Wipeout

It was not fast, but in front of two disoriented killers, this speed was absolute.

His right elbow lifted, striking precisely against the wrist of the first man as he attempted to raise his gun, followed by a crisp sound of bone fracturing.

Then, the elbow followed through with a downward smash, landing squarely on the man's nasal bridge.

The man did not even grunt before his body arched backward and collapsed.

Lynn pivoted his body, his left leg whipping out to sweep the back of the second man's knee, which was already bent from a violent coughing fit.

The man lost his balance and fell forward to his knees.

Lynn's palm descended from above, chopping into the back of his neck.

Down.

From breaking through the door to both men falling, the entire process took less than four seconds.

The weapons were kicked into the corner without making much noise.

From the direction of the back door.

Grey Falcon rushed in with his final subordinate.

He did not look at the two men lying by the entrance; his gaze locked immediately onto the depths of the hallway.

Two people lay on the ground in strange, motionless postures.

The air held a faint scent of silicone oil and blood.

Grey Falcon's expression shifted.

"The target is not an ordinary person!"

He did not shout it, but the sentence was transmitted clearly to his last team member via his Throat Vibration Sensor.

The next second, he drew two short blades from behind his waist; the matte finish of the blades reflected no light.

He lowered his center of gravity, like a hunting leopard, his footsteps crossing as he lunged silently toward Lynn, who stood at the entrance of the clinic.

This was an expert.

Lynn's brain completed the analysis in the same instant.

He instantly accessed Batman's database on combat styles.

Bullseye.

The opening stance of this blade technique carried the distinct style of Bullseye.

Sharp, devious, and skilled at using feints and backhand stabs to create opportunities for a lethal blow.

But it was different, too, with more emphasis on close-quarters grappling and suppression.

He was an elite from the Bullseye training system, having integrated other combat styles.

Reaction path calculated.

Grey Falcon's first strike was a direct thrust at Lynn's throat, moving at extreme speed.

But in Lynn's dynamic vision, the trajectory of this blade was incredibly clear.

He performed only one movement.

He took a half-step back.

That half-step was enough to let the tip of the blade graze past his collar.

Immediately following, Grey Falcon's left-hand blade slashed upward from below toward Lynn's abdomen; this was the true killing blow.

Lynn did not dodge.

His left hand grabbed a stainless steel tray from the nearby surgical table and blocked downward.

The sound of metal clashing was piercingly sharp in the silent clinic.

Sparks flew.

Grey Falcon's pupils constricted.

He blocked it?

The angle and timing of his strikes were honed through thousands of repetitions, designed to seal off all escape routes for his opponent during such a pursuit.

But the opponent seemed to have anticipated his movements in advance.

After the block, the tray was not discarded; instead, following the momentum of the retracted blade, it flipped upward and slapped toward his face.

Grey Falcon had no choice but to lean back to dodge.

This lean created a 0.3-second opening.

Lynn seized this opening.

His right fist shot out.

It did not smash toward the face, but landed precisely on the elbow joint of Grey Falcon's blade-wielding right arm.

Seventy percent of a Super Soldier's strength, combined with a fifty-five percent boost from Superhuman Strength—even at only twenty percent output, it was enough to cause structural damage.

"Crack."

Grey Falcon heard the sound of his own bone shattering.

The intense pain instantly numbed his entire right arm; the short blade flew from his hand and clattered to the floor.

The third move.

Lynn's knee had already driven into his abdomen, which was hunched over from the pain.

Grey Falcon's body curled up like a boiled shrimp.

The final strike, an elbow drop, smashed into the back of his neck.

Grey Falcon fell.

He did not get up again.

The last killer following behind him had watched the entire process.

He saw his captain, one of the top killers under Kingpin.

The man codenamed Grey Falcon had been cleanly and efficiently taken down like an amateur within three moves.

Fear overwhelmed him.

His only thought was to run.

He turned and sprinted toward the back door.

But before he could take two steps, a silver light flew from behind him, accompanied by the sound of tearing air.

He felt something prick the side of his neck, like a needle.

Then, a wave of intense paralysis spread rapidly from that point throughout his entire body.

His legs went soft, his body refused to obey him, and he collapsed to the ground.

The last thing he saw was Lynn walking slowly toward him and pulling a syringe needle from his neck.

Absolute silence returned to the clinic.

Six people.

All down.

Lynn stood in the middle of the chaotic clinic, his chest steady and his breathing even.

He did not deal with these people immediately.

Instead, he took out his phone, walked over to Grey Falcon, and took a photo of his face.

Then he photographed his equipment, the raven tattoo on his arm, and the ring on his other hand.

Every detail was captured clearly.

He recorded the serial numbers of all the equipment on the six men, the models of their communicators, and any special markings.

These were all links in the chain of evidence pointing to Kingpin.

Only after finishing all of this did he begin to clean up the scene.

He dragged the incapacitated men into the utility room one by one and bound them with zip ties.

He straightened the kicked-in door panel and secured it simply with spare wooden strips and nails.

He mopped up the blood and alcohol on the floor.

He returned the displaced medicine shelves and furniture to their original positions.

The entire process was calm, efficient, and methodical, as if he were completing a precise surgical operation.

He restored everything to its original state.

Except for one place.

Seven hundred meters away, on the top floor of an office building.

A bat-shaped micro-drone hovered in the shadow of a billboard.

Its high-sensitivity lens had just captured the flash of metal sparks inside the clinic.

And the blurred silhouette of one man falling before another.

The image flickered, then returned to darkness.

The battle inside the target building was over.

It was so fast that it didn't even allow the remote operator to react and adjust the focus to see more details.

Batcave.

Four in the morning.

The entire city of Gotham had sunk into the deepest tranquility, but the lights here never went out.

On the massive Batcomputer screen, a blurred frame was frozen.

Bruce Wayne sat before the console, still wearing his heavy armor, his gaze beneath the cowl sharp as a blade.

He had maintained this posture for over an hour.

The image on the screen came from the micro-drone hovering seven hundred meters above.

Due to the distance and the lack of ambient light at night, the image quality was not ideal and was filled with noise.

But for Bruce, it was enough.

He slowed the fleeting fragment of the conflict in the clinic captured by the drone to one-twentieth of its normal speed, playing it back frame by frame.

The first key segment.

A figure was struck in the neck by another figure's hand-chop and collapsed limply.

Bruce's fingertips tapped lightly on the control panel, the image zooming in and freezing at the moment Lynn struck.