Adam knew that bargaining for a man was no different from haggling over goods in a market: the moment you show interest, the price doubles. The key was indifference. Detachment bred misjudgment, and misjudgment won you leverage.

Adam intended to do the same.

So he never said the masked fighter was extraordinary. He merely shrugged and suggested he could use a solid brawler for Gotham's underground fight circuit. Predictably, the chief didn't hesitate to hike the price—but not by much. He treated the man like a novelty, a beast that could punch, not a weapon of war.

"This man can take down a jaguar with his bare hands," the chief said, his eyes glittering. "How can I give that away for free? At least this much."

He held up his fingers, indicating a number. Adam couldn't guess the exact figure, but from the look on the chief's face, it was steep.

Adam played his part, feigning outrage, "Chief, that kind of money could fly in a dozen samba girls from Rio to entertain me personally."

He pulled a revolver from his belt and placed it on the table between them.

"This here's a Colt .357 Magnum—straight out of every Hollywood blockbuster. Put it in a kid's hand, and he can drop an elephant. So how about this: you give me your exotic toy, and I'll give you one of mine. Seems fair."

The chief hesitated, weighing the offer.

Adam continued, "Let's be honest. No matter how strong he is, he's still human. He'll break. Maybe next round, maybe the one after that. You'll get a few cheers, sure—but then what? A corpse. This gun, though? It'll kill for another hundred years."

The chief glanced at the pit. The masked fighter—his body battered and drenched in blood—was still upright, but barely. It wasn't clear whether the blood belonged to him or the jaguar he had just eviscerated. His chest heaved. His eyes were wild. The drugs in his system kept his mind locked in a frenzy of violence, but his body was unraveling.

The chief grunted and said, "Fine. But there's one condition. None of our men dare go near him. You want him? Go down there and bind him yourself."

Reasonable enough. A man who could kill a jaguar with a single strike wasn't someone you casually subdued. Adam was expected to 'collect his purchase' personally.

What surprised the crowd, though, was how casually he responded.

Adam sighed, brushed the dust from his coat, and stood, "All right. I'll take care of it."

And without another word, he walked to the edge of the pit, and jumped in.

Deadshot's eyes widened behind his shades and he shouted, "Is he insane?"

As a seasoned killer, Deadshot knew what the man in the pit was capable of. He wouldn't last a second down there. Adam's self-defense skills were decent at best—but nowhere near enough to face a man who could tear through apex predators.

He immediately drew his sidearm, tracking the pit's floor, ready to shoot if the fighter lunged.

Inside the pit, Bronze Tiger was in the throes of chemical fury. Though his body was on the verge of collapse, the drugs kept him wired, aggressive, and unpredictable. His every breath came ragged, his muscles twitched with rage. But something about Adam's arrival pulled his attention.

Red eyes locked onto the newcomer.

"Easy, buddy," Adam said calmly, stepping forward.

"You look like hell."

Bronze Tiger didn't reply. His entire frame coiled like a spring, ready to strike. He couldn't recognize faces. Only movement.

The villagers in the stands stirred with excitement.

"That guy's dead. Five seconds, tops."

"No way he makes it out. That monster killed a brown bear last week!"

Only Deadshot remained silent, his finger hovering near the trigger.

Suddenly, the Bronze Tiger moved—lightning fast.

Even Deadshot couldn't catch the full motion. His scope missed the initial blur. By the time he locked on, it was too late. Bronze Tiger was airborne, claws bared, murder in his eyes.

Adam didn't flinch.

Instead, he calmly whispered a sentence—so softly that only the fighter could hear it:

"In the name of Lars Ergur, the head of the Devil… Stop, Bentner."

The effect was immediate.

The words hit him like a thunderclap in his skull. His bloodshot eyes froze. The killing intent vanished in an instant. Memory rushed back like a flood.

His body went slack. He collapsed to his knees.

Dead silence swept the crowd.

Not a soul could explain what they had just seen. One moment, the man was a monster. The next, he knelt like a penitent disciple.

Adam didn't gloat. He simply stepped forward, placing a steady hand on the fighter's shoulder.

Only he knew who this man really was: Bronze Tiger—one of the deadliest martial artists in the world. A legend who had traded fists with Batman and lived to tell the tale. A man who once stood at the summit of human combat—and had somehow ended up in a jungle pit, drugged and enslaved like a beast.

Now, Adam had him.