Batman Legacy
Copyright© 2025 by Uruks
Chapter 2
Becoming a Shadow...
Bruce Wayne’s transformation did not happen in moments of triumph. It happened in the cold, in the blood, in the breaking. Training with the League of Shadows was not training—it was annihilation, followed by rebirth, followed by annihilation again. Every dawn began with agony and ended with exhaustion so deep it felt like drowning. There were days Bruce wasn’t sure he had actually woken up at all, because the pain followed him from sleep into consciousness without pause.
He no longer sparred with Ra’s al Ghul; no one survived that long. Instead, he faced the League’s finest—ninjas who moved like whispering steel. They struck him down a dozen times a day. They battered him with fists, blades, staffs, and wooden training weapons that still cracked bone when they landed. Every session left him bruised, bleeding, or limping. Many left him unconscious.
He ran until his lungs burned, until he collapsed retching into the snow, until the world spun in nauseating circles. When he could stand again, he ran more.
The obstacle courses were masterpieces of cruelty—treacherous labyrinths of spinning blades, collapsing platforms, hidden pits, and razor-thin footholds slick with ice. Pressure plates triggered storms of shuriken. Tripwires dropped jagged stones from above. One misstep could mean a broken leg, a severed hand, or a plunge into darkness.
Ubu and Talia often accompanied him through these trials. Neither ever stumbled. Neither ever bled. They moved through the death traps with such effortless grace that the course looked like a simple hallway beneath their feet. Ubu walked across beams that shook under Bruce’s weight as if stepping on solid ground. Talia glided over pressure plates he couldn’t even see, twisting between scything blades without breaking stride.
Bruce, meanwhile, sometimes had to be dragged out—half-conscious, frostbitten, bones screaming beneath torn muscle. League medics carried him to quiet chambers and set about rebuilding him.
Their medical methods were unlike anything Bruce had seen. They forced him through breathing techniques that restored oxygen to starved muscles and calmed a heartbeat bordering on collapse. They taught him meditation techniques that let him control pain, slow bleeding, and even induce sleep to accelerate recovery.
They used herbs with scents sharp as pine and bitter as ash. Water infused with strange minerals that tingled against his tongue and spread heat through his bloodstream like fire. Poultices that sealed cuts overnight. Tonics that cleared bruises in hours.
“What should take months will take days,” his instructors often said. “These are gifts from Lazarus.”
Bruce didn’t know the meaning behind the word. But he had suspicions—and each miraculous recovery deepened them. Years passed in this rhythm of destruction and reconstruction. And the results were undeniable.
His body hardened beyond what he had thought possible. The mountain’s thin, merciless air forced his lungs to grow stronger than any athlete’s. His muscles adapted, becoming dense and powerful without sacrificing flexibility. His bones thickened, microfractures healing stronger each time. Soon he could punch through stones like they were made of cardboard when once, all he’d get were bleeding knuckles. His reflexes sharpened until he could snatch arrows from the air.
He began to move as the League moved—silent, fluid, invisible. He learned to scale walls with bare hands, to cling to surfaces that should not hold a man’s weight. His jumps grew higher, his landings softer, his strikes faster. What once seemed superhuman became commonplace.
He mastered every fighting style the League possessed—Karate, Ninjutsu, Jiu-Jitsu, Muay Thai, Silat, Krav Maga, Eskrima, and dozens more. He mastered every melee weapon known to humanity—swords, knives, sickles, chains, staves, tonfa, nunchaku, shuriken, kusarigama, spear and halberd, whip and garrote. He could transition from one style to another without pause, turning his entire body into an endless machine of martial precision. And yet, within the League, all this was considered baseline. A starting point. Protocol.
Eventually, he surpassed most of his instructors. One by one, they bowed to him in reluctant acknowledgment. When the day came that Ubu declared Bruce had no more to learn from the general ranks, Ra’s assigned him a new sparring partner. Talia.
Their matches were storms. She moved like a blade made flesh—silent, elegant, fatal. Bruce rarely lasted long against her. She threw him harder than the ninjas did. She struck with more precision. Her kicks carried a deceptive strength that left bruises in perfect crescent shapes across his ribs and arms.
Bruce lost again and again. But each defeat taught him something. About her style. About his flaws. About the strange, electric tension that sparked each time their bodies collided in combat.
After every session, as he lay panting on the mat, he saw the shift in her eyes—something darker, sharper, more dangerous than respect. Something that promised trouble. Something he didn’t yet know how to name.
Training Hall – Noon
The training hall echoed with the sting of clashing limbs and sharp exhalations. Bruce and Talia moved across the polished stone like twin storms—one in dark ninja armor, the other in her signature black jumpsuit that clung to her lithe, lethal frame. Bruce had long suspected that the garment’s revealing cut was no accident; Talia al Ghul understood the power of distraction as well as any blade in her arsenal.
They traded blows at blistering speed. Bruce blocked a palm strike and countered with a hook. Talia ducked, sweeping for his ankles. He vaulted over her leg and answered with a spinning backfist. She deflected it with a flick of her wrist, flowing past him like silk over steel.
But today—today he lasted longer than usual. A rare opening appeared. Bruce took it. His fist drove into her abdomen with controlled force, enough to fold her forward with a sharp grunt. Before she could recover, he slid behind her, looping an arm around her neck in a tight chokehold. Her muscles tensed, her hands clawing for leverage as she struggled to pry him off.
It hit him then—shock. He’d actually caught her. And with her struggling against him, he caught a brief, flustering view of her exposed neckline, the fabric of her jumpsuit dipping lower than was fair.
Talia stiffened as if she could feel the direction of his thoughts. “Hmph,” she huffed—annoyed, and maybe a bit insulted.
The sound jolted Bruce back—too late. Her head snapped backward. The crown of her skull slammed into his nose. His vision burst into stars. His grip loosened just enough for her to twist free. Her leg shot straight back, the two of her boot cracking against his forehead. Bruce staggered—just long enough for her to launch herself upward.
Her thighs snapped around his skull in a sudden, crushing head-scissor takedown. Momentum wrenched him off his feet, slamming him onto the mat. She flipped with him, keeping the hold locked, her breath strained as she tried to choke him into submission.
But Bruce had learned. He clamped one hand around her top leg at the ankle, braced his other hand near her knee, and turned sharply toward the pressure point of the hold—stacking her hips awkwardly while shifting his weight. Her leverage broke. Her legs unlocked with a frustrated grunt.
Bruce rolled free and immediately tried to take advantage, diving to pin her—only for her fist to slam into his groin. Pain detonated through him. Before he could even double over, her open palm cracked across his jaw, sending him sprawling across the mat.
Talia flipped gracefully to her feet, planting the heel of her boot onto his throat—not enough to choke, but enough to make a point. Her smile was sharp, triumphant, infuriating.
“You might last longer,” she purred. “If you weren’t so prone to distraction.”
A growl rippled out of him. He seized her ankle and twisted. This time she was the one who yelped, losing her balance as he brought her crashing down. Bruce surged forward, pinning her shoulder and hip with practiced precision. She was trapped—glowering up at him, dark hair framing her furious green eyes.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.
He released her and rolled back to his feet. Talia rose just as swiftly—no grace lost, no pride surrendered, though her eyes glinted with a new, razor-edged determination. Round two began. And this time, she meant to break him.
The courtyard was alive with the clatter of steel and the whisper of bodies in motion—but all of it faded into background noise when Talia al Ghul lunged at Bruce with the fury of a thunderstorm.
She was a blur—hair whipping like a dark banner, limbs slicing through the air with lethal precision. Every strike of hers had broken men twice his size; every kick was sharp enough to shatter stone. She came at him fast, faster than she ever had, and with none of the restraint she had shown in earlier sparring sessions. This was Talia unleashed.
But Bruce saw everything. Where once her movements were too quick to track, now they unfolded to him as clearly as if she moved underwater. His body anticipated her without thinking. His guard shifted effortlessly, intercepting her fists, redirecting her kicks, sidestepping her sweeps with a fluidity he had never possessed before.
She spun into a head-scissor takedown—her signature, her vicious favorite. Bruce countered without hesitation. He caught her thigh at the knee, jammed his forearm under her leg to break her leverage, and pushed off the mat with his opposite foot. Momentum died instantly. Talia’s eyes widened as she tumbled to the ground.
She rolled with the fall, flipping back to her feet in a graceful arc, landing with a low, feral huff. She surged toward him again, sharper this time, going straight for his weaknesses. A finger strike aimed at his eyes. A kick targeting his crotch—her old, reliable equalizer.
Not today. Bruce knocked the first aside with a whip-crack parry. The second he stopped with a downward block, shifting his hips to absorb the force.
He countered immediately. A punch to her middle—driving the air from her lungs. Another to her temple. Then he twisted, sweeping up into a double-kick: heel to her gut, then his opposite foot snapping up under her chin.
Talia flew backward, hitting the mat hard enough to slide. Her breath came in sharp, ragged bursts. She planted a hand to rise—still dangerous, still unbroken. Bruce stepped forward to help her. Her leg shot out like a striking cobra. He pulled back just in time.
Talia snarled and sprang at him again, but he caught her wrist mid-strike, twisting her arm behind her in a brutal lock. She hissed and swung her free elbow back toward his jaw, but he trapped that arm too, pinning it across her body.
Her muscles strained. She tried to snap her head back again, aiming for his nose—but he turned his face aside, letting her hair brush harmlessly across his cheek. Her last attempt was a backward kick—wild, desperate—but Bruce blocked it with his elbow.
Then he ended it. He drove his forehead into hers—hard, deliberate, stunning her completely. As her body slackened, he hooked her leg with his own, twisted his hips, and executed a perfect judo osoto gari, sweeping her clean off her feet and slamming her onto the mat. The impact echoed across the courtyard.
Silence followed. Dozens of ninja paused mid-training. Even the elite guards turned. Ubu’s eyes widened—barely, but unmistakably. And from the balcony above, Ra’s al Ghul smiled. It was not surprise that moved him—but satisfaction.
Talia lay on her back for a moment, chest rising and falling, her eyes locked on the man who had finally—finally—bested her. Bruce knelt, offering his hand. She took it. He hauled her gently to her feet.
Breathing hard, bruised but unbowed, he said, “Thank you, Talia. I never would’ve made it this far if not for you.”
She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face—one that promised pride, challenge, and something else simmering beneath the surface. Something that would change both of their lives forever.
The Catacombs – Night
The descent into the hidden depths of the palace felt like moving into the bones of the mountain itself. Talia led the way, a single torch raised high, its flame flickering against walls carved by time and purpose. The stone breathed cold air; the scent of earth and ancient incense clung thick in the darkness. Candles—hundreds, maybe thousands—lined the narrow passages, guiding their steps through a sprawling labyrinth of caverns and catacombs that seemed to stretch endlessly beneath the League’s fortress.
Bruce followed just behind her, boots crunching softly over gravel and old dust. Shadows danced across his face as the tunnels widened, revealing platforms, pits, and crumbling stone pillars—remnants of long-forgotten training grounds.
Talia glanced back over her shoulder, the torchlight catching the sharp edges of her beauty. A faint, quiet smile curved her lips. “You’ve come a long way,” she said. “And in only a few short years. Mastery such as yours usually doesn’t develop until after more than a decade with the League.”
Bruce slowed a little, careful. “So what does that mean?”
Her smile shifted—still warm, but tinged with something sadder. “It means you will need another instructor as you advance.”
Bruce perked up. “Your father?”
Talia shook her head. “You are not nearly at his level yet.” She continued walking, deep into the cavern’s heart. “Do not think defeating me is such a great feat. I am skilled, and I have earned a place of honor within the League ... but I am still a woman.”
Her voice held no resentment, only an acceptance carved from years of discipline. “I have ... limitations,” she continued. “That no amount of training can overcome. No matter how much I may wish it, I will never be my father’s greatest student. That honor currently belongs to Ubu.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. He looked away, keeping his tone measured. “Well, you fight better than most any man I’ve ever seen. I don’t see why we shouldn’t still spar together.”
A soft, low laugh slipped from her. Before Bruce could brace himself, she stepped closer—close enough that he could feel her breath, close enough that her presence struck him like a physical blow. Her eyes glinted with mischief beneath the torchlight.
“I knew it,” she murmured playfully. “You’re going to miss our bodies clashing together so vigorously, aren’t you?”
Her gaze slid over him, bold and assessing, and for a moment the cavern felt too small, the torch too warm.
“Maybe,” she added, quieter now. “I’ll miss it, too.”
Bruce growled under his breath and tore his gaze away. “Stop toying with me, Talia. I ... I didn’t come for such trivial things.”
She hummed, amused. “And yet,” she said gently. “Such trivial things are what perpetuate life itself.”
Bruce looked back at her then—really looked. Past the teasing smile. Past the assassin’s poise. In the shifting shadows he saw something else flicker in her eyes—a complexity, a longing that mirrored his own, buried long beneath discipline and ambition.
Talia raised the torch again. “Come,” she said softly.
And without waiting, she led him deeper into the cavern—toward a destiny neither of them yet understood. The deeper they went, the more the palace above felt like a dream Bruce had already woken from. Down here it was only stone and shadow and the sound of their own breathing, the torch in Talia’s hand throwing long, rippling shapes along the carved walls. Moisture beaded on the ceiling and dripped in slow, steady rhythm, echoing like a ticking clock.
Then another sound cut through the hush. Clang. Faint at first, like metal striking from a great distance. Then again, clearer, sharper—steel on steel, ringing up the passageway like a bell being hammered. Bruce’s head lifted. The hairs along his arms prickled.
Talia glanced back, lips quirking. “You hear it,” she murmured.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The clangs came now in a quickening rhythm—ring, scrape, ring—punctuated by low grunts that carried the weight of exertion and the snap of movement. The narrow tunnel widened ahead into a yawning arch, its threshold lit by a diffuse, flickering glow.
They stepped through into a vast cavernous chamber, and Bruce forgot, for a heartbeat, how to breathe. Ra’s al Ghul and Ubu were already in motion.
They circled in the center of the chamber on a broad, flattened platform of ancient stone, its surface etched with faded sigils and worn grooves that spoke of centuries of practice. Torches ringed the space, their flames casting hot gold and deep black across the two men as they fought. Each held a single blade, but the weapons moved with such ferocity and speed that it seemed there were a dozen in play.
Their movements were beyond graceful. The blades didn’t just strike—they danced. Ubu, towering and broad-shouldered, came in first with a brutal downward cut meant to cleave straight through bone, the kind of overhand strike Bruce recognized from kenjutsu drills—except Ubu drove it with twice the power, his entire frame committed. Ra’s turned with it, feet gliding as though on polished marble, his own sword sweeping up in a perfect rising deflection. The steel sang as their blades met, sparks spitting in a brief halo between them.
In the same breath, Ra’s rotated his wrist, flowing from the parry into a tight moulinet, his blade circling his wrist and snapping toward Ubu’s ribs. Ubu twisted away, knocking it aside with a short, efficient block that Bruce recognized as almost classical Italian—wide stance, blade angled to deflect and immediately return.
Bruce’s eyes tracked them, every instinct as a fighter and a detective latching onto details faster than he could consciously name them. A thrust like a fencing lunge, straight and economical, knees bent, heel driving into the stone. A sudden iaidō-like cut, blade flashing from a near-rest position into a lethal arc with no wasted motion. A two-beat feint—high, then low—straight out of German longsword forms, the second cut coming from an impossible angle. Ra’s stepped into half-swording for a split second, hand briefly catching the back of the blade to shove Ubu’s weapon off-line with raw leverage before sliding back to a regular grip as if the transition were nothing.
He’d thought Ra’s terrifying in hand-to-hand combat. With a sword, he was something else entirely. The violence of it was undeniable; every blow was meant to kill, maim, or cripple. Yet the beauty of their timing, the absolute control, made the duel look choreographed by something older and colder than human rage. For a fleeting moment, they seemed perfectly matched: Ubu’s sheer size and monstrous strength against Ra’s speed and razor precision, the old master moving with a fluidity that made time feel optional.
Steel crashed again and again in dizzying succession—parry, riposte, bind, break. Bruce could see the micro-adjustments in Ra’s shoulders, the way his weight shifted to the ball of his back foot before he exploded forward; he caught the telltale pre-rotation of Ubu’s hips a fraction of a second before each heavy cut.
In the span of a single blink Bruce cataloged at least a dozen distinct styles and techniques: Filipino escrima footwork in a tight sidestep, a mestre d’armes’ textbook disarming attempt that nearly wrenched Ubu’s sword free, a Krabi-Krabong spin that brought Ra’s blade around in a blazing, horizontal arc aimed at Ubu’s throat.
Then the fight tipped. Ubu lunged with a sudden, shocking burst of speed that belied his size—a straight, brutal thrust aimed right at Ra’s neck. For an instant it looked like a clean decapitation, the tip of the blade screaming toward the line of the old man’s jaw.
Bruce’s gut clenched. But Ra’s didn’t retreat. He moved with the flow of the attack, slipping into the line of the blade instead of away from it, turning his head at the last possible moment. Steel kissed flesh with a wet hiss, leaving a thin red line along his cheek instead of severing his head. At the same time, his own sword flicked out in a short, almost casual counter-cut. It was the kind of tight, efficient slash you only saw from a true master—no flourish, no wasted power, just inevitability. The edge kissed across Ubu’s massive forearm.
The larger man jerked, pulling back just enough to avoid having the limb opened to the bone, but not fast enough to escape entirely. A shallow line bloomed across the thick muscle, darkening with blood.
Bruce realized his hand had curled into a fist. His body moved before his mind caught up—he took an instinctive step forward, the urge to intervene rising in his chest like a shout.
A hand pressed flat against his chest, firm but not forceful. Talia. She stood close at his side, her torch held high, her eyes not leaving the fight even as she barred his path. Curiosity lit her features, a low, confused spark in the darkness.
“Why do you think to interfere?” she asked quietly. “The battle rage is with both of them now. You’ll only get chopped to ribbons.”
Bruce tore his gaze from the duel long enough to glare at her. “Ubu almost decapitated your father,” he said, voice low but edged. “He’s leveling blows that are meant to kill.”
Talia’s confusion lasted only a heartbeat before her expression softened into amusement. Her lips curved as she faced him. “Of course he is,” she said. “Father always tells Ubu to fight like he means to kill. Otherwise, it’s not challenging enough.”
The clash of steel punctuated her words, louder now as the duelists moved closer to the edge of the platform, their shadows leaping huge and distorted on the cavern walls.
Bruce turned back, unable to look away as the blades blurred again. “That’s reckless,” he muttered. “What if his luck runs out one of these days and Ubu does manage to kill him?”
Talia shrugged, the motion graceful and unconcerned. “Then I suppose Ubu would become Ra’s al Ghul in his place.”
She turned back toward her father, pride shining through every line of her posture. “Besides. Father has never lost a battle yet. No matter how close Ubu or others have come, none have been able to surpass him.”
“There’s always a first for everything,” Bruce said.
She kept her eyes glued to the flashing steel, her voice dropping to something almost conversational, almost to herself. “Well, he’s managed to keep his head for the last few hundred years or so...”
Bruce squinted, brow furrowing. “What was that?”
Talia looked up at him, almost startled, then smiled brightly. “Just thinking out loud to myself,” she said lightly. She nodded toward the platform. “Keep watching. It’s almost over.”