On the surface, father and daughter once again faced each other in silence—but this was nothing like their earlier standoff.
Malcolm was now completely unarmed, forced to rely on the form of combat he was least skilled at—bare-handed strikes. Worse, the slash across his waist had weakened both his speed and his strength.
Thea didn't look much better. Her face was half swollen from the punch she'd taken; blood dripped rhythmically from her chin, forming a small pool on the dirt below. It looked dramatic, but the bleeding was mostly from inside her mouth—painful, yes, but not enough to dull her edge. And with a sword in her hands against an unarmed opponent, her odds were far better.
Raising her blade above her head, Thea began to advance slowly. Her stance was pure Italian longsword form—stillness before the storm, one strike meant to end it all. Traditionally it was used with a two-handed sword, but a katana would do just fine.
Malcolm watched her closely, eyes fixed on her shoulders. In perfect condition, he could have intercepted the blade with his bare hands—an entering-the-blade technique—but now pain throbbed through his ribs. He'd tightened his muscles to hold the wound closed, yet blood still seeped out, staining his pants a deep red.
He decided to counterattack, but not head-on. He feinted forward. Sure enough, Thea reacted, bringing her sword down like lightning toward his shoulder. But Malcolm twisted sharply, sidestepping at the last instant and driving his fist toward her wrist.
Thea's momentum betrayed her. The downward swing couldn't be pulled back. She felt exactly what he had earlier—frustration at her own inertia. She spun, deflecting his strike, but to keep him from grabbing her weapon, she flicked her wrist and sent the sword flying out of the circle.
Now it was fists and feet.
Hand-to-hand combat had always been her strongest suit. In their daily training bouts, they'd been evenly matched—neither able to fully dominate. And now, with the situation reversed, she was using her strength against his weakness. Everything was unfolding according to her plan.
As for the idea of an honorable, knightly duel—Thea mentally shrugged. Sorry. I'm a woman, not a knight. There's only one Artoria Pendragon—and she's not me.
Thea pressed her advantage, flurries of punches and kicks raining down. Malcolm barely kept up. His wound, reopened by his earlier burst of strength, was bleeding freely again. He knew he'd lost. In a real death match, he could've taken her with him, but this was training—there was no need to go that far.
He jumped back and raised a hand, signaling a halt.
"Enough," he rasped. "You've done well. I've taught you everything I can. Don't waste your talent. You can leave now—and don't come looking for me again."
Thea glanced at his wound and relaxed. It was surface-level; with all those ancient remedies he'd stolen from the League of Assassins, he'd be fine after a few doses.
So this was graduation day.
She gave a small bow. "Thank you for all your teaching. I'll remember these hundred-odd days for the rest of my life."
Then she retrieved her weapons and walked out of the forest.
As for the three idiots lying unconscious on the ground? Not her problem. She'd spared their lives—that was charity enough. What did they expect, for her to call an ambulance? Batman beat people half to death and left them hanging outside police stations. He never called a doctor either. In this world's moral logic, whether they lived or died was their fate.
Watching his daughter disappear into the distance, Malcolm's proud posture finally sagged. That unfilial brat… it hurts like hell! He tore off his jacket, wrapped it clumsily around his waist to staunch the bleeding, and sighed. Time to limp home and treat it properly.
Then he looked into the dark woods and said quietly, "So, madam… what do you think of the student I trained? She should meet your standards. Are you still interested in my proposal?"
Silence.
Half a minute passed. The only answer was the faint rustling of branches and a few unseen birds watching from above. Malcolm frowned. Damn it—she left without saying a word. I hate it when people out-sense me.
While he limped home nursing his pride, Thea was still rubbing her aching cheek and grumbling to herself. That punch was brutal. What if it ruins my face? Who hits their own beautiful daughter in the face? No wonder he's still single.
Yet beneath the complaints, excitement still thrummed in her blood. Her father's words might have been harsh, but he was right—she was born for combat. Even now, long after the fight, her pulse was racing, her body alive with the afterglow of battle.
She focused on calming her breathing, trying to slow her heart rate—when a flicker of movement behind her made her freeze.
Her hand went to her blade. "Who's there? Show yourself!"
"Impressive. Very perceptive," came a strange voice—foreign, lilting, as if from beyond America.
"Hm?"
From the shadows stepped a woman. Her hair was a river of glossy black falling to her waist, her eyes gleaming like drawn steel. She wore a long black trench coat over dark leather pants, her whole presence sharp and cold as a sword.
Thea, who prided herself on knowing most of the Arrowverse cast, was momentarily stunned. Who the hell is this? That aura—definitely not a nobody. Her body was still battered from the fight; another confrontation now would be suicidal. She raised her guard but kept her tone cautious.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
"You may call me Shiva," the woman replied in her accented English. "Or Lady Shiva. I was asked to teach you—refine your combat skills. But after watching your duel, I see you already fight beyond your experience. You faced a stronger, faster opponent and held your ground. I am impressed. Will you become my student?"
Lady Shiva? Thea's mind raced. Which village did she crawl out of? Definitely not from the Arrow or Flash storylines. The aura around this woman was… pure danger. She didn't feel like a meta-human—more like a walking weapon. Gotham, maybe?
And "sent by someone"? Easy enough to guess. No one but her father could have arranged this. Felicity certainly hadn't.
Should she accept? The woman radiated coldness, precision, death—none of which suggested "hero."
Then again, her father was a villain too, and his lessons had served her well.
"What do you plan to teach me?" Thea asked carefully.
"Your fundamentals are solid," Lady Shiva said simply. "I will teach you the essence of combat—and how to sharpen your senses."
If Malcolm could have heard that, his blood pressure would've spiked. Everything he'd poured into Thea for months—labeled "basic"?
So you're even stronger than him, huh? Thea thought, intrigued despite herself.