When Adam heard the news that Bronze Tiger had regained consciousness, he wasn't surprised. Truthfully, he could've left the mountains long ago, but concern for the wounded master kept him there. Now that one of DC's most formidable fighters was awake, Adam had a lot of questions, and, more importantly, needed answers.
Deadshot was uneasy.
"You sure you don't want backup?" he asked, adjusting the scope slung across his shoulder. "This guy's lethal. You walk in alone, that's a hostage situation waiting to happen. I won't even have time to pull the trigger."
Adam chuckled, his voice light but laced with resolve. "Relax, man. I didn't bring you here to babysit. You're not some mall cop. You're a high-value asset. If I had you playing bodyguard every time I took a step, that'd be wasting firepower."
What Adam didn't say—but fully understood—was that walking in with protection would undermine what he was trying to achieve. If he showed fear or caution, Bronze Tiger would sniff it out instantly—and judge him for it.
So Adam went alone.
The recovery cabin was little more than a weathered shack perched on a wooded slope. Technically, it was just a rest stop for cleaning up. But inside, bathed in soft, filtered sunlight, stood a figure wrapped in bandages, gazing silently out the window. Copper Tiger didn't turn when Adam entered, but the warrior's stillness spoke volumes. He was fully aware. And not afraid.
In the world of martial artists, turning your back was a gesture with meaning: I am not here to fight. It was vulnerability—intentional and pointed.
"You're not from the League of Assassins," Bronze Tiger said suddenly, his voice gravelly but steady.
Adam raised an eyebrow, caught slightly off guard. "Oh? That confident already? What gave it away?"
"Your footwork," the veteran replied after a beat. "It's clumsy. Like a rhino trying to waltz on a piano. Your breathing's irregular. Untrained. You've never gone through Eastern or Western martial discipline. Not even a hint of it."
Adam laughed lightly. "Okay, I'll admit—I'm no martial artist. But I'm curious... how exactly does that prove I'm not with the League?"
Finally, Bronze Tiger turned. His eyes locked onto Adam's with a piercing intensity.
"Because in the League," he said slowly, "anyone that weak would already be dead."
His words hit like steel. In the League of Assassins, weakness wasn't tolerated—it was eliminated. Their warriors were kept in a constant state of perfection. Flaws weren't corrected. They were removed.
Adam nodded slowly. He walked calmly to the fire pit in the center of the cabin, shook off some ash, and started to prepare tea. He didn't answer right away. What could he say? "I'm a cop?" That line worked with Ivy. But it wouldn't fool a legend like Bronze Tiger. The only reason Adam had gotten this far was because he knew things he shouldn't—things no outsider should.
So he made his move.
"There's someone who told me about you," Adam said, casually pouring water. "A woman. Very skilled. Martial arts master. Someone... close to you. I think you'll know who I mean."
He glanced up, watching the older man's reaction.
Sure enough, Tiger's eyes lit up with recognition. "Wu Shan?" he said, almost surprised. "I didn't expect that. If she told you about me, then... you really do know your stuff. She never shares anything."
Adam stiffened internally. Wu Shan—a name few would recognize. But he did. That was the alias of Lady Shiva, the most dangerous martial artist in the DC universe. Shiva was not just a force of nature—she was Bronze Tiger's sister. The name "Wu Shan" was so obscure, so personal, that only someone truly close to her would know it.
Which meant this was a test.
Adam set the teapot down, his tone suddenly more serious.
"Mr. Bentner," he said, addressing the man by his true surname. "I understand your bond with her. But out of respect, I think we should call her by the name the world knows— Shiva. She's earned that title. It's more than a name—it's a symbol."
Bronze Tiger's face softened, his eyes narrowing as a smile slowly touched his lips. "You're careful with your words," he said. "That's good."
What Adam didn't say was that the woman he'd originally meant wasn't Shiva at all. It was Cassandra Cain— Shiva's daughter, and Tiger's future protégé. A girl destined to surpass them all. But judging by Tiger's confusion earlier, it was clear he didn't know Cassandra existed. That realization told Adam a lot about the current timeline—and what might still be coming.
The rest of their conversation flowed more easily after that. Tiger's suspicion faded, and Adam carefully sprinkled in real knowledge—details about Shiva's style, philosophy, and legendary fights. Bit by bit, the veteran relaxed. Whatever doubts he had were now gone. Adam had passed the test.
It's worth noting just how unique Shiva was. In the realm of martial artists, she was unmatched. Her style? Predicting opponents' moves through body language alone. No one else in DC could read a fight the way she could. She saw intent in every twitch, every breath. You didn't just spar with her—you danced with death.
And yet, despite her terrifying skills, Shiva held a strict code of honor. Once, when fighting Black Canary in Star City, she recognized her opponent's lineage through the fighting style alone—and out of respect, refused to use any techniques taught by their shared master. Another time, tasked with killing Batman, she instead taught him how to recover from a broken spine.
Her legacy was etched in scars and silence.
She had only ever been defeated four times—and the last was by her own daughter, Cassandra, in a duel that ended in Shiva's death. Not out of hate. But as a passing of the torch.