed against us. His blade flashed. Survival demanded I retreat, but fight or flight wasn't the question. Escape was the only option. I struck again, exploiting the burn wound on his leg. My boot hammered the scorched flesh, and though he tried deftly to dodge, I had already pulled another trick—the conjured wall of stone behind him leaving nowhere to step back.
Cornered, he took the blow, stumbling as agony etched deep into his movement. I did not finish him. This wasn't the place. Instead, before he could recover, I turned and bolted, sprinting down the burning corridor. Behind me, I heard his furious roar and the desperate clang of his pursuit.
Even wounded, the centuries-old demon gave chase. Yet I was faster now, speed lent by desperation—and his burnt leg crippled his stride.
Never once did I dare look back. Distance grew; instinct told me so without confirmation. Winding halls blurred past me, the fortress a labyrinth, until my intuition flared—guiding me down the correct path. Without that sixth sense, I might have been lost forever.
Bursting from one ornate hall into another corridor, I suddenly saw her. A silhouette cloaked in midnight, horns peeking from her mask. Her cape fluttered behind her, her steps swift but cautious. Batgirl. Without pausing, I seized her gloved hand and pulled her into my escape, my grip iron.
"Alex!" she shouted, half pulled, half running to keep pace. "What the hell is happening? Why are we running? I was going insane when you cut comms—"
"Sorry," I muttered through ragged breaths. "Things got complicated. I'm being hunted by a centuries-old demon with a vibranium sword. Not exactly a friendly spar."
She stiffened instantly. "Wait. You saw him? You fought Ra's al Ghul? And you're still alive?"
"Alive, but not in style," I grimaced, showing her my bandaged shoulder streaked with blood. "He wasn't too thrilled at me damaging his pride. Now he wants to carve me into pieces. Consider his mood… sour."
She shook her head, disbelief warring with concern. "I—That's insane…"
"Good to see you too," I interrupted, managing a grin despite the circumstances. We ran together, footsteps echoing through stone, until finally an open archway loomed ahead. Cold night air rushed across my face. For the first time in hours, I tasted freedom.
"Wow…" Batgirl muttered, cloak whipping in the wind as she glanced back into the inferno behind us.
"Looks like I missed all the fun."
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