"Twenty-three years I've been perfecting this place," Oz muttered as he watched another piece of expensive furniture get destroyed. "These government pricks are gonna pay for every goddamn scratch."
That was when Slade moved to intercept, staff extending to full length as he engaged the Asset directly. Enhanced reflexes met systematic brutality in a contest that sent both fighters careening across the lounge, destroying furniture and fixtures in their wake.
The Winter Soldier's metal arm caught Slade's staff mid-swing, mechanical strength threatening to snap the reinforced weapon. But Slade had anticipated this, using the Asset's grip as leverage to swing his body weight in an arc that brought his boots into contact with the Winter Soldier's ribs.
The impact drove the Asset backward, though he maintained his grip on the staff. For a moment, both fighters were locked in a contest of leverage and positioning, each seeking advantage through superior technique.
"You move like Wilson," the Winter Soldier observed, his voice carrying no emotion despite the recognition. "But you lack his conviction."
"Do I?" Slade replied, his staff spinning in complex patterns that forced the Winter Soldier to adjust his attack rhythm. His free hand produced a combat knife that sought gaps in the Asset's tactical gear. "Let's find out."
The engagement between them intensified, enhanced operative against enhanced operative, each testing the other's limits through pure violence. Slade's staff work was masterful, but the Winter Soldier's combination of mechanical strength and systematic technique created openings that shouldn't have existed.
The Asset's metal arm swept low, seeking to break Slade's stance while his flesh hand drove a knee strike toward the exposed ribs. Slade pivoted away from the leg sweep while using his staff to deflect the knee, but the Winter Soldier's follow-up came faster than anticipated.
Metal fingers closed around Slade's throat, applying pressure with mechanical precision. The grip was perfectly positioned to crush windpipe and carotid simultaneously, a killing technique delivered with surgical accuracy.
"You were created to kill Captain America," the Winter Soldier stated flatly, his voice carrying no emotion despite the intimate nature of their struggle. "I was created to kill everyone else."
Slade's vision began to narrow as blood flow to his brain was systematically restricted. But his enhanced physiology bought him precious seconds that normal humans wouldn't have. His hand found the concealed blade at his hip, fingers closing around familiar grip with desperate precision.
"Good thing I'm not everyone else," Slade replied, his voice strained but defiant. The blade came up in a perfect arc, finding the gap between the Winter Soldier's tactical vest and arm guard.
The knife penetrated deep, sliding between metal plates to find flesh beneath. Dark blood welled around the blade, and for just a moment, something almost human flickered in the Winter Soldier's eyes. Surprise, perhaps. Or recognition that he could still bleed.
"Holy shit!" Oz's voice cut through the violence as he witnessed the first significant injury dealt to the Asset. "Chrome arm bleeds! I knew that government freak wasn't invincible!"
The Winter Soldier released his grip, stepping back to assess the wound with clinical detachment. His tactical analysis processed the injury without apparent concern for pain or permanent damage.
"Enhanced healing factor noted," he observed, watching as his own blood ran down the blade. "Tactical parameters require adjustment."
"Lots of interesting surprises tonight," Slade agreed, already moving to press his advantage while the Asset was distracted by wound assessment.
Around them, the battle raged with increasing intensity. Bane had recovered from the Winter Soldier's nerve strike, his Venom-enhanced physiology overriding the temporary paralysis. He rejoined the engagement with renewed fury, his massive fists seeking to overwhelm the Asset through sheer destructive force.
"Machine man," Bane growled, his accent thick with pain and anger as he charged forward. "You bleed like any other."
His massive fist crashed into where the Winter Soldier had been standing, pulverizing marble flooring into powder and debris. But the Asset had moved with mechanical precision, his wounded arm functioning at reduced efficiency but still capable of devastating counterstrikes.
Taskmaster flanked from the opposite side, his shield work creating defensive patterns while he sought openings for decisive strikes. His photographic reflexes had downloaded the Winter Soldier's combat style, but the Asset's systematic adaptations made prediction increasingly difficult.
"Injury confirmed," Taskmaster noted clinically, adjusting his approach to account for the Winter Soldier's compromised left side. "Motor function degraded approximately twelve percent. Window of opportunity opening."
Kraven emerged from concealment at precisely the moment when the Winter Soldier's attention was divided between multiple threats. His attack came from above, dropping from the damaged mezzanine with predatory silence that even enhanced senses might miss.
The hunter's descent was perfectly timed, his body positioned to drive both feet into the Winter Soldier's wounded shoulder with enough force to dislocate the joint entirely. But the Asset's tactical awareness extended beyond normal human perception.
Without looking up, he side-stepped Kraven's descent while his metal arm swept upward in an arc calculated to intercept the hunter's trajectory. Kraven twisted in midair, avoiding the metal fist by millimeters while landing in a crouch that immediately transitioned into a roll.
He came up with a dart gun in hand, the weapon loaded with his most potent paralytic compounds. "Persistent prey," he noted with satisfaction. "This hunt grows more worthy by the moment."
The Winter Soldier turned to face this new angle of attack, but his movement was noticeably slower than before. Slade's blade had found something important, creating system inefficiencies that his programming couldn't entirely compensate for.
"You're slowing down, chrome arm!" Oz called out from behind his reinforced position, reloading his Uzi with practiced efficiency. "All that government enhancement can't fix good old-fashioned blood loss!"
Blood loss from enhanced physiology subjects remained within acceptable parameters, but motor function showed measurable degradation. The Asset's tactical analysis processed this information with mechanical precision while he continued to engage multiple enhanced opponents simultaneously.
Oz stepped out from cover, his Uzi chattering as he laid down suppressing fire that forced the Winter Soldier to divide his attention between close-quarters combat and ranged threats. "That's what you get for picking a fight in my house, government boy!"
The four-way engagement had destroyed most of the lounge's central area, furniture and fixtures reduced to debris scattered across cracked marble floors. Emergency lighting cast everything in hellish red, making blood and shadow indistinguishable in the chaos.
Lady Shiva moved through the peripheral combat like liquid death, dispatching the remaining tactical operatives with surgical precision. Her technique was flawless, each strike calculated to disable rather than kill, though the distinction seemed academic given the violence of her methods.
Copperhead had claimed the high ground on what remained of the mezzanine, her serpentine flexibility allowing her to move through positions that would be impossible for normal human anatomy. From her elevated position, she struck at tactical operatives with venomous precision, her toxins turning Pierce's soldiers into convulsing victims.
"The government toys are breaking," she purred, her forked tongue flicking out to taste the chemical composition of fear and violence in the air. "How delicious."
But before the confrontation could reach its conclusion, something changed in the atmosphere of the lounge. A subtle shift in air pressure, barely perceptible but unmistakable to those with enhanced senses.
Kraven's head snapped upward, his hunter's instincts detecting something approaching from above. "Movement," he warned, his voice carrying across the battlefield. "Large mass descending. Fast."
The Winter Soldier's tactical systems immediately began scanning for aerial threats, but the damage from Slade's blade was affecting his sensor integration. Warning indicators flashed across his visual display, system diagnostics struggling to compensate for compromised hardware.
Then came the sound. Not the whistle of falling debris or the crash of structural collapse. This was different. Deliberate. Precise.
Explosions erupted in perfect sequence around the lounge's already damaged skylight, shaped charges detonating with mathematical precision that spoke of careful planning and expert placement. The reinforced glass structure that had survived the initial assault began to fracture in geometric patterns, each crack spreading according to predetermined stress vectors.
"What the fuck now?" Oz demanded, looking up as chunks of reinforced glass began raining down around them. "Are you kidding me with this shit?"
Every combatant in the lounge looked up simultaneously, instincts honed by years of survival recognizing that whatever was coming would change everything. The skylight, weakened by previous damage and now systematically destroyed, opened like a flower of glass and twisted metal.
Through the widening aperture came two figures descending with controlled precision that defied physics. The larger form spread cape-like membranes wide, using them as guidance systems to control descent velocity and trajectory. The smaller figure moved with acrobatic grace that transformed falling into controlled flight.
"Holy shit," Oz breathed, his gold tooth catching the emergency lighting as he stared upward. "The Bat finally shows up to his own party."
The descent seemed to last forever and an instant simultaneously. Through smoke and emergency lighting, through the chaos of ongoing violence, Batman and Robin fell like avenging angels into the heart of the battlefield.
Batman's cape billowed around him like living shadow, the armored form beneath it perfectly balanced despite the massive impact that awaited him. His descent was controlled through pure technique, using air resistance and cape manipulation to land with devastating effect rather than suicidal impact.
Robin's approach was entirely different, his smaller frame allowing for maneuvers that would be impossible for his mentor. The boy twisted through the air with gymnastic precision, using grappling lines and acrobatic techniques to control his descent while positioning himself for maximum tactical advantage upon landing.
They struck the marble floor simultaneously, the dual impact sending shockwaves through the building's structure that dwarfed anything the previous fighting had accomplished. Cracks spider-webbed outward from both impact points, the floor actually buckling slightly under the force of their controlled crash.
Batman absorbed the landing through reinforced armor and superior conditioning, his massive form rising from a crouch with cape spreading like wings around him. The Dark Knight of Gotham had arrived in his element, shadow and violence made manifest in the hellish red lighting of his city's premier criminal establishment.
Robin landed with acrobatic grace that made the devastating impact seem effortless, his smaller form rolling with the force before coming up in a defensive stance. His colorful costume stood out starkly against the emergency lighting, red and green and yellow bright as fresh blood in the smoke-filled air.
But it was the silence that followed their arrival that truly demonstrated their impact. For several heartbeats, every combatant in the lounge simply stared, processing the arrival of Gotham's legendary protectors in the middle of what had been a private war between enhanced killers.
The Winter Soldier tilted his head slightly, his tactical systems analyzing these newcomers with mechanical interest. Priority targets confirmed. Batman registered as maximum threat level, while the smaller figure's thermal signature suggested enhanced physical capabilities despite apparent youth.
"Well, I'll be damned," Oz said quietly, lowering his Uzi as he took in the dramatic arrival. His scarred face twisted into something that might have been admiration mixed with irritation. "After all these years of keeping you out of my establishment, you finally decide to drop in. Literally."
He limped forward slightly, his umbrella tapping against the cracked marble as he surveyed the destruction. "Twenty-three fucking years I've maintained neutral territory in this city, and now I got the goddamn Batman in my lounge. Along with government spooks, international assassins, and..." he gestured toward the Winter Soldier, "whatever the hell that chrome-armed freak is supposed to be."
Surviving tactical operatives shifted their aim toward the most recognizable targets in Gotham, but their hands were trembling. Everyone in law enforcement knew the stories, the legends that surrounded the Dark Knight. Seeing him in person, rising from his impact crater like some armored demon, gave those stories terrifying new context.
Batman's gaze swept the battlefield, taking in the destroyed lounge, the scattered bodies of Pierce's operatives, and the collection of international assassins who had just been fighting for their lives against a single enhanced opponent. His tactical mind processed the scene in milliseconds, identifying threats and priorities with inhuman speed.
His attention lingered for a moment on Oswald Cobblepot, noting the crime boss's defensive position and the sophisticated weapons cache he'd deployed. Batman's files on the Penguin were extensive, but this level of preparation suggested the criminal had been anticipating exactly this type of confrontation.
"Cobblepot," Batman acknowledged with a slight nod, his voice carrying none of the fury he'd directed at the Winter Soldier. Professional recognition between longtime adversaries.
"Bats," Oz replied with grudging respect, his gold tooth catching the emergency lighting. "You picked a hell of a night to finally accept my hospitality."
Robin's head turned toward the Winter Soldier, his enhanced mask lenses focusing on the Asset with obvious recognition. The boy's stance shifted subtly, rage and grief warring with tactical discipline in his body language. His breathing quickened, years of suppressed trauma suddenly given focus in the form of the man who'd destroyed his family.
"That's him," Robin said quietly, his young voice carrying absolute certainty that cut through the silence like a blade. "That's the one who killed my parents."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence, their meaning clear to everyone present. This wasn't just Batman arriving to stop a criminal enterprise. This was personal. This was vengeance seeking its target in a room full of the world's most dangerous killers.
"Kid's got steel," Oz observed quietly, watching Robin's controlled fury with professional appreciation. "Most people that age would be pissing themselves in a room full of professional killers."
The Winter Soldier's head turned toward Robin with mechanical precision, his tactical systems processing this new information. "Flying Graysons. Circus performers. Eliminated during infiltration mission. Collateral damage was deemed acceptable."
The casual dismissal of his family's murder hit Robin like a physical blow, but the boy's training held. Batman had taught him to channel emotion into focus, and that focus was now entirely fixed on the enhanced operative who spoke of his parents' deaths with mechanical indifference.
Batman's cape settled around him as he straightened to his full, imposing height. In the emergency lighting, with smoke swirling around his armored form, he looked less like a man in a costume and more like the urban legend that had terrorized Gotham's criminals for eight years.
"Your hunt ends here," Batman said, his voice carrying the controlled fury that had made him the city's nightmare. The modulated tone conveyed threat and promise in equal measure, each word precisely chosen for maximum psychological impact.
But before the Winter Soldier could respond, something changed in the atmosphere of the lounge. A subtle shift that had nothing to do with the previous violence or the arrival of Batman and Robin. This was different. Older. More dangerous.
Kraven's enhanced senses detected it first, his hunter's instincts recognizing the approach of something that predated modern violence. "Something comes," he warned, his voice carrying across the battlefield. "Something ancient."
Slade felt it too, his enhanced awareness picking up movement patterns that suggested systematic infiltration by professionals who made Pierce's tactical teams look like amateurs. "Multiple contacts. Moving with purpose. This isn't random."
The Winter Soldier's tactical systems began registering new heat signatures throughout the building, but their movement patterns were unlike anything in his programming. These weren't soldiers. They were something else entirely.
That's when the lights went out.
Not the emergency lighting that had been casting everything in hellish red. Everything. Complete darkness fell over the Iceberg Lounge like a physical presence, the blackness so absolute it seemed to absorb sound itself.
"What the fuck now?" Oz demanded from his position behind the bar, his voice cutting through the sudden silence. "This is my goddamn establishment! Who the hell is cutting my power?"
But Batman knew. Seven years of training with the League of Shadows had taught him to recognize their operational signatures. The systematic elimination of lighting, the coordinated movement patterns, the sense of ancient malice settling over the battlefield like a shroud.
"Ra's," he said quietly, the name carrying weight that made even the Winter Soldier pause in his tactical assessment.
Through the darkness came the sound of glass breaking. Not the explosive detonation of shaped charges or the crash of violent impact. This was precise. Surgical. Windows throughout the building shattered simultaneously, but the sound was muffled, controlled.
Dark shapes began descending through every opening, rappelling into the chaos with silent efficiency that made professional soldiers look clumsy by comparison. Their traditional black garb and red accent markings were barely visible in the darkness, but those who knew the League's methods could identify them by movement alone.
"League operatives," Lady Shiva observed, her voice carrying something approaching satisfaction. "This night grows more interesting by the moment."
The operatives spread across the lounge with practiced precision that spoke of decades of training. They didn't engage immediately. Instead, they took defensive positions that suggested they intended to stay. This wasn't a raid or extraction. This was an occupation.
"How many?" Deadshot asked quietly, his enhanced targeting systems struggling to function in the absolute darkness that had descended over the battlefield.
"Too many," Batman replied, his own night vision equipment automatically engaging. The League had come in force, which meant Ra's al Ghul himself was nearby.
More glass exploded inward as additional League operatives breached through windows and secondary entrances, their coordinated assault suggesting significant planning and preparation. Someone had been watching the situation develop for some time, waiting for precisely the right moment to intervene.
The Winter Soldier's tactical systems struggled to process this new development. His programming had extensive files on various terrorist organizations, but the League of Shadows operated according to principles that predated modern warfare. Their methods were systematic but ancient, brutal but precise.
"Unknown organization," he noted to himself, metal arm moving to defensive position as shadows shifted around him. "Threat assessment inconclusive."
That's when the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Through the main entrance came a figure that made even the Winter Soldier pause in his systematic destruction. The darkness seemed to part before him like a living thing, shadows bending to accommodate his passage as if the very air recognized his authority.
Ra's al Ghul himself entered the Iceberg Lounge with imperial confidence that transformed the already complex battlefield into something approaching mythology. His traditional green and gold robes seemed to absorb what little light remained, while his presence filled the space with an aura of ancient malice that made the previous violence seem quaint by comparison.
Behind him came his Shadow Cabinet, the inner circle of the League whose very existence was whispered about in intelligence circles across the globe. Each moved with the controlled grace of someone who'd killed more people than some armies, their collective presence turning the air thick with the promise of death.
"Detective," Ra's called across the battle, his voice carrying easily despite the surrounding violence. The single word held centuries of history, disappointment, and something that might have been paternal affection twisted into something poisonous.
Oz stepped back involuntarily, his criminal instincts recognizing something far more dangerous than anything he'd previously encountered. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, his Uzi suddenly feeling inadequate against the aura of menace that filled his establishment. "What kind of demon did Batman train with?"
Batman's entire body language changed at the sight of his former mentor. Seven years of separation, seven years of building his own methods and philosophy, suddenly compressed into a single moment of recognition. The cape that had seemed imposing now felt heavy with memory and regret.
"Ra's," Batman said, the name carrying weight that seemed to make the very air vibrate with tension.
"You have grown since our last meeting," Ra's observed, stepping carefully around debris as if the destruction was beneath his notice. "Though I see you still surround yourself with... interesting company."
His gaze swept the assembled assassins and criminals with casual dismissal, lingering only briefly on the Winter Soldier before settling back on Batman. "Still playing protector to this rotting city, I see. Still refusing to accept the truth of what must be done."
The Winter Soldier turned toward this new arrival, his tactical systems attempting to process threat levels that didn't conform to normal parameters. Ra's al Ghul registered as human, but something about his presence suggested capabilities that transcended normal classification.
"Unknown individual," the Asset noted. "Threat assessment... inconclusive."
Ra's smiled at the mechanical evaluation, the expression carrying no warmth whatsoever. "How fascinating. Pierce's latest experiment attempts to analyze me as if I were some common criminal. Tell me, Detective, does your mechanical friend understand what he faces?"
"That's what we're about to find out," Batman replied, his voice carrying the controlled fury that had been building since he'd entered the lounge.
"Oh, this is just fucking perfect," Oz interjected, his voice cutting through the tension with working-class irritation. "First I got government spooks shooting up my place, then international assassins turning it into a war zone, then the goddamn Batman crashes through my skylight, and now some mystical ninja cult decides to join the party. What's next, the fucking man of steel or stark?"
Ra's turned his attention to the crime boss with mild interest. "Oswald Cobblepot. The Penguin. Your reputation precedes you, though I must say your establishment has seen better days."
"Yeah, well, it was beautiful before everyone decided to use it as their personal battlefield," Oz replied, gesturing around the destroyed lounge with his umbrella. "You know how much authentic Italian marble costs? How about imported crystal? That chandelier alone was worth more than most people make in a year."
"Material possessions," Ra's dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Temporary constructs in a world that demands purification."
"Easy for you to say," Oz shot back, apparently unimpressed by the Demon's Head's legendary status. "You're not the one who spent twenty-three years building this place from nothing."
The exchange was surreal—a crime boss arguing with an immortal terrorist about property damage while surrounded by some of the world's most dangerous killers. But somehow, it fit the increasingly chaotic nature of the evening.
Robin remained focused on the Winter Soldier, his young face set in lines that shouldn't have existed on someone his age. The presence of the League, the arrival of Ra's al Ghul, Batman's obvious history with these people—none of it mattered compared to the mechanical killer who'd destroyed his family.
"Does it?" the Winter Soldier asked, finally responding to Batman's earlier declaration as he prepared to engage this collection of threats that his programming couldn't adequately classify.
But Batman wasn't moving to engage yet. Dark shapes continued descending through the shattered skylight and broken windows, League of Shadows operatives rappelling into the chaos with silent efficiency that made the previous tactical assault look amateur by comparison.
The operatives spread across the lounge with practiced precision, immediately engaging the surviving tactical team while taking defensive positions that suggested they intended to stay. This wasn't a raid or extraction. This was an occupation of neutral territory, a violation of every unwritten rule that governed Gotham's underworld.
"This is un-fucking-believable," Oz muttered, watching his establishment fill with ninja assassins who moved like living shadows. "I run a neutral establishment. Neutral! These League assholes don't get to just waltz in here and start claiming territory."
More glass exploded inward as additional League operatives breached through windows and secondary entrances, their coordinated assault suggesting they'd been planning this intervention for hours, possibly days. Someone had been watching the situation develop, waiting for precisely the right moment to turn chaos into opportunity.
The Winter Soldier found his tactical systems struggling to process the new variables. These operatives moved according to principles that predated modern warfare, their methods systematic but ancient, brutal but precise in ways his programming couldn't adequately categorize.
Deadshot had to abandon his elevated position as League operatives secured the mezzanine level, but he managed to maintain his rifle as he rappelled to ground level. His targeting eye immediately began calculating new firing solutions through the increased chaos.
"This is getting way too complicated," he muttered, settling into a defensive position behind an overturned table while League operatives flowed around him like water. "I signed up to kill one target, not fight a war against ninja death cults."
The League operatives moved with coordination that bordered on telepathic, each understanding their role in a larger strategy that none of the other combatants could fully comprehend. They engaged Pierce's surviving tactical team with systematic efficiency, but their real attention seemed focused on containment rather than elimination.
Bane found himself surrounded by three League operatives whose coordinated attack patterns forced him to fight defensively despite his size advantage. Their blades found gaps in his enhanced musculature with surgical precision, drawing blood from a dozen shallow wounds that would have felled a lesser opponent.
"Impressive teamwork," Bane acknowledged, his massive fists crushing one operative's ribs while the other two pressed their attack from different angles. "But ultimately insufficient against superior strength."
His free hand caught a descending blade, metal snapping under the pressure of his enhanced grip. The disarmed operative continued his attack with improvised weapons, showing the adaptability that made the League legendary among those who knew of their existence.
Taskmaster had downloaded the League operatives' fighting style within minutes, his photographic reflexes allowing him to anticipate their coordinated attacks. His shield work became a blur of defensive movements as he held off four attackers simultaneously.
"League of Shadows standard combat form," he noted, shield crushing one operative's wrist while deflecting strikes from three others. "Systematic, efficient, but ultimately predictable once analyzed."
One of the operatives produced a smoke grenade, obscuring Taskmaster's enhanced vision while his companions moved to flank. But Taskmaster's reflexes had already downloaded their movement patterns, allowing him to continue defending despite the visual impairment.
"Smoke tactics won't work against photographic muscle memory," he observed, his shield finding targets he couldn't see but whose positions he'd already calculated.
Lady Shiva moved through the League operatives like a force of nature, her techniques superior to theirs despite their numerical advantage. She'd been trained by Ra's al Ghul himself, making her fighting style a more advanced version of what they'd learned.
"Inadequate," she observed, dispatching two operatives with precise strikes while avoiding the weapons of three others. "Ra's standards have declined with age."
Kraven had melted back into the shadows, his hunter's instincts recognizing that this new development required careful observation before engagement. The League operatives moved with predatory efficiency that he respected, but their focus seemed to be on containment rather than elimination.
Copperhead continued her serpentine movement through the chaos, her impossible flexibility allowing her to avoid both League operatives and the ongoing violence while positioning herself for strikes of opportunity. Her toxins had already claimed several of Pierce's soldiers, and now she turned her attention to these new arrivals.
"So many new playmates," she purred, her forked tongue flicking out to taste the chemical composition of fear and violence that had saturated the air. "How delicious."
But it was Oz who voiced what everyone was thinking as he watched the systematic occupation of his establishment.
"This is supposed to be neutral fucking territory!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the violence with pure indignation. "I don't care if you're government spooks, international assassins, or mystical ninja death cults—nobody gets to turn my place into their personal battlefield without consequences!"
He raised his Uzi toward the nearest group of League operatives, the weapon chattering as he laid down suppressing fire that forced them to take cover behind expensive furniture that was rapidly being reduced to splinters.
"Twenty-three years I've maintained neutrality in this city!" Oz continued, reloading with practiced efficiency while League operatives returned fire with throwing stars and crossbow bolts. "Twenty-three years of providing safe haven for every criminal, assassin, and psychopath who needed somewhere to conduct business without bloodshed!"
Lady Shiva moved through the League operatives with lethal precision, her techniques superior to theirs despite their numerical advantage. Each strike was calculated for maximum efficiency, turning their coordinated attacks into scattered confusion.
But even her considerable skills were tested when a figure emerged from the shadows behind Ra's al Ghul, moving with grace that matched her own. Nyssa al Ghul, daughter of the Demon's Head, engaged Shiva directly with techniques that forced the world's greatest assassin to reassess her tactical approach.
"Sister recognizes sister," Nyssa observed, her blade work forcing Shiva to give ground for the first time all night. The curved sword in her hands moved like liquid mercury, each strike flowing into the next with deadly continuity.
"Indeed," Shiva acknowledged, her own movements adapting to counter Nyssa's specific techniques. "Though some sisters prove more skilled than others."
Their engagement became a deadly dance, two masters of martial arts testing each other's limits while the chaos raged around them. Nyssa's League training was flawless, but Shiva's experience transcended any single school of combat.