Batman Legacy
Copyright© 2025 by Uruks
Chapter 1
Somewhere in Asia – Midnight
The alley stank of cheap gasoline, street rot, and the powdery ghost of crushed narcotics. Neon bled against puddles, turning the broken pavement into a smear of red and blue. At the far end of the alley, under a rusted fire escape, a small crew of Triad enforcers counted stacks of cash beside bags of white powder.
They were cocky—lean, tattooed men in leather jackets and gold chains, their easy swagger built on the fact that no one in this district dared oppose them. Even the police crossed the street when they saw the dragon sigils on their jackets.
But tonight, one man did not cross the street. Footsteps resounded, deliberate and heavy. Coming out of the darkness like a warning.
The gangsters turned. A tall American stepped into the light—broad shoulders beneath a worn brown jacket, face shadowed by stubble, clothes stained from long travel. His boots left wet prints on the asphalt. His eyes—cold, carved from loss and fury—made the men stiffen despite themselves.
One Triad soldier scoffed and spat at the ground. “Hey, look at this bum,” he called out in Mandarin. “Tourist got lost?”
Another puffed a cigarette and sneered. “You drunk, foreigner? This is Triad territory. You walkin’ wrong street.”
A third man stepped forward, grinning as he flipped open a small switchblade, letting the metal glint under the neon. He ran the blade slowly along his jawline, posing like a street peacock.
“Better run home, American,” he taunted. “Before you bleed all over my boots.”
The newcomer didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. And then one of them froze mid-laugh, eyes widening as he really saw the man’s face.
“Wait ... wait a minute.” He stepped closer, squinting. “Aren’t you ... No way. Bruce Wayne? That rich American cat who disappeared a couple years ago? What, you running from your white privilege, or something?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. His fist curled. In a blur, he seized the knife-man’s wrist and SNAPPED it sideways with a wet crack. The man screamed, collapsing as the blade clattered to the pavement.
Bruce leaned in, his voice a low growl torn from somewhere deep and grieving. “I wasn’t running away,” he hissed. “I came to find scum like you.”
One punch—heavy, sharp—sent the screaming man into unconsciousness. The alley exploded into violence. The Triad surged forward with knives, chains, pipes, bats—whatever they could grab. Bruce met them head-on, running on raw fury more than technique.
A chain whipped across his back, tearing his jacket. A pipe cracked against his shoulder.
A knife sliced his forearm. Bruce grunted through the pain, blocking with forearms, elbowing throats, driving knees into ribs. He caught a bat mid-swing, twisted it from the thug’s hands, and used the handle to smash another in the jaw.
One man lunged—Bruce slammed him into the brick wall so hard the man went limp. Another swung a butterfly knife—Bruce caught his wrist, bent it, and elbowed him in the nose, sending blood spraying.
A third tried to blindside him with a broken bottle—Bruce headbutted him, then grabbed the man’s hand and forced it closed, shattering the bottle in his palm. The man fell back, screaming as shards of glass pierced his flesh in a mess of blood and crystals.
Bruce was sloppy. He was bleeding. His movements lacked discipline. But his rage was a weapon far sharper than any blade in the alley.
Within moments, the last of the initial crew lay moaning on the pavement. Bruce stood over them, panting, chest heaving, blood trickling down his cheek. His knuckles were raw, his jacket torn, his breath steaming in the cold night air.
The Triad thugs whimpered for mercy.
Then—CLICK! From the warehouse doors nearby, a new squad of Triad soldiers spilled out—armed with pistols and machine guns, shouting in Mandarin.
Bruce’s eyes widened. He dove behind a stack of crates just as bullets tore through the alley, splinters exploding around him. He sprinted into the maze of backstreets, weaving through hanging laundry and rickety fire escapes.
A bullet grazed his ribs, tearing fabric and skin. He hissed but kept running. More gunfire. More shouts. Footsteps thundered behind him. He darted down a side alley, vaulted a chain-link fence, and slid behind a rusted dumpster. Heart pounding. Breath ragged. Blood soaking into his shirt.
He pressed himself flat as flashlights swept the alley beyond. Men shouted orders. Boots stamped. For ten tense seconds, they hunted. Then slowly ... the voices faded. The footsteps retreated. Silence returned to the night.
Bruce waited ten more seconds—just to be sure—before slipping from behind the dumpster, clutching his bleeding side. He exhaled sharply, pain mixing with determination.
“Well,” he muttered to himself, wiping blood from his brow. “We’ve got to start somewhere.”
Somewhere in Asia – Bruce’s Safehouse
The apartment was little more than a bare concrete cube wedged above a cheap mechanic shop—dusty curtains, peeling paint, a mattress on the floor, and a single flickering bulb that buzzed like an irritated wasp. But for Bruce, it was home. Or at least, the closest thing he allowed himself to have.
He pushed through the door, lungs burning, shirt clinging wetly to him with sweat and blood. He peeled off his jacket with a grunt, then tore the shirt over his head and let it drop to the floor with a wet slap.
Time away from Gotham had hardened him. The soft body of a billionaire heir was long gone. In its place was raw muscle—functional, tight, carved by survival rather than vanity. And yet, as he looked into the cracked bathroom mirror, he didn’t see strength. He saw the limits. The bruises. The cuts. The bullet graze across his ribs, still oozing.
He touched the wound and hissed through his teeth. The adrenaline was wearing off fast. Pain barreled into him like a freight train.
He sat on the edge of the sink and unscrewed a bottle of cheap alcohol. The smell alone made his eyes water. He dumped it over the wound. He felt fire. White-hot, searing fire.
He gritted his teeth, jaw locked as a ragged growl escaped him. His fingers shook when he reached for the needle and thread. Training he’d picked up from mercenaries, soldiers in bars, medical textbooks bought secondhand ... none of it made stitching his own flesh any easier.
He stitched through the torn skin at his ribs. Slowly. Carefully. His hand trembled, sweat dripping from his forehead onto the tile. When he finally tied off the thread, he let out a long, shuddering breath.
Bandages wrapped around his torso next—tight, rough, already stained as they overlapped the worst of his wounds. Only then did he stagger to the fridge. He opened it. There were two things inside: bottled water and beer. He grabbed a beer, cracked it open—and froze.
A shadow moved across the room behind him. Silent. Fluid. Wrong. Bruce spun sharply, reaching for the knife at the counter. But a high-heeled boot flashed from the darkness—kicking the blade clean out of his hand with effortless precision. It sailed across the room to stick into the wall with a loud thud as it quivered there for a moment.
Bruce’s breath caught. The shadow stepped forward into the light. It was a woman. Tall. Beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Long dark hair framed a pale, aristocratic face. Her green eyes were sharp, predatory, dissecting him without moving. A sleek black leather jumpsuit hugged her voluptuous form—athletic, powerful, nothing soft except the illusion of softness she allowed others to see. Pale cleavage peaked out to accentuate her well-endowed figure, seeming both an invitation and warning. Her beauty was a weapon as deadly as any blade, meant to entice and distract before the kill. She looked about his age—maybe younger—but carried herself with ancient, dangerous calm.
Bruce had faced killers in alleys, mercenaries in warehouses, Triads in the street just hours ago. None of them made him feel like prey. She did.
“Bruce Wayne,” she said softly, her voice a quiet blade.
He didn’t speak. For a moment, he couldn’t.
She took a step forward. “You are Bruce Wayne, are you not?”
He found his voice, rough and wary. “Yes. Who are you?”
“Talia,” she answered simply.
He studied her stance. Her balance. Her stillness. “Are you some kind of government agent?” he asked. “An assassin sent to kill me? Or take me hostage for ransom?”
He shook his head. “No. That doesn’t make sense. I covered my tracks too well. Neither the government nor the underworld would know where to look. And your infiltration ... beyond flawless. Not even special forces can move like that.”
A faint smile curved her lips—almost impressed. “You have reasonable deductive skills,” she said. “Good. Justice requires a certain talent in the pursuit of truth.”
Her eyes flicked to his bleeding shoulder. To the fresh stitches. She lifted a hand, touching one of his bandages—not gently, but not cruelly either.
“But you lack balance. And discipline. Your efforts are noble, but you are far too clumsy and impatient. I suspect you nearly bleed to death after every outing.”
Bruce didn’t bristle. He took the criticism in stride. “For now, perhaps,” he said. “But that could change. With enough training and experience.”
Talia hummed, stepping back into the veil of shadows at the edge of the room. “We can give you both,” she said. “If you prove worthy.”
“We,” he repeated quietly. “Being the League of Shadows.”
Her smile deepened. “You could say that. For reasons of his own, in his eternal wisdom, Ra’s al Ghul has deemed you deserving of walking the path ... or, at least, of granting you the chance to prove yourself.”
Bruce stepped forward, the fire in his chest rising. “And how do I prove myself?”
“Finding the path,” she said softly. “Is the first challenge.”
Then she stepped backward—and vanished. The shadows swallowed her whole. Silence returned. Something fluttered to the floor. A small scrap of paper. Bruce knelt and picked it up. Mandarin characters. A riddle. A location disguised within metaphor. He read it once. Twice. A faint smile curved his lips.
“Finally.”
Somewhere in Tibet – High Mountains
Bruce stood atop the ridge as the wind tore at his coat, biting through every layer he wore. Snowfall drifted sideways, pale ribbons that blurred the world into white and shadow. He held the riddle in his hand, the paper creased and worn from constant rereading.
Seek the land where prayer rides the wind,
where the earth wears a crown of white.
Follow the serpent river to its source,
and climb until breath abandons you.
Only when the sky is close enough to touch
will the Demon’s shadow fall across your path.
He exhaled a thin fog, the cold stealing half the breath from his lungs. “Tibet,” he murmured, confirming the suspicion he’d had long before Talia appeared in his safehouse. “It was always here.”
He had traveled from village to village, each one perched like a stubborn stone in a sea of snow. The cold was bitter—unrelenting. It froze sweat on his skin, numbed fingers even through thick gloves, sank into his bones until it felt like he carried winter inside him.
He showed the villagers the paper, flipping it to reveal the symbol stamped on the back: the stylized insignia of the League of Shadows. Most shrugged, recognizing neither word nor sigil. Others recognized it too well and stiffened, refusing to look him in the eye, stepping away as if the mark itself carried a curse.
One man spat in the snow and muttered “Shintu tsongpa mi di yong— strangers should not walk this path.” Another simply shut his door.
Then—finally—he met the old man. The elder sat by a low fire outside his hut, sharpening a weathered kukri blade. His face was carved with deep creases, his white beard moving slightly whenever he hummed a tune older than the mountains themselves.
Bruce approached, speaking carefully in Tibetan as he held up the riddle. “Nga gi lag-kyu di tsum nöpa yin. Nga rig-par shod do?” (This symbol—I seek the meaning. Can you tell me?)
The old man’s eyes flicked to the insignia, then to Bruce’s face. His expression didn’t change, but the sharpened blade paused mid-stroke.
“Kha-nyam gyi tshig go song— your Tibetan is adequate,” the old man said. Then he abruptly switched languages. “Ta Mongol hel yariad uzey.” (Let us try Mongolian.)
Bruce didn’t miss a beat. He switched to Mongolian while holding up the scrap of parchment. “Bi medne. Tany khariytsan bol yu?” (I understand. Does this mean something to you?)
A faint smile tugged the elder’s lips. He switched again. “Nihongo wa ikaga ka?” (How about Japanese?)
Bruce answered. “Watashi wa hanaseru.” (I can speak it.)
Now the smile became a grin—rare, wide, knowing. The old man rose without a word, brushed snow off his coat, and gestured for Bruce to follow.
They trekked out of the village, boots crunching through the crusted snow. The wind howled like an ancient guardian watching their ascent. For nearly an hour they climbed the foothills, weaving between jagged stones and frozen ridges. Bruce’s breath plumed heavily, and sweat chilled instantly along his spine.
Finally the old man stopped and pointed to a narrow, worn path carved into the mountain’s flank. The incline was merciless—nearly vertical in some places.
In perfect English, the old man said, “If you have the strength, then you may follow the path.”
Bruce stared at the ascent. It was steep. Treacherous. Half-swallowed by ice. A single misstep would mean death on the rocks below. He hesitated—only long enough to inhale.
Then he nodded. “Thank you.”
The man bowed once and retreated back toward the village without another word. Bruce gripped the first icy ledge and began to climb. The journey was merciless. The cold gnawed at him with every step. His muscles screamed. Several times he wasn’t walking so much as clawing his way upward, fingers digging into rock, boots sliding on ice. Wind battered him, shoving him sideways. His lungs felt like collapsing paper bags, each breath thinner than the last.
There were moments—brief, terrible moments—where he wondered if he was about to die there on that path, frozen in place like countless others who had tried and failed.
But he pushed on. Higher. Stronger. Until—the storm thinned. Snow parted like a curtain. And the palace appeared. It rose from the mountainside as if carved by gods—an ancient fortress of dark stone and sweeping architecture that merged seamlessly with jagged cliffs. Tiered roofs curved like the talons of a slumbering dragon. Prayer flags—faded, tattered—flapped wildly from the battlements, snapping in the wind like ghostly banners.
The outer walls were colossal, etched with symbols and scars of centuries. Torches flickered in sheltered alcoves, casting firelit patterns across the stone. Tall spires pierced the sky, their tops lost in drifting clouds.
A bridge of weather-worn stone stretched across a yawning chasm, leading toward a massive entry gate adorned with the sigil of the Demon’s Head. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.
Bruce stood, panting, staring up at the palace of Ra’s al Ghul—the hidden heart of the League of Shadows. His destiny waited inside.
Bruce steadied his breath as he crossed the ancient stone bridge, every step echoing faintly against the abyss below. The massive doors loomed before him—dark, weathered wood bound by iron bands thicker than his wrists. Carvings of serpents, stylized flames, and the sigil of the Demon’s Head stared down at him like judging eyes.
And then—they appeared. Silent as snowfall. Sharp as unsheathed blades. Ninjas stepped out of the drifting white, materializing from ledges, alcoves, shadows Bruce didn’t even realize were there. A dozen of them. Maybe more. Each one moved with lethal grace.
One was tall and reed-slender, eyes cold above a dark mask. Another had a build like a coiled spring, his movements too fluid, too precise—like a predator waiting to pounce. A third carried twin short swords across his back, their hilts wrapped in white silk. Others bore no weapons at all, indicating their bodies alone were instruments of death.
Bruce’s pulse kicked. Every one of them radiated the same quiet menace Talia had—predatory, calm, disciplined. In his state—half frozen, half starved—any one of them could kill him easily. Actually, even if he wasn’t knocking at death’s door, they could probably still kill him without much effort.
But instead of dealing out death, two stepped forward, gripped the monumental doors, and pulled. The doors parted with a low, ancient groan. Inside waited a giant.
He stood centered beneath pillars carved with draconic symbols—an Asian man with the physique of a war elephant, bald and imposing. His black ninja garb was embroidered with silver thread along the sleeves and chest, marking him clearly as someone of high authority. Unlike the others, he wore no mask. His face was stone carved into human shape.
When he spoke, his voice was deep, formal, and resonant. “Greetings, Mr. Wayne. My name is Ubu.”
Bruce swallowed past the dryness in his throat, forced himself to straighten, and offered a breathless bow even as pain shot through his ribs.
“I ... I have come ... to see Ra’s al Ghul.”
Ubu regarded him for a long beat, dark eyes studying Bruce as though weighing flesh from spirit. Then he shook his head.
“I am sorry,” he said politely. “But the Master will not see you as you are now.”
Bruce’s heart lurched. “But I ... I’ve come so far.”
“And yet you are barely alive,” Ubu replied, tone unwavering. “The Master insists you rest and gather your strength before he meets you.”
Something sharp and angry flared in Bruce’s chest. His fists clenched. He stepped forward, voice cracking with frustration.
“I’ll be the judge of—”
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