The crazed Batman said nothing, launching his deadliest, utterly unrestrained attack at Lynn!
What he unleashed was a fighting style that fused more than a dozen elite killing arts, existing purely to crush and destroy.
Every punch and kick targeted Lynn's vital points. Elbows to the temples, fingers thrust toward the eye sockets, knees aimed at the spine... every move was lethal.
But in Lynn's eyes, it all looked like a stage play with its script written in advance.
He broke down Bruce's every movement into the most fundamental biomechanical code.
How his muscles exerted force, how his center of gravity shifted, where his next target would be...
To Lynn, everything was transparent.
His hands were still leisurely tucked into the pockets of his white coat.
And so, amid Batman's storm of attacks, he strolled at ease.
A slight lean forward dodged a whip kick powerful enough to shatter granite.
A slight lean back let a heavy punch carrying a gust of wind sweep past the tip of his nose.
A turn avoided a vicious throat lock.
Each of his dodges was unbelievably slight, as though he were merely performing an elegant dance.
There was never more than a centimeter of safe distance between his body and the lethal attacks.
He was not dodging. He was taking a walk.
The crazed Bruce, meanwhile, was like a madman swinging a sledgehammer in a china shop.
The more he failed to hit, the more agitated he became;
and the more agitated he became, the faster the toxins in his body drove up his heart rate and adrenaline.
Tiny distortions began to appear in his tactical movements.
His punches were no longer so perfect, and his footwork showed the slightest hint of stiffness.
He was burning himself out.
Lynn waited quietly.
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