I adjusted the strap of the training bag on my right shoulder, feeling the familiar weight of the compacted Manto inside—reinforced chest plate, articulated gloves, the collar that expanded into a helmet, everything neatly folded and sealed in moisture-proof layers. It had become routine now: since I fully stepped into this life of shadows and powers, I carried this bag everywhere, like a talisman against the unpredictable. Gotham didn't forgive the unprepared, and I was no longer the kid who woke up sweating from nightmares of villains breaking into my home. The zeta tube dropped me off at a discreet spot on the outskirts of Star City—or rather, in a forgotten alley that served as a bridge between Gotham and Green Arrow's territory. From there, I took a regular bus, blending in with tired workers heading home at dusk. No one gave a second glance to a teenager in a black tank top and loose pants, sweat still clinging to his skin from the morning workout. But I knew: if things went wrong, I could transform in seconds.
Artemis's invitation had arrived the day after our initial meeting at Mount Justice—a simple, encrypted message on the communicator the League gave me: "Want to train? My rooftop. Tomorrow, 6 p.m. Don't be late, newbie." I grinned when I read it, a spark of excitement cutting through the lingering humiliation from the fight with Robin. Train with her? Artemis Crock, the razor-sharp archer with sarcasm that cut deeper than arrows? It was an opportunity. Not just to learn, but to get closer—feel that inevitable attraction that crackled in the air every time our eyes met. I replied with a quick "I'm in," and now here I was, stepping off the bus in a rundown neighborhood of Gotham, the kind of place the city spat out as leftovers.
The address led me to a tall, worn-out building—about twenty floors of cracked concrete and fogged-up windows from time and pollution. It was a poor area, the type Gotham discarded: humble residents crammed into cramped apartments, clothes hanging on improvised lines on the balconies, kids playing on dirty sidewalks, and the persistent smell of fried food and exhaust mixing in the humid air. No doorman—buildings like this in Gotham rarely had such luxuries; it was every man for himself, with rusted locks and neighbors who didn't look twice at strangers. I entered the dimly lit lobby, the worn linoleum floor creaking under my boots, and took the cramped elevator that groaned upward like it was complaining about the effort.
At her floor, I knocked on the door—three firm knocks echoing down the empty hallway. My heart sped up a little, the elemental reacting with a spark of heat in my chest. What was I expecting? A cold welcome? Instant sarcasm?
The door opened, and there she was: Artemis, blonde hair loose over her shoulders, wearing a tight black crop top that highlighted her athletic curves and a very short pair of shorts that revealed long, powerful thighs shaped by years of rigorous training. Her warm beige skin glowed faintly under the hallway's dim light, and her almond-shaped eyes scanned me from head to toe with that familiar mix of amusement and challenge. She was even more striking up close, without the hero uniform—human, vulnerable, yet dangerous as ever. My gaze lingered a second too long on her legs, strong and defined, before rising back to her face. "You came," she said, voice laced with mock surprise. "Thought you'd chicken out after the beating the kid gave you."
I smiled, brushing off the jab. "I don't run from a challenge. Especially not when it comes from you."
She rolled her eyes, but a sarcastic smile curved her lips. "Come with me." Without another word, she turned and led me through the cramped apartment—peeling walls, simple furniture, the smell of fast food lingering in the air. It wasn't luxurious, far from it; a reminder that Artemis didn't come from money, but from a hard life, daughter of villains that I knew, but she had no idea I knew. We passed the messy living room, an old TV droning low on a news channel muttering about crimes in Gotham, and climbed an internal staircase that led to the rooftop.
The rooftop was an open, improvised space, surrounded by rusted railings, offering views of the distant city—Gotham's gothic towers cutting the sky like sharp teeth—and the strong, humid wind blowing through, carrying the faint scent of rain and pollution. There were old weights stacked in one corner, a punching bag hanging from an improvised beam, and scattered boxes of arrows like an urban dojo. Artemis leaned against the railing, arms crossed under her chest, the crop top stretching slightly. Her eyes pierced me like arrows. "So, newbie. Let's talk before I show you how to really fight. Because honestly? That fight of yours with Robin was pathetic. Hilarious, actually. You moved like an elephant trying to do ballet."
I laughed, but felt heat rise up my neck. "Straight to the point, huh? It was humiliating, yeah. But I learned from it."
She snorted, tilting her head, the wind messing with her blonde strands. "Learned? You didn't even touch him. The kid wiped the floor with you like it was child's play. And you know why? Because there's a huge difference between learning martial arts at any mall dojo and being trained by masters who fight demons, monsters, and superhumans. You've got technique—I can see you trained taekwondo, Muay Thai, whatever. But it's raw. It's the basics any black belt in a gym learns. Normal martial artists train for competitions, for points, for trophies. Ninjas? Masters like the ones who trained Batman and Robin? They train to kill. To survive against the impossible."
I crossed my arms, leaning against the opposite railing, the cold metal pressing against my back. "Explain it better. What's the technical difference? Because I feel like I'm at the human limit, but against you guys… it's like hitting smoke."
Artemis laughed again, a sharp sound like an arrow slicing air. "Oh, the newbie wants free lessons? Fine, I'll explain. Normal martial artists focus on standardized forms: perfect katas, clean strikes, ring rules. They train brute strength, linear speed, endurance in timed rounds. But ninjas—or any master who deals with the supernatural—train chaotic adaptation. It's about economy of movement: using the minimum energy for maximum damage. For example, instead of a high taekwondo kick that sacrifices balance and exposes the body, they use force redirection—like advanced aikido, but mixed with silat for lethal angles. They incorporate quantum predictability: analyzing an opponent's neuromuscular patterns in fractions of a second, predicting trajectories based on micro-expressions and weight shifts. And against superhumans? It's not about strength; it's about leverage. Using the enemy's momentum against them—like turning super-strength into a fall that breaks reinforced bones. Demons? They train in extreme environments: total darkness to sharpen hearing and touch, high altitudes for hypoxic breathing control, diluted poisons for gradual immunity. It's not just hitting; it's hacking the human body to its molecular limit."
I nodded, absorbing every word. It made sense—explaining why Robin dismantled me effortlessly. "So, not just any black belt can fight a Superman or a demon. You need something beyond."
"Exactly, genius," she mocked, winking. "Normal martial artists stop at human. Ninja masters go beyond: sensory training—feeling air vibrations to predict invisible attacks, neural conditioning for sub-luminal reactions, integration of exotic weapons like shurikens with neurotoxic poisons. They don't fight fair; they fight to win. Batman? He's the peak of that. Robin is the heir. You? Still an amateur with fire in his hands. Useful, but unpolished."
I laughed despite the jab. "Fair. But what about you? How did you learn all this? Green Arrow doesn't seem like the ninja type."
She hesitated for a second, eyes hardening—a flash of vulnerability that vanished quickly. "Hard life. Mentors who weren't exactly heroes. But that doesn't matter now. What matters is: I can help you train. Show you the path to become more than a pyromaniac with bad punches. But in exchange… you help me with some things."
I raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. I knew about her past—daughter of Sportsmaster, sister of Cheshire, a family of villains. But she didn't know I knew. "What kind of things?"
Artemis stepped closer, eyes locked on mine, wind blowing blonde strands across her face. "I don't want to depend on Green Arrow forever. He gives me arrows, bows, gear… but what if he disappears? Or if I need something custom? I need someone who can build it for me. When I'm out of resources, out of money. And you… I know you're a brainiac. A nerd who builds stuff in his basement. Batman mentioned your setup. Help me with that, and I'll turn you into a real fighter."
I thought fast. Accepting meant getting involved in her dark world—possibly "things" that skirted legality, given her villainous roots. But it was a chance: elite training, closeness with her, maybe the start of something more… harem-like, like in the stories I remembered. "Alright. I accept. But no lies. If it's dangerous, tell me upfront."
She extended her hand. I shook it—firm, eyes locked, a literal spark from my elemental running across our skin. "Deal," she said, the sarcastic smile returning. "Now, let's start. I'll show you the difference in practice. First lesson: breathing. Not the gym crap—diaphragmatic control with oxygen modulation for anaerobic bursts. Then footwork: not linear, but fractal, adapting to chaotic patterns of superhuman opponents…"
The conversation stretched into the night, the rooftop turning into an improvised dojo. She explained, demonstrated, corrected. I absorbed, the path lighting up—not a master yet, but with direction.
Advance chapters: patreon.com/cw/pararaio