Master Damian stands there, unmoving. He's staring into the Lazarus Pit, and even from where I'm standing, I can see the battle raging behind his eyes. The green glow flickers across his face, making him look older somehow—harder. Like he's seen more than he should've, for someone his age. But then again, he's never really been a kid, has he?

He doesn't say anything, and I don't expect him to. Not yet. His fists are clenched, his whole body tight, as if he's on the verge of... something. Breaking? No, not him. But there's a weight in his stance, a heaviness I've never seen in him before. Damian Wayne, the last heir of Ra's al Ghul, standing at the precipice of his family's legacy, and I can tell—he's not sure if he wants it.

I step back into the shadows, watching, waiting. The others are gone, their loyalty to Lady Talia and Master Damian unwavering, but me? I've seen too much to be swayed by titles or bloodlines. I know what the Pit does. I've seen what it turns people into. And I've seen the look on Master Damian's face before—on those who thought they could wield its power without paying the price. They all think they can control it. They never do.

Master Damian breathes in deep, but his fists don't relax. He's been standing there for too long now. The temptation must be eating at him, gnawing at his resolve. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious—what's going on in that head of his right now? Is he thinking about Batman? The father who cast the longest shadow anyone could live under? Or Lady Talia, his mother, the woman who trained him to be the perfect weapon? Maybe he's thinking about Lord Ra's, the demon himself, the one who built this legacy, the one who expected Master Damian to inherit it.

But I've been around long enough to know one thing: Master Damian doesn't care what they want. Not anymore.

"Are you going to do it, Master Damian?" I finally ask, my voice cutting through the thick silence of the chamber. It's a risk, speaking to him when he's like this, but someone has to.

He doesn't move. Doesn't even acknowledge me at first. His eyes are still locked on the Pit, his reflection warping in the bubbling green water. "What makes you think I need your advice, Omar?" he mutters, voice cold, but I don't take it personally. It's not about me.

"You don't," I reply, keeping my tone even. "But I've seen enough men stand where you are now, thinking they can use the Pit and come out the same. You know as well as I do, that's not how it works."

He turns his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the edge of his glare. "You think I don't know that?" His voice is sharp, cutting, but there's something else there. Resentment? Regret? "I've seen what it does. I know better than anyone."

"You've seen it," I say, stepping forward, my boots echoing on the stone floor, "but you haven't felt it. It's different when it's your blood on the line, isn't it? When it's your family you're trying to bring back."

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, I think he's going to snap. Tell me to shut up. Or worse. But then he looks back at the Pit, and there's something in his expression that makes me pause.

"It wouldn't work," he says, his voice quieter now, almost as if he's talking to himself. "Not the way I want it to. They wouldn't come back the same. They wouldn't come back... right."

I cross my arms, watching him closely. This is it. The decision. The moment. I've seen many stand before the Pit and lose themselves to it, convinced they could beat the odds, that they could control what no one ever has. But Master Damian? He's smarter than that. Maybe too smart for his own good.

"They wouldn't thank me for it," he mutters, almost as if he's realizing it for the first time. "Father... Grayson... they wouldn't want this. And Ra's..." He trails off, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Ra's wouldn't care. He'd just want control. Like always."

I stay silent, letting him work through it. He doesn't need me to tell him what he already knows. The Pit isn't salvation. It's a curse. And I can see it in his eyes now—he gets it.

He takes a step back from the edge, his fists finally unclenching, but there's no relief in his posture. Just a heavy, painful acceptance. He's made his decision, but that doesn't mean it's any easier.

"They wouldn't thank me," he says again, his voice cold now, resolved. "But I don't need their approval to do what I have to."

I exhaled, a breath I didn't realize I was holding, and nodded slightly. "No," I agree. "You don't. But you've always been more than their legacy, Master Damian. You just never let yourself see it."

He glances over at me, his green eyes sharp, calculating, but there's something softer there too. Something I didn't expect to see in him. Maybe it's the clarity he's been chasing, finally settling into place.

He turns away from the Pit completely now, his shredded cape brushing the stone. He walked toward me with purpose, his cape trailing behind him, the quiet sound of his boots on the stone floor the only thing breaking the heavy silence in the chamber. I stayed where I was, my hands folded behind my back, waiting. There was something different in his eyes—more focused, more dangerous. The last Wayne, the last al Ghul, standing at a crossroads I wasn't sure even he fully understood.

I'm still not sure what his next move is. Hell, I'm not sure he knows what his next move is. But one thing's for certain—he's not staying here. He doesn't answer right away. He just keeps his head held high, his fists no longer clenched, but still ready. Always ready.

Master Damian stood before me, his presence sharp, unyielding, and for the first time in years, I felt... unsure. He wasn't the same boy I'd watched grow under the shadow of Lord Ra's and Lady Talia. The weight of his decisions, the weight of the world after Darkseid's attack—it was all bearing down on him. But here he was, resolute, standing at the edge of something bigger than any of us.

I kept my face neutral, watching him closely. He hadn't said anything yet, but I could see the wheels turning in his head. Damian Wayne was nothing if not calculating. And whatever he was about to do next, I had a feeling it was going to reshape everything we knew.

"You," Master Damian said, his voice low, but commanding. He didn't need to shout to be heard. Not anymore. "Lieutenant Omar."

I straightened at the mention of my name, not out of fear, but out of respect. Respect I hadn't always afforded him when he was younger. But things had changed.

"Yes, Master Damian?" I replied, meeting his gaze. I wasn't sure where this was going, but something in me knew better than to challenge him now.

He stopped a few feet in front of me, his green eyes narrowing as if he were weighing every word before letting them out. "Gather those still loyal to me. Now."

The command was simple, direct, but the weight behind it wasn't lost on me. For a brief second, I hesitated. Not because I didn't intend to follow his orders—but because I saw it. The shift. The boy who had always been torn between two worlds was no longer indecisive. He wasn't asking for permission. He wasn't waiting for anyone to approve of his actions. He was claiming the leadership of the League, the mantle of his bloodline.

And he knew it.

I took a breath, keeping my hesitation brief. "The throne room, then?" I asked, trying to gauge his intentions, but his expression didn't falter. He wasn't going to give me any more than what he wanted.

"The throne room," Master Damian repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. His posture was tense, but not from uncertainty. From control. It was like he was keeping himself restrained—holding back the storm brewing beneath the surface. "And make sure there's no one there who has any doubts about where their loyalties lie."

I nodded, but before I turned to leave, I couldn't help but press just a little. "You intend to assume control, then?" I asked, keeping my voice calm. I wasn't challenging him, not really. But I needed to understand what he was thinking. If he was truly ready for this.

Master Damian's lips twitched into a brief, almost sarcastic smile. "Omar, I've been in control since the moment I walked in here," he said, his voice laced with that familiar sharpness. "Whether you realize it or not, they're already looking to me. Not you. Not anyone else."

I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off, stepping closer, his voice dropping lower. "This isn't about tradition. It's not about Ra's, or Talia, or even Father. It's about me now. And I don't have time for the usual theatrics."

I swallowed, the flicker of respect I felt for him growing stronger. He wasn't wrong. The League had been fractured, uncertain of its place in a world that no longer cared about its old ways. And Master Damian— Master Damian was stepping into that void, with the kind of resolve that could either make or break everything.

But even still, I had to ask. "What of the others? Those who followed Lord Ra's to the end? They won't bow so easily."

Master Damian's eyes hardened, his expression unreadable. "They'll bow," he said, his voice cold. "Or they won't be my problem for much longer."

I nodded again, turning on my heel to carry out his orders. As I walked through the darkened halls of the temple, the weight of Master Damian's words pressed down on me. I had served the al Ghuls for most of my life—followed Lord Ra's, followed Lady Talia—but Damian? He was something different. His bloodline alone didn't command my loyalty. It was the way he carried himself, the way he knew what had to be done without hesitation. He wasn't just another heir vying for power. He was taking it, seizing it in a way that left no room for doubt.

And I respected that.

Today something big will happen. A prince rising to claim his throne, the heir of two legacies finally stepping into his role as Demon's Head.

But they didn't know him like I did.

"Lieutenant Omar," a young assassins called out, jogging up to me with a sense of urgency, his eyes wide with excitement. "Master Damian—he's going to lead us, isn't he? Truly lead us, like Lord Ra's once did?"

I paused, my mind spinning with the weight of everything I'd just witnessed. They were so eager to follow him, so eager to fall in line under his command, because they thought they knew what was coming. They thought they'd get another Lord Ra's al Ghul, another Lady Talia, another leader who would keep the League in the shadows, one who would tighten the grip of fear and blood on the world.

They were wrong.

"Master Damian's not Lord Ra's," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "And he's not Lady Talia either."

The young assassin blinked, confusion flickering across his face. "But... the League needs a strong leader. Someone ruthless. Someone who can bring us back to power."

I stared at him for a moment, resisting the urge to snap. He was too young to understand what the League had cost Master Damian—what it had cost all of us. Instead, I just shook my head, brushing past him as I made my way toward the exit.

"Go round up the others still loyal to Lady Talia," I said over my shoulder. "We need to gather them before dawn."

"But—"

"Now," I snapped, and the assassin flinched, hurrying off to do as I asked. I didn't have time for this. Not now.

As I walked through the winding halls of Nanda Parbat, I couldn't help but think about the boy I once knew. The boy I watched grew up under the iron fists of Lord Ra's and Lady Talia. Master Damian had always been different, even back then, but we all thought he'd end up like his grandfather, like his mother—a weapon. Another tool of destruction for the League.

But sometimes, I'd catch glimpses of something else. I remember once, years ago, when he was younger—still small, still figuring out his place in the world—he used to sneak out into the gardens of the temple. He'd sit there for hours, watching the birds, sketching them with this quiet, focused intensity. And if no one was around, he'd let them land on his arm, a rare smile flickering across his face, as if for a moment, he forgot what he was supposed to be.

I remember thinking, this boy loves the world too much to be shaped into what Lord Ra's wants.

But Lord Ra's—he saw that softness, that light in Master Damian, and he hated it. He beat it out of him. At least, that's what we all thought. Lady Talia, too, did her part, training him to be cold, efficient. Ruthless.

And for a while, it worked. Master Damian was a child born in shadows, forged in violence. But the thing about Master Damian—he never stayed who we thought he was for long.

That boy had changed.

I entered one of the training halls, where a few of Lady Talia's most loyal assassins were gathered, sharpening their blades, practicing their forms. They looked up as I approached, straightening, a quiet anticipation in the air. They knew something was happening, but they didn't yet know what Master Damian had said in the throne room.

"Lieutenant," one of them, a tall, dark-eyed woman named Suri, nodded. "What are Master Damian's orders?"

I paused, studying her face, the faces of the others around her. They were waiting for blood. They were waiting for the kind of leadership that Lord Ra's had provided—uncompromising, brutal. Master Damian had every right to claim that. He could use the Pit, seize control, lead the League to dominance. But that wasn't who he was anymore.

"Master Damian's not interested in following Lord Ra's path," I said, keeping my tone neutral but firm.

Suri frowned, her hand tightening around the hilt of her sword. "But he's the last of the al Ghul line. If he doesn't lead us—"

"He will lead," I interrupted, taking a step forward, my gaze hardening. "But it's not the way you're thinking. He's not going to be Lord Ra's. He's not going to follow the old ways. And if you can't accept that, then you have no place here."

A silence fell over the group, tension crackling in the air like a storm ready to break. I could see it in their eyes—doubt, uncertainty. They wanted blood. They wanted a leader who would burn the world to the ground if it meant power.

But Master Damian? He wasn't that leader.

"He'll bring ruin to the League," one of the assassins muttered under his breath, loud enough for me to hear. His eyes were cold, calculating. "Without the old ways, we're nothing."

I moved before I could think, my hand gripping the front of his armor, slamming him against the wall. He gasped, eyes wide, but he didn't fight back. Not yet.

"You're wrong," I hissed, my face inches from his. "Master Damian's more than the old ways. He's more than what Lord Ra's or Lady Talia could ever be. And if you don't see that, you'll be left behind."

I released him, watching as he stumbled back, glaring at me but keeping his mouth shut. The others stayed silent, too, waiting for me to speak again.

"I've served the al Ghul family for years," I said, turning to face the room, my voice steady but hard. "I've followed Lord Ra's, I've followed Lady Talia. But Master Damian? He's not like them. He's more. He's better. And if you don't understand that, if you don't see the potential in him, then you don't deserve to be here."

For a moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, they began to nod, murmuring among themselves. They weren't convinced. Not all of them. But they were starting to understand that Master Damian wasn't going to follow the path they expected.

And honestly? I was glad.

As I walked towards the throne room, my thoughts returned to the young boy I used to watch, the one who loved art, who loved animals, who hadn't yet been swallowed by the darkness of the League. He'd never been allowed to show that side of himself, but after all these years... maybe it was still there. Maybe Gotham, for all its chaos and destruction, had softened him.

Or maybe it had reminded him of who he really was.

When I entered the throne room again, it was empty, the flickering torches casting long shadows across the stone floor. I stood there for a moment, taking it all in. I had served Lord Ra's with loyalty. I had served Lady Talia with unquestioning obedience. But Master Damian? Master Damian was different. And for the first time, I felt a sense of... something. Respect, maybe. Hope.

Because Master Damian wasn't going to be another shadow in the long line of al Ghuls. He was carving his own path. And for the first time in my life, I could finally believe in the leader I was following.

Maybe Damian Wayne was the al Ghul I could truly respect.

Maybe he was going to be the leader we needed, whether the League realized it yet or not.

It didn't take long to gather the others. The remaining loyalists of Lady Talia and Master Damian. A few faces were unfamiliar, newer recruits from the aftermath of Earth's fall, but most of them? They had seen the rise and fall of Lord Ra's. They knew the old ways, the traditions. And now they stood in the throne room, their eyes uncertain as they awaited what was coming next.

I glanced around the room as the last few assassins filed in, murmuring among themselves. There was tension in the air, thick and electric, like everyone was waiting for something to explode. Some of them still bore the insignia of Lord Ra's al Ghul in their uniforms, while others had stripped it away, waiting to see who would truly lead the League into the next era.

Master Damian was about to make that clear.

The throne room is thick with tension, the kind that clings to the air like smoke after a fire. Assassins line the walls, silent, their eyes trained on the figure stepping through the massive doors. It's Master Damian, of course, but there's something different about him. It's not just the way he carries himself—it's the green and gold colors of the al Ghul line that drape over his shoulders, the robes of the League of Assassins marking him as the heir. The Demon's Head.

The room practically buzzes with energy as he walks forward, his boots hitting the cold stone with a rhythm that feels too measured, too calm for what's happening right now. He's in control. Not of just the room, but of everything. I can see it in his eyes—the way he holds himself, the way he moves with purpose.

And damn if he doesn't look like Batman. The same sharp jaw, the same steely gaze. But his features are his mother's—Lady Talia's aristocratic bone structure, the lean body of someone who's been honed, sharpened, into something lethal. He's both of them, but he's not them. Not anymore.

As Master Damian approaches the throne—Lord Ra's throne—the assassins, every last one of them, watches in silence. There's something unsettling about it. They've seen him grow from a boy to a warrior, and now they're watching him ascend to leadership. It's a shift in power that feels too quiet. Too... final.

Master Damian reaches the throne and pauses for just a second, his gaze sweeping over the room. I can't tell if he's measuring them up or just taking it all in. But then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he sits.

The way he settles into the chair, it's clear this isn't Lord Ra's throne anymore. It's his.

For a moment, the silence is deafening. The assassins exchange glances, their expressions unreadable. Some are skeptical—I can feel it in the air, the tension rising like a storm about to break. Others are waiting, watching, unsure of what to make of this new era.

But none of them speak. No one dares. Not yet.

I stand near the back, my eyes never leaving Master Damian. He sits there, calm, almost relaxed, but there's a fire in him that's hard to ignore. His fingers rest on the arms of the throne, but I notice the subtle way his knuckles tighten, like he's holding back something dangerous. Something powerful.

Finally, he speaks, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Steady. Controlled. Unmistakably his.

"The League has lived in the shadows for centuries," Master Damian begins, his tone measured but unyielding. "We've thrived on secrecy, on power, on fear. And it has kept us alive. But this world? It's not the same world my grandfather ruled. Or even the one my mother fought for."

He pauses, letting the words sink in. The assassins shift uncomfortably, exchanging glances again. This isn't what they expected. They've been raised on the old ways, taught to live by the blade, to conquer and control. They're waiting for Master Damian to promise them blood. To promise them power.

But that's not what he's here to offer.

"The world has changed," Master Damian continues, his voice dropping just slightly, but there's a weight to it now. "It's been torn apart. Darkseid's attack didn't just destroy Gotham. It left scars on the entire planet. Everything we once knew? Gone. Humanity is barely hanging on."

His gaze sweeps over the room again, and this time, it's colder, sharper. "And if the League doesn't adapt, we will die with it."

I feel the shift in the room immediately. The murmurs start—quiet at first, but growing. Skepticism. Uncertainty. This isn't what they wanted to hear. They wanted the al Ghul they knew, the one who would promise them dominance, a return to power, to the old ways.

"The League will not return to the old ways," Master Damian says, his voice rising, cutting through the murmurs like a sharp wind. "We are not going to conquer a world that's already on the verge of collapse. We are not going to seize control by force."

The room goes still again, and I watch as the assassins' faces shift—some with confusion, others with anger barely hidden beneath the surface. They don't like this. I can see it in their eyes. But they won't dare speak out. Not yet.

Master Damian leans forward slightly, his hands tightening on the arms of the throne. "Instead, we're going to rebuild. Nanda Parbat, Infinity Island—these will be sanctuaries for the survivors. For those who are left. The League will not be feared. We will be respected. We will be the ones who give humanity a chance to rise again. To fight back."

The silence that follows is heavy, oppressive. The assassins are absorbing his words, weighing them. Some of them look angry—Suri, especially, her eyes narrowing, lips pressed thin as she glares at Master Damian like she's been betrayed. Others, like the younger ones, seem uncertain, shifting on their feet, waiting for someone to speak up, to challenge him.

But no one does. Not yet.

I can see the doubt in their faces. They're unsure of him—of this vision he's laying out for them. This isn't the League they've been trained to follow. It's not the future they imagined. And I can't blame them.

Master Damian leans back in the throne, his gaze sharp, but there's something almost... calm in his posture. He's not trying to convince them. He doesn't need to. He's telling them how things are going to be. Whether they like it or not.

"The League must adapt," he says, his voice softer now, but no less powerful. "We are more than assassins. More than shadows. We will be a force that shapes the future, not one that clings to the past. And if any of you can't see that? If any of you still believe that the only way forward is through blood and conquest..."

He pauses, his gaze settling on each assassin in turn. "Then leave. You don't belong here anymore."

The room goes deathly quiet. No one moves. No one dares to.

I watch the assassins, waiting for someone to react, to challenge him. But Master Damian's eyes hold them all in place. He's commanding them without lifting a finger. The air is so thick with tension, I half expect it to snap at any moment.

But it doesn't. Instead, the assassins shift, their gazes dropping, as if realizing that they've already made their choice. Master Damian isn't giving them the blood-soaked future they wanted. But he's giving them something else. A chance. A new way forward.

And whether they like it or not, they'll follow him. They have to.

Master Damian didn't miss a beat as he turned back to the assassins, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. His green eyes, sharp and unforgiving, scanned the room, meeting every gaze head-on. He knew they were skeptical, knew that some of them still clung to the old ways, to Ra's vision of control through fear and dominance. But Master Damian wasn't here to ask for permission—he was here to lead. And it was clear to anyone paying attention that he wasn't backing down.

"You've all spent years—decades—believing the League's power came from the shadows. From fear," Master Damian said, his voice calm but edged with steel. "And yes, fear has its uses. It's a weapon. A tool. But the old ways? They're a blunt instrument. The world you trained for is gone."

He stopped in front of the group, letting his words hang in the air like a challenge. I could see the way the assassins shifted, some of them glancing at each other, uncertain. He had their attention, but more than that, he had them off balance. Master Damian was changing the game, and they weren't sure how to play.

Master Damian's eyes flicked to Suri, who still stood at the front, her jaw clenched, her arms crossed defensively. "We can't survive by clinging to the past," he said, his voice a little quieter now, but no less commanding. "The League thrived because it adapted. We infiltrated empires, manipulated leaders, toppled kingdoms. Not by brute force, but by knowing when to change."

His gaze swept over the room again, locking eyes with each assassin as if daring them to challenge him. "But Ra's never saw what I see. He thought his way was the only way. That the League was a hammer, and the world was just something to break apart. That's why he's dead. That's why my mother is dead. That's why Gotham is in ruins."

There it was. That sharp, painful truth none of them wanted to face. The reality that their past, their leaders, their legacy had failed. Master Damian wasn't sugarcoating anything. He wasn't offering them some comforting lie about rebuilding the League into its former glory. He was telling them the cold, brutal truth: things had to change.

"The League will not be a relic, clinging to shadows while the world collapses around it," Master Damian continued, his voice rising, stronger now. "We will lead. We will be the ones who save what's left. And we will be remembered not as assassins who destroyed, but as the ones who rebuilt."

I watched as the room shifted again, the weight of his words settling in. This was Master Damian's plan—his vision for the future. He wasn't asking the League to abandon its roots. He was asking them to evolve, to become something more than what Ra's had turned them into. And it wasn't a request.

Master Damian's eyes narrowed, his voice hardening. "This isn't a choice. If you're still living in the past, if you still think the League's only power comes from killing and fear, then leave now. I don't need you. The League doesn't need you. We're moving forward. I'm moving forward. With or without you."

I could feel the ripple of uncertainty moving through the crowd. The younger assassins, the ones who hadn't been fully indoctrinated by Lord Ra's or Lady Talia, were nodding, taking in every word Master Damian said like it was gospel. They understood what he was offering—a future, a new purpose. But the older ones? They were skeptical, I could see it in their eyes. They had been shaped by Lord Ra's vision for too long, trained to see the world as something to dominate, not to protect.

Suri, as always, was the first to break the silence. Her jaw was set, her voice steady, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—doubt? Or maybe... curiosity. "You speak of rebuilding," she said, stepping forward. "But what does that mean? You say we won't conquer, but how do you expect the League to survive? To thrive?"

Master Damian didn't hesitate. He met her gaze head-on, his expression unreadable. "We will rebuild through strength," he said simply. "But not strength through fear. Strength through leadership. Nanda Parbat, Infinity Island—they'll be sanctuaries. For survivors. For those who have nowhere else to go. The League will be their protectors."

Suri blinked, clearly taken aback. "Protectors?" she echoed, like the word itself didn't make sense in her mouth.

"Yes," Master Damian replied, his voice firm. "Protectors. The world is in chaos. People are scattered, broken. They need stability. Order. And we will give them that."

A murmur spread through the room, assassins glancing at one another, trying to make sense of what Master Damian was proposing. This wasn't the League of Assassins they knew. It wasn't what they had trained for, what they had been bred to believe.

But Master Damian didn't flinch. "The League's power has always come from being ahead of the game. From seeing what others couldn't. That's why we've survived this long. Now, we adapt again. We use our skills, our training, to rebuild. To shape what comes next."

Suri frowned, still not convinced. "And those who refuse us? Those who stand in our way?"

Master Damian's eyes darkened slightly, a flicker of that cold, dangerous edge I had come to recognize in him. "Make no mistake," he said, his voice quieter now, but lethal. "We're not giving up who we are. The League is still the League. We will be the ones who decide what the future looks like. And anyone who tries to stop that? They'll be dealt with."

There it was. The hard line. The one that reminded everyone in the room that Master Damian wasn't weak. He wasn't soft. He was still the heir of Ra's al Ghul, still a weapon forged in the same fires. But he was more than that too. He had a vision, a purpose that went beyond what any of them had expected.

The room fell silent again, but this time, it wasn't the kind of silence born from doubt. It was the kind that comes when people are processing something bigger than themselves. Something they can't quite grasp, but know is inevitable.

I could see it in their eyes—the shift. Master Damian had thrown them off balance, had challenged everything they thought they knew. But he wasn't asking for their approval. He wasn't waiting for them to come around. He was telling them how things were going to be. Whether they liked it or not.

By the time Master Damian finishes speaking, there's a shift in the room. It's subtle, almost imperceptible, but I can feel it. Like the tension in the air has loosened, just a bit. The skepticism is still there, clinging to the corners of the room like smoke that refuses to dissipate, but something else is growing alongside it. Belief. Quiet. Tentative. But belief nonetheless.

Master Damian's gaze sweeping over the assassins, and for a moment, the room is still. No one speaks. No one moves. It's like they're all trying to process what they've just heard. Trying to decide if this bold, unconventional vision of his is something they can get behind—or if it's too far from the bloody roots of the League they've known for so long.

I notice the older ones first—their faces remain stone-cold, unreadable. But I've served alongside them long enough to know what those small flickers in their eyes mean. They're questioning things. Questioning him. Questioning themselves.

I can't blame them. For years, the League was something unchangeable—immovable. We didn't adapt. We forced the world to bend to us, to our way. But now, after everything, after the attack on Gotham and the chaos Darkseid left behind, the world isn't something we can control anymore.

The young assassins, though? They're already nodding, exchanging glances like they're seeing Master Damian for the first time, truly seeing him as the leader he is. Their loyalty isn't yet to the old ways—they're still figuring out their place in the League, and Master Damian is giving them something they can believe in. A future they can fight for.

And then there's Suri. She stands at the front, her arms crossed over her chest, her face tight. I can see the conflict in her eyes, the way her thoughts are warring with each other. She's always been loyal to Lady Talia—Talia's ways. She's a master of the old, blood-soaked path. But Master Damian's words have struck something in her, too. She's considering it, turning his vision over in her mind. I wonder what she'll choose.

I can't help but steal a glance at Master Damian. The way he sits on that throne, the way he carries himself—there's a confidence there that wasn't always so sharp. His time away, the losses he's endured, the struggle to find his own identity... it's hardened him. But it hasn't destroyed him. In fact, it's shaped him into someone more than just the heir to Lord Ra's.

Damian Wayne has always been a force, but now? Now he's becoming something greater. Someone who can lead not just through fear or power, but through vision. Through belief.

And for the first time in a long time, I see it clearly. He's not leading because he's an al Ghul. He's leading because he's Master Damian. Because he knows that in this new, broken world, power doesn't come from destruction. It comes from building something better. Stronger. He's offering the League a chance to be more than just shadows.

"I know what you're all thinking," Master Damian says, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. His tone is cool, but there's a hint of that sharp, dry edge that's unmistakably his. Snarky, but precise. "You think I'm asking you to be soft. To abandon everything the League stands for. I'm not."

His eyes narrow, and I see some of the assassins straighten, like they're bracing for what comes next.

"Let me make one thing clear," Master Damian continues, leaning forward just slightly, his fingers drumming lightly on the arm of the throne. "The League isn't losing its edge. We're still the best at what we do. And yes, when necessary, we will still be the ones who take action where others won't. But the world doesn't need us to be the same blunt instrument Ra's turned us into."

He stands up from the throne, and the quiet sound of his boots on the stone floor draws every eye to him. He's commanding without even trying. It's like he was meant for this, and the assassins around him are starting to realize it.

"The world is changing," Master Damian says, pacing slowly, his hands loose at his sides, but there's that tension in his body—the kind that tells you he's ready for a fight if it comes. "And we're going to change with it. That doesn't mean we stop being the League. It means we stop being slaves to the past."

A flicker of recognition passes through the room. I see a few of the older assassins exchange glances, unsure of whether they should be insulted or inspired. Some of them are loyal to tradition, to the ways of Lord Ra's, but even they know what Master Damian is saying has truth in it. The old ways didn't save the world. They destroyed it.

Master Damian stops in front of one of the older assassins, a man named Ravik who has served Ra's for nearly three decades. Ravik's expression is stony, his arms folded across his chest. He's always been the embodiment of the old guard—disciplined, deadly, unwavering in his loyalty to the League's traditional path.

"I'm not here to burn down everything my grandfather built," Master Damian says, his voice lowering but no less intense. "But I'm not here to live in his shadow either. If you're still clinging to the past, if you think the only way forward is through destruction, then this isn't your League anymore."

Ravik doesn't speak, but there's a twitch in his jaw, and for a second, I think he might push back. But Master Damian meets his gaze without flinching, daring him to challenge him. Ravik hesitates, then slowly inclines his head in acknowledgment. It's not submission, not exactly, but it's enough.

Master Damian moves away, turning his back on Ravik as if to show that he doesn't need to be challenged to prove his authority. It's a power move, subtle but effective. And the room feels it. The assassins—those who still doubted him—are starting to shift, starting to realize that Damian isn't going to bend.

He steps back toward the throne, his voice echoing through the room. "If you follow me, you follow my vision. Not Ra's. Not Talia's. Mine. The League will adapt. We'll rebuild this broken world, and we'll do it on our terms."

Silence falls again, and this time, it's different. The air feels charged, like something has clicked into place. Damian stands before the throne, his presence so commanding that even the most stubborn among them can't deny it.

I feel a weight settle in my chest, but it's not doubt. It's something else. It's a realization that Damian Wayne, the boy I once watched struggle to find his place between two worlds, has finally stepped into his own. And I'm not the only one who sees it.

The assassins are starting to believe.

Suri, at the front, still hasn't spoken, but I can see the way her posture has shifted. She's standing a little straighter now, her arms uncrossed, her gaze sharper. She's listening, and more than that—she's considering. Master Damian's words are sinking in, and I know her well enough to recognize that she's weighing her options. She's not a follower by nature, but Master Damian is making her think.

"Master Damian," she finally says, stepping forward, her voice steady but with a hint of challenge. "Your vision... it's bold. It's different. But how do we know it will work? How do we know the League can survive without the fear we've built our name on?"

Master Damian doesn't hesitate. His eyes lock onto hers, and there's that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Because fear doesn't last," he replies, his tone dripping with that dry sarcasm that's so him. "But respect? Strength? That's what lasts. The League's power won't come from hiding in the shadows anymore. It'll come from being the ones who shape the future."

Suri holds his gaze for a long moment, then, slowly, she nods. It's not a full agreement—not yet—but it's a start. And that's all, Master Damian needs.

I watch him carefully, feeling that shift in the room settle deeper now. The assassins aren't just seeing him as the last of the al Ghul line anymore. They're seeing him as something more. As someone they can follow—not out of fear or tradition, but because they want to.

"The League will lead the future," Master Damian finished saying, his voice echoing through the throne room. "But we will not lead it through fear. We will lead it through strength. Through purpose. Adapt or be left behind."

He didn't wait for a response. Master Damian made his way toward the exit, leaving the assassins to grapple with his words, his vision. He wasn't going to stand there and beg for their loyalty. He didn't need to. They would follow him because they had no other choice.

As he passed me, his eyes flicked in my direction, and for a brief second, there was something there—an acknowledgment, maybe. A silent understanding that this was the future. That things were changing, whether we were ready for it or not.

And as I watched him disappear through the doors, leaving the throne room behind, I realized something I hadn't before.

Master Damian wasn't asking the League to follow him.

He was telling them to keep up.

I linger in the shadows, my back pressed against the cold stone wall of the throne room, watching as Master Damian strides out with the kind of confidence that only comes when you know you've won the room. The sound of his boots echoes, each step deliberate, his cape trailing behind him like the shadow of a man who has finally claimed his place. There's no hesitation, no looking back. The boy who once struggled between two legacies is gone. In his place stands the Demon's Head.

The assassins, silent as he passes, exchange looks, some with guarded skepticism, others with quiet awe. It's clear that while not everyone in the room is fully convinced yet, the seeds of respect have been planted. I've spent my life watching men and women who live and die by blades, and I know when a leader has their attention. And Master Damian? He has it.

As the door closes behind him, I glance at the others. There's a ripple of uncertainty, of movement, as the assassins break from their rigid postures. Whispers begin, soft, cautious. A few assassins—older ones like Ravik—stand rooted in place, their faces still hard with unreadable expressions. They're the ones who will need the most convincing. They've been through too much under Ra's to fall in line behind this new, unconventional vision without question. I can already see it in their eyes—the doubt. The challenge.

But they'll follow. They'll have to.

Suri, standing near the front of the room, uncrosses her arms and exhales, the tension leaving her shoulders. She doesn't say anything, but there's a quiet nod of acknowledgment. Maybe not full acceptance, but understanding. She's a warrior, and she respects strength, even if Master Damian's strength doesn't look the way she expected.

I push off the wall, stepping forward as a few assassins glance my way. I can feel their eyes on me, waiting to see where I stand. I've been a constant presence in this room, an unwavering force for Lord Ra's, and now, they need to know where my loyalty lies. It's no secret that those loyal to Lady Talia still have their doubts. They've seen Master Damian as a prince, a prodigy, but a leader? That's different.

But loyalty? Loyalty is something earned, and Master Damian... Master Damian is earning it, step by step.

"You think it'll work?" Suri's voice cuts through my thoughts, and I turn to see her approaching, her brow furrowed. She's always been more direct than most of the others, never one to shy away from speaking her mind. I can respect that.

I shrug, watching the last of the assassins file out of the room, their murmurs growing softer as they disappear into the hallways of Nanda Parbat. "I think," I say slowly, weighing my words, "that Master Damian's given us something we didn't have before."

"And what's that?" Suri asks, her tone sharp, but not dismissive.

"Purpose," I reply, crossing my arms as I turn back to face the now-empty throne. "Ra's had power. Fear. Control. But he never gave us a future. Damian's offering something more."

She raises an eyebrow, not fully convinced but intrigued enough to keep listening. "You think they'll follow? The old guard?"

"They'll follow," I say, though I know the road won't be that easy. "But not without testing him first. You know how this goes. They'll push, try to see if he breaks. See if he's more than just his father's son."

"And if he doesn't break?"

I let out a small, dry laugh, the kind that comes when you know something others don't. "He won't."

Suri gives me a long look, her dark eyes searching mine, trying to figure out if I'm just saying what she wants to hear. But there's no doubt in my voice. Master Damian is many things—impulsive, sharp-tongued, and far from perfect. But break? No. Damian Wayne doesn't break. He's spent his life being bent, being pulled in every direction by the weight of his lineage, but he's never once snapped.

"He's not Lord Ra's," Suri says, almost to herself, and there's something in her voice I can't quite place. Maybe it's relief.

"No, he's not," I agree, stepping closer to the throne, my eyes tracing the familiar curves of the stone that once held Ra's al Ghul's legacy. "But that's why this might work."

She watches me for a moment longer before giving a small nod, turning to leave the room. "We'll see," she says over her shoulder. "The League isn't known for easy transitions."

I snort softly, watching as she disappears into the hallway. "No, it's not."