Thea almost wanted to rush forward and give the reckless fool who'd interrupted their duel a thumbs-up.
The League of Assassins was all about rules—Ra's al Ghul had lived for over eight hundred years, and whatever humanity he once had was long gone. The only thing left sustaining him was his obsession with tradition.
So when the spinning blades came flying, Thea didn't panic.
She sidestepped one, slashed another out of the air,
and the last was cleaved in half by a furious Talia, who had just pushed herself back to her feet.
Watching the other woman seething with righteous rage, Thea couldn't help but find the League's logic… fascinating.
She could try to kill Talia and that was fine; but if someone helped Talia, that was unforgivable.
Remarkable. Truly remarkable.
Since the sacred duel had been disrupted, it couldn't continue anyway.
So Thea decided to make a show of it.
"Who dared interrupt us?!" she shouted sharply, voice ringing across the courtyard.
Talia, sword in hand, glared toward her own ranks, equally furious at whoever had ruined her solemn ritual.
Neither woman had seen who had thrown the blades—
but among Talia's hundred-odd followers, a few sharp-eyed ones began whispering.
Within seconds, a hundred bows were raised and aimed at one very unlucky man: the short, round, sharp-nosed Penguin.
It was absurd, really. The so-called League of Assassins somehow had an entire army of archers.
Aside from Batman—their one dropout success—Ra's seemed only to produce bowmen:
Black Arrow, Green Arrow, Red Arrow… the list went on.
Now, with a hundred arrows pointed his way, Oswald Cobblepot froze.
He'd spent his whole life perfecting the art of stabbing allies in the back—
not helping them. And today, the one time he tried to do something good,
he ended up in the crosshairs of a hundred assassins.
Moments ago, he'd used his umbrella gun to fire three small blades, trying to "save" Talia.
Now, it seemed he'd only managed to doom himself.
The pig-faced man beside him quietly shuffled a few steps away.
"You have violated the sacred duel of the League," Thea declared, her voice loud and clear.
"By ancient law, I sentence you to combat. Face me—if you win, you live. If you lose, you die!"
She spoke first in English, then repeated it in classical Arabic for good measure,
raising her sword dramatically to point straight at Penguin.
"Win, live! Lose, die!"
Talia's followers echoed in unison, their voices feverish.
Some even drew their blades and lifted them toward the sky, as if conducting a holy rite.
To Thea's surprise, Talia didn't object in the slightest.
Her anger at the interruption was greater than any gratitude toward the man who had "saved" her.
Rules were rules. She raised her own blade and barked coldly:
"Come out! You must die!"
Commissioner Gordon's side looked on in total confusion.
Wasn't this their enemy? Why was Thea now orchestrating a civil war among the villains?
What kind of genius move was this?
Batman, watching through the monitors, knew exactly what was happening.
He sighed and began explaining to the bewildered cops and vigilantes around him—
about Ra's al Ghul's centuries of life, about the League's ancient customs,
about how these "rules" could be as binding as any law.
By the time he was done, everyone was staring at him wide-eyed,
wondering if eight-hundred-year-old warlords really existed.
Meanwhile, Thea—completely unaware that Batman's narration had turned her into part of some mystical legend—
was milking the moment for all it was worth.
"Maybe there's some kind of misunderstanding…?"
Penguin stammered, sweat beading under his bowler hat.
The crowd around him had instinctively cleared several meters of space.
Fight Thea? Impossible.
He'd just watched her and Talia duel for half an hour—those blades moved faster than his eyes could follow.
He wasn't a fighter; he was a schemer, a cripple with a limp, not some frontline brute!
"The League's will is absolute!" Thea barked.
"You insulted a sacred trial—therefore, you insulted Ra's al Ghul himself!"
She felt her acting skills level up on the spot.
She had absolutely nothing to do with the League, of course,
but invoking Ra's name was as effective as waving a tiger's hide—
and Talia's assassins roared in approval, shouting to bolster her "authority."
Poor Penguin wanted to faint. Or better yet, be shot and put out of his misery.
Even he had heard stories of the Demon's Head—
a name whispered in Gotham's underworld with a mix of awe and terror.
And now he was being accused of insulting him?
All he'd done was help!
"Fine," Thea said, lowering her tone, "if you won't come forward, I'll carry out the sentence myself."
She knew better than to drag this act out too long—
wave the tiger skin too long and you might summon the actual tiger.
Her connection with Malcolm Merlyn couldn't stand exposure,
and if Ra's really did appear, it was anyone's guess whom he'd execute first—Talia or her.
Drawing one of her specialized arrows, Thea nocked it to her bow—an ice arrow, gleaming pale blue.
This was the perfect chance to eliminate Penguin under "League justice."
Even if Batman saw it, he'd have to admit the rules demanded it.
Let's see if your nickname means you're really resistant to cold, she thought.
You're no Mr. Freeze.
"Whssst!"
The arrow flew.
Penguin tensed. A hundred bows aimed at him meant he couldn't risk dodging—
one wrong move and he'd be turned into a pincushion.
He froze in place, deciding to take the hit and hope it wasn't fatal.
Thea, mercifully, didn't aim for his vitals—only for his bad leg.
The arrow struck with a muffled thud.
Instantly, frost began to spread across his limb, crawling upward in seconds.
Penguin's eyes went wide.
This wasn't a normal arrow!
His last coherent thought was she tricked me—
before his lips stiffened, freezing mid-word.
Thea sighed, unimpressed.
So much for the "terrifying" Penguin of Gotham.
Within moments, the ice had engulfed his leg entirely.
Another few seconds and he'd be a popsicle fit for display.
Just as she was about to turn her attention back to Talia,
a deafening roar shattered the air.
A massive figure leapt down from a nearby rooftop,
landing with enough force to crack the pavement.
In five seconds flat, he'd sprinted a hundred meters—
a mountain of muscle moving like a tank.
The newcomer reached out with one thick arm,
grabbing the frozen Penguin by the collar,
yanking him from the ground as easily as pulling up a weed.
He tore the arrow from Penguin's leg, studied his pale face for a moment,
then seized the same leg and slammed him against the ground—
once, twice, a dozen times—until the ice shattered off his body.
Satisfied with his work, the giant handed the limp, unconscious Penguin to a terrified henchman,
and grinned beneath a black mask.
"Bane…" Bruce's voice came low and grim from the monitors.
Thea's eyes narrowed.
She'd expected this.
Where Talia went, Bane was never far behind.
Still, the brute had ruined her perfect finish,
and that did annoy her.
Today, Bane was fully armed:
a towering two-meter frame, bare-chested,
green canisters strapped to his back,
tubes pumping venom directly into his masked mouth.
His voice rumbled like an earthquake.
"Talia," he growled, "this isn't what we agreed on."