There are stories that people tell.
They say that there's still a Bat in Gotham.
They say that there's still a Man of Steel, lurking somewhere in space.
The fighters tell legends of a goddess of destruction, whose every move was creation. Those who bear her name say, among themselves, she went to hell to find a challenge. That she is yet there, fighting and fighting and fighting and laughing.
They tell legends of a woman who embodied the best of every technique she saw, who *was* the fight, so much so that she needed no weapons but her eyes, her hands, and her feet. That a weapon diminished her.
They tell legends of a warrior who does not die, neither from a weapon nor from illness nor from old age. And even the best of them grow old.
This one... they say he is blind, that he tore his own eye out in trade for what he can do.
No one has seen him in fifty years, but the ones who remember swear that he yet lives.
He doesn't mind that. Life gets too boring if there's nobody trying to hunt him down. The ones who manage tend not to leave, but the stories grow anyway.