The moment Adam finished speaking, the tribal chief fell into a thoughtful silence. His brow furrowed slightly, his gaze dropping to the firelight dancing at his feet.

Adam, calm and persuasive, continued, "Why do outsiders work so hard to climb this mountain to trade with your people?" he asked. "Because they have the means to bring goods up, and more importantly, to carry them back down. They control transportation, and with that, they control the market. If you don't sell to them, do you expect your villagers to carry all that cargo down six days on foot? That's not realistic. The leverage is entirely with them.

"But if you have your own horse team, you change the game. You can transport goods yourselves. Sell to whomever you choose. No need to wait in the mountains for buyers who toss you scraps and walk away with the profits."

The chief, who had initially approached the conversation with veiled resentment, had intended to deliver a few sarcastic jabs at the foreigner who had upended their traditional trade. But now, listening to Adam's logic, he found himself nodding, unable to argue. The words rang true. Painfully so.

After a moment, the chief looked up and asked seriously, "Friend from afar, may I ask your name?"

Despite their earlier interactions, this was the first time he had asked. For the first time, he seemed to want to remember him.

"Adam," he replied with a faint smile. "From Gotham."

Of course, that wasn't the whole truth. He didn't mention his title—Chief Inspector of Arkham District—because in a lawless place like this, waving a badge was practically asking to be shot. Here, influence was earned differently.

The chief returned the smile.

"Good to meet you, Adam. You've come just in time—our festival is about to begin."

He gestured to the large pit dug into the center of the clearing. It was surrounded by sharpened stakes, as if to keep something—or someone—from climbing out. Villagers had begun to gather around, their faces lit by the firelight and flushed with anticipation.

"Our people have lived in the forests and mountains for generations," the chief said. "We honor the Hunting God, the great ancestor. Nothing pleases him more than the slaying of wild beasts."

Adam's eyes shifted toward the pit. At some point, a full-grown mountain cougar had been released into it. The big cat prowled in circles, its powerful muscles rippling under a golden coat. Opposite it stood a man—tall, broad, and still as stone. His body was cut from muscle, like black steel. But the most striking thing about him was the mask: shaped like a tiger's face, so lifelike it made him seem more beast than man.

There was something familiar about him, a strange déjà vu tugging at Adam's memory.

As if reading his thoughts, the chief said, "We found this one in the mountains not long ago—half-dead from injuries. We nursed him back to health."

He paused, then added with a bitter chuckle, "And how did he repay us? Tried to burn our tobacco fields. Said they were poisoning the land and our people. Wanted us to plant corn instead."

The chief spat on the ground.

"We pretended to agree… and then slipped something into his food. He's been in that pit ever since. A fine showpiece for the festival."

As the chief spoke, the man in the pit moved. In a blur of motion, he lunged at the cougar, a flash of steel in his hand. One clean strike—so fast it was almost invisible—and the beast collapsed, its spine severed mid-leap.

The crowd roared in frustration. They had hoped for a long, bloody fight, but it was over in seconds.

Adam narrowed his eyes, voice low and unreadable.

"That man… he's no ordinary fighter. How did you capture him?"

His tone was light, but the meaning underneath was sharp.

The chief shrugged, grinning, "Like I said, he was too talkative. Kept preaching about morality and crops. After a while, we got tired of his nonsense. Drugged his food. And now, here we are."

Adam gave a cold chuckle, "History's seen kings and generals brought down by a spoonful of poison. Much more effective than swords."

The chief laughed heartily, proud, "You understand! For today's performance, we even added more 'enhancers' to his food—keeps him in a heightened state, full of rage and stamina. He'll keep fighting until he drops. Most don't last long under that stuff. But he's different—he's our star attraction."

As they spoke, the masked man snapped the neck of another cougar with a vicious whip of his leg, then stood still, breathing heavy but composed. Around them, the disappointed crowd booed again.

But Adam wasn't watching the show. He was staring.

Because now he remembered.

That mask. That stance. That presence.

This wasn't just some stray fighter. It was Bronze Tiger—one of the deadliest martial artists in the DC world. Among the few who had pushed even Batman to his limits in hand-to-hand combat. A man trained to perfection, rivaling Richard Dragon and Lady Shiva. A walking weapon.

And here he was, drugged, exploited, and forced to perform like an animal.

Adam leaned toward the chief with a suddenly warm smile, "Chief… I must say, I'm impressed. Your guest is quite the warrior. Coincidentally, I've been having a run of bad luck in Gotham's underground ring. Lost a few bets. I could use a fighter like this on my side. What do you say? Can we discuss transferring him to me?"