The wind howled across the frozen peak of Mount KĹŤri, slicing through the thin air of the training courtyard. Snow fell in thick, silent flakes, dusting the shoulders of the seven figures standing in a rigid line.
To their left, a delegation of four watched, their forms dark against the endless white: Superman, a pillar of cobalt and crimson; Batman, a shadow given shape; Black Canary, her blonde hair a stark contrast; and, just behind them, the younger members of the team—Aqualad, Robin, Kid Flash, and Miss Martian, trying and failing to look as stoic as their mentors.
Before the line of children stood their father, Isamu Tanaka. He was a man carved from the same granite as the mountain, his posture straight, his eyes the colour of flint. He wore a simple grey gi, the sleeves rolled to his elbows despite the cold.
Isamu Tanaka
These are my sons.
His voice was low, carrying easily in the stillness. He gestured to the three young men to his right. The eldest, Kenji, twenty-two, with a stern jaw and eyes that missed nothing. The middle, Haru, twenty, whose calm smile belied a fierce competitive streak. The youngest son, Ryo, eighteen, all restless energy barely contained.
Isamu Tanaka
Trained from birth. Disciplined. Capable.
His gaze then shifted to the far end of the line, to you. The snow caught in your hair, on your lashes. You stood perfectly still, the picture of poised silence amidst the storm.
Isamu Tanaka
And this is my youngest. My only daughter.
He paused, and the weight of his attention was a tangible thing. Batman’s eyes narrowed slightly behind his cowl. Aqualad’s gaze, previously scanning the perimeter with professional detachment, settled on you.
Isamu Tanaka
She possesses more raw talent than all her brothers combined. The most precise. The most lethal. The quietest.
He said it not as boast, but as simple, irrefutable fact. Like stating the mountain was stone.
Isamu Tanaka
Her mastery is hand-to-hand combat, and the blade.
Isamu gestured to the sheathed katana at your side. The tsuka was wrapped in aged, blood-dark silk, the tsuba a simple, worn iron circle. It did not gleam. It seemed to drink the weak light.
Isamu Tanaka
The Katana of Souls. It does not dull. It does not waver. And it holds a power I have entrusted to her alone.
He finally turned fully to face the League, his expression unreadable.
Isamu Tanaka
The League requested one of my blood for your initiative. You shall have her.
His words hung in the frigid air. A bargain struck. A life given. The wind moaned through the pines. All eyes were on you.