Malcolm couldn't make sense of his daughter anymore. His original plan was simple and elegant: the two of them would spar, he'd crush her decisively, she'd realize her shortcomings, and her hunger for improvement would grow. Perfect lesson, perfect outcome.
So why had everything gone so wrong?
When Thea's arrows came flying, Malcolm realized—too late—that not bringing his own bow had been a mistake. He could only stay on the defensive, slicing through shafts and sidestepping volleys as arrows exploded around him. When he finally got a break and glanced up—Thea was gone.
Damn it! Who's the League of Assassins veteran here, me or her?
He knew she was nearby, but her perception outclassed his. He shifted his stance and adjusted his footing, trying to anticipate her next move. The fight, unexpectedly, was tilting in her favor.
All he could do was wait. If she lost patience and made the first move, his superior close-combat skills would end this quickly.
They entered a silent duel of patience. Thea crouched behind a tree, watching the position of his shoulders and feet—but not his eyes. At this level, even the faintest hostile gaze could trigger instinctive reaction.
She roughly gauged his sensory range—eight meters. Her own extended to fifteen. That meant she could stalk him safely from beyond his perception bubble.
Circling twenty meters behind him, she loosed an arrow.
Clang! His katana flashed, slicing it midair. He charged toward the source—only to find empty forest again.
No good, he thought. I'm too old for this. If I keep running in circles, I'll be gassed before she is.
He turned toward where he'd left his bow. If he could just grab it, the tables would turn—arrow against arrow, her own weapon used against her.
But Thea wasn't about to let that happen. When he was three steps away, two arrows shot out in a blur: one pinning the ground right beside the weapon pile, another sinking into the soil at his feet. Move forward and he'd be hit. Stay still and he'd be pinned. Retreat—his only choice.
So began a strange dance. No matter which direction he moved, Thea always had the firing line ready. Whish, whish! Two arrows per move, forcing him back into position each time.
By the fifth repetition, Malcolm was seething. Where did she learn tactics like this? I just want a proper duel!
But patterns reveal themselves eventually. He caught the rhythm and prepared his counter. This time, he would get that bow.
The two arrows came as expected. With reflexive precision, he hurled his katana—one perfect throw that deflected the arrow near the weapons. Simultaneously, he rolled forward, dodging the second shot. A thrill of triumph shot through him as his fingers closed around the bow's grip.
Finally! With a weapon back in hand, he was already planning his counterattack—until a strange pressure brushed against his senses.
What—?
He turned, eyes widening. Thea was already rushing at him like a blur, feet sliding over the ground, closing the distance like a predator.
"Yaaah!" she cried, voice ringing with exhilaration. Every muscle felt alive; every cell vibrated in unison. Left hand gripping a dagger, right holding a longsword—she lunged like a leopard.
Why had she suddenly abandoned long-range combat? Then it hit him—she was out of arrows. He'd forgotten to factor that in. Her rapid volleys had been a psychological game, tricking him into losing count.
She'd fired her last arrow without even checking the hit, using the momentum to charge. It was like sprinting off the blocks before the gun fired—an advantage of pure initiative. By the time Malcolm realized his mistake, she was already within ten meters.
Worse, he'd just thrown his sword. It was still quivering in a tree trunk ten meters away. The damned thing almost seemed to mock him. Great. Brilliant move, Malcolm. Truly masterful.
Too late to retrieve it. Thea was upon him. Dagger thrust from the left, sword cleaved from the right. Block with the bow? The recurve's body was tough enough, but clumsy to maneuver and all but useless for offense.
He tried to draw an arrow and force her back, but there was no opening. So much for wanting close-quarters combat—now he was the one scrambling.
Still, his experience kicked in. Even with nothing but the bow, his footwork and reflexes stabilized the exchange. Thea's stamina, however, was waning. All that running earlier—large circle versus his small—had drained her more than she realized.
The fight burned hotter, metal clashing against wood, breaths sharp and heavy. And inevitably, biology reasserted itself—sheer strength and endurance tilted toward the man.
Knowing she'd lose if it dragged on, Thea gambled everything. She flung her dagger straight at his face.
Malcolm had just begun to steady the fight when the flash of steel came flying. Instinctively, he raised the bow to parry—only to feel no force behind the throw.
Trap.
Sure enough, Thea ducked low, gripped her sword in both hands, and slashed for his ribs.
Danger! He couldn't dodge. His bow was still raised high, body exposed. He twisted desperately, hoping to take the hit at an angle rather than a fatal strike. At the same time, he dropped the bow and swung his left fist toward her face with all his strength.
Thud! The blow landed solidly. Thea stumbled back two steps, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. But she didn't care. She was grinning.
"Ha! Dark Archer—you're wounded."
Her eyes glittered. "That cut's at least ten centimeters. You still think you can use your waist? Still think you can sprint full-speed? You told me once—better to cripple a man's mobility than his limb. Sound familiar?"
Malcolm froze, then groaned inwardly. I never said that! That was the damn Ra's al Ghul quote!
But wounded or not, he couldn't deny it—he was proud. His daughter, trained for only half a year, had injured him.
Humiliation? Hardly. What he felt instead was a deep, fierce pride.
They called Ra's al Ghul the League's greatest cultivator, the "Gardener of Death."
Well, Malcolm thought, he's not the only one who can raise a masterpiece.