Bruce rounded a corner. It seemed that the Joker was right, that there was no way out of the building. But he had to find a way out, somehow. What was Gotham do without him? The day when he would no longer be needed felt distant and disappearing.

A small trail of blood. The red spots led directly to a wall, abruptly cut off. How curious. Bruce bent down, examining the blood. There had to be some sort of secret passage, how else could the blood trail have ended like this? He was the world's greatest detective, after all. He could find it.

From the journal of Amadeus Arkham

I have been shown the path. I must follow where it leads. Like Parsifal, I must confront the unreason that threatens me.

Behind Bruce, a dripping mass of muscle and bone slithered from out of the darkness. A pair of glistening red eyes opened. Bruce heard footsteps behind him, growing louder and louder.

I must go alone into the Dark Tower. Without a backward glance and face the dragon within.

Bruce quickly whirled around, and rolled out of the way in time to avoid having his neck snapped by a hefty scale-like arm. The beast in front of him snarled, eager to taste the flesh of Batman.

I have only one fear. What if I am not strong enough to defeat it? What then?

Waylon Jones, the cannibal. Serial killer, the infamous Killer Croc of Gotham City. Out of all the enemies that Bruce had encountered during his tenure as Batman thus far, Jones had to be the most intimidating. The Killer Croc was seven and a half feet tall, his dark skin suffering some sort of skin defect that had caused it to thicken and resemble a reptile's scales. The Croc had filed all of his teeth into razor-sharp points. Some people claimed he had been abandoned in the sewers as a baby, others claimed he was a government test escapee, others claimed an escaped freakshow performer. His origin didn't matter. What mattered was that he had turned to crime, in Batman's city. What mattered was that Batman's life hung in the very balance in this very encounter.

Bruce's self-inflicted injury to his own hand reared its head as he tried to battle Croc. If he was at his full potential, without the injury holding him back, perhaps he could take down the beast. Bruce launched the blades stored in the suit's gauntlets at Croc. The beast made a sound that was almost like laughing as the embedded blades barely seemed to make a dent. Bruce hastily reached for a smoke bomb but Croc struck him with an uppercut.

The Kevlar padding lessened the force of the blow, but Bruce still was sent thudding against a wall. Croc was on him, delivering a merciless beating. Bruce tried to recover, escape from the onslaught. But Croc was too strong. Too fast. Aside from maneuverability, the upgraded suit offered increased protection. Bruce fondly recalled Mr. Fox's words, even as the blood dribbled from his mouth. Should do fine against cats. The armor couldn't last him forever…

The drug takes hold. I feel small and afraid. Perhaps I've done the wrong thing.

Bruce had prided himself as being a cunning master of the shadows. The training by Ra's had taught him everything he needed to know. But here, pitted against brute and mindless strength he had found himself overwhelmed. A final backhanded blow by Croc sent Bruce to his knees. The monster was lifting him.

Somewhere, not far away, the dragon hauls its terrible weight through the corridors of the asylum. I am borne up on a wave of perfect terror.

Lightning flashed as the glass window detonated into millions of shards. Bruce felt himself falling as he glimpsed the white streak. Not now. I can't die like this. This can't be the end. Gotham needs me.

And the world explodes. There is nothing to hold onto. No anchor. Panic stricken, I flee. I run blindly through the madhouse.

Bruce desperately grabbed out. His arm snatched onto a hanging ledge. Glass rained down on him, cutting where shard met skin.

His arm was wracked with pain. Bruce gritted his teeth. Lighting flashed again, illuminating the architecture around him. His arm begged him to let go. Bruce ignored the demands. He hauled himself up.

And I cannot even pray. For I have no god.

Bruce dragged himself to the rooftop of Arkham Asylum. Bruce glanced up at the statue in front of him. His face lit with a mix of awe and sudden inspiration. Against the chaotic and churning sky, the statue of St. Michael was a beacon of grandeur and hope. In his sculpted arm St. Michael gripped a metal spear. It was old and dull, decades of rust having eaten away. But it would have to do. Bruce pulled the spear from its foundations.

Doors open and close, applauding my flight. Keyholes bleed. A choir of sexually maimed children sings my name over and over again. Arkham. Arkham. Arkham.

Moonlight slanted in from the broken window where Croc had thrown Batman out. The beast was satisfied with his kill, slouching to where he had entered the corridor. But he saw a shadow being cast, completely impossible.

In his red eyes, Croc glanced up and saw the silhouette of the Batman in the skylight. Above him, the dark knight crashed through the glass, something long and pointed aiming at Croc.

I'm falling.

Bruce tugged the spear against Croc's neck. He could block the windpipe, knock out the inmate. The surprise of shock was wearing off. Croc was enraged now, his thrashings throwing Batman off.

Even as Bruce collided against the wall, he didn't lose his grip to the spear. Croc was rushing him for a killing blow. Bruce rose into a crouching position, swinging the spear as Croc came at him.

Oh mother, what tree is this? What wounds are these?

The momentum of Croc's charge had impaled him on the rusty point. Bruce grimaced, as the huge force of Croc embraced him. The spear betrayed his grasp. The blunt end pushed into his side. Bruce let out an agonized cry of struggle.

I am Attis on the pine. Christ on the cedar. Odin on the world-ash.

The spear punctured Bruce's leg, emerging from the flesh on the other side.

Hung on the windy tree for nine whole nights. Wounded with the spear.

Bruce fought through the pain, trying to force the bulk of the spear into Killer Croc.

Dedicated to Odin.

Croc had his own plans. The brute had taken hold of the spear, trying to lift Batman again. Bruce found back, in spite of the enormity of his hurting. The two opponents faced each other, a grotesque tug of war.

Myself to myself. I must see my reflection, to prove I still exist.

Bruce tugged at the spear. Without warning, the rusty weapon snapped in two identical pieces. Croc stumbled backwards, grunting in surprise. Batman was hurled backwards.

Until I stand revealed in the glass and I stare into old familiar eyes. MOTHER!

Croc backed into another fragile window. For a second he was there, backed against the frame his arms spread like a crucifixion. Glass broke. Croc's body was a blur, falling from sight. Bruce heard a chilling, inhuman scream.

I must have fainted then, for it was morning when I next open my eyes. No longer able to tell where the dragon ended.

Bruce staggered away. He tugged the broken spear shaft, his leg a bleeding mess. He limped, leaning against the wall for support. Torn and bloody, his teeth torn into a stoic scowl. Wounded, at the doors of defeat, and yet he pushed on. There would be a day when Gotham would no longer have a Batman to protect it. But this would not the day. He would not let the Arkham Asylum claim from him the people he had sought to save.

And I begin.

Bruce stared long at the brick wall. The trail of blood disappeared into it. He was starting to piece things together…

Yet am I not the hero, the man of destiny? Have I not confronted the great dragon? Where then is my grail? My treasure horde?

With his last good hand, Bruce punched through the fake wall breaking it into splinters.

My final reward?

Bruce's eyes grew. He stood alone in the smashed entrance. A preserved room, with a four poster bed and various pieces of old furniture. The room was covered in a sepia tone.

"Good evening, Batman."

He had been expecting the Joker or even Dent. But to Bruce's growing horror, he saw Dr. Charles Cavendish clutching in his hands a bloody penknife. He was holding Dr. Adams hostage.

"Dr. Cavendish."

"Don't come near him, Batman. He… cut… me. Just keep back." The hostage pleaded, her eyes frozen with fear. Something dawned on Bruce as he glimpsed the wedding dress that Cavendish had donned.

"You free the inmates, you allowed this to happen. Why, Cavendish?" Maybe Bruce could scare him into backing down. He was not in the position to fight off the man, not with the wounds from the hard night.

The doctor looked crazed and he barked at Batman.

"Now listen, I only did what had to be done! You read the book on the table beside you and you'll see."

Bruce slowly picked up a leather-bound book from a dusty table littered with cobwebs, glaring down Cavendish. The mad doctor's eyes were filled with a mix of fear and hatred.

"Go on, Batman. It's Amadeus Arkham's journal. Go on. Read it. I've marked the place for you. Read it, you'll see."

Bruce opened the book. He wondered when this trial would end.