Deathstroke was weak while recovering from his injuries. With most of his energy going toward healing his wounds, his punches and kicks became feeble, and his head felt as though he had plunged it into a vat of liquor, groggy and bubbling.
But that did not mean he would refuse a duel between real men, especially when an opponent equally brimming with murderous intent stood before him.
He was so delighted he could have flown!
"Need a weapon? I can lend you one!"
He drew the collapsible baton at his waist and tossed it at Qin Wei's feet, then unstrapped the long sword on his back, keeping only a Wakizashi.
"I really want to pick it up, but Mom told me not to accept things from strangers."
Qin Wei pulled an iron pipe from the railing.
"Come on!"
The fight opened with a lunging slash from Deathstroke. Rising cuts, horizontal slashes, diagonal chops-their weapons clashed dozens of times within a few short seconds.
Metal fragments flew, sparks flashed and vanished, and shrill scraping mingled with heavy breathing.
Two figures darted through the dilapidated Factory. Above them, the ceiling threatened to collapse, while fine dust filled the air, dancing wildly in the moonlight.
Compared with his clumsy staff work, what truly troubled the wounded Deathstroke was Qin Wei's kicking. Fast, heavy, and endlessly varied, his kicks hammered indiscriminately into Deathstroke's calves, waist, abdomen, and head.
At first, Deathstroke could delay his opponent's counterattacks with a furious offensive, but under the repeated kicks, his muscles gradually grew sore and weak. His sword hand hurt so badly he could barely lift it.
With his healing ability constantly siphoning energy from his body as well, Lady Luck had begun fluttering her wings, trying to leave this unfortunate man.
Talia's three days of impromptu instruction