[You've healed and adapted to 735,898 tons of force.]
Bruce lay there for a fraction longer than necessary, chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm as the notification faded from his vision. The ice beneath his back was fractured into a spiderweb of impact lines, crimson pooling in the cracks like veins beneath glass.
The Turtles didn't give him the courtesy of stillness.
The hammer crashed down again, slamming into his raised forearm with catastrophic force. The frozen plain shattered outward in a violent ring, shards lifting into the air before clattering back down like broken mirrors.
His arm didn't break.
Pain tore through him, white, incandescent, raw, but no fracture followed. The staff came immediately after, driving into his ribs with the weight of a falling mountain. He felt bruising bloom beneath his skin. Felt the shock reverberate through his organs.
But nothing collapsed.
