The next day, the Gotham sun filtered through my bedroom curtains like a dull, gray light, heavy with the city's eternal humidity that made everything feel perpetually on the verge of rain. I got ready quickly—black tank top, light gray training pants, training gloves on my hands, and the bag with the compacted Manto slung over my shoulder. My body no longer ached like it did after the sparring with Robin; the elemental had worked through the night, accelerating cellular regeneration in a subtle but efficient way. Still, as I walked the tree-lined streets of Crest Hill toward the discreet zeta tube point—a forgotten phone booth in an abandoned alley—my mind spun around the 78 hours I had spent in the virtual world with Sensei. Seventy-eight hours of uninterrupted, non-stop training, without fatigue, without physical exhaustion. My mind didn't feel tired; it was as if I had rested the entire time, the simulation perfectly balancing effort and recovery. But how many more hours would it take to become truly good at martial arts? To transcend human limits and stand on equal footing with those who faced gods?
I mentally calculated as I stepped around a puddle on the sidewalk, the humid air clinging to the exposed skin of my muscular arms. Seventy-eight hours equaled more than three full days of nonstop training—something impossible in the physical world without collapse. And yet… I knew it wasn't enough. Batman? That man was a living legend, master of hundreds of martial arts, with years—decades—of relentless practice. Robin, at 13, already had a level that had humiliated me. Artemis, with her lethal grace, had probably trained since childhood in hostile environments. Green Arrow, with his superhuman precision; Black Canary, with her sonic mastery and physical prowess. They easily surpassed my 78 hours—multiplying by years, by real missions against villains who could shatter mountains. No matter how revolutionary my Sensei project was—dilating time and allowing infinite training—I kept my feet on the ground. I was enhanced, yes, but still human. They were the threshold of superhuman in mortal bodies. I needed more—much more—to get there.
I reached the booth, the rusted metal cold to the touch. I activated the zeta with a mental code through the communicator implanted in my utility belt. A flash of white light enveloped me, and the world folded. When my vision cleared, I was back at Mount Justice—the underground air now fresher, without the accumulated dust from before. The maintenance had transformed the place: everything cleaner, more organized, as if a professional cleaning crew had swept through. Walls that had once been cracked and webbed with spider silk were now repaired—the fissures sealed with some kind of thermal caulk, probably Conner or M'gann's work fusing the stone with their powers. Control panels that previously flickered erratically now glowed with steady lights, loose cables neatly coiled and secured. The floor, once uneven and dusty, now shone as if freshly polished. Even the smell was different—less mildew, more clean metal and fresh ozone. They had done good work.
I was the last to arrive, once again. The group was gathered on the main platform, conversations echoing through the cavernous space. My gaze went straight to Artemis—and I froze for a second. She was wearing the uniform I had designed for her: adaptable emerald green, now in default mode with reinforced seams that hugged her body like a second skin. The top was tight, with a subtle neckline that accentuated her firm, full breasts, athletic curves that made anyone pause. The pants clung to her long, muscular thighs, outlining her round, defined backside that moved with feline grace. She was stunning—beautiful in a dangerous way, blonde hair tied in a practical ponytail, almond-shaped eyes gleaming with that usual acidity. Beside her, M'gann—Mega, as Wally called her—hovered slightly, her green skin glowing under the new lights. She wore her Martian suit: a tight top that emphasized her generous breasts and feminine curves, leggings that molded her long legs, and a short cape that added a mystical air. Flowing red hair, large expressive eyes—she was a vision: exotic, welcoming, with a beauty that blended innocence and power.
Kid Flash—Wally—was leaning against a freshly cleaned wall, chewing on what looked like a sandwich, his yellow-and-red uniform vibrant even in the dim light. Robin was hopping around, testing the new floor. Conner leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, brooding as always. Kaldur observed everything with calm serenity.
And in the center, leading, stood Black Canary—Dinah Lance. Tall at 1.70 meters, radiating lethal grace, she wore her classic outfit: black leather jacket open, revealing a top that hugged her large, firm breasts, curves that exuded confidence and power. The sonic choker gleamed at her throat, the tight pants outlining long legs and a round, defined backside that drew attention with every movement. Loose blonde hair, piercing blue eyes—she was a force of nature, beautiful and intimidating, the kind of woman who could drop a man with a look or a scream.
"Good thing everyone's already here," she began, voice soft but commanding, cutting through the chatter. "Today we're going to—"
Kid Flash interrupted, mouth full: "You're giving us a mission?"
She looked at him, eyebrow raised. "No. Today we're assessing your technical level—both in martial arts and powers. We need to know where each of you stands to plan suitable missions. Not only that: we need to train the team together, for synergy. You can't go into the field without being synchronized, without the minimum team training. A disunited team is a dead team."
I nodded, feeling the weight of her words. It made sense—after my recent humiliations, I knew we needed cohesion.
I headed down to the improvised locker room at Mount Justice, the training bag still slung over my shoulder. The hallway was cleaner than ever—walls freshly sealed, no more exposed cracks, the floor polished and reflecting the new LED lights. I stepped inside: rows of metal lockers, wooden benches, large mirrors. I peeled off my sweat-soaked tank top, feeling the cool air hit my still-warm skin from the mental training with Sensei. My body felt different—not stronger, but more aware. Every muscle seemed to remember the 78 virtual hours of relentless repetition: blocks, redirections, takedowns, counters. Still, I knew it was only the beginning.
I opened the bag and put on the full Manto suit. The base layer of alchemically reinforced Kevlar slid over my skin like cold silk. Titanium-carbon plates snapped into place over my chest, shoulders, and thighs with soft magnetic clicks. The utility belt wrapped around my waist—grappling hook launcher, smoke grenades, sedative darts, everything in position. Finally, the tactical collar: with a thought, the plates expanded, forming the sealed helmet. The dark visor activated the HUD with green data lines: night vision, thermal analysis, motion recognition, multi-purpose air filtration system online (protection against toxic gases, particulates, and biological agents up to military grade), plus integrated ballistic and thermal reinforcement. I checked myself in the mirror: matte black silhouette with gray accents, no flashy emblems. I didn't look like a hero. I looked like a threat.
I left the locker room and climbed the stairs to the main training area. The sounds reached me before I saw anything: muffled grunts, feet slamming the tatami, the sharp whistle of air displaced by rapid movement. When I stepped onto the elevated platform, the sight made me freeze for a second.
Black Canary—Dinah Lance—was absolutely demolishing Kid Flash.
Wally was a yellow-and-red blur, trying to use his speed to overwhelm her: impossible zigzags, attacks from impossible angles, feints that should have been unpredictable. But Dinah… Dinah didn't need her sonic scream. She was maskless, blonde hair loose and flowing, leather jacket open revealing the tight top that hugged her large, firm breasts, pants clinging to long legs and a round, athletic backside that moved with deadly precision. Every time Wally closed in, she evaded with the barest shift, redirected his arm with a touch, spun her hips, and slammed him to the mat like a rag doll. He'd spring up in a flash, charge again—and fall again. She read every move. Every feint. Every grab attempt.
I stopped beside Artemis, who watched with arms crossed, her expression a mix of amusement and disdain.
What kind of useless idiot do you have to be to have super-speed and still lose to a normal human? I thought, unable to hold it back.
Artemis turned her face toward me, our eyes meeting for a second. She didn't say anything at first, just raised an eyebrow. Then, in a low voice only I could hear:
"I'm thinking exactly the same thing you are."
We exchanged a knowing look—pure disbelief mixed with barely concealed contempt. Even with all the speed in the world, Wally was still… useless. He wasn't using his brain. He wasn't anticipating. He was just running.
On the mat, Dinah finally locked Wally's arm in a perfect armbar, twisting it behind his back with surgical precision. He yelled, dropped to his knees, and slapped the mat three times—submission.
"Good try, Wally," she said, releasing him with a cold smile. "But speed without technique is just noise."
Wally stood up, rubbing his arm, face flushed with shame and frustration. "You cheated! You didn't use the scream!"
"Didn't need to," she replied dryly. "And you still lost."
She turned to the group, blue eyes sweeping over everyone until they landed on me.
"Erick. Your turn."
A chill ran down my spine. Dinah Lance. One of the most prepared people on the planet. Trained by Wildcat, battle-tested against metahumans, villains, even gods. I knew this was going to be hard. Very hard.
I stepped onto the tatami. The soft material gave slightly under my boots. The group spread out, forming a silent circle. Artemis gave me a subtle nod—"Go all out"—while M'gann floated nearby, biting her lower lip in concern.
Dinah assumed stance—relaxed, but lethal. Arms loose, feet slightly apart, weight balanced. She was in no hurry.
"Come at me with everything," she said, voice calm and dangerous. "If you hold back, I'll know. And I'll break your arm."
I swallowed hard. She wasn't joking.
I entered guard—feet shoulder-width, knees bent, arms raised. The elemental woke in my chest, a hot ember spreading through my arms. For the first time in a long while, I was going to use my powers openly in training.
She waited. Arms open, faint smile. Inviting me.
I thrust my right hand forward.
A jet of fire erupted from my palm like a flamethrower—intense orange flames, controlled, shaped into a two-meter-long cone of blazing heat. The air in front of me warped from the temperature, but the helmet's air filter kept my breathing clean, neutralizing any backdraft.
Dinah swayed sideways with the barest lean of her torso—the fire passed centimeters from her face, scorching the air. She didn't even blink.
I pressed on: condensed fireballs, launched in rapid sequence—three, four, five—each the size of a tennis ball, detonating on impact where she had been a fraction of a second earlier. She danced between them, feet light, body flowing like water in a rehearsed choreography. I ramped up the intensity—a wall of flames rose in front of me, a three-meter-high circular shield burning at 900°C. The helmet's thermal reinforcement and air filtration kept me safe inside my own inferno.
She jumped.
Not around. Over the wall like it was a training hurdle, body arched in mid-air, legs extended, and came down with a spinning heel kick straight to my head.
The impact was brutal.
My visor absorbed some of the force, but my head snapped sideways. The world darkened for a moment. I rolled across the mat, tasting blood in my mouth. I sprang up, dazed. A human kick shouldn't have that power. Where did it come from? She didn't use the scream. It was just… technique? Pure channeled force? Years of training?
"You're holding back," she said, landing lightly like a cat. "I warned you."
I spat blood onto the mat. The elemental roared inside me—anger, humiliation, the need to prove something. I condensed two larger, denser fireballs in my palms and hurled them like grenades. They exploded where she stood, creating craters of heat and smoke.
She slipped under the first blast, rolled over the second, and kept coming. I retreated, throwing up another wall of flames—bigger, thicker.
She jumped again—body arched, clearing it like it was nothing. When she landed, the combo began.
Gut punch—I blocked with my reinforced forearm, but the force drove me back two steps. Low kick to the thigh—my leg buckled, pain like a hammer. Sweep—I jumped, but she anticipated and landed a hook to my chin.
My head spun. The world tilted.
I tried the belt—grabbed a smoke grenade, threw it down. Gray cloud billowed.
But I didn't have Robin's training. I didn't know how to use smoke with precision, how to attack through the cover. I was blinded for a second, coughing, the helmet's filter clearing the air, but the disorientation was real. When the smoke cleared, she was already behind me.
Arm twisted in an armbar. Knee in my back. Pinned.
The mat cold against my face.
"Yield," she said, voice calm, almost gentle.
I slapped the mat three times.
She released. I stayed down for a second, panting, humiliated again—even with powers, even with full gear.
Dinah offered her hand. "You've got potential, Erick. But potential without technique is just noise. We'll work on that."
I took her hand and stood, feeling the group's eyes—Artemis with a half-smile of understanding, Wally still rubbing his arm, M'gann worried, Conner impassive.
Humiliated once more.
But now I knew: the road was long. And I was going to walk it.
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