At the entrance to the martial arts dojo, Alan stood fidgeting, a look of profound weariness on his face. "You seem to enjoy doing this multiple times a day," he said to Nyssa, his voice full of theatrical reluctance, "but frankly, my body just can't take it."
Nyssa's expression darkened. After days of this, she'd finally accepted that breaking his will was impossible. His spirit was as durable as his bizarre logic.
"Stop your nonsense and get in here," she ordered, a hint of a sneer on her lips.
With a long-suffering sigh, Alan shuffled into the training room.
Thwack!
"Agh!"
[BATTLE FAILED. +5 EXP]
Smack!
"Oof!"
[BATTLE FAILED. +5 EXP]
[LEVEL UP! THIEF PROFESSION REACHED LV. 10]
CRACK!
"Oh!"
[BATTLE FAILED. +5 EXP]
[NEW SKILL ACQUIRED: SHADOW STEALTH]
[[SHADOW STEALTH] LV. 1: Activate to enter an invisible state. Automatically cancelled upon initiating combat or taking damage.]
Two hours later, Alan was splayed out on the wooden floor, looking up at the ceiling with the vacant stare of a man who had seen too much. "I told you," he mumbled, "I'm too fragile for this."
Nyssa, now completely desensitized to his theatrics, simply announced, "Today's training is over." She had grown so accustomed to his stubborn refusal to quit that if he ever actually gave up, she would probably suspect he'd been replaced by an imposter.
"Don't go!" Alan suddenly declared, his eyes still closed. "Come back! Let's fight another eight hundred rounds!"
Nyssa paused, then walked over and began stretching his limbs to prevent his muscles from cramping, ignoring his dramatic protests. Once she was gone, Alan attempted a few clumsy somersaults before giving up and pulling up his system panel.
Shadow Stealth. One of the quintessential skills of a thief, perfect for ambushes and surprise attacks.
He rubbed his chin, a thoughtful expression on his bruised face. "So, how does this work? Is it optical camouflage? A psychological trick that makes people ignore me? Or some kind of spatial distortion?"
He activated the skill.
His body flickered, turning a translucent gray, as if he had become a ghost haunting the edges of reality. He strolled openly through the fortress corridors, waving cheekily at the stoic warriors who passed by, their eyes looking straight through him. Invisibility, it turned out, was the ultimate license for mischief.
Naturally, his curiosity led him straight to the one place he was explicitly forbidden to enter: the private quarters of Ra's al Ghul.
This should be interesting.
Slipping through the ornate doors, his eyes fell upon the magnificent, steaming green pool that dominated the center of the chamber.
"Wow," Alan whispered in awe. "The boss's private hot tub is seriously luxurious."
Without a second thought, he unbuckled his belt. A golden arc of water splashed into the pool's emerald surface, sending ripples across its ancient, mystical waters. If Ra's al Ghul ever found out, he would likely drain the pool, burn the entire chamber, and abandon the fortress out of sheer disgust.
This was, of course, the League of Assassins' most guarded secret: the Lazarus Pit.
Its legendary waters could heal any wound, extend life, and even resurrect the dead. There were several such Pits scattered across the globe, but this one was the Demon's Head's personal fountain of youth. It was filled with a rare, volatile substance known as the Dionysus Element. The only drawback was that this particular Pit's element was impure, causing escalating mental instability with each use.
Ra's al Ghul, however, had found a loophole. By using a sacred weapon to end his own life, he could be reborn in the Pit's waters, his body and mind fully restored to their peak. It was the secret to his centuries-long reign.
Feeling thoroughly refreshed after relieving himself, Alan heard a soft squeak as the door opened. Someone was coming.
A warrior, dressed in the standard League attire that left only his eyes visible, slipped into the room. He radiated an aura of cunning and caution. He scanned the chamber carefully, then produced a small metal container and began filling it with water from a nearby basin—not the Pit itself.
"He's stealing my holy water!" Alan thought, a sense of proprietary outrage bubbling up inside him. He watched the man with a strange sense of admiration. I thought I was a psycho, but this guy is on a whole other level.
As the warrior carefully sealed his container, Alan's internal monologue kicked into high gear.
"Lefty, I bet you he's stealing that to drink it. If I'm wrong, you owe me."
"Righty, no way. He's definitely going to use it as some kind of skin treatment. If I'm wrong, I'll double down."
"You're both fools! He's going to use it as mouthwash. If I'm wrong, I'll treat you both to a spa day."
Zorn, a Level 5 S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and a deep-cover Hydra mole, carefully tucked three vials of the precious liquid into a hidden pocket. After years of infiltration, he had finally worked his way up to a training instructor position at this remote base. His true mission was to acquire the Dionysus Element for Hydra.
The element was the key missing ingredient in Hydra's attempts to replicate the Super Soldier Serum. The scientist who first weaponized it during World War II, a mad genius named Allen, had understood its stabilizing properties. Without it, Hydra's formulas were unstable, a pale imitation of the serum that created Captain America.
Zorn moved with practiced calm, completely unaware that an invisible lunatic was shadowing his every step. After ensuring he wasn't followed, he slipped into a hidden alcove and activated a concealed telegraph machine.
Dit... dah... dit dit...
A string of coded data streamed out into the ether.
"Soon," Zorn whispered to himself, a thrill running through him. "With this, I'll be first in line for the new serum. Immortality is within my grasp."
"Don't you worry," a voice said cheerfully, right next to his ear. "The organization never wastes its resources. Every asset is valuable, right down to the last scrap of toilet paper."
Zorn's blood ran cold. He spun around, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword.
Less than an inch from his shoulder, a man with a bizarrely determined expression was staring at the telegraph machine with wide, curious eyes.
When did he get here? How did I not sense him?
His cover was blown. His life was forfeit. The League's punishment for traitors was the stuff of nightmares.
Just as his thumb flicked the guard of his sword, ready to deliver a killing blow, the man snapped to attention. He raised his right hand in a crisp, 45-degree salute.
"Hail Hydra!" Alan declared, his voice ringing with absolute conviction.
Zorn froze, his sword half-drawn.
A colleague?
The thought was so absurd, so utterly out of left field, that it short-circuited his brain.
"Cut off one head, two more shall take its place," Alan continued, his expression gravely serious. "The organization grew impatient. They feared you might fail the mission, so they sent me to ensure its success."
Zorn was speechless. He knew Hydra's methods. They often planted multiple, unconnected agents in the same operation as a fail-safe. If one was caught, the others could continue the mission, and no single agent could betray the entire cell.
The sheer, unblinking confidence in Alan's eyes was… convincing. And who would ever suspect a man who pretended to be a complete lunatic? It was a cover so perfect, it was brilliant. This man had to be one of Hydra's elite.
"Remember," Alan said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "We have never met. We do not know each other. You have your mission, and I have mine. Carry on."
"Uh…" was all Zorn could manage.
And just like that, the asylum's most unpredictable patient had become Hydra's unlikeliest asset.
***********
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