The air in Mount Justice felt thicker now, heavy with the metallic scent of fresh sweat, scorched rubber from constant sneaker friction on the tatami, and the faint ozone wafting from the new ventilation systems that M'gann and Conner had reinstalled the day before. The humiliation of my defeat still burned on my skin—not just the physical pain, which the elemental was already erasing, but that feeling of helplessness that sticks to the soul like hot resin. I stepped back to the edge of the elevated platform, the Manto still sealed around my body, the darkened visor reflecting the cold ceiling lights. My chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, but inside I was boiling.
Dinah Lance—Black Canary—wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, where a thin line of blood had already dried.
Her gaze swept the group like radar, pausing on each of us for a second before landing on the boy bouncing lightly on his heels, eager.
"Robin," she called, voice firm but with an almost affectionate tone hidden at the edges. "Your turn. And this time come with everything you've got. Full suit, gadgets, staff—no holding back."
Dick Grayson—the original Robin, the prodigy boy who grew up in Batman's shadow—gave a short, elegant leap, landing in the center of the tatami with the lightness of someone who had danced on the trapeze since he was five.
He was already in full uniform: the classic red, green, and yellow outfit, but in the updated version Batman had given him in recent months—reinforced fabric with light Kevlar in critical areas, composite ceramic plates on the forearms and chest, boots with anti-slip soles and reinforced toes for heavier kicks. The black domino mask covered the upper half of his face, leaving only his determined mouth and chin visible. The utility belt was fully loaded: compartments for batarangs, smoke grenades, grappling hooks, and the retractable staff already extended in his right hand, spinning lazily in a circle as he warmed up his wrists.
"Ready whenever you are, Canary," he said, the confident smile stretching his lips. His voice still carried the high pitch of adolescence, but it held a maturity that made you forget he was only thirteen.
Dinah nodded, assuming position again—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, arms relaxed at her sides. "No scream. Just technique. Let's see if Batman's training still holds up."
Robin didn't waste time.
He exploded forward like a living projectile. The staff spun in a wide, descending arc—a blend of Filipino eskrima and Japanese bo staff—aiming for Dinah's left clavicle with enough speed to break bone if it landed clean. Dinah leaned her torso back at the last instant, the staff slicing through the air with a sharp hiss, and countered with a straight boxing punch targeting his exposed solar plexus.
Robin rolled to the side—a perfect roll, body tucked, shoulder touching the tatami, legs spinning upward in a capoeira movement that put him back on his feet in less than half a second. He was already attacking again: the staff extended in a lightning-fast thrust like a spear, aiming for her right flank. Dinah deflected with her forearm, the impact ringing like metal on bone, and retaliated with a descending elbow strike from krav maga.
Robin blocked with the staff crossed in front of him, arms trembling from the force, but used the recoil to spin his entire body—a seamless acrobatic transition that landed him behind her in a perfect lateral leap.
He attacked from the back: two batarangs thrown in sequence—one high, targeting the shoulder, the other low, aiming for the Achilles tendon. Dinah spun on her heel, deflecting the high one with her arm and kicking the low one away with the sole of her boot.
The batarang ricocheted off the wall and came back like a boomerang—Robin had already predicted it: he jumped, snatched the batarang out of the air with a mid-air spin, and used it as a secondary weapon, slashing toward her neck in a Filipino kali motion.
Dinah ducked under the strike, rolled forward, and landed a boxing uppercut that cracked against Robin's chin with a dry snap. The boy staggered back, blood trickling from his lower lip, but he smiled—a wild, almost joyful grin. He wiped the blood with the back of his hand and charged again.
Now the choreography intensified.
Robin blended everything: a quick jab-cross from boxing followed by an ascending knee strike from Muay Thai, then a spinning roundhouse kick from taekwondo that forced Dinah to block high. While she defended the high strike, he swept low with the staff—an adapted judo sweep—trying to take her legs out.
Dinah jumped over the sweep, but Robin had anticipated: he spun the staff into a defensive windmill (wushu technique) and landed a thrusting strike to her solar plexus, forcing her back two steps with a grunt.
"Good," Dinah admitted, breathing hard for the first time. "But you're still slow."
Robin didn't reply with words. He leaped—a perfect backflip that took him high—and came down with a descending taekwondo axe kick, heel aimed at her clavicle. Dinah crossed her forearms, blocking, but the impact made her grunt again. While she recovered, Robin drew a smoke grenade from his belt and tossed it at her feet. The gray cloud erupted, swallowing both of them.
I watched, heart in my throat. He's using the environment. He's thinking. Inside the smoke, Robin moved like a ghost: silent steps, low body, staff extended like an antenna.
He attacked from a blind angle—a quick thrust that struck Dinah's ribs. She spun, but he was already gone: a side kick that hit her knee, followed by a boxing hook that grazed her chin.
Dinah burst out of the smoke like a hurricane. She grabbed the staff mid-air, used his momentum against him, and hurled him toward the wall. Robin hit hard, air rushing out of his lungs in a whoosh, but he rolled across the floor and rose in an acrobatic flip—hands on the tatami, legs spinning upward, body inverted. He attacked upside-down: a spinning kick that nearly caught Dinah's face.
She blocked with her forearm, but the impact forced her back. Robin landed on his feet and pressed forward: a brutal sequence of silat—low, serpentine, lightning-fast strikes—mixed with wing chun. Short punches, elbows, knees. Dinah deflected, redirected, but he grazed her: an elbow to the side, a knee to the thigh, a punch to the shoulder. Every strike was calculated, economical, lethal.
Dinah finally broke the rhythm. She feigned a retreat, let Robin overcommit, and countered with a descending elbow that slammed into his shoulder. The boy grunted, his right arm going limp. She seized the opening: grabbed his wrist, spun her body in a perfect aikido throw, and slammed him into the tatami. Before he could roll away, she dropped on top of him—knee on his chest, arm locked in a perfect keylock.
"Yield," she said, panting, sweat dripping down her face.
Robin laughed, even pinned. "Yield." He tapped the mat three times.
Dinah released him. Robin rose slowly, rubbing his arm, blood still trickling from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes shining with satisfaction. "Good fight, Canary. You're still the best."
She gave him a light pat on the shoulder—almost maternal. "You made me sweat, kid. Batman would be proud."
As Robin limped slightly off the tatami, I exchanged a glance with Wally. The redhead was still massaging his own arm, face red with shame. The two of us—me with pyrokinesis and high-tech gear, him with super-speed—had been crushed in minutes. Robin, with no powers beyond technique and gadgets, had lasted nearly five full minutes, landed real hits, made Dinah bleed and sweat. He had humiliated us without meaning to—just by existing.
Dinah wiped the blood from her own lip and turned to the group.
"Artemis," she called, voice hoarse from exertion. "Your turn. Come with everything."
Artemis stepped forward, the acidic smile already on her lips. Her emerald uniform—the one I had created—hugged her body like a second skin: adaptive fabric that changed color with a touch, reinforced with alchemical Kevlar and transmuted titanium. She drew the compound bow from her back in one fluid motion, nocking a training arrow.
"Ready," she said simply.
Dinah raised an eyebrow. "Bow in close combat? Let's see how long you last before you have to drop it."
Artemis didn't answer with words. She drew the string to her ear and fired—a blunt training arrow that sliced through the air like lightning, aimed at the center of Dinah's chest. The blonde moved: a minimal lateral step, body tilted, and the arrow embedded itself in the tatami behind her with a dry thunk. Artemis already had another nocked—double shot, one high, one low. Dinah rolled under the high one, leaped over the low one, and closed the distance in two long strides.
Artemis tossed the bow aside—the motion so natural it looked rehearsed—and dropped into a guard: feet wide, knees bent, arms raised in a hybrid stance blending boxing and silat. Her eyes burned with cold, lethal intensity. I knew why. Daughter of Sportsmaster. Sister of Cheshire. Trained from the moment she could walk to kill, not to win trophies. She would never say it out loud—it was the secret she carried like a knife hidden in her back—but her body spoke for her.
The fight began.
Artemis attacked like a storm: quick boxing jab followed by a spinning Muay Thai elbow that Dinah blocked with her forearm. As Dinah retreated, Artemis swept low with a capoeira rasteira—Dinah jumped, but Artemis had anticipated: she spun her body and landed a mid-level kick to the exposed ribs, the impact echoing like a wet slap. Dinah grunted, stepping back.
Artemis pressed: Muay Thai clinch, short, brutal knees to Dinah's midsection—one, two, three. Dinah broke the clinch with an aikido spin, throwing Artemis to the side. The girl rolled across the tatami and rose in a serpentine silat motion—low body, flowing arms—and attacked with a barrage of low strikes: liver punch, kidney elbow, knee to the thigh. Dinah blocked, deflected, but each landed blow forced air out of her lungs in a sharp exhale.
I watched, mesmerized. She's better than Robin. Just a little, but yes. The finesse was absurd: every movement calculated to kill if it were real. A high taekwondo kick that forced Dinah to defend high, opening space for a boxing hook that struck her flank. Dinah staggered, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, but countered with a descending elbow that opened a cut on Artemis's cheek. Blood ran, but the girl didn't even flinch—she spun, used the momentum for a side kick that Dinah blocked with crossed arms, the impact booming like thunder.
Artemis was a perfect fusion of styles: boxing gave power to her punches, Muay Thai gave brutality to her knees and elbows, silat gave serpentine fluidity, capoeira gave unpredictable acrobatics. She leaped, rolled, spun—never stopping. Dinah was forced to react constantly, and it took its toll.
But the end came, as it always did.
Dinah feigned a retreat, let Artemis overcommit, and countered with a descending elbow that slammed into her shoulder. Artemis grunted, her right arm going limp. Dinah seized the opening: grabbed the wrist, spun her body in a perfect judo throw, and slammed Artemis into the tatami. Before she could roll away, Dinah dropped on top—knee on her chest, arm locked in a lethal armbar.
"Yield," Dinah said, panting, sweat streaming down her face.
Artemis laughed—a hoarse, almost feral sound. "Yield."
Dinah released her. Artemis rose slowly, wiping the blood from her cheek with the back of her hand. "Good fight, Canary. You're still the best."
Dinah gave her a light pat on the shoulder. "You made me work for it, girl. Whoever trained you… did a damn good job."
Artemis winked at me as she stepped off the tatami, a conspiratorial smile on her blood-smeared lips. I returned it, feeling something warm grow in my chest—pride, admiration, and something far more dangerous.
The tatami was marked with sweat, blood, and body imprints. Two fights. Two displays of mastery. And me? I had been the appetizer.
Dinah wiped her face with the sleeve of her jacket and looked at the group.
"Next," she said, voice hoarse but firm. "M'gann. Conner. Let's see what you do when you can't rely on powers alone."
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the Manto still sealed. The elemental pulsed in my chest like a second heart.
I'll get there, I thought, watching Robin and Artemis—the two humans who had lasted longer, who had made Dinah sweat.
I'll get there… and I'll surpass them.
The training was only just beginning.
Dinah wiped the sweat from her face with the sleeve of her jacket, taking a deep breath to catch her breath. Her gaze, still sharp as a blade, swept across the group once more, pausing on the tall, muscular boy leaning against the wall, arms crossed and expression sullen.
"Conner," she called, voice hoarse but firm. "Your turn. Let's see what you can do without relying solely on brute force."
Conner Kent—Superboy—uncrossed his arms slowly, his cold blue eyes fixed on her. He wore the simple outfit: black T-shirt with the Superman emblem in red and yellow, reinforced jeans, and heavy boots. At sixteen, he already looked like a living fortress—1.85 meters of cloned Kryptonian muscle, invulnerable skin, strength capable of bending steel like paper. He snorted, taking a step forward but stopping at the edge of the tatami.
"What's the point of this?" he grumbled, voice deep and irritated. "One punch from me kills anyone. Why learn this technique crap? I'm stronger than you, stronger than everyone here. This is a waste of time."
Dinah raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. Her tone was calm but carried unmistakable authority. "Because brute force doesn't win every battle, kid. You think you can punch a virus? Or a telepath who reads your mind before you blink? Strength is a tool, not the solution. And if you think you're invincible, step up and prove it. No flight, no heat vision—just hands and brain. Or are you chickening out?"
Conner growled low, the muscles in his shoulders tensing like steel cables. He stepped onto the tatami with enough force to make the mat groan, thin cracks spiderwebbing beneath his boots. "Fine. Let's end this quick."
He didn't wait for a signal. He charged like a tank—steps heavy but fast, right fist flying in a straight punch that could demolish a concrete wall. The displaced air from the blow whipped Dinah's hair. She didn't try to block—it would be suicide. Instead, she tilted her body sideways at the last possible instant, the fist passing centimeters from her face, the vacuum of the swing tugging at her jacket. With his momentum exposed, she pivoted her hips and landed a precise elbow strike to the solar plexus—not with brute force, but with razor-sharp technique, channeling the impact into the nerve cluster.
Conner grunted—the blow barely scratched his invulnerable skin, but the nerve strike made his diaphragm seize, forcing a fraction of a second's hesitation in his breathing. He ignored it and spun, left arm swinging in a wide hook that could decapitate a normal man. Dinah ducked under the arc, feeling the wind tear past her head, and countered with a low kick to the inside of his knee—not to break, but to unbalance. The impact rang like hammer on metal; Conner staggered a single step, his leg buckling for a heartbeat.
"That's it?" he mocked, recovering balance instantly. His Kryptonian senses—enhanced vision, hearing that could pick up heartbeats—tracked every micro-movement she made: sweat trickling down her neck, heart racing, muscles contracting for the next strike. He attacked again: a barrage of punches—straight, hook, uppercut—each one carrying the force to crush steel. The air crackled with speed, the blows generating shockwaves that made the tatami shudder.
Dinah danced between them—minimal lateral steps, torso leans that let the fists pass within millimeters. She redirected: a straight punch, she deflected with the outer forearm, using his momentum to spin and drive a knee into his floating rib. Conner felt it—not real pain, but an annoyance that made him grunt. He was a moving mountain, but she was the wind: always slipping away, always countering weak points. An uppercut from him rose; she arched her head back, the fist grazing her chin, and retaliated with a palm-heel strike to the sternum—krav maga precision, targeting vital points. Conner coughed, the impact reverberating through his invulnerable chest like a cracked bell.
"You're slow," he taunted, voice rough with frustration. He accelerated—super-strength fueling superhuman speed—and tried to grab her: arms like tree trunks closing in a crushing bear hug. Dinah spun under the grab, using aikido to redirect the arm, turning his own force against him. Conner stumbled forward, off-balance, and she hammered a descending elbow into his kidney—the blow echoed, but he barely felt it. Instead of retreating, he spun in place and fired a backfist that could fell a tree. Dinah blocked with crossed forearms—the impact threw her back two meters, arms burning as if struck by a pneumatic hammer.
She didn't stop. "Strength without focus is just noise," she said, voice low but cutting. Conner snarled and attacked with renewed fury: a sequence of punches that made the air crack like thunder—straight, hook, low straight. Each could pulverize concrete. Dinah redirected: deflecting the first with her forearm, spinning to the side of the second, ducking under the third. In counter, she landed a side kick to the knee—his bone didn't even tremble, but the unbalance made him lean. She seized it: rising knee to the abdomen, followed by a hook to the chin. Conner spat blood—not much, but enough to anger him.
"You think that hurts?" he roared, eyes blazing. He was a titan—strength to lift cars, skin that deflected bullets, senses that caught the slightest tremor in the air. He heard her racing heartbeat, saw sweat fly in slow motion. He attacked low: leg sweep with force enough to rip the tatami from the floor. Dinah jumped, but he anticipated with enhanced vision—open hand reaching to grab her ankle mid-air. She twisted her body in mid-leap, escaping by centimeters, and came down with a descending kick to his shoulder. The impact rang like a bell—Conner felt it, a rare tingle on his invulnerable skin.
The fight dragged on—Dinah redirected, wearing him down inch by inch, but Conner was tireless. He cornered her against the tatami's edge: descending punch like a forge hammer. She dodged, but the fist struck the floor—the tatami cracked, shards flying. Dinah rolled aside, landing a kick to his ribs. He laughed—the deep, mocking sound—and tried to stomp her. She rolled again, came up, and countered with a krav maga sequence: palm to the nose, elbow to the throat, knee to the solar plexus. Each strike landed, but Conner barely blinked—his Kryptonian durability turned the impacts into annoyances, not debilitations.
"You're tough," he admitted, but with contempt. "But I'm stronger." He advanced, arms open for a crushing grab. Dinah tried to redirect—seized the arm, pivoted her hip—but his strength was overwhelming. The redirection failed for the first time; he lifted her off the ground like a doll, muscles bulging with minimal effort.
That was when she decided to end it.
Dinah opened her mouth—and unleashed the Canary Cry.
The sound wasn't a shout; it was a focused sonic wave, a cone of vibration that struck Conner full in the face. His Kryptonian senses—hearing that could catch whispers from miles away—were overloaded. The cry echoed in his skull like a thousand shattered bells, disorienting him: vision blurred, balance destroyed, ears ringing like static. He dropped Dinah, staggering back, hands clamping over his ears, face twisted in agony.
Dinah didn't waste the moment: she kicked the back of his knee, dropping him to his knees, and applied a sleeper hold—arm locked around his throat, precise pressure on the carotids. Conner fought—strength enough to break free—but the disorientation made him slow, uncoordinated. He grunted, tried to rise, but the cry still rang in his head. Dinah tightened, cutting off blood flow.
"Yield," she said, voice low in his ear.
Conner growled, but tapped the tatami twice—reluctant submission.
Dinah released, and he rose slowly, eyes bloodshot, hands still trembling. "You cheated," he muttered, sullen, turning his back and walking off the tatami without looking at anyone.
Dinah watched him go, then turned to the group. "Conner is strong—stronger than most. But strength without strategy is predictable. He knew about my cry, but came straight at me. Villains don't announce their powers; you need to plan, adapt. Redirect force, exploit sensory weaknesses. Against supers, use the environment, distractions. He could have won if he'd thought—like I did."
The group nodded in silence. I thought: He questioned it, and she proved the point. Strength isn't everything.
Dinah took a deep breath. "M'gann. Your turn. No holding back—use everything, but control it."
M'gann M'orzz—Miss Martian—floated onto the tatami, expression hesitant. Her green skin glowed under the lights, red hair cascading like a waterfall. She wore the Martian suit: tight top, leggings that hugged long legs, short cape. At 16 years old (Earth years), she was potentially the strongest in the room: telepathy, telekinesis, intangibility (still unstable), shape-shifting, enhanced strength. She's the most powerful person here, I thought. She could end this in seconds if she wanted.
But she held back. "I… don't want to hurt you," she said, voice soft, almost a telepathic whisper echoing in everyone's minds.
Dinah smiled, but it was a sharp smile. "Villains won't ask permission, M'gann. Come at me with everything, or lose."
M'gann nodded reluctantly and began slowly: she shape-shifted—body growing, muscles swelling into a larger, stronger version of herself, like a two-meter green Amazon. She attacked: a straight punch, force enough to crush metal. Dinah dodged, rolled, and countered with a knee to the abdomen—M'gann grunted, but the shape absorbed the blow.
She tried invisibility: body vanishing into the air, only a faint shimmer outlining her. I heard the air move—she circled Dinah, trying to flank her. Dinah closed her eyes, listening: subtle wind, controlled breathing. When M'gann struck—an invisible kick aimed at her back—Dinah spun and blocked, forearm meeting invisible leg. "I hear you," she said. "Invisibility doesn't hide sound, scent, air displacement."
M'gann reappeared, frustrated, and shape-shifted again: arms extending like tentacles, trying to wrap Dinah in a crushing embrace. Dinah ducked under one tentacle, rolled under another, and landed an uppercut to the exposed chin—M'gann staggered, shape trembling.
She didn't use telekinesis—fear of hurling Dinah into the wall. No telepathy to confuse. Only shape and brute force. Dinah exploited: redirecting tentacles, using momentum for throws, striking vital points. M'gann lost ground, holding back.
The end came quickly: M'gann attempted a massive downward strike; Dinah redirected, spun, and pinned her to the ground with an armbar—leg across the chest, arm twisted. M'gann yielded with a groan.
Dinah released, but didn't smile. "You held back. Telekinesis? Telepathy? Intangibility? Nothing. Why?"
M'gann returned to normal form, eyes downcast. "I… didn't want to hurt you."
Dinah helped her up, voice stern. "Villains won't have mercy, M'gann. They'll break you, use you, destroy you. If you don't come with everything in training, you'll never master your powers. Next time, no mercy—or there will be consequences. Understood?"
M'gann nodded, ashamed.
Dinah turned to the group. "Kaldur. Last one."
Kaldur'ahm—Aqualad—stepped onto the tatami with military discipline: Atlantean armor gleaming green and gold, the water bearers (Atlantean tattoos on his arms) glowing faintly, expression calm. He was controlled power: hydrokinesis, enhanced strength, speed in water (but here it was dry). "I am ready."
The fight was a masterclass: Kaldur attacked with precision—conjuring water from the cave's humid air to form razor-sharp whips, followed by savate kicks. Dinah dodged, but he manipulated the water to create shapes: hardened water blades cutting through the air in naginata arcs, forcing her to retreat. He was technical: blending Atlantean arts with surface-world training, senses sharp enough to catch vibrations. He landed a water whip across her arm, leaving a welt.
Dinah redirected: deflecting the water blades, using momentum for counterstrikes. He lasted—strength made him resist blows that would drop humans. But she found the gap: dodged a whip, closed distance, and landed a punch to the solar plexus, followed by an armbar that took him down.
"Yield."
Kaldur yielded, respectful. "Well fought."
Dinah explained: "Against powers, exploit weaknesses—hydrokinesis requires focus; distract. Without powers, exploit imbalances. You learned today."
Final ranking: Me last, Wally second-to-last, M'gann, Conner, Kaldur, Robin, Artemis. The order burned—pure motivation.
Advance chapters: patreon.com/cw/pararaio