The air shifted once more. The fight should have been turning, winding toward exhaustion, but instead, it was darkening. A foul pressure began to pulse from The Ninja's core, visible in the tremble of shadows that now crawled not only around his feet but up his limbs—slinking, clutching, like a living shroud. His chest rose and fell in anticipation, and then one of his eyes flared—a sudden, unnatural crimson. The glow didn't pulse like chi or glint like fire—it burned. Cold, sharp, hungry. And as it spread across his face, the shadows seemed to dig deeper into his skin, blackening the edges of his mask like ink spilled into cloth.
He grinned.
"Master Khan gave me a gift," he whispered. "And I've barely begun to unwrap it."
Then he moved.
Faster than before. Sharper. Like the air parted for him.
His hand reared back—not with his katana, but with a closed fist wreathed in unnatural shadow—and aimed straight for Lorna, who was still clutching the stolen medallion and struggling to rise from her crouch.
The punch came too fast.
But John was already there.
He threw himself forward, interposing his body between Lorna and the strike. The impact landed squarely on his ribs, the same side that had taken the earlier hit. There was no aura to protect him, no mystical defense. Just grit, flesh, and the thin armor of thrifted layers. The force hurled him backwards, and he skidded across the alley floor, coughing blood onto his sleeve.
Lorna cried out, reaching for him, eyes wide with shock.
But before The Ninja could follow through, a voice snapped through the air like thunder on glass.
"You're fighting me, boy."
Bob's silhouette stepped forward, fists clenched, his aura flaring bright white again—not the overwhelming glow from earlier, but focused, tightened into his limbs like coiled lightning. His voice was low, his teeth gritted, but the weight of it stopped The Ninja mid-step.
The Ninja turned, scowling.
And the fight resumed.
They collided again, white and black, tiger and shadow. Danny, seeing the shift, began cutting down the last of the remaining ninja goons one by one. His strikes were precise, merciless. He knew this fight—Bob's fight—couldn't afford another interruption.
Back in the center of the alley, Bob's footwork began to falter. His arms still moved with experience, his strikes still carried weight, but the sharpness dulled. The white aura that had surged like a lion's roar now flickered, sputtered, holding back the worst of the blows but no longer punishing The Ninja's strikes. The longer the fight stretched, the more The Ninja adapted. He no longer attacked with wide arcs or flamboyant footwork. He closed the gap, used the edge of his speed, his precision.
And the arrogance returned.
"You know," The Ninja panted between strikes, "you remind me of Lin Sun. All fire. No teeth."
Bob growled, missing a block and taking a graze across the shoulder.
The Ninja laughed. "He died kneeling, you know. Thought he could protect those bratty students of his. Stayed too long in that pathetic dojo. Said something about honor before I snapped his staff."
Bob's hands trembled.
The Ninja stepped in, pressing the advantage. "You were all the same. You mistook charity for strength. You thought playing father figure would make you invincible. But you got soft. He did. And now—you."
Bob's breath hitched. The aura dimmed.
The Ninja grinned wider. "Do you even remember what it feels like to fight for something other than guilt?"
Bob overreached. The punch missed. The Ninja didn't.
The katana came high, curving downward like a scythe aimed for Bob's throat. It met the white aura—but this time, the aura flickered. Dimmed. Wavered. The edge cut through halfway, slowed but not stopped. Bob's neck jerked backward, skin breaking, blood rising beneath the blade. He stumbled.
Then—
A thunderclap.
The Ninja's head snapped sideways.
A fist, wrapped in black cloth and heavier than vengeance, struck clean across his jaw and sent him hurtling into a stone wall. Bricks cracked. Dust rose. The katana clattered against the pavement, spinning uselessly.
Silence.
Then a figure stepped forward.
Broad-shouldered. Armored in combat-weave cloth. His face half-covered by a dark mask with tiger stripes faded from age. At his chest gleamed a medallion darker than night—blackened metal shaped like a tiger's head. His fists were coiled tight. His stance, low and rooted.
Abe Brown—Black Tiger—lowered his fist, turning toward Bob.
His face cracked into a tired smile.
"It's been a while, brother."
Bob looked up, eyes wide, breath catching in his throat.
He saw the scars. The wear. The years. But it was him.
He reached out—and Abe caught his hand, pulling him upright.
They stood together.
Two sons of the same legacy.