The rubble settled around them. Hikaru pulled himself to his feet, blood trickling from a cut above his eyebrow. His ribs screamed with each breath—Deathstroke had landed more hits than he'd anticipated. The sword Lucifer forged still hummed in his grip, blade intact but smeared with blood. His own and Slade's.
Terra lay motionless twenty feet away, half-buried in concrete dust.
"Terra!" Hikaru started toward her, but Deathstroke emerged from the shadows between shipping containers, sword already drawn.
"Touching," Slade said. His armor bore scorch marks and deep gouges. Blood seeped from a wound on his shoulder, but he moved without hesitation. "My failed apprentice and the fool who corrupted her."
Terra groaned, pushing herself upright. Dust cascaded from her hair as she met Slade's gaze with something that looked like hatred. "He didn't corrupt me." Her voice came out hoarse but steady. "He saved me."
"And now we're finishing this." Hikaru raised his blade, light bleeding along its edge. Golden-red flames flickered to life around his free hand.
Slade's visible eye narrowed behind his mask. He shifted his stance, calculating. "You think you've grown stronger? That playing hero with children makes you my equal?"
"I'm not your equal." Hikaru's wings spread wide, feathers catching the distant glow of fires. Flames crawled up his arm, wreathing his sword in divine heat. "I'm better."
He moved.
Light-speed acceleration carried him across the battlefield in an instant. His blade swept toward Slade's unprotected side—a killing blow if it connected. But Deathstroke's sword met his with a shriek of metal, prompting Hikaru to twist mid-strike, reforming a dagger in his left hand that slashed from the opposite angle.
Slade blocked one side, and dodged the other. Kicked Hikaru in the ribs hard enough to crack something.
Hikaru skidded backward, flames erupting from his landing point in a defensive ring. He reformed his dagger and attacked again. Faster this time. He combined light-speed movement with physical strikes, appearing behind Slade and slashing downward while fire traced his path. The promethium blade caught his attack, redirected it, and Slade's fist caught him in the jaw.
Hikaru stumbled, barely raising his sword in time to block the follow-up strike. The impact drove him to one knee.
"You're strong," Slade admitted, sidestepping a gout of flame that erupted where he'd stood a moment before. "But strength without discipline is just violence."
Hikaru spat blood. "Is that all you've got?"
Slade smiled beneath his mask. "I'm learning."
The next exchange came faster. Hikaru unleashed everything—light constructs forming weapons that shifted mid-swing, photon blasts fired between sword strikes, fire spreading across the battlefield in patterns only he could walk through safely. He fought with the fury of someone who'd watched his team nearly die tonight.
And for the first few moments, it worked.
His blade caught Slade across the chest, tearing through armor. A photon blast sent the mercenary crashing into a container. Hikaru pressed the advantage, combining strength and speed and divine power into a relentless assault that forced Deathstroke onto the defensive. Flames roared to life wherever Slade attempted to retreat, herding him into kill zones.
"How do you like it?" Hikaru taunted, his blade scoring another hit across Slade's thigh. Blood flowed freely now, staining the ground. "Not so confident now?"
Slade laughed.
The sound froze Hikaru mid-strike. Because Deathstroke didn't sound worried. He sounded amused.
"There," Slade said. "That pattern. Three slash sequence, light-speed dodge, photon blast." He moved suddenly, his sword a blur. "Predictable."
The promethium blade caught Hikaru in the ribs just as he materialized from light form. Pain exploded through his torso—not deep enough to kill, but enough to steal his breath. Hikaru tried to counter but Slade was already there, anticipating his movement, driving an elbow into his solar plexus.
Hikaru crashed to the ground, gasping. The flames around them died.
"You have a fatal flaw," Slade continued, circling him like a predator. "Half a second where you have to solidify before you attack. That's all I need."
"How are you—?" Hikaru reformed his blade, staggered upright. Fire reignited in his freehand.
"I've fought people stronger than you, boy." Slade's voice carried something that might have been respect. "You're powerful. But predictable."
He attacked again.
This time, Hikaru couldn't keep up. Slade's blade seemed to know where he'd appear before he materialized, catching him mid-transformation twice in rapid succession. Blood ran down Hikaru's side. His ribs screamed. Every breath tasted like copper. The flames surrounding them responded to his desperation, burning hotter but less controlled.
Deathstroke landed a kick that sent him sprawling. Hikaru's sword skittered away across the concrete, leaving a trail of dying embers.
"You rely too much on speed," Slade said, advancing slowly through the scattered fires. "On overwhelming force. But this isn't a sparring match with teammates who pull their punches." He raised his blade. "This is what real combat looks like."
Hikaru's hand closed around rubble. He hurled it at Slade's face—in pure desperation. The mercenary knocked it aside easily, but it bought Hikaru enough time to roll sideways and send a light thread to recall his blade to his hand. Flames erupted where his palm struck concrete.
He needed to adapt. Now.
"Your turn to adapt, old man," Hikaru growled.
He stopped relying on light-speed. The transformation made him predictable, gave Slade that half-second window to exploit. Instead, Hikaru fought grounded—using his enhanced strength and durability, mixing blade work with hand-to-hand combat he had learned from his father, from Donna, from Starfire, everyone he'd ever fought with. The flames became tactical rather than overwhelming, creating barriers that channeled Slade's movement without telegraphing his own attacks.
When Slade expected a light-form dodge, Hikaru blocked instead. When the mercenary anticipated a photon blast, Hikaru kicked debris into his face and followed with a sword strike wreathed in controlled fire that forced Slade to respect the blade's reach. He used the environment—containers for cover, rubble for projectiles, shadows to mask his movements, flames to control space without burning himself out.
The fight became a chess match instead of a power display.
Slade struck high; Hikaru ducked and swept his legs. The mercenary recovered instantly, but Hikaru was already moving, his blade seeking gaps in armor with surgical precision while fire traced defensive patterns. Slade blocked, countered, and Hikaru caught the strike on his sword's crossguard, twisted, and drove his knee into Slade's wounded shoulder. A burst of flame erupted from the contact point, searing through damaged armor.
Fresh blood flowed. Slade's expression tightened with what might have been pain.
"Better," the mercenary admitted, batting away embers. "But still not enough."
They traded blows in silence after that. Sword against sword, blood and sweat mixing with concrete dust. Hikaru felt his stamina draining, each movement costing more than the last. The flames around them burned lower now, fed by willpower as much as divine heritage. But Slade was slowing too his regeneration couldn't keep pace with accumulated damage and burns.
The question became: who would break first?