Smoke twisted in the air like burnt silk, thick and bitter, curling around fractured walls and broken glass. The air reeked of exhaustion and magic. From the ground where they had fallen, the group slowly gathered their breath, battered and bruised, but alive. The corrupted Ninja stood in the center of it all, shoulders hunched, shadow seeping from every pore, his form bloated with absorbed gas, the blackened rift pulsing behind him. He had grown taller—unnaturally elongated, his fingers twitching with each beat of dark energy. His breathing was no longer ragged; it was calm. Purposeful.
He was changing.
But they had one breath left.
Danny stood, his chest rising and falling, watching the crack grow wider with every second. The Ninja was a problem, yes—but that tear in reality? That was worse. He'd seen this kind of power before. Not firsthand, but in the stories passed from his master, Lei Kung the Thunderer—one of the few men to ever fight Master Khan and survive.
And Danny knew what the shadows could do if they poured through unchecked.
With no hesitation, he ran.
Not toward The Ninja, but toward the crack itself.
As his feet left the ground in a burst of gold-infused speed, he shouted back without looking, "LEAVE THE RIFT TO ME! JUST HOLD HIM BACK!"
His voice was a whip of command. No questions. No time.
Midair, he extended his Iron Fist, now pulsing bright gold, and dove directly into the blackened seam. As his body made contact with the rift, the light from his hand surged, sending a shockwave across the area. The crack shrieked, resisting, but Danny's power clamped down like a seal. He braced himself, arms wide, glowing brighter by the second, his face tight with focus.
Back below, the others stared.
Lorna exhaled hard, finally standing on her own. Sweat glistened on her brow, but her posture had steadied. The Orange Tiger Medallion pulsed against her palm, glowing faintly like an ember trying to catch. She looked toward John, still crouched beside her, and extended the medallion wordlessly.
He blinked. "What are you—"
"It responds to you," she said. "It did before. When I yanked it. When I held it. I can feel it—it's not meant for me."
He hesitated. She shoved it into his hand.
Bob coughed, pushing himself up on one knee. His face was pale. His hair stuck to his forehead, soaked with sweat. He looked at John, chest rising with the kind of breath you take when there might not be another.
"You're not ready," Bob said. "But we weren't either."
John opened his mouth, but Bob cut him off.
"You got something in you, kid. You fight when you shouldn't. You stand up when you should fall. You didn't run when you had every reason to."
He reached up to his own neck, fingers brushing against the warm White Tiger Medallion. With a trembling hand, he pulled the chain free and laid it over the orange one already resting in John's palm.
"That makes two," Bob said.
Abe, sitting now with his back against the wall, his breathing shallow, looked up.
"I owe you an apology," he muttered.
John turned, confused.
"I'm the one who clipped you in the ribs," Abe said. "When this whole thing started. I saw those goons near my block—near my house—and something in me snapped. Old reflex. I didn't see you for who you were."
John blinked, remembering the pain, but said nothing.
Abe chuckled bitterly. "And now you're the one protecting Hobbie. I've been watching. You didn't know. Just an old man walking by Avalon now and then. Never said a word."
He sighed.
"But I saw it. I saw how that shop—your shop—gave my son a second chance. That's more than I ever did."
He reached up, unfastening his own medallion—the Black Tiger. He held it in his palm for a long moment before offering it to John.
"This doesn't make up for it," Abe said. "But it's all I have left to give."
John didn't move.
Lorna nudged him gently. "Take it."
And he did.
The three medallions clinked together, their pulses syncing. Not louder. Not brighter. But deeper. Steadier. Like three hearts finding the same rhythm. John looked down at them, cradled in his hands.
And felt their weight.
Not just the weight of magic.
The weight of expectation.
Of trust.
Behind him, Bob and Abe sat side by side. Both men hunched, aged beyond their years. Their bodies broken, their chests heaving. The medallions no longer on their chests.
But their eyes never clearer.
They were passing the torch.
And they did so gladly.
Ahead, The Ninja—no longer truly a man—let out a howl. His arms stretched unnaturally, his eyes both crimson now, his voice layered with something not of this world. He saw John.
He laughed.
"A new little tiger," he hissed. "Good. I was getting bored."
And he stepped forward.