The tall, gaunt man stood alone in the middle of the chaos, surrounded yet completely unafraid.
His longsword swung left and right, slashing down two officers in seconds and slicing through a veteran's wrist with a single, clean stroke.
Seeing that no one had reacted yet, Thea—still some distance away—quickly drew her bow and nocked two arrows.
"Whoosh, whoosh—"
The arrows streaked toward the man's face and shoulder, but the so-called Angel of Death was no ordinary foe. In the instant before they struck, he kicked a nearby officer, using the recoil to fling himself sideways, barely avoiding both arrows.
Not bad.
This was the first time since Thea's debut that an opponent had managed to dodge her arrows in open combat. Her archery wasn't god-tier, but the man's reflexes were far beyond those of normal fighters.
"Who the hell is that guy?" she asked over comms—subtext being, If any of you have a clue, now would be a great time to share it.
"That's Theo Galavan, former mayor of Gotham," Gordon answered, calmly firing a few shots from the back. "But he's supposed to be long dead. If I had to guess, that's a clone left over from one of the old experiments."
"Ohhh…" Thea let out a long "oh," half in realization, half in disbelief.
Your mayors are this strong? she thought. How do any of you survive office?
In the brief time she watched, the man's clothes were already soaked in blood. Through the side of his hood, she caught glimpses of an aged face with a short, bristling beard. Each time he struck down a foe, he roared like a zealot, his fury echoing through the hall.
The surrounding officers, shaken by his ferocity, instinctively backed away, leaving a ring of open space. He took advantage of it immediately, darting forward to hack at the slowest ones trying to retreat.
Thea studied him carefully—his swordsmanship was excellent, and there was something unhinged yet fearless about him. His clothing seemed reinforced too; bullets from the veterans' rifles hit but failed to slow him, only making him flinch at most.
Great, she thought. Looks like it's on me again.
Robin and the others were already tangled with their own opponents—and even if they weren't, she doubted they could handle this guy.
With a sigh, she accepted her fate. So much for staying in the back playing support.
"Clear out!" she shouted, drawing back her bow.
Since he was a clone anyway, there was no reason to hold back. She wasn't stupid enough to rush in head-on; instead, she went for rapid-fire—three arrows at once—while circling to shift her firing angle, advancing steadily as she loosed her shots.
"Clang! Clang!"
The clone of the former mayor moved with inhuman instinct. Even as Thea switched positions, he sensed the danger—sometimes cutting her arrows from the air, sometimes twisting aside. All six of her opening shots missed their mark.
Realizing conventional archery wouldn't do, Thea reached for a different weapon—one she'd borrowed from Barbara earlier.
A Batarang.
Every member of the Bat-family used them, but their weight and balance differed depending on the user. Barbara's set suited Thea fairly well.
She flicked her wrist, hurling the Batarang first, then leapt up and fired an arrow straight for the back of his head.
The Batarang was lighter and slower, but the arrow's acceleration closed the gap—both reached him almost simultaneously.
The Angel of Death knew he couldn't dodge both. If that arrow hit his skull, he was done for. Gritting his teeth, he spun his sword backward, slicing the arrow mid-flight, while twisting to avoid the spinning blade.
But Thea had calculated the angle precisely.
"Pfft!"
The Batarang buried itself deep into his left arm; his armored sleeve might as well have been paper.
He tore it out, glaring at her with murder in his eyes.
"You are guilty!" he growled.
Thea almost laughed. What is this, a shonen anime? You're really shouting your catchphrases mid-fight?
Now only five meters apart, she holstered her bow and drew her long-unused weapons—a katana in her right hand, a dagger in her left—and charged forward.
From what she'd seen of his technique, his swordsmanship mixed European court styles with modern fencing. His weapon wasn't a battlefield greatsword but something between a Swiss longsword and an Italian arming sword, its blade barely a meter long. The hilt gleamed with ornate engravings, the sheath encrusted with jewels. Either he was flamboyant as hell… or that was a genuine masterpiece.
Only one way to find out.
Plenty of "legendary" swords were no match for modern alloys anyway. Thea's own blades were forged from special steel, funded by her mother Moira herself, crafted from rare metals through Queen Group's defense division.
She lunged in, pressing the attack while his left arm was injured. The dagger swept upward toward his cheek; when he leaned back, the katana flashed in a iaido-style draw slash aimed straight at his abdomen.
Azrael drove his sword into the ground—half to block, half to brace himself from stumbling backward.
Thea hadn't expected that move.
Their blades collided with a metallic shriek—and she immediately felt her katana jar violently. Looking down, she saw a small chip in the edge.
So it really is a fine blade, she thought grimly.
Still, instead of discouraging her, the setback only fueled her fighting spirit. Heat surged through her veins; her pulse quickened.
Switching her grip, she shifted her stance. The Japanese style didn't suit her frame, so she transitioned into a different discipline—the Wing Chun Eight-Slash Knife technique.
Traditionally meant for shorter blades, it focused not on striking the enemy's body but their weapon.
Perfect for this duel.
Her movements grew faster—cutting, flicking, stabbing, chopping—each strike targeting his wrists, his grip, the weakest points in his guard.
Azrael had never seen anything like it. Forced onto the defensive, he grew more and more agitated.
Finally, frustration boiling over, he began shouting mid-swing:
"Sinner! You will be cleansed by holy fire!"
"Witness my judgment!"
"CRUSADER STRIKE!"
Thea blinked, momentarily thrown off. Is he seriously calling out attack names now?
His hood had fallen off, his hair wild, spittle flying as he screamed.
Yep, she thought dryly, parrying another slash. Definitely Gotham material.