CHAPTER ONE: The Path

Then—thirteen years ago.

"Chin up, Master Bruce. You've got a big night up ahead." Behind the clipped, eloquently British tones of his voice, Alfred Pennyworth grinned brightly at the eleven-year-old boy before him, adjusting the collar of his creaseless white dress shirt—much to the boy's chagrin.

"Do I really need to get this dressed up, though, Alfred?" Bruce Wayne asked, scratching behind his right ear.

Alfred playfully swatted his hand, dissuading him from doing further damage to the hair that they had all spent so much time on brushing into place. "Of course—it wouldn't do for the heir apparent to Wayne Enterprises to run around looking like a ruffian, now, would it?"

The ever-present grin was still on Alfred's face, and it kept Bruce from giving the Wayne family butler a smart-aleck response. Not that Bruce would mean to show disrespect to Alfred—at times, Alfred was Bruce's closest friend, even over some of the other boys closer to Bruce's age. There was something about Alfred's wisdom that led the kindly, older gentleman to be a sort of second father to him.

"I suppose not, Alfred," Bruce resigned, a grin of his own.

"Very well," Alfred said, clapping Bruce's shoulders. "Off we go to find your mum and dad. They're probably waiting on us."

Alfred ushered Bruce out into the spotless hallway of the west wing of Wayne Manor, where the family's bedrooms were nestled away within the velvet halls of the estate. Bruce took off down the carpeted corridor, leaving Alfred in his wake as the older man kept up—at his own pace.

As Bruce rounded the top of the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, his eyes shot towards the lobby by the front door, where his mother and father stood together, murmuring betwixt themselves. "Ah, there he is," Martha Wayne said, her ruby lips parting in a welcoming smile. Her dark brown hair was brushed back and held up in a tight bun, beneath a hat that she rarely wore outside of nights out such as this.

"It's about time," Thomas Wayne added, a mischievous smirk on his lips. Thomas reached for the hat that was hung on a peg next to the hall mirror. "We were beginning to think you were backing out on our deal."

"And miss the Gray Ghost?" Bruce's eyes twinkled with anticipation at the prospect of witnessing his favorite fictional hero on the big screen. "Not on your life!"

"I thought so," Thomas said as he tugged his hat atop his black-haired head. He stuffed his hand into his pocket, withdrawing a small, paper ticket that he held out to Bruce. "Here you go. You can keep ahold of your ticket."

Bruce wordlessly took the sliver of paper, his eyes devouring every detail. Thomas placed a hand on his son's shoulder as they, Martha, and Alfred exited the manor, making the trek towards the nondescript black car that they were taking tonight—often, on nights where the family was planning on just spending the night for themselves, they would take such a car to not attract as much attention as they would in one of their more costly vehicles.

As Alfred opened the back door, Martha slid in, followed closely by Bruce, as Thomas stopped beside the car. "Alfred, are you sure you don't want to see the movie too? I'm sure I could pick up another ticket there."

"Not to worry, sir," Alfred said with a grin, holding his hand up. "You know I get stuffy in places like theaters. I'll be just fine waiting in the car."

Thomas shook his head. "Stubborn as always."

"No, not stubborn," Alfred replied with a chuckle. "Just . . . established. Settled in my ways."

Thomas gave a laugh of his own. "As I said—stubborn."

Now.

The Gotham City skyline was mostly black—but only above Wayne Manor. Further beyond, closer to the city itself, lights glistened upon the stars, cast into the sky from the countless skyscrapers and high-reaching buildings within the city. It had grown so much in the past few years—and with that growth thrust upon the progress the city had already begun to see, it was becoming quite the metropolis.

But not everyone was excited and overcome with joy at the prospect of Gotham's magnificent growth. Especially not one twenty-four-year-old man, transfixed on the balcony of Wayne Manor as he stood, arms crossed over the railing of the overhang as he stared off into the darkness.

A lot had changed thirteen years ago, this very same night. Bruce's eyes were locked with the shadows, his face grim and his mouth nothing but a thin line. The anger, the hatred that seethed in his eyes—it was the very same anger and hatred that had burned within his soul, every day, for the last thirteen years.

All throughout middle school, all throughout high school, and even throughout his years in university, Bruce had been a product of hatred, born the very night that his parents had been murdered. Never once did he feel the pull to "move beyond," as so many self-proclaimed self-help experts spouted in the garbage that had been thrust upon Bruce's lap by countless therapists, counselors, and even Alfred.

For Bruce, there was no beyond. Just an incessant, eternal drive to . . . to hate. To wish for the man who had killed his parents to meet the same cruel, cold, heartless fate. To be caught off-guard, his heart full of fear at the prospect of having his life held by a thread, dangling from the hand of a cruel, cold, heartless judge, jury, and executioner.

Every day, Bruce had wished for that executioner to be him. To let him have the chance to avenge his mother and father. But, alas, so would not be the case. Not since the Gotham City Police Department had made the ultimatum that he would be imprisoned for life, with no parole.

Sure, the piece of filth would never see the light of day again as a free man, but the cold burn of prison would never weigh anything against the fierce burn of hell's flames, as Bruce wished upon the man who had taken his parents' lives.

The unmistakable sound of shoe soles clopping on the stone balcony alerted Bruce that someone was approaching—and since only two people resided in Wayne Manor anymore, he knew without a doubt who it was. "Shouldn't you be in bed, Alfred? What is it, one o'clock?"

"Two, actually." Alfred's voice sounded—different? Bruce couldn't quite put a finger on it, but it was a little hoarse and trembly. Well, if he had to make a guess, he was certain why Alfred's voice was different. It didn't take much of a detective to determine that he had been shedding tears on the anniversary of the deaths of his closest friends.

Tears had long been a thing of the past for Bruce. He had cried every day when he was eleven, twelve, thirteen, missing the tender touch of his mother and the comforting voice of his father, but by the time he had reached fourteen, Bruce was no longer prone to crying. By then, the hatred and rage had become the fuel that gave him his drive.

Alfred continued: "I think it's time for you to get some sleep, Master Bruce. After all, tomorrow you have—"

"Alfred," Bruce said calmly yet firmly, with a since of finalization. He turned and glanced at the butler, half of his face obscured by the night's shadow. "I can't do it tomorrow. I just can't."

Alfred paused, not moving for a few moments, before he finally answered. "I'm afraid you must, Master Bruce. I know it's hard, but there comes a time when you must—"

"I said no." Bruce's voice was forceful, raised in an intonation he had rarely used at Alfred before. It came out almost as a growl, and it was so abrupt that Alfred flinched at the sound of it. For a moment, Bruce's eyes were glossed over, as if he was in some sort of trance. Then, just as quickly, the glossiness vanished, and Bruce's eyes wandered to the ground. "I-I'm sorry, Alfred," Bruce said as he turned back to look into the darkness. "I just can't do it. This company . . . my father built it, not me. I don't know the first thing about what to do with it."

"All the same, it's yours," Alfred reaffirmed, stepping closer to Bruce. "I know it feels weird—almost as if you're sleeping in a bed that doesn't belong to you, but it is yours. Your father wanted you to have it all, you know that."

"Yes, Alfred, but he wanted me to have it when I was ready, when he was ready to give it to me." Bruce turned back to face Alfred, his black hair hanging loosely across his forehead. His hair had grown a bit shaggier and unruly—he often kept it this way, never truly caring to keep it nice and proper anymore. That was another thing that he had lost when his parents had died. "But like this—it just feels like it's been stolen from him."

"You know, you're right, Master Bruce," Alfred said firmly. "It was stolen from him, just like a lot of other things were—his life. His wife. His son." Alfred's lip trembled. "That was all stolen from him, but where you can find joy is in knowing that it goes—"

"Joy?" The word came out of Bruce's mouth incredulously. "What joy is there in this?" Bruce said exasperatedly, holding his hands out.

Alfred raised a hand, as if to calm Bruce. "I'm sorry, Master Bruce, that was a poor choice of words. What I meant to say was—"

"I don't want to hear it, Alfred. I know exactly what it'll be, just more nonsense about how I have to step up and make my father and the Wayne family name proud." Bruce swallowed hard, shaking his head. "Well, I can't Alfred. I just can't." He walked past Alfred, pausing once he reached the glass door leading back into the manor. "You can talk to the board tomorrow. Tell them to go ahead with Earle or whoever they want as CEO."

Alfred opened his mouth to respond, but Bruce didn't wait for him. Alfred sighed as he entered the manor, closing the door behind him, and locking it tight.

Morning came quicker than Alfred would have liked, but as the dutiful butler he was, he woke up in a timely fashion around six o'clock and got to work immediately, fixing a nice breakfast for Bruce. Two slices of toast, a few pieces of bacon, scrambled eggs—the works.

With the tray in his hands, Alfred stopped outside of Bruce's bedroom and knocked at the door lightly. "Master Bruce, I have your breakfast."

A moment passed with no answer. Alfred rapped on the door again. "Master Bruce?" Still no answer. Alfred knocked again, this time faster and harder. "Bruce? Are you awake?" When no one answered yet again, Alfred sat the tray down on the table next to the door and hurriedly opened it, rushing inside to see . . . no one.

The bed was empty, the blanket pulled back and the bed made up completely. All that was in the room that caught Alfred's attention was a folded piece of paper on the bed. Alfred slowly crept towards the bed, picking up the paper and unfolding it. His eyes fell upon the first words, and immediately he felt his heart sink.

It read:

Dear Alfred,

I'm sorry I have to do it like this, but I feel I have no other choice. Whatever you do, don't come looking for me—I am making this choice of my own free will, because it's what I feel I need to do. I'm leaving; it won't be forever, but I can't say how long it will be. Just know that I am of complete, sound mind in making these decisions, and that I will come out—I pray—as a better man. Don't worry about me, I'll be all right. You, Mom, and Dad taught me enough to keep me safe. Until I return, I entrust you with the entirety of Wayne Manor and the family estate. Keep up with Wayne Enterprises, but as I said, tell the board to appoint William Earle as CEO and continue with business as usual. Thank you, Alfred. Until we meet again.

Sincerely,

Bruce

The crunch of the snow beneath Bruce's feet had become a constant echo within his ears, one he had grown accustomed to in his travels in the South Asian country of Bhutan. Wrapped and bundled in layers of clothing, all that showed of Bruce himself was his eyes, as they peered beneath the folds of the hood over his head into the whirling snowstorm ahead of him.

When Bruce had received directions from an elderly villager from the small town he had last been at, the skies were mostly clear: the only snow one could see were the remnants of previous snowfalls, but nothing was in the air then.

How quickly things changed.

As the wind roared, Bruce pulled his robes tighter and raised a gloved hand to block the snowflakes from his eyes as he saw a dull, muted light glistening in the distance. Through the fall of the snowy precipitation, Bruce was able to make out, for certain, what the lights were: torches. And where there were torches, there was civilization.

This newfound discovery reinvigorated Bruce's drive, and he began to pick up his pace as he trudged through the snowy banks. Traversing up a steep incline, Bruce took care to maneuver through the snow as he cleared a path towards the object of his focus.

Bruce had been gone from Gotham for . . . he couldn't quite remember just how long. At least a few months, that much was for sure. But if he had to put a specific date in his mind, he couldn't quite do it.

As the torches grew brighter and their flickering flames clearer, Bruce was able to make out just what it was they were protruding from. The building looked almost like a castle. Its walls were made of some sort of brick, and they looked to have been standing for a very, very long time.

Perhaps it was a monastery of sorts? Not quite what Bruce would've liked to stumble upon: in his journey abroad, he was trying to pick up all he could about martial arts, hand-to-hand combat, the works. If he were asked a reason why, he didn't know if he could provide a clear and coherent one. Partially, he figured, it would be a facet for him to let out some of his anger, lashing out with violence, although not directed at any one person. It was just a therapeutic relief at this point.

But deeper, further within . . . Bruce felt that there was a more concrete purpose, a true reason why he was going to these lengths.

He just wished it would make itself known to him.

The trek towards the snow-crested architecture was one that was longer than had initially appeared. Once he reached the steps, Bruce slowly loosened the cloth over his face and let his hood fall back loosely. He ran a hand across his unshaven face, the hair scratching at his skin. Both his hair and his beard had become quite unkempt—Bruce had never been one to really abide by facial hair, but when you're on your own, traversing through a South Asian countryside, keeping trimmed was not your biggest concern.

Bruce looked around the entrance to the monastery—the steps were kept clean, the snow not much of a factor beyond the first couple of steps. A telltale sign that, at the very least, one person was keeping the place looking nice and tidy.

But just how many people were here, Bruce wondered?

Walking up to the large, stone doors, Bruce eyed it carefully, searching for any typeface or engravings that jumped out as some sort of alphabetic symbols, but he could find none. Placing one hand on each of the doors, Bruce pushed inwards, and—to his surprise—the doors budged at the slightest exertion of force.

Bruce entered the front hall of the monastery, finding no one. He wasn't quite sure whether to be surprised by this discovery or not. Truth be told, he didn't really know if he expected there to be some hunch-backed old man to welcome him in with sage advice, but he just was anticipating . . . something. Anything.

"Hello?" Bruce called out, his voice carrying through the chambers within the monastery. After the echo dissipated, Bruce carefully glanced about, on edge. He waited for a few moments just to see if any response or greeter would come.

None did.

This is odd, Bruce mentally told himself. Even if no one kept a constant guard by the front door, surely they would not be too far away to not make themselves known at all.

Bruce took a step further inside whenever an accented, booming voice echoed from above. "Welcome, traveler."

Bruce flinched at the voice, hands out at the ready, as his eyes tore about the open chamber—but there was no one in sight. His eyes leapt up, scouring above him, although there were no balconies or overhangs giving the unseen speaker a prime viewing position. It was just an ornately decorated ceiling, nothing more.

Bruce didn't speak a word, instead letting his eyes continue to search the area. When nearly half a minute had passed in silence, the voice spoke once more: "A quiet one, I see. There's no need to feel unnerved here, my friend. We welcome you to our humble fortress. Rest assured, there are no enemies here—unless you come as one." Bruce still refused to speak. "Well, what is your name, traveler?"

Bruce stood still, his eyes now calmed and relaxed. Obviously, the speaker would not make himself known until he wanted to, that much was for certain—so Bruce would play his little game. "Wayne," he answered firmly. "Bruce Wayne."

"Ah, Mr. Wayne," the voice said, calculatingly. "I'm afraid the name does not hold any familiarity with me. What brings you to our solitude, Wayne?"

Silence was yet again Bruce's answer as he mulled over what exactly he wanted to divulge. The fact that the residents of this fortress were so secretive did no favors in soothing Bruce's distrust of them. "I am just traveling," Bruce muttered. "I wanted to see the world and its wonders, pick up some skills and souvenirs along the way."

"Skills and souvenirs, you say? And have you discovered any, I wonder?"

"Some." Bruce answered quickly; his patience was beginning to wear thin. His eyes narrowed as he felt a chill, almost like a whisper, at his neck.

There was someone behind him.

"Well then," the voice continued, "why don't you show us?"

Almost instantly once the voice finished, Bruce ducked as a whistle cut through the air, and Bruce's eyes flicked up to see the steel blade of a katana missing his head narrowly by a few inches.

Bruce spun around, bringing his hands up in a fighting stance as a figure, shrouded entirely in black, stood before him, the katana held tightly in both hands. Bruce stood face-to-face with the individual, his eyes searching theirs—their eyes were the only thing showing from beneath the black mask that they wore. It didn't take a master detective to determine that this figure was a ninja.

The ninja kept their sword extended forward, the point directed straight at Bruce. Keeping his hands elevated, Bruce began to circle away from his attacker, taking soft yet proper breaths. The ninja's eyes stayed locked with his, unblinking, until finally the ninja let out a scream and swung the katana once, twice more.

Bruce stepped back to dodge the first swipe, then ducked under the second as he threw himself into the figure, knocking him to the floor. The katana clattered on the stone floor, disappearing into the shadows at the chamber's edge. The ninja kicked out with a foot, sending Bruce doubling over with a grunt.

The ninja leapt up, screaming once more as he darted for Bruce. Bruce kicked his own leg out, this time sweeping the ninja's out from under him and forcing him to collide on the ground in a heap.

Bruce dove over the ninja, racing for the shadows where his sword had disappeared into the dark. Bruce's eyes caught the glint of the blade in the dark and he grasped for the handle, bringing the sword up into his hands as he spun around, just in time to see the ninja closing the gap once more.

Bruce ducked beneath a punch the ninja had thrown, sending his elbow out into the ninja's gut and causing him to buckle back at the force. The ninja quickly rebounded, throwing a few more punches as Bruce dodged them all. Finally, Bruce swung up with the sword, gingerly slashing through the ninja's sleeve and causing him to shriek in pain. Bruce grabbed the ninja by the shoulder and threw him to the floor, placing the cool steel blade along the ninja's clothed neck.

"Enough of your games!" Bruce shouted. "Reveal yourself—or he dies."

A soft clap sounded from around the corner, and Bruce turned his attention to a tall, slender man, dressed in dark gray robes with a golden hue ornately decorating them. The man looked to be a good many years older than Bruce, but perhaps not as old as Alfred—his hair was jet black, albeit with flashes of gray running through it and the small beard around his mouth, which was upturned in a slight grin as he slowly made his way down the hall.

"Well done, Mr. Wayne, well done," the man said, and Bruce knew instantly that this was the man whose voice he had been hearing and speaking with since he'd entered the fortress. With a chuckle, the man lowered his hands and clasped them before him. Once his laugh ended, he said, shortly yet not aggressively, "Release him."

Bruce didn't flinch. "Not until you tell me what all of this is."

The man saw the fire in Bruce's eyes, and that only caused his smile to widen. "Tenacity. Splendid."

Bruce's eyes narrowed; he wasn't still quite sure what to make of this man, his fortress, and his ninja assassin, but he knew one thing was for certain—he would not be letting his guard down at all, not in the slightest. The man slowly took a step forward, and Bruce applied pressure to his vanquished foe's throat.

The other man paused, holding his hands up as if to admit defeat—for now, at least. "I know when a man is not to be trifled with." He slowly flitted his eyes down to the ninja, whose own eyes were fixed upon the ornately dressed keeper of the fortress. "Rest easy, Kyodai. You shall be free soon enough."

"I wouldn't count on it," Bruce said shortly. Without wasting another moment, he spat, his voice full of vengeance, "Tell me what the hell this all is right now. I'm getting tired of your lack of answers."

"Very well, if you insist." The man turned and looked around at the walls of the main chamber, taking in the pictures of art ordaining the walls. As he did so, Bruce finally took a moment to examine them himself; they were all beautiful pieces, with a handiwork that would rival the greatest of artists whose works were on display at the Gotham Art Museum.

The thought of the museum caused Bruce to wistfully think back to Gotham. Not that he missed the city much; it had been on a downward spiral long before he'd moved away, and he could only imagine how terrible the living conditions were now. But he missed the good things about it; the friends he had, the places he liked to go visit . . . and Alfred.

A pain shot through Bruce's heart at the thought of his only true friend who had been there through it all for him. He mentally cursed himself for leaving Alfred all alone, with no warning. I promised him I'd return, though. And return I shall.

As if he had read Bruce's thoughts on the art hanging on the walls, the man said, "Beautiful, aren't they? Pieces of bygone eras. This one in particular was painted, oh, about two hundred years ago. Its artist looked even further in the past for inspiration on it." He paused in front of a massive picture depicting a feudal Japanese house.

Bruce looked past it and at another piece of artwork, this one of what looked to be a pit of some sort, with a glowing green haze emanating from within. The pit was filled with a similarly green liquid of some sort. Bruce nodded towards the picture. "What is that one of?"

The man's smile returned once more. "Ah, the Lazarus Pit. It has a unique story behind it. The story goes that if one bathes within its waters, they can achieve immortality." He arched an eyebrow. "Impressive, is it not?"

Bruce scowled. "I'd hardly consider a myth to be impressive."

"I suppose you are correct. It's such a pity that something so regal must be limited to fairy tales and mythology, is it not?" Bruce noted that despite the disappointing choice of words, the man did not seem all too disappointed tonally.

"You never answered my question," Bruce retorted. He was growing tired of the man's dancing around his rather direct questions. "Who are you, and what is this place?"

The man slowly turned to look Bruce in the eye. "As I alluded to you earlier, this humble fortress is my home—mine and my companions." He gestured to the ninja—Kyodai, Bruce remembered. "Kyodai Ken is among them. They are loyal to a fault. As for me, my name is Ra's al Ghul."

Bruce tucked the name away mentally. "And what is with the whole theatrics of all of this? Do you make it a point to lure travelers in here just to throw a ninja at them?"

Ra's chuckled. "No, no, of course not. You see, we rarely have travelers wander by. Most of our visitors come because they are looking for us." His eyes narrowed. "I believe that is how you arrived here as well, Mr. Wayne."

Now it was Bruce's turn to give a dry chuckle. "You sure believe in your superstitions, huh?"

"Oh, on the contrary, Mr. Wayne, these are not mere superstitions. I know what you are looking for—and what has brought you here, to the League of Shadows."

Bruce fixed his eyes on Ra's. "What are you talking about?"

"Come now, Wayne, you don't think me stupid, do you?" Ra's laughed fully this time. "Gotham City is not just any random concrete jungle in America—it is perhaps one of the most renowned, though not for all the right reasons. The death of your parents was quite a story, even outside of Gotham's city limits."

Bruce was caught off-guard by this. "What?" was all he could muster.

"Thomas Wayne's work was respected and highly praised throughout the medical world," Ra's continued. "Some attributed him to be one of the greatest medical minds working, at the time of his untimely demise. You see, Bruce, I have a . . . unique mind. I make sure to keep a track of names and details about those names—and the Waynes are a family I have kept tucked away for a long time.

"I know deep down inside, there has to be an anger boiling up inside of you." Bruce glanced down at his feet. Continuing, Ra's added, "That's what's led you on this little expedition around the world, picking up your so-called 'skills and souvenirs.'"

Something ticked in Bruce's mind, causing him to slowly lift his head up. "You said you rarely have visitors arrive here on their own," he said—it wasn't really a question, more so a statement.

"Correct," Ra's said with a nod.

"So you mean that I—"

Ra's answered with a grin. "My, you are a budding detective, Mr. Wayne. Yes, word of your travels reached me. When an American begins trekking around the countryside and mastering several forms of martial combat, many take notice. And, with my knowledge of you and your background, this came as a particularly intriguing development for me. So I had some assistance in leading you here to me."

"But . . . why?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Ra's held his hands out, gesturing to Kyodai. "Kyodai is one of my greatest warriors—you mastered these forms of combat in mere months of training and have been able to take down one of the most skilled assassins in the world. That raw, unbridled passion and thirst for vengeance . . . you have the makings of the ultimate fighter, Bruce."

Bruce kept his hand gripped around the katana tightly. "What are you getting at?"

"Pledge yourself to the League of Shadows. Become one of my assassins." Ra's had drawn closer to Bruce, without his noticing, and slowly reached a hand to place on his shoulder. "People like that mugger who killed your parents—they dominate the world's population. Unforgiving and unforgiven souls who live off the blood of innocents, stealing and killing to live while the true men and women pay the price for their heinous acts."

Bruce looked into Ra's eyes. "You're asking me to . . . become an executioner?"

"Correct!" A fire sparked in Ra's eyes. "All of the scum of this earth must be decimated and burned in the fires of oblivion. Murderers, thieves, all their ilk must pay the price for their transgressions."

Bruce felt . . . torn. He thought back to when he had told Alfred about his desires to take away everything from the man who had killed his parents, to make him pay like he had made so many others pay—and here was someone offering him the chance to do it, no repercussions.

"I know that look in your eye, Bruce. You've been waiting for this moment for years. It's all you've ever wanted—to make those like your parents' killer pay for their trespasses." Ra's turned, facing down the hallway he had entered from, and clapped his hands.

Two more ninja, dressed identically to Kyodai, entered, dragging with them another man. This one was shackled and shirtless, his body bruised and bleeding as if he had been beaten mercilessly. As the man was dragged into the light of the room, Bruce looked at his face—one eye was bulging, the other swollen shut. His lip was smashed open and bloody, and his nose was crooked, likely broken. It looked like he had suffered some burns as well, as evidenced by the scorch marks on his wrists.

The ninja tossed the man to the ground, standing in the shadows at Ra's side. Ra's gestured to the man, smiling gently at Bruce. "This man is Rosai Tan. He stole livestock from a neighboring farmer, and when the farmer tried to stop him, he beat him to a pulp, rendering him a lifeless vegetable. The man's family started to starve, so the mother had to go to work. She works tirelessly, day and night, to provide for two children and a handicapped husband who cannot take care of himself."

Ra's leaned in towards Bruce. "This man is among the scum, the same kind that killed your mother and your father. He must be punished for his crimes."

Bruce swallowed hard before looking down at Tan. The man was muttering softly between shallow breaths, but Bruce could make out his words: "Help . . . me . . . please . . . don't let me . . . die . . ."

Bruce slowly shook his head. "This man . . . he's been beaten to a pulp."

"Just as he did to his neighbor, leaving him to die. We shall not make the same mistake. He will die."

Bruce slowly lifted his eyes to lock them with Ra's. "No."

Ra's brow furrowed. "You mean you would let a killer go free? Unpunished?"

"He's not a killer," Bruce said.

"But he meant to—"

"Many people mean a lot of things, but they don't go through with them," Bruce cut in. "And he's not going unpunished. This man has suffered more than any prisoner ever would back in Gotham. He's learned his lesson."

"You'd stake your life upon that belief?"

"I've learned not to stake my life on anything other than myself."

"So all the same—"

"All the same," Bruce interjected, "I will not kill this man." Bruce lowered the katana. "I think you misjudged me."

Ra's eyes narrowed, and his slight grin finally dissipated. "Perhaps I have."

Bruce turned to exit the chamber when Kyodai got to his feet. "I will kill him, sir."

Bruce spun back. "No—you cannot kill this man."

Kyodai chuckled, reaching to his belt, and withdrawing a dagger. "I wasn't talking about him."

Kyodai lunged forward and Bruce brought the katana up, bouncing Kyodai's dagger aside. Bruce twirled his blade as the other two ninja leapt forward, hands reaching for their own swords. Ra's held a hand up, stopping them. "I will take care of Mr. Wayne myself."

Ra's stepped forward, holding a hand towards one of the two ninja, and he handed his master his blade. As Ra's took the man's sword, Bruce aimed the point at his opponent. "Your move," Bruce said.

"And so it is."

But to Bruce's surprise, Ra's didn't advance or swing his katana at all—instead, he sent his hand to his belt, withdrawing a dagger of his own. Bruce kept his sword at the ready to deflect any attack, and Ra's flung the dagger towards him. Bruce swung the sword, batting the dagger away, as Ra's followed it up with a flurry of swings. One caught Bruce along the bicep, causing him to spin away and grip the fresh wound, applying pressure to it.

"You've made a grave mistake crossing me, Wayne," Ra's muttered. "Once I finish you, there will be no one to stop me."

Ignoring Ra's threats, Bruce turned to one of the nearby torches hanging from the wall and grabbed it with his free hand. Kyodai and the other two ninja lurched forward as Ra's eyes widened.

Bruce, brandishing both the katana and the torch, smirked. "Your mad tirade ends here, Ra's." With that, Bruce drew his arm back and launched the torch towards a tapestry hanging on the wall. Immediately, it became engulfed in flames, and they began to crackle and spread around the chamber.

Kyodai charged at Bruce, who swung his sword and sliced the attacker below the waist, across both legs. As the ninja shrieked in pain and collapsed on the floor, Bruce turned to the other two ninja, only to see they were nowhere in sight. As smoke began to billow through the chamber, Bruce glanced around for any sign of Ra's—but he could see none.

Cursing, Bruce instead turned his attention to Tan, who was now unconscious on the floor. Bruce ran to the injured man's side, lifting him onto his shoulders. The man might've committed terrible acts against his neighbor, but Bruce couldn't leave him to burn and die a horrid death.

He might've wished such a fate on his parents' killer once before, but things had changed—and, truth be told, this man hadn't killed his mother and father. While Bruce did not align with Ra's plan to rid the world of all its criminal element, there was one man with whom he might consider making an exception to that rule.

Lugging the wounded man on his back, Bruce made his way towards the exit doors. As he did so, he felt a cold chill at his neck again, like he had earlier when Kyodai had first attacked him—and Bruce turned just in time to see Ra's leaping at him, sword in hand. He struck with such force that Bruce toppled over into the door, and Tan barreled down the steps into the snowy ground below. Bruce got to his feet just as Ra's began to hammer fluid strikes onto him. Bruce parried a few until Ra's began to attack with unbridled hatred—Bruce didn't know how much more he could keep up.

"Give up, Wayne—it's over!" Ra's spat.

Bruce gritted his teeth as he kept his sword pressed against Ra's. "Not—quite—yet!"

Bruce pulled his leg in and, with full force, kicked out, sending Ra's spiraling back into the fire-filled chamber. He disappeared into the flames, and Bruce only heard his screams of pain as the fires blazed. Shielding his eyes from the burning blaze, Bruce threw the katana to the side, and turned, leaving Ra's fortress to burn.

All of it did burn—all except one, lone, green-hued painting.

Bruce hiked down the hill, carrying Rosai Tan on his back. The snowfall had, thankfully, stopped. Bruce was nearing the village walls; he couldn't recall the village's name, but he knew it was the one he had last visited before coming upon Ra's monastery.

The elderly man who had directed Bruce towards the monastery stepped out to meet him. "You found what you were looking for?" was the first thing the man asked.

Bruce gave him a soft smile. "I suppose you could say that." He slowly lowered Rosai Tan to the ground, letting him rest against the wall. The old man eyed him curiously before flicking his eyes back up to Bruce. "This is Rosai Tan. If you have any sort of prison around here, this man belongs in it."

The man nodded. "We have a prison not too far away. I can get the guards; they'll take him there." With one last look-over, the man leaned in closer to Bruce. "Although, in the state he's in right now, he might be better off dead!" he said with a slightly too-gleeful chuckle. As Bruce shook his head, several small black winged creatures flew by, causing him to duck.

The man's eyes narrowed as he followed the creatures' flight path away. "That's strange," he mused to himself.

"What's strange about a flock of birds flying by?"

The man laughed again. "Those are no birds, traveler. Those are bats."

Bruce eyed the bats in wonder as they flew off towards the mountain on the other side of the village. "Bats," he murmured to himself, stroking his bearded chin. Finally, he turned to the old man. "Where's the nearest airport or airfield?"

The man turned and pointed east. "About ten miles that way. Why, you thinking about heading back home?"

Bruce nodded. "Yeah. I have some unfinished business that I need to get back to." Even though he tried to resist it, Bruce couldn't hold back the grin any longer. "And I've got an old friend that I've got to see."

A/N: Hello everyone! I'm just using this space to give you a bit more info on just what this story is exactly.

So, Batman has always been my favorite fictional character of all-time - and as such, I've been wanting to do a story exploring his origin from a new perspective, and that's what this is! It will be a rather expansive look into the birth of Batman and how Bruce grows into the cape and cowl, as well as how he builds his relationships, both with his allies and his enemies. As it is the beginning of Batman's career, we will get to meet tons of characters - and obviously some will be inspired by other sources, but, as a whole, it will be an entirely new and unique take on the Batman mythos that I hope will leave you all entertained and excited to read on!

This first chapter is just the introduction to Bruce as he begins his journey - but with his new path set in motion, we will get to learn more about this new version of Gotham in upcoming chapters as we delve deeper into Bruce's growth into the Batman we all know.

I hope you all enjoyed and are excited for the next chapter. Until next time!