The air between them cracked like a wire pulled too tight. Bob stepped forward into the alley's bruised moonlight, his breath fogging lightly from the cold and the toll of combat. His mask hung slightly askew, streaked with sweat and dust, but his eyes were sharp behind it—no longer clouded by age or pain, but lit by something ancestral. The roar of the medallion still echoed faintly within him, a hum behind his ribcage that wasn't fear or adrenaline. It was purpose. It was memory. It was the tiger waking. Across from him, The Ninja stood with his arms behind his back, posture casual, head tilted like he was examining a curious bug. The orange medallion at his neck pulsed faintly, brighter than before, as if stirred by proximity to its counterpart. Bob didn't speak. He didn't need to. He stepped in with a precise, coiled punch—Tiger Claw style, clean, fast, low to high, aimed at the side of The Ninja's head.
But The Ninja smiled—and with a flick of his foot, pivoted and sidestepped, letting the strike pass harmlessly by as if Bob were swatting at ghosts.
"My, my," The Ninja said smoothly, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder, "you are still slower than I imagined. And here I thought wearing that ancient necklace might have made you someone worth respecting." He circled slowly, each step exaggerated for mockery. "But I see now that the White Tiger favors nostalgia over strength."
Bob didn't flinch. He rolled his shoulder and reset his stance, eyeing The Ninja's center.
"You always this talkative?" he asked.
The Ninja grinned. "Only when the prey pretends to be predator."
Then he struck.
His movements were fast—no, faster than fast. He came in with three strikes to the torso, a spinning heel toward Bob's jaw, and a low sweep aimed to take his legs, but Bob blocked each with deliberate deflections, using the medallion's protective aura like a shield of instinct. The strikes connected with a shimmer of white energy, flashing around his body in bursts like ripples in water. The force of each blow stung, but it didn't break through.
The Ninja leapt back, eyes gleaming. "Ahh… I see. The medallion isn't just decorative. It's active. Good. I like a challenge." He reached over his shoulder then and, in a slow, theatrical motion, unsheathed a long, curved blade—a black katana, its edge serrated with faint red grooves, its metal almost absorbing the light instead of reflecting it.
Bob's eyes narrowed. "Cute."
"This," The Ninja said, voice deepening, "is not for show." He spun the katana once in his hand. "Master Khan granted me a glimpse of true power—power far beyond fists, beyond discipline, beyond mortal limitation. He showed me how to carve my will into shadow itself."
He raised the katana, and the shadows around him seemed to respond—stretching, lengthening, curving slightly toward the blade like smoke drawn to a flame. The Ninja walked forward slowly, blade resting lazily across his shoulders. "You see, old man, while you were clinging to memories of glory and wasting the tiger's gift teaching underachievers how to punch, I trained beneath a master who revealed the world as it truly is—fluid, cruel, beautiful."
He slashed playfully toward Bob—nothing aimed to connect, just enough to test.
Bob stood his ground. The blade passed within an inch of his chest, but the white aura of the medallion flared again, turning the attack like it was made of air.
The Ninja paused, impressed despite himself. "Hmmm. Yes. It's true, then. The Tiger Medallions are alive." He stepped back, now pacing as he spoke. "Three were forged in the hidden city, the same place your golden friend hails from." He nodded toward where Danny was still fighting in the distance. "K'un-Lun, or whatever name they prefer. Ancient magic and philosophy mixed into iron and devotion. Each medallion—White, Black, and Orange—holds a facet of the Tiger Spirit, remnants of a time when martial arts weren't styles, but weapons of gods."
Bob kept his hands up but couldn't help but listen. The lore was real. The power in the medallion pulsed like a heartbeat against his chest. He had never known where it came from—only that Master Kee guarded them like treasures.
The Ninja leaned against the katana like it was a walking stick. "The three together, legend says, open a gate. Not to a place—but to potential. The bearer of all three doesn't become a master. He becomes the Tiger." His eyes sparkled. "You don't even know what you wear, do you? That thing around your neck—it's not a medal. It's a key. And you? You wear it like a keepsake. You can't even unlock a tenth of its potential." He sneered. "You're squandering it."
Bob's jaw tightened. "It's not meant for conquest."
The Ninja scoffed. "Oh, so noble. That's why your master died clutching them, right? So you could play shop clerk in obscurity?" He raised the katana again. "You think sentiment protects you? You think love will keep your people safe? No, Diamond. Only power. And Khan understands that. He doesn't run from what must be done."
Bob's hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from rage. Not at The Ninja's words, but at the part of them that rang too true. He had buried his legacy under silence. Had let the world move on while he aged into a relic.
And yet—here he stood.
Still breathing.
Still fighting.
He brought his fists together, the white aura pulsing larger now, surrounding him with a tiger-shaped shimmer that growled into the air like a specter of defiance.
"I might not unlock everything," he said low. "But I don't need to." He stepped forward. "Because tonight, this is enough."
The Ninja smiled again, but this time it was tighter. "Then let's see what 'enough' looks like."