Despite shouting his attacks loud enough to shake the ceiling, Azrael's so-called "Judgment" was just a vertical slash, and his "Crusader Strike" amounted to nothing more than a sideways cut with an awkward flourish.
There were no holy beams, no radiant halos beneath his feet—none of the glowing theatrics his words promised. Watching him, Thea could only conclude, flatly: This guy's an idiot.
Was this a side effect of cloning, or had the original just been this level of delusional? She didn't have time to ask, but the question nagged her.
Whatever his mental condition, though, his attacks were strong.
No golden light, but that longsword still swung and stabbed with terrifying ferocity. Thea found herself barely keeping up, forced constantly into evasive movement.
He didn't defend—at all. In just three minutes of combat, she had already cut him twice with her blade. Add in the earlier Batarang wound, and his blood was spilling freely, yet he didn't seem to notice. He just kept fighting, tireless, relentless, eyes burning with madness.
"God damn it!" The usually composed, "well-mannered" Thea wanted to scream.
If this had been a normal opponent, she would've finished him already. But this guy's brain clearly wasn't wired right—his concentration flickered, leaving plenty of openings, yet his sheer refusal to die balanced it out.
Whoever cloned him had clearly noticed his instability and probably intentionally dulled his pain receptors. Madness to counter madness. Impressive, in a horrifying way.
Sure, Thea could go all in, trade injury for injury, and finish it fast—but what kind of idiot would risk getting maimed just to kill a clone? Totally not worth it.
Another quick sidestep, another slash—her katana cut across his side. Blood sprayed again, and at last, the Angel of Death began to slow. His movements grew sluggish, his war cries quieter.
Finally.
Thank god. Her ears were ringing from his endless yelling. Thea almost felt bad, like she was bullying someone with a disability. This whole fight had been a mistake. Next time I see a lunatic, I'm sending Robin instead. I'm done playing nurse to psychos.
Thinking of Robin, she risked a glance across the battlefield.
On the broader scale, the police and veterans still held the advantage—roughly sixty percent in their favor. The gangsters were being driven back, step by step. Victory was only a matter of time.
But among the "hero" fights, things weren't so rosy. Without Batman to anchor them, the Bat-family was clearly struggling. And with Thea tied up dealing with her sword-swinging maniac, the overall momentum wasn't looking great.
Catwoman was dueling Penguin and a hulking brute in a pig-faced mask—neither side gaining ground. Nearby, Barbara was surrounded by half a dozen of Scarecrow's elite, her whip and gadgets flashing in every direction. She was winning, but burning through her stamina fast.
And Firefly? Nowhere to be seen. Which, Thea decided, was good news. A pyromaniac and a cryomaniac going at it could only end in mass casualties.
Then she noticed something else. Where's Robin?
She scanned the hall, left to right—nothing. Then, finally, on the far bleachers, she spotted him—fighting desperately against two masked men.
Both wore black suits and owl-faced masks. One wielded twin batons, the other a long sword. Their movements were smooth, lethal, perfectly synchronized. Robin was on the defensive, barely holding them off.
Wait… owls?
Thea froze for a second.
The Court of Owls?!
The real power behind Gotham. Not one man, not one gang—a centuries-old cabal of the city's oldest, richest families, watching from the shadows, manipulating everything.
So that's who had pulled all these freaks together. It all fit—the secret experiments, the cloning, the invisible hand uniting madmen like Scarecrow and Penguin.
A chill ran down her spine.
If the Court was involved, this wasn't just some big fight. This was a setup.
We're not here to win, she realized grimly. We're here to be crushed.
They must have a plan—a trump card waiting for the right moment.
Still, for now, the field looked stable. If her side could just hold long enough, finish off the gangsters, and regroup, even those powerful "Talons" wouldn't last against hundreds of guns.
She was thinking that—when the Angel of Death came screaming back at her.
Snapping out of her thoughts, Thea parried frantically. She was so done with this walking migraine.
The duel dragged on: dodge ten times, land one hit. Dodge ten, land one. It was exhausting.
Then, during another heavy clash, she felt her katana vibrate oddly. Looking down, her heart sank.
The blade was cracking—small fractures webbing along the edge. After so many direct parries, the metal was giving out. Two more swings, maybe three, and it would snap.
Her custom weapon, forged from rare alloys, her companion through countless fights—was about to die on her.
Perfect. Just perfect.
I come here to help, and now I'm gonna lose my best sword. Who's paying for this, huh? Does Gotham have a "hero equipment insurance" policy?
As she considered grabbing a fallen police baton to replace it, a thug from Penguin's side—a generic, round-faced mobster—saw her stepping back and mistook it for weakness.
Thinking she was about to lose, he charged at her with a knife, eager to steal the kill.
"Huh?" Thea blinked, momentarily thrown. That's not how this works, buddy.
Still, if he wanted to help… who was she to refuse?
She sidestepped the lunge, grabbed his wrist, and yanked hard, sweeping her foot behind his legs. Normally she'd let go right there and let him eat the floor—
—but not today.
She twisted with the motion, using his momentum to spin him like a discus, and with a powerful heave, hurled him straight at the oncoming Angel of Death.
And, well… you really shouldn't surprise a lunatic.
Seeing a human shape flying toward him, Azrael didn't even hesitate—he thrust his sword straight through the man's chest.