I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my gloved hand, feeling the sting of salt in my eyes as I circled the mat. Three days. It had been three days since that initial gathering in the cavernous heart of Mount Justice, where we'd all sized each other up like wary animals in a new pack. The air down here still carried that same dry, metallic tang, laced with the faint ozone hum of old generators kicking to life under M'gann's telekinetic tweaks. The emergency red lights had been supplemented with brighter LEDs she'd rigged up, casting a harsh, clinical glow over the training room—a vast underground gym that felt like a forgotten coliseum, with its worn tatami mats scarred from years of impacts, heavy punching bags swaying on rusted chains like pendulums of doom, and walls pockmarked with craters from super-strength punches and scorch marks from energy blasts long past. The humidity clung to my skin, mixing with my sweat to make every movement feel heavier, more deliberate.
I was dressed for action, but nothing fancy—no Manto suit today. Just a simple black tank top that hugged my torso, exposing the corded muscles in my arms that I'd built through relentless training back in my basement bunker. The fabric was soaked through, clinging uncomfortably, but it let me move freely. Loose gray training pants swished with each step, lightweight and breathable, and my hands were wrapped in black training gloves, the kind with open fingers for grip but padded knuckles to soften the blows. At 15, I wasn't a giant—1.68 meters of compact, hard-earned muscle—but I felt solid, enhanced by the fire elemental simmering in my core, boosting my strength and recovery just enough to push me beyond normal human limits. Or so I thought.
Across from me, Dick Grayson—Robin—bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, his 13-year-old frame a whirlwind of controlled energy. He was even shorter than me by a hair, but that didn't matter; the kid moved like liquid shadow, his simple training gear—a red tank top, black shorts, and bare feet—doing nothing to hide the wiry, acrobatic build forged in Gotham's unforgiving nights. No mask today, just his sharp blue eyes locked on mine, a cocky grin playing on his lips. He'd volunteered for this sparring session two days ago, during one of our group meals in the makeshift kitchen. "Let's see what you've got, Erick," he'd said with that easy confidence. "Batman taught me to scout talent. Show me your moves." I'd agreed, figuring it was a good way to integrate, to prove I belonged among these powerhouses. Now, as we traded blows, I was regretting not asking for more details.
We'd been at it for what felt like an eternity—maybe 20 minutes, but each second dragged like an hour under the weight of exertion. The rest of the team ringed the mat, watching with varying degrees of interest. Conner—Superboy—leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his massive chest, his brooding scowl fixed on us like we were an annoying distraction. At 1.85 meters, he towered over everyone, his black T-shirt straining against his cloned Kryptonian physique. He hadn't said much since the intro, just grunts and nods, but I could feel his eyes judging every missed swing. Next to him, Artemis Crock stood with her arms folded, that perpetual sarcastic smirk on her lips. At 1.75 meters, she cut an imposing figure in her casual training gear—a green tank and cargo pants—her blonde ponytail swaying as she shifted weight. Our eyes met briefly, and I caught a flicker of something—amusement? Concern? She'd been trading barbs with Wally non-stop these past days, her acidity a sharp contrast to M'gann's warmth, but with me, it was more... probing, like she was sizing up a potential ally. Or rival.
The others were scattered around: M'gann hovering a foot off the ground, her green skin glowing faintly as she clapped encouragingly, her red hair bouncing with excitement. Kaldur'Ahm—Aqualad—stood nearby, his Atlantean armor traded for simple workout clothes, his calm demeanor a steady anchor. Wally—Kid Flash—paced restlessly, his yellow-and-red uniform a blur even when he wasn't speeding, munching on one of M'gann's cookies like it was fuel for his endless energy. They'd all been training in shifts these days—running drills, testing powers, sharing stories—but this spar was the main event right now, a chance to gauge the new guy's baseline.
And damn, was it humbling.
Robin lunged first this time, a feint to my left that I barely dodged, my elemental-enhanced reflexes kicking in just enough to twist my body out of the way. I countered with a Muay Thai knee strike, aiming for his midsection, but he was already gone—slipping under my guard like smoke, his smaller frame a advantage in close quarters. A sharp jab connected with my ribs, not full force, but enough to send a jolt of pain through my side. I grunted, pivoting to face him, my breath coming in ragged bursts. My base was solid—I'd earned black belts in taekwondo, honed clinches in Muay Thai, sharpened punches in boxing, and mastered throws in judo. Back home, I'd dominated tournaments, my body a weapon forged in isolation. But Robin? He was on another level entirely.
It hit me then, as I threw a combination—jab, cross, hook—that he evaded with effortless flips, like we were in a circus ring instead of a fight. Batman had trained him. The Dark Knight, master of over a hundred martial arts—known styles like karate, krav maga, and capoeira, blended with obscure, forgotten disciplines from hidden dojos around the world. Techniques passed down from ninjas, assassins, and warriors who'd faced gods and monsters. Robin wasn't just skilled; he was a symphony of lethality, every move precise, economical, deadly. He embodied what made Batman and his proteges so special: they were peak human, verging on superhuman, in mortal bodies. No powers, just relentless perfection. I'd landed zero clean hits. Zip. Nada. Every strike I threw, he anticipated, countered, or simply wasn't there for. Meanwhile, he'd tagged me a dozen times—light taps that could have been knockout blows if he wanted. And he wasn't even using his gear—no batarangs, no cape glides, just pure hand-to-hand.
I charged again, trying to close the distance for a judo clinch. My arms shot out to grab his shoulders, but Robin vaulted over me in a flawless somersault, his foot whipping around to clip the side of my head. Stars exploded in my vision, the impact ringing through my skull like a bell. I stumbled, catching myself on one knee, the tatami mat slick with our sweat. The elemental flared inside me, a surge of heat that dulled the pain, accelerating my recovery—but it wasn't enough. Not against this. "Come on, Erick!" M'gann cheered from the sidelines, her voice bright and encouraging, fists pumping in the air. "You've got this! Show him that fire!" Beside her, Kaldur nodded solemnly, his deep voice adding, "Stay focused. Use your strength—adapt!" They were rooting for me, their words a lifeline in the humiliation, trying to motivate without pity. But Wally? Oh, he was having a field day. "Go, Robin! Take him down—show the newbie how Gotham rolls!" His laughter was sharp, almost mocking, as he zipped around the edge of the mat, blurring briefly before stopping to taunt. "Ooh, close one, fire-boy! But not close enough!" It stung, that casual humiliation, like he was enjoying watching me get schooled by a kid two years younger.
I pushed up, lungs burning, muscles screaming from the effort. The difference was glaring, a chasm I hadn't fully appreciated until now. I trained martial arts to survive, to build a foundation against the chaos of this DC world. But Robin? He trained to thrive in it, to stand toe-to-toe with gods. If Batman could go blow-for-blow with Superman using wits and skill alone, what chance did I have here? My technique was above average—hell, elite for a 15-year-old—but it lacked the finesse, the seamless integration of styles that made Robin untouchable. A roundhouse kick from me, powered by taekwondo precision, whistled through empty air as he ducked low, sweeping my legs with a capoeira-inspired ginga. I hit the mat hard, the impact jarring my spine, but rolled away before he could follow up. "Not bad," Robin called, his voice light, almost playful, but with an undercurrent of respect. "You've got power—raw, but there. Keep coming!"
I did. Again and again. A boxing uppercut—he parried with a wing chun block, redirecting my force into empty space. A Muay Thai elbow strike—he sidestepped, countering with a Krav Maga palm heel to my solar plexus that left me gasping. I tried a judo throw, grabbing his arm for an ippon seoi nage, but he twisted mid-air, turning my momentum against me and landing a knee to my thigh that numbed the muscle. Pain radiated like fire—ironic, given my elemental—but I pushed through, the symbiosis healing micro-tears in real time. Still, nothing landed. He was a ghost, a blur of motion that anticipated every feint, every telegraph. Sweat poured down my face, soaking my tank top, my arms glistening under the lights, muscles bulging from the strain. My breaths came in heaving gasps, the air tasting like copper and exhaustion. Robin, meanwhile, barely broke a sweat, his younger face flushed but composed, like this was a warm-up.
From the sidelines, the cheers mixed with the taunts. M'gann floated higher, her eyes wide with empathy. "Erick, you're doing great! Just breathe—find your rhythm!" Kaldur added, "Endurance is your ally. Wear him down." Their support was genuine, a counter to Wally's jeers: "Ha! Dodged again, hotshot! Robin's making you look like a rookie!" Artemis stayed quiet, her sharp eyes tracking every move, but I caught her wince when Robin landed a particularly clean counter. Superboy just grunted, unimpressed, his massive frame a silent judge.
In my mind, the realizations hit like punches. If this was Robin at 13, what about facing Artemis? She'd shred me the same way—her archery precision translating to hand-to-hand lethality, honed by a villainous upbringing and Green Arrow's training. Black Canary? Forget it. She'd dismantle me with sonic screams and martial mastery before I could ignite a spark. They were in different leagues—experience forged in fire, finesse like a blade's edge. I was strong, enhanced, but raw. Unrefined. The elemental gave me an edge, but against true masters, it wasn't enough. Not yet.
The end came swiftly. I lunged for a final haymaker, putting everything into it—elemental heat surging through my veins, boosting speed and power. Robin sidestepped effortlessly, his fist snapping out in a precise liver shot. Pain exploded in my side, a deep, nauseating throb that buckled my knees. I dropped to the mat, gasping, sweat pooling around me as I clutched my abdomen. The world spun, my vision blurring from the effort. Robin stood over me, not gloating, just offering a hand. "Good fight, Erick. You've got potential—raw power. We can work on the rest."
I took his hand, pulling myself up on shaky legs, every muscle screaming. The tatami was slick with my sweat, my tank top plastered to my skin, arms trembling from the futile exertion. Victory was clear—his. But in that defeat, I saw the path forward: train harder, absorb their finesse, transcend my limits. The team clapped—some encouraging, some amused—as I caught my breath. This was just the beginning.
Advance chapters: patreon.com/cw/pararaio