Batman Legacy
Copyright© 2025 by Uruks
Chapter 4
Action/Adventure Story: Chapter 4 - The origin story of Batman meant to capture the grit and spirit of the comics. This is just a fanfiction and is not meant for commercial use. While I do my best to honor the original story of Batman, I admit that it has my personal flair in it that you may notice if you're familiar with my work. I used AI to help me refine the book, but the dialogue, plot, and tone are all mine. I've always loved Batman and wanted to write my own fanfic that includes Gotham's full story and his legend. Enjoy.
Caution: This Action/Adventure Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Romantic Heterosexual Crime Fan Fiction Superhero Science Fiction
Later that morning...
There was no sunrise underground. Only the illusion of time passing—torches guttering low, air shifting faintly through carved stone corridors, the hum of distant machinery. But Bruce and Talia felt the change regardless. Their bodies knew morning had come.
Neither moved at first. Soft sheets clung to them, still warm from shared breath and the exhausted tenderness of the night before. Bruce sat up slowly, muscles tightening across his back and chest.
Talia lingered on her side for a moment, watching him with drowsy affection, before reluctantly pushing herself upright. The air between them still felt heavy with the echoes of last night—heat, tenderness, frenzy—but duty pulled at them like a cold draft beneath the door. They rose without speaking. Their motions were slow, almost hesitant.
Bruce reached for his clothes—dark, fitted League combat garb. He drew the black top over his shoulders, the fabric sliding taut across his chest, then tightened the arm-wraps and forearm guards. Every movement was deliberate, controlled ... yet slowed by the weight of not wanting the moment to end.
Talia dressed with the elegance of ritual. She pulled her raven hair over one shoulder and slipped into her leather bodysuit, the material hugging her curves like a second skin. She fastened each clasp with precise, methodical movements, the sway of her hips unhurried. Then she knelt to pull up a long, high leather boot—tightening the straps along her calf with the ease of someone who’d worn armor since childhood. Bruce watched her from the corner of his eye, unable to stop the faint grin tugging at his lips. Talia noticed, and her own smile bloomed—small, private, victorious.
“You should know,” she said softly as she rose, smoothing the bodysuit around her waist. “My father is looking for a successor. He has you in mind.”
Bruce looked up sharply.
“Does that surprise you?” she asked coyly.
“Yes,” he admitted.
She approached him, fastening the last buckle of her second boot. “Which part surprises you more?”
“Both, actually. The fact that he needs a successor, and the fact that he has me in mind.” Bruce let out a breath, half a chuckle. “Your father is the peak of physical health ... likely due to...”
He stopped himself before revealing what he suspected—and what he knew—about the Lazarus Pits. “Anyway,” he continued quietly. “If your father were to choose an heir, I always assumed he would choose Ubu.”
Talia paused, then moved toward him with a measured grace. She stopped directly in front of him. Her gaze roamed over him—not with desire this time, but quiet evaluation.
Bruce continued. “Ubu was raised in the League, unlike me. Ubu has served as your father’s right hand for years. His loyalty is unquestionable.”
She tilted her head. “But perhaps Father recognizes the need for new blood ... and new ideals.”
Bruce frowned slightly.
“And,” Talia added. “Perhaps he sees what I see. That your potential, your strength ... will far outshine anyone in the League. Even Ubu.”
Bruce let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Talia laughed lightly. “Besides, Ubu is more a soldier than a leader. He is not stupid, but he is not what I would call a deep-thinking man.”
Her eyes flicked back to Bruce, warm and certain. “You, on the other hand ... your mind is always roaming. A tactician. A strategist. Perhaps even a visionary.” Her voice softened. “Much like my father. He can recognize his own.”
Bruce stepped closer without realizing it, drawn to her steadiness. Before she could turn away, he gently caught her wrist.
“The possibility ... it would honor me, Talia,” he said in a low voice. Then, hesitation came as he added, “But ruling the League ... that’s not something I ever imagined for myself.”
For the first time, she looked almost hurt—eyes cooling, lips parting in a small, sharp intake of breath. But the sting faded just as quickly. A soft, knowing smile replaced it.
Talia leaned up and kissed him—gentle, tender, but with a promise beneath it. She pulled back and said, “Then I’ll simply have to enhance the offer for you, beloved.”
Bruce didn’t reply. The conflict inside him was too raw, too tangled. Her words—successor... beloved... destiny—pulled at him fiercely. But so did everything he envisioned for Gotham.
He could enact his plans with the League’s backing, yes. Their resources were vast, their influence global. But that was the problem. Gotham was one city—broken, bleeding, desperate.
He didn’t want to rule the world. He wanted to save one corner of it. And he wasn’t sure he could do that within the League’s iron fists and blood-soaked creeds.
Talia seemed to sense at least part of his inner turbulence. She placed her hand over his heart. “Even now your mind is buzzing with endless possibilities,” she whispered. “Burdened by the weight of responsibility. It is always so with a born leader.”
Bruce swallowed, averting his gaze before she saw his doubt flicker there. Finally, fully dressed, Talia stepped toward the door. She unlocked it and cracked it open. A metallic scent hit them instantly. Both froze. It was the unmistakable smell of blood. Heavy. Fresh. Bruce’s eyes snapped to Talia’s in silent alarm. The tension in the air sharpened like a blade.
Bruce and Talia stepped into the corridor with blades drawn, the steel whispering like a warning into the stale air. The moment the door slid fully open, the smell hit them—iron, viscera, and something rotten under the oppressive heat.
Then they saw the bodies. Ninjas lay strewn across the stone hallway like broken dolls, their blood pooled in dark, sticky rivers. Some had been cut clean in half. Others were decapitated, torsos twisted in ways that defied bone and muscle. Limbs were scattered like loose debris, fingers still curled around useless weapons. Bruce’s jaw clenched. Talia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth before instinct pushed her into action.
She snatched her radio from her belt. “Attention!” she barked, the tremor in her voice barely restrained. “There are intruders in the vicinity! Several League members are down! Copy!”
Only static hissed back at her. The silence was worse than any answer.
Bruce’s voice was steady despite the carnage. “Stay close, Talia.”
They moved deeper into the underground base, boots splashing through blood as they navigated the labyrinth of stone corridors. More bodies appeared—sprawled across the ground, slumped against walls, hanging limp from broken beams. Every single one of them had died violently. Every single one of them had died fast. But something else gnawed at Talia with each turn they made.
“I ... I don’t understand,” she whispered, breath shaking. “We’ve found little more than a dozen corpses. That’s only a fraction of the ninjas stationed here.” Her eyes darted around the empty halls. “Where have they all gone?”
Bruce was already analyzing, piecing together the impossible. “Maybe they were called away.”
Talia stopped dead, staring at him. “By whom? They wouldn’t dare leave their posts ... not knowing that I was here, and that I was injured!”
Bruce’s voice dropped, low and grim. “Then it would have to be someone of near equal rank to make the order.”
Talia’s breath caught as the realization hit. “There are only two men with that kind of authority. My father, and...”
She stopped. Mid-sentence. Her pupils contracted. Because both she and Bruce suddenly felt it. A presence. Heavy. Cold. Unmistakable.
Bruce surged forward in a blur of motion, sword raised. Talia stayed at his side, steps perfectly aligned with his, both of them moving like the warriors the League had sculpted them to be. They burst out into the desert sun. Wind howled across the dunes. Sand spiraled in restless eddies. And there he stood.
A lone figure silhouetted against the pale horizon—massive, bald, shoulders broad enough to cast a shadow across half the dune. His sword was already drawn. The blade dripped with blood. His armor was slick with it. Ubu. Alive. Unscathed. Waiting.
Bruce took in more details as he stepped forward, sword held low and deadly. A chunk of Ubu’s right ear was missing. Bitten off. Recognition struck like lightning. Rage followed like thunder.
“Ubu,” Bruce said, his voice dark and stripped of even the slightest restraint.
Ubu inclined his head, almost mocking. “No longer ‘Master’ Ubu, Acolyte.”
Bruce’s eyes sharpened into something feral, heat rising from his skin like steam. “You’ve lost that right ... murderer.”
Talia’s face drained of color as her gaze locked on his wound. “Your ear,” she whispered. “It’s been half bitten off. That’s why...”
Ubu answered for her. “That’s why I couldn’t let you have Saranbayar Khulan’s body.” His tone was flat. Almost bored. “An endeavor I failed in.”
He lifted his sword—slowly, deliberately—allowing the blood to drip from the edge and patter into the sand.
“So now...” His stance deepened. His shadow stretched. “We have only this left.”
The desert wind raked across the dunes, whipping grains of sand around Bruce and Talia as they faced the blood-soaked colossus before them. Ubu stood motionless at first—towering, bald, shoulders glistening with streaks of drying red. His blade hung loose at his side, pointed toward the ground, still dripping. But as they approached, he eased his stance ... and then he chuckled.
A low, humorless sound. He relaxed his grip on the sword, letting it hang lazily as if this were a casual meeting rather than the aftermath of a massacre.
“You’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you, Acolyte?” Ubu drawled. “Already you’ve won the favor of the Master ... and Lady Talia.”
Bruce said nothing. He didn’t blink. He only watched Ubu the way a starving lion watched meat—coiled tight, waiting for the precise moment to strike. Every breath Ubu took, every twitch of muscle, every shift in his stance—Bruce cataloged it all, dissecting the man in real time.
Ubu continued, voice deepening with something like admiration. “After I failed to destroy the body, I thought I could return later ... but you anticipated that.” He shook his head with a wry exhale. “You were already in contact with Ra’s. He sent some of his Elites to guard the corpse. They’re analyzing the DNA samples even as we speak.” He smirked. “I imagine they’ve already fingered me as the culprit.”
Talia’s face twisted with grief and fury.
Ubu held up his sword, letting the blood drip onto the sand. “The Master also sent a sizable force to the tomb—so large even I could not stand against it. But he didn’t send me. Not me.” His eyes narrowed. “He had already begun to suspect. You both had.”
He tilted his head slightly, genuinely curious. “I have to ask ... what gave me away? I was very careful.”
Bruce shrugged lightly, his voice almost conversational. “It wasn’t any one thing. Many of the victims aligned with your patrol routes. Of course, you sometimes murdered outside your postings to throw us off. But with the right timing and transportation, you could commit those killings and return before anyone noticed.”
Ubu’s grin stretched with begrudging admiration.
Bruce continued. “Ra’s began to put the pieces together, too. He didn’t want to believe you’d betray him. But logic soon overcame emotion.”
Ubu gave a low chuckle, shaking his head slowly—almost impressed. “I knew from the moment I met you, Acolyte ... you would be a threat to me. I hoped we’d be sent on a mission together so that I could arrange an ‘accident’ for you. But the Master valued you too highly.” His eye flickered to Talia. “And he watched me too closely.”
Talia stepped forward, fury rising to eclipse her shock. “Why, Ubu? Why would you do this? Why target the innocent? Why betray your ideals?” Her voice cracked—just slightly. “Father thought of you as a son. You were family.”
Ubu looked at her with a flat, unreadable expression. He jerked his chin toward Bruce. “And yet, despite my years of devotion, I never garnered half the affection your family has suddenly bestowed on this one.”
Talia scoffed, her voice shaking. “So it was petty jealousy that drove you to become this ... abomination?”
He shook his head slowly. “No. I wouldn’t say that.”
His gaze drifted downward, distant now—haunted. “I was already ... starting to question things long before Mr. Wayne arrived.”
The desert wind stilled. The quiet was nearly unbearable.
“Your father instills within us the most lethal martial arts known to mankind,” Ubu said. “He hones our bodies until we are weapons—capable of overcoming any obstacle, transcending even modern machines of war.” His voice tightened. “And what do we use these skills for? To conquer? To reshape the world? To exert our will over the cattle of this earth?”
He gave a bitter laugh. “No. Barely anyone even knows we exist. Ra’s controls territories, yes—but he still allows them to be self-governed. He intervenes only to stop the most heinous of crimes.” His lips curled in disgust. “He considers his power a burden rather than a right.”
Talia’s eyes hardened with righteous fire. “Father protects the innocent. He restrains himself so he does not abuse his power. He refuses to fall into the pettiness of past warlords.”
Ubu snapped his fingers sharply and pointed at her—triumphant. “And that,” he growled. “Is exactly the problem. That is what drove me mad about the League’s teachings.”
He took a shuddering breath, something malevolent rippling beneath the surface. “Who is innocent?” he whispered. “How do you define innocence?”
He stared at his free hand as though seeing past memories splattered across his palm. “I once saved a widow from rape. Later, I learned she murdered her own children for misbehaving.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I rescued a boy from slavers. He grew up to be a terrorist. Blew up a church in a suicide bombing, leaving dozens dead.”
Ubu shook his head slowly. “You know what I think? I think that there is no distinction between innocent and guilty. There is no righteous world worth protecting. There is only meat ... waiting for the butcher’s blade.”
His sword lifted. The steel gleamed cold in the morning sun. “And now that my life is forfeit...” His gaze slithered between Bruce and Talia. “The only satisfaction I desire before I leave this world...”
His stance widened. “Is your deaths.”
The sun crept over the dunes in a thin, burning line—just enough light to gild the three figures standing in the sand: Bruce, Talia, and the blood-drenched giant who had once been one of the League’s finest.
Bruce gave a short, derisive sniff. “Oh, that’s all? And here I was thinking it was something complex. But in the end, all I get is more whiny nihilism.” He lifted his sword, the blade catching the desert light. “Talia was right. You aren’t a very deep-thinking man.”
Ubu scoffed. A harsh, barking sound. Then he crouched low, sand shifting under his boots—
—and moved. He exploded off the ground with terrifying speed for a man his size.
Bruce and Talia surged forward as one, swords flashing in twin arcs of steel. Their battle cries tore across the dunes as they collided with him. The two-on-one duel erupted with brutal, blinding ferocity.
Ubu’s sword swept out in a wide, devastating arc, a shockwave of force behind it. Bruce ducked under it and struck at Ubu’s ribs. Steel shrieked against steel as Ubu parried at the last instant, sparks spraying between them.
Talia darted in from the flank, slicing upward toward Ubu’s exposed arm. Ubu twisted his enormous body with uncanny grace, blocking her strike with the flat of his blade while simultaneously kicking sand into Bruce’s eyes. Bruce rolled aside before the follow-up slash could cleave him in half.
They regrouped, circled, lunged. Bruce’s blade hammered against Ubu’s, the clang echoing across the dunes. Talia dove low, sweeping her sword along Ubu’s ankles—but he jumped over her strike, impossibly light for a man of his bulk. He landed with a ground-shaking thud and used the momentum to spin into a deadly counterstrike. For a heartbeat, he held them both at bay—one man weathering two master combatants. His swordsmanship was monstrous. Efficient. Elegant. Brutal.
Talia misjudged her angle for a split second—just one. Ubu’s sword came down like a guillotine. She blocked, but the impact tore the weapon from her hands and flung it spinning across the sand.
“Talia!” Bruce yelled—already moving.
Ubu stepped in for the kill, raising his blade—but Bruce caught the descending strike between his own sword and guard, shoving the giant backwards with a roar. They clashed for a bit, an exchange that quickly ended with Ubu’s fist cracking into Bruce’s skull and his kick sending him flying backward.
Talia recovered instantly. She sprinted toward Ubu, then flipped—vaulting upward like a dancer leaping into the sun. She landed on Ubu’s massive shoulders, wrapping her thighs around his neck as she pulled a knife and drove it downward.
The blade sank deep into his palm—and Ubu barely flinched. With a guttural grunt, he grabbed her wrist, fingers closing like iron around her hand even as the knife dug farther into his flesh. Then, with horrifying ease, he wrenched her off his shoulders and threw her. She hit the sand with a sharp cry.
Bruce was already coming. He lunged, sword raised high. Ubu ripped the bloody knife out of his hand with his teeth and hurled it at Bruce’s face. Bruce spun his sword in a tight parry circle—and deflected the knife back at Ubu with perfect precision. The weapon smashed into Ubu’s own sword hand, knocking the blade from his grip.
Bruce saw his opening and slashed downward—but Ubu caught Bruce’s sword between his bare palms, his blood smearing across the steel as he held it immovably. Then Ubu’s elbow rocketed outward.
Crack! It smashed into Bruce’s temple with the force of a battering ram. Bruce hit the sand hard, vision flashing white. Ubu shifted his grip, angling Bruce’s own sword downward toward his chest—but a sudden kick blasted the blade clean out of Ubu’s hands.
Talia. Panting, limping, but unbroken—she stood her ground with fury burning in her eyes. Ubu roared and lunged for her. Talia grabbed his wrists and drove her knee into his groin, her flexibility granting her brutal leverage.
Ubu doubled over, snarling—and Talia arched backward like a scorpion, her heel whipping behind her to smash into the back of his skull. Just as he flinched, she performed a backflip, the toe of her boot catching him in the jaw before she landed gracefully on her feet again.
The blow staggered him. She cried out, flying into the sky and twisting into a spinning kick—but Ubu caught her leg mid-air. With a monstrous heave, he slammed her into the sand.
Talia’s breath exploded from her lungs in a choked cough. Before she could rise— Ubu stomped down on her leg. A sickening crack echoed across the desert. Talia screamed.
Bruce’s eyes flew open at the sound—instinct overriding pain. He surged forward in a blur of rage, launching himself with a dropkick that collided squarely with Ubu’s chest.
The impact sent the giant flying, sand erupting under him as he crashed into the dunes. Bruce scrambled to his feet, sword in hand. Ubu rose too, grabbing his own fallen blade, panting with anticipation.
Bruce stepped protectively in front of Talia, shielding her broken form with his body. He held his sword low, teeth bared, a snarl ripping from his throat. His eyes blazed with fury—wolf-bright and lethal.
Talia groaned where she lay in the sand, clutching her shattered leg. Her fingers dug trembling furrows into the dunes as her eyes squeezed shut from the pain. Each breath came shallow, strangled, but she forced herself to stay conscious—forced herself to watch.
In front of her, Bruce stood tall, chest heaving, every muscle rigid with fury. But he controlled it—honed it—forcing the wildfire in his veins into a chilled, lethal calm. His sword was steady. His stance unshakable.
Ubu chuckled as he angled his blood-slick blade. “We both know how this will end, Acolyte. How many times have we sparred? And how many times have you lost?” His eyes gleamed with cruel certainty. “Your fate was sealed the moment Lady Talia fell.”
Bruce’s lips curved—cold, humorless. “There’s something you don’t know, Ubu.”
His voice dropped into a dark rumble. “I actually found a way to surpass you some time ago. But I was comfortable where I was in the League ... and I didn’t want to humiliate you.”
A low, sinister chuckle emanated from Bruce. “Now? Now I get some payback for all the times you left me broken in the hospital wing. And I won’t even have to feel ashamed about it.”
Ubu’s snarl broke across the desert. “Liar. Your boasting won’t save you.”
He lunged—and Bruce’s blade flicked sand up in a sharp, controlled sweep. The fine grains blasted straight into Ubu’s eyes. The giant staggered, cursing, momentarily blind. Bruce moved in a blur. A twist of the wrist—a pivot—a downward slash—and Ubu’s sword spun out of his grip and landed in the sand with a heavy thunk.
Bruce’s own blade pressed cleanly against Ubu’s throat before the man even realized what had happened. Ubu froze, stunned. Talia, through clenched teeth, stared in disbelief. Bruce held the killing blow for a long, quiet second ... then stepped back.
“Pick it up, Ubu,” he said, voice low and steady. “I’m not done humbling you yet.”
Ubu growled deep in his chest. He crouched to retrieve his sword—scooping up a hidden handful of sand with his other hand. “You got lucky,” he spat. “But your luck has run out.”
He flung the sand toward Bruce’s eyes. But Bruce’s eyes were already shut—and he shot forward before the grains could even fall. His heel snapped upward—slamming into the side of Ubu’s skull. The giant reeled and hit the sand, rolling instinctively to reclaim his blade. He came up in a furious whirl of steel. Bruce met him head-on.
The desert rang with the clang of steel on steel as they traded blows—brutal, technical, lightning-fast. Ubu hacked downward in a descending diagonal cut—kesa-giri—aimed to cleave Bruce from shoulder to hip. Bruce twisted, catching the blow on the spine of his blade, and countered with a sharp tsuki thrust toward Ubu’s throat. Ubu slapped the blade aside with the flat of his sword and pivoted into a sweeping yoko-giri horizontal slash. Bruce ducked beneath it and spun, slicing upward with a rising gyaku-kesa strike.
Ubu barely blocked it. Their swords collided again and again—arcs of steel carving through the dawn air, each movement calculated, each step a dance between death and mastery. Sand erupted beneath their feet with every pivot.
Ubu’s confidence surged back into his face. His blows grew heavier, more triumphant. He pressed Bruce back with a series of hammering attacks—but Bruce smirked. And then he unleashed himself. A flash of movement—too fast for Ubu to track—Slash!
A red line appeared across Ubu’s arm. Blood streamed down. Ubu snarled and counterattacked—but Bruce had already repositioned. Slash! Another cut—this time across the thigh. Ubu gasped.
He swung wildly, desperate—and Bruce’s blade whipped across his brow in a shallow, perfect cut. Blood immediately gushed down into Ubu’s eye, blinding half his vision. Bruce had cut the exact artery that would bleed fast, heavy, and debilitating.
Bruce leveled his blade. Calm. Deadly. “You’re strong, Ubu. But you’re also predictable. You always have been.”
Ubu roared—a bellow of hatred and humiliation—and he lunged using a downward strike with all his remaining strength. Bruce stepped into the blow, turning his hips, sliding his grip—and brought his sword up in a single, monstrous shattering strike.
Ubu’s weapon fractured. CRACK—SHNNK! The blade snapped in half, fragments scattering across the sand. Ubu stumbled back, staring at the stump of his sword in disbelief. For a moment, the desert itself seemed to hold its breath.
He narrowed his eyes, throwing the broken hilt aside. “Would you kill an unarmed opponent?”
Bruce let his own sword fall from his hand. It landed point-first in the sand. “Of course not. I was hoping to finish this barehanded anyway.”
A slow grin spread across Ubu’s blood-streaked face. He raised his fists and assumed a brutal, grounded combat stance. Behind Bruce, Talia lay in the sand, breathing hard, but her eyes—wide, awestruck, trembling—never left the two men. The air tightened. The dunes held their breath. Ubu stepped forward. Bruce met him halfway. The final round began.
Bruce and Ubu collided like beasts set loose upon the dunes. Their first strikes weren’t punches—they were shockwaves. Each blow cracked the air, sending spirals of sand exploding outward. Bruce’s fists hammered into Ubu’s ribs with straight punches sharp enough to dent steel. Ubu countered with a thundering downward hammerfist, which Bruce met with a raised forearm block, the impact vibrating through the air.
Ubu swung a roundhouse kick—a massive, sweeping arc meant to take Bruce’s head off. Bruce leaned back just enough that the wind brushed his nose and retaliated with a thrusting side kick to Ubu’s sternum. The giant staggered two steps, boots digging ruts through the sand.
Ubu charged, fists flying in a furious haymaker barrage, each one strong enough to break stone pillars. Bruce slipped each strike by fractions—turning shoulders, twisting hips—absorbing one blow to the ribs, another grazing his jaw. The hits hurt, but something feral kept him upright. Something incandescent and vicious.
Ubu grunted as Bruce slammed an elbow into his kidney, followed by a Muay Thai knee up into his solar plexus. Spittle flew from Ubu’s mouth. Still the giant fought back. A brutal cross-hook combination clipped Bruce across the face. Pain burst behind his eye—but Bruce didn’t retreat.
He used the momentum. Bruce rolled with the hit, spinning—his heel pivoting deep into the sand—before whipping around with a boxer’s perfect mechanics. His fist shot forward in a tight, devastating power cross straight into Ubu’s jaw. The impact echoed across the dunes like a gunshot.
Ubu flew backward, limbs flailing, before crashing into the sand and rolling to one knee. He panted, spitting red. Bruce wiped blood from his mouth, only to grin—his expression something feral, hungry.
“Come on, Ubu,” he taunted, voice low and trembling with adrenaline. “Play with me just a little longer.”
Ubu snarled—and then his fingers sharpened. He lunged, hand rigid, every knuckle locked into a perfect blade—and the spear hand shot straight into Bruce’s shoulder. THUNK! The fingertips pierced flesh. Blood splattered across the sand. Bruce grunted, teeth baring in pain.
“Bruce!” Talia screamed, trying to push herself up, but agony dragged her back to the sand.
Ubu grinned through his blood-smeared teeth. “The spear hand,” he said proudly. “A special technique I learned from the Master. Too bad your training wasn’t far enough along to learn it.”
Bruce inhaled sharply ... then slowly exhaled. And the look on his face shifted—from pain to annoyance. “Is that so?” he murmured.
Then Bruce’s hand formed the same shape—fingers stiff, knuckles aligned, tendons locked. He drove his spear hand directly into Ubu’s wrist. Ubu howled, jerking back, eyes wild with disbelief.
Bruce stepped forward, relentless. “The spear hand, huh?” he said coldly. “Interesting. True ... I’ve never seen it before. But I have now.”
Bruce tilted his head. “Funny. It’s actually not that difficult.”
Ubu roared in outrage and struck again—multiple rapid-fire spear hands aimed at the heart, throat, and eyes. Bruce blocked each one. Then countered.
His hands became blades, slicing through air with surgical precision. He moved faster, sharper, more vicious than Ubu had ever seen.
Then—SHHKT! Bruce’s fingertips gouged into Ubu’s forearm, severing a tendon. CRACK! Another strike shredded the muscle along Ubu’s thigh. THWIP! A final spear hand pierced the soft tissue behind Ubu’s knee, collapsing the giant’s stance.
Ubu fell. Not dramatically. Not with dignity. He crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut—collapsing face-first into the sand, his massive body twitching futilely. He tried to push himself up ... but nothing happened. His limbs only trembled uselessly, paralyzed by the perfectly placed internal damage.
“Finish it!” Ubu roared, glaring up at Bruce, hate burning like molten iron in his one good eye.
Bruce stared down at him—silent, breathing hard, chest rising and falling with barely leashed fury. Then he turned away.
Ubu’s roar tore across the desert. “FINISH IT!”