Malcolm was becoming increasingly perplexed by his illegitimate daughter. His original plan had been clean and calculated: they'd fight, he would win decisively, and she'd be left to realize her shortcomings—fuel for growth, perfect motivation. It had all been laid out so well.
So why the hell had it all gone sideways?
Thea's arrows came fast. The first one whistled through the air, nearly catching his shoulder. The second one forced him to twist his torso and knock it aside with the flat of his blade. By the third, he realized he'd made a tactical error—not bringing his own bow. Now he was stuck in a purely defensive position, smacking projectiles away with nothing but a sword in hand.
By the time he had finished batting away the final arrow, Thea had vanished.
Damn it! Who trained with the League of Assassins again—her or me? Why was I the one being ambushed?
He kept moving, shifting his stance, pivoting on the balls of his feet. But he knew the truth: her perception was sharper than his. His own detection radius was about eight meters. Hers? At least fifteen. Right now, he was on the losing end of a deadly chess game, and every second she remained hidden widened the gap.
His best hope now was that his daughter, still young and hot-blooded, would lose patience first. If she made the opening move, he could close the gap with pure fighting technique—maybe even turn the tide entirely.
Hidden behind a thick tree trunk, Thea kept her breathing measured. She focused on Malcolm's shoulder tension, his foot placement, his movement patterns. She didn't dare look him directly in the eyes—combatants of their level could feel hostile gazes. Instead, she mapped his perception radius and crept around it, skirting just outside his awareness.
Twenty meters behind him, she fired an arrow.
"Snap!"
Malcolm's blade flicked out like lightning, slicing the projectile clean in two. He turned on instinct and sprinted toward the source.
Too late. She was gone again.
This is ridiculous. I'm not young anymore. I can't keep up this cat-and-mouse forever. If this drags on any longer, I'll run out of stamina. I need my bow. Malcolm pivoted sharply and moved to retrieve his bow and arrows. With the bow and arrows in his hands, he wouldn't have to fear Thea's relentless sneak attacks anymore. He could counter her shots with his own, using precision and power to seize the upper hand. After all, when it came to archery, Thea still had a long way to go to match his skill.
How could Thea let him get his way? When he was just three steps from reaching the bow and arrows. Two arrows zipped toward him. One aimed at the weapons, the other at the ground directly under his feet. If he moved forward, he'd be shot. If he stayed, he'd be skewered. He had no choice but to back off.
They were playing a cruel game now.
Every time Malcolm made a move, Thea anticipated him. Whichever way he ran, her arrows were already on their way. Two quick shots—one to block, one to threaten. Every attempt to reclaim his bow sent him back to square one.
Malcolm was so frustrated that he felt like his teeth were grinding from the sheer annoyance. Where had she picked up these irritating tactics? Why was it so hard to get a proper fight out of her? After being forced to retreat for the fifth time, he finally began to understand the rhythm behind Thea's moves. One way or another, he was getting that bow and arrow this time.
When the next two arrows screamed in, Malcolm switched it up. He hurled his sword toward the pile. The blade knocked one arrow off course and embedded into a tree with a thunk. Simultaneously, he somersaulted forward, narrowly dodging the second arrow aimed at him.
Got it! Finally!
His fingers curled around the bow.
Victory was close. With his own bow in hand, he'd flip the battlefield—force her into defense, take back the tempo, prove she wasn't ready yet.
Except—
A feeling slammed into his gut. Instinct screamed. He turned.
Thea was already charging.
She was gliding low, her body a streak of shadow and momentum. Her dagger gleamed in her left hand, the long sword arced forward in her right. Her entire body radiated feral precision, like a predator going for the kill.
"Ah!"
Her shout rang out, primal and clear. The rush of her approach made every cell in her body sing. She was fast—blindingly fast—and Malcolm cursed under his breath.
Why switch to close combat now?!
Then it clicked. The arrows. She was out.
She had never planned to keep the pressure up forever—just long enough to mislead him. By the time he figured it out, she had already closed the ten-meter gap.
Worse—he had thrown away his blade.
His eyes darted to the sword lodged in the tree trunk.
Damn it! That sword's mocking me.
Thea was on him.
Left dagger stabbing straight, right sword slashing diagonally. It was a perfect pincer, a dance of steel and instinct. Malcolm's only choice was to block with the bow.
The recurved weapon wasn't ideal. It was stiff, awkward, not designed for melee. But he managed to use its frame to deflect her assault, barely keeping the edge of her blade from carving into him.
He tried to draw the bow again, force her back—but she never gave him the opening.
This was what he had wanted: a real fight. But now that it was happening, it was a damn disaster.
Each parry left him slightly more exposed. Her blade kissed his jacket sleeve. The edge of her dagger nicked his shoulder. His defenses were strong—but she was relentless.
Still, as the minutes ticked on, the tide began to shift.
Malcolm's close-combat experience began to pay off. With each dodge and redirection, he adapted. Thea, on the other hand, was tiring. She had forced him to run in circles earlier, but she had traveled a larger radius every time. And now, fatigue was setting in.
Her shoulders slowed. Her steps grew slightly heavier.
She knew it too. Which is why she took the gamble.
The dagger in her left hand suddenly flew like a comet toward his face.
Malcolm jerked back, bringing his bow up to intercept. But the weapon clanged weakly against the incoming blade. It didn't have much force.
It was a feint.
Too late.
Thea dove low, gripping her long sword in both hands. She drove it upward in a brutal slash toward Malcolm's exposed ribs.
No time!
He twisted, pulling his abdomen away as much as he could. Simultaneously, he hurled his bow aside and swung his left fist with all the torque of his spinning body.
Thud!
His fist slammed into Thea's jaw, knocking her back two full steps. Blood trickled from the corner of her lips.
But she didn't seem bothered.
She grinned.
"Ha! Black Arrow, you're injured."
Her eyes glittered with victory. "That cut's at least ten centimeters. Think you can still use your waist? Still run full speed?"
She pointed at him with her blade. "You always told me—hit the legs if you want to immobilize someone. But the waist? That's worse. You said, 'Take out the spine, and you end the fight.' Still think that's true now?"
What?! I never said that! That was Ra's al Ghul's philosophy! Do I look like someone who quotes line like this? I just passed the knowledge to you.
Malcolm wanted to argue—but he was bleeding.
He had been wounded.
By his own daughter. The one who had trained under him for barely half a year.
And despite the pain, despite the wound and the frustration, he couldn't stop the small, smug smile curling his lips.
So this is what it feels like to raise a real warrior.
He thought of Ra's al Ghul again. Of how the League always touted itself as the peak of discipline and combat.
But this? This was better.
Ra's grew weapons. He had raised a hurricane.
Thea Queen might have learned from Merlyn—but she had become something else entirely.
And he was damn proud.
To Be Continued...
---xxx---
[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]