Thea had no choice but to grab the man by his hair—only to discover his hairstyle was something else entirely. It was shaped like a trident, with a pointed spike in the middle like a Teletubby antenna, while two locks of hair on the sides defied gravity and pointed outward. Under the dim forest light, the greenish sheen of his hair actually glowed. She was sure it contained enough heavy metals to poison a horse.
Clever. Trying to kill me with toxins, huh? she thought bitterly.
After searching for a clean spot to hit and finding none, Thea gave up on karate and switched to taekwondo.
One sharp kick behind his knee sent him halfway down; a second kick slammed into his lower back. She'd held back—if she'd hit the spine directly, he'd be paralyzed for life. Still, the force she used was no joke. Judging by the sound, he'd be lucky if he only lost a kidney or half a spleen.
One idiot down.
The other two finally realized something was wrong and lunged forward, shouting nonsense. One of them actually squared up like a proper street fighter, raising his right fist like he was about to yell "Take this!" The other… stretched out his arms for a perverted bear hug, eyes gleaming.
Pervert. Thea immediately regretted tossing her bow aside. That idiot was going to get blood—or worse—on her shoes. These are new shoes!
She sidestepped the first guy's swing and, in his stunned expression, sprang toward the leering one. A kick to the right cheek, then another to the left—finally she raised her leg high and shouted, "Die!" The kick crashed under his chin with a crisp crack. The force was enough to shatter his jaw and probably fracture his neck and collarbone too.
The last thug stood frozen, staring at his two unconscious friends. His sluggish brain finally caught up, realizing staying meant death. He spun around and ran.
As if Thea would let him. A target that big, back turned—how could she resist? Time to test her archery progress. She grabbed her bow, drew the string, and fired without even aiming, relying purely on instinct.
The arrow sliced through the air like lightning in the trees. She wasn't aiming to kill—he hadn't actually done much beyond being an idiot—so she targeted his calf. If treated properly, he'd be hobbling on crutches again in three months.
A slow clap echoed from behind her. "Pa-pa."
Malcolm appeared in his usual black outfit, voice gravelly. "Not bad. Looks like you've mastered most of what I've taught. But why didn't you finish them off? They're not good men. Aren't you afraid they'll come for revenge?"
Thea had been expecting this question ever since she guessed the fight was his doing. Kill or not kill—that was the eternal theme of every comic, anime, and heroic saga ever written. Batman, Flash, and others all stood by the no-kill rule; others, like her brother Oliver, had once killed freely before putting down the sword for good.
That single line—kill or not—was the clearest boundary between hero and villain.
Of course, she couldn't start lecturing her father, a professional villain, about superhero ethics. So she decided to remix Batman's philosophy and wrap it in darker, more "Malcolm-friendly" language.
She pointed to the first thug—the "Teletubby" now slumped against a tree.
"That one's suffering from acute internal bleeding and spinal edema. If he's not in surgery soon, his organs will start to fail. He'll lose his spleen, maybe his kidneys too."
Then she gestured at the pervert on the ground, barely breathing, and smiled coldly.
"This one's worse. Without immediate medical attention, he won't see the sunrise. Even if he survives, his central nervous system's gone. He'll never walk again—and judging from that broken jaw, he'll never speak either."
"As for the one I shot," she continued, "he'll live, but that leg's done for. Permanent nerve damage, possibly multiple sclerosis. Too many symptoms to list."
She folded her arms and added, "They never saw my face—I was standing in the shadows. Judging by their outfits, they weren't carrying HD cameras or infrared scanners."
Then, expression cool, she said,
"Because of my decision tonight, their lives have changed forever. Their fates have diverged. Maybe they'll reform, maybe they'll settle down and live ordinary, harmless lives. My intervention broke their original paths—and that's the beauty of fate, isn't it?"
You love talking about fate, don't you, Dad? Fine. I'll use it too.
She'd just taken Batman's "don't kill, just cripple" philosophy, rebranded it as a fatalistic theory of karmic punishment—and turned it into a villain's justification. Bruce Wayne would probably faint if he heard it.
Malcolm hadn't expected his daughter to develop not just skill but a worldview—and even a guiding theory. For a moment, he found himself questioning his own methods. Had he been wrong all along? Maybe killing was mercy. Maybe letting them live—broken, humiliated, and suffering—was the real punishment.
He thought of his own life. His wife had died and found peace; he, the one left behind, had endured twenty years of torment. Thea might be right.
Robert and Oliver—gone in an instant. But Moira and Thea had been left to suffer endlessly. Maybe… not killing was crueller.
He didn't fully grasp it yet, but Malcolm had partially accepted her reasoning. And remembering the real purpose of tonight's meeting, he decided to postpone their philosophical debate.
"Right or wrong, it's your philosophy," he said finally. "That's what matters. You asked me to train you, and I've fulfilled that wish. Only one step remains. Show me your true strength."
He drew his katana, the blade gleaming faintly as he pointed it toward the ground, walking slowly toward her.
So the night's exercise wasn't over. Judging from his stance, he wanted a duel—a real one.
No way. He was her father, yes—but also a deadly assassin. She couldn't afford to be careless.
Thea raised her bow, senses sharp, and fired first.
Thwip, thwip, thwip— Six arrows in a heartbeat, filling every gap around Malcolm. She knew they wouldn't stop him. Snatching up her discarded weapons—a longsword and a dagger—she rolled into the shadows of the trees, ready for the next strike.