The voice belonged to Shiva.
Martin flinched the moment he heard it, his body tensing instinctively. He spun around, leaping several meters back, his gaze locking onto the dangerous woman standing on the fire escape. Every muscle in his body was coiled with tension.
"When did you start following me?" he demanded, his voice sharp with caution.
Martin had taken down a dozen armed men in under three minutes, yet he had spent over ten minutes fighting Shiva without gaining any advantage. That alone spoke volumes about how dangerous she was.
Shiva descended the fire escape with effortless grace, her expression unreadable. "I thought we were friends," she said with a smirk. "And here you are, acting all cold toward me. It hurts."
Martin wasn't moved. "If you're willing to drop this ridiculous idea of competing with me, I'd be more than happy to call you a friend."
Shiva shook her head. "That's like asking a bird to give up its wings—the very essence of its existence. I can't do that."
She took a step closer, eyes gleaming. "Besides, wasn't it you who once said that pushing martial arts to its limits is the ultimate pursuit? And now, you deny it so easily?"
Martin sighed and rubbed his temples. "That was just bait. If I hadn't said something like that, how else would I have drawn out Penguin's men?"
He had no desire to keep engaging with Shiva. He took a breath and said, "You told me this morning that you owed me. I don't need you to save my life, but I do need you to do me one favor—stay out of my way for today."
Shiva frowned. "That's all?"
"That's all."
She studied him for a long moment before pressing her lips together. Then, with a sigh, she said, "Fine. I'll grant you that. But I'll also tell you this—Penguin's men aren't the only ones after you. There are others."
Martin's eyes narrowed. "Others?"
Shiva raised two fingers. "First, yes, the men following you this morning were with me. Second, I can't tell you more."
She leaned against the railing, her voice casual but firm. "I may not be working with them, but I do owe them. That means I can't share any details."
Martin nodded, not pressing further. Sometimes, silence was its own answer.
He already had his suspicions about the armored men who had been tracking him. If they were cooperating with Penguin's forces, it was surprising—but it was also the only explanation that made sense. Now, all he needed was confirmation.
He was getting closer to the truth, step by step.
Yet, instead of relief, he felt an even heavier weight pressing down on him. It was like walking through thick fog with no clear path ahead. Despair lurked in the shadows, waiting to consume him. And the only way to push forward was to keep moving, keep fighting.
"Thanks for the warning. See you tomorrow."
Martin gave Shiva a mock wave before walking away. He didn't expect to see her again. By tomorrow, he would no longer be the fighter she knew. He had no intention of continuing this rivalry.
Shiva watched him disappear into the streets before silently climbing back up to the rooftop. With a few effortless leaps, she vanished into Gotham's skyline.
Martin deliberately chose a route through the quieter parts of the city, hoping to shake off any followers. But to his frustration, every alley and abandoned building he passed through had people—stray residents, squatters, or criminals.
Was Gotham always this crowded?
His patience wore thin. He had made several loops through different districts, yet he still felt the presence of his pursuers. He was running out of places to go unnoticed.
Then, at last, he caught the faintest slip—a slight misstep from one of them. That was all he needed.
His suspicions were confirmed. The same black-armored warriors from the morning were tailing him.
"Figures," he muttered under his breath.
Glancing up at the overcast sky, he sighed. "Damn Gotham weather."
Checking his watch, he saw that it was midday. Without hesitation, he stepped into a decaying building at the edge of the district. It was time to deal with his unwanted company.
"Do we keep following?" one of the black-armored warriors asked as they stopped outside the ruined structure.
"Our orders are to track him and relay information."
"But he's someone who can fight Shiva to a standstill. He probably knows we're here already. For all we know, he's setting up an ambush."
"Orders are orders. If we fail, you know what happens."
At the mention of consequences, the warriors tensed. Drawing their blades, they moved in groups of three and entered the building.
The first floor was empty, filled only with debris and remnants of construction. Nothing else.
Still, they didn't lower their guard. With silent signals, they advanced up the stairwell to the second floor.
The silence was deafening. Every step on loose rubble echoed sharply, setting their nerves on edge. The dim lighting made every shadow stretch and twist ominously.
Then, they found it—a fresh trail of footprints leading to the third floor.
Relief spread through the group. At last, they had a lead.
Without hesitation, they rushed up the stairs.
The last warrior in line barely had time to react before something slammed into him from the shadows.
With a sickening crack, his body crumpled to the ground. Blood pooled beneath him as Martin snapped his spine without hesitation.
The noise finally drew the others' attention. They turned sharply—too late.
Martin grabbed a fallen sword and lunged, driving the blade deep into the nearest warrior's gut, twisting it cruelly. Blood oozed from the wound as the man collapsed, gurgling his last breath.
He pulled the sword free just in time to block an incoming strike. The narrow stairwell worked to his advantage—it forced his enemies to approach him one at a time.
Turning his wrist, he pushed his opponent's blade aside before slicing his throat open in one swift motion.
Blood sprayed onto his clothes, but he didn't slow down. Another warrior lunged at him from behind. Without turning, Martin drove his sword backward, impaling the attacker through the chest.
Step by step, he ascended the stairs, each movement calculated and precise. With every floor he climbed, another body fell.
The remaining warriors finally seemed to realize the futility of direct combat. They retreated into the upper floors, hoping to use numbers to their advantage.
Too late.
Martin wiped the blood from his face, picked up a discarded crossbow, and fired. The bolt struck one of them in the heart, dropping him instantly. He followed up by hurling his sword at another warrior, the blade embedding itself deep in his ribs.
Before the last man could react, Martin closed the distance in a single leap, delivering a brutal kick to his chest. The impact sent the warrior crashing over the balcony railing. His scream echoed briefly before cutting off with a sickening thud.
The final warrior barely had time to raise his weapon before Martin's boot connected with his head. His skull slammed into the wall, his neck snapping from the force.
Martin stood among the bodies, catching his breath. He crouched and tore open one of the fallen warriors' uniforms, revealing a massive tattoo of a demonic face.
His stomach twisted.
"The League of Assassins… Shit. Shit. Shit."
He swore under his breath, not sure whether he was cursing the enemy—or himself.
(End of Chapter)