Chapter 4

The Long Becoming

Years passed in the blink of an eye. For Henri Ducard, time no longer flowed as it once had. It moved strangely now—swift in its passing, yet generous in its measure—allowing a mortal man to achieve in decades what should have taken several lifetimes. After bathing in the Lazarus Pit, he became a wanderer across continents, a shadow in foreign lands, a whisper in training halls and battlefields from Europe to Asia to Africa.

He sought out every master, every warrior, every philosophy of combat the world had to offer. Monks in the high mountain temples taught him balance and breath. Soldiers hardened by endless border skirmishes taught him steel and discipline. Mercenaries taught him pragmatism—how honor lived only in actions, not reputations. Martial artists taught him the beauty and savagery of movement. Bedouin raiders taught him how to track across desert sands as if the earth itself whispered secrets beneath his feet.

He stayed with each teacher only long enough to learn everything they could offer—and then left the moment he surpassed them. Some revered him. Some despised him. Some feared him. But all of them remembered him.

And always, he fought. He walked the world as a mercenary, but he never sold his blade to cruelty. He accepted only the causes he believed in—those where the innocent were prey and the wicked fattened themselves on suffering. He hunted slavers through African trade routes, their caravans breaking apart under the weight of his justice. He fought criminals and brigands in the hills of Anatolia, mercenaries in the ruins of empires, raiders who thought the desert made them immune to consequence.

He fought in crusades as well—more than one—attempts to reclaim Jerusalem after it fell back into Muslim hands. Those wars proved fruitless, another testament to mankind’s endless appetite for blood and its inability to learn. But he fought nonetheless. He owed his father—Lord Ducard—that much. He owed Sora. He owed the world that had failed them.

And in fighting, in traveling, in studying, in surviving—Henri Ducard became something else. He mastered his body. He mastered his senses. He mastered his will.

In time, Vandal Savage’s words proved true: with enough discipline, Henri learned to push his body past what nature had designed for any man. His eyes could track the flick of a dagger in the dark. His ears could detect a footstep on soft sand long before the attacker realized they had betrayed themselves. His sense of smell was sharp enough to note fear-sweat, blood, sickness—like a bloodhound, as men whispered.

More than that, he developed a sixth sense—one born of instinct sharpened to steel. Henri could feel hostile intent. He knew when a man was about to attack him. Knew when a blade was hesitating. Knew when a threat was real or when it was only a drunkard’s bluff. Many such men lived because he sensed their weakness, their false bravado, their lack of murderous will. He spared them all. He fought only when necessary—only when the helpless were in danger.

Across decades, his legend grew. Across decades, so did he. And there came a point—inevitable, quiet, absolute—when Henri Ducard realized he had surpassed every fighter he had ever met. Every warrior. Every swordmaster. Every killer. Every monk and soldier and mercenary whose path had dared cross his.

Except one. He could not yet surpass Vandal Savage. But Henri did not seek him out. He felt a growing certainty that their ideologies would one day collide like tectonic plates. And he would not fight the man who had given him rebirth until he had no choice. He owed Savage that courtesy—if not loyalty, then acknowledgment.

Still, the Pit called to him. Even after decades, Henri never felt the need to return. His vitality sustained itself, near-limitless. But he felt the Lazarus Pit everywhere he went—its power humming faintly beneath his skin, a chord resonating with his own heartbeat. And he knew, with the same certainty one knew a coming storm, that the moment he required the Pit’s waters, he would know.

Desiring proximity to the land of his birth—Jerusalem, the Holy Land—Henri eventually made his home in Arabia. There, among dunes and scorching winds, he found endless opportunities to put his strength to purpose. Bandits, raiders, and slavers—the likes of Nazeem and worse—learned to fear the silent specter who carved justice into the desert with blade and fire.

With time, his fortune grew. His purpose sharpened. And finally—after mastering his body, his senses, his craft, and his will—Henri felt the inevitable next step rising within him like a tide. The time had come to gather followers. The time had come to build something greater than himself. The time had come to begin the work that would echo across centuries.

Desert Village – Night

Night draped itself over the desert town like a worn shroud, the air inside the tavern thick with smoke, sweat, and the stale stench of old ale. Henri Ducard sat alone at a corner table, fingers resting lightly around a cup he had long since stopped drinking from. His eyes were distant, unfocused, as he sifted through possibilities.

He needed followers. Warriors. Minds and bodies capable of surviving what lay ahead. Men and women who could be sharpened into something greater, who could be shaped into the foundation of a world reborn.

But who? The desert was full of strong backs and skilled fighters, yet most were crude, temperamental, or motivated by greed rather than conviction. Ra’s exhaled slowly, frustration curling through him like smoke.

Then he heard it—the sudden rise of angry voices, laughter, and curses slurred into something just short of violence. His gaze lifted. A man he had never seen before staggered through the tavern, shoving past patrons and roaring in a language Ra’s did not recognize. The stranger was oriental—his features unmistakably East Asian—but his attire was stranger still: a black suit hugging his form like a second skin. It was nothing like the loose garb of desert warriors, nothing like the layered robes of Chinese monks. It was foreign. Alien.

The man was also impossibly, profoundly drunk. He slammed a cup onto a table, shouted something obscene, and nearly toppled over. Patrons winced. Others gave the man a wide berth. Henri’s curiosity sharpened.

He approached the barkeep, and said, “Tell me about that man.”

The barkeep eyed the strange oriental man warily before answering the inquiry. “He’s a mercenary,” the barkeep murmured. “Was brought here by slavers. Didn’t take kindly to that. Killed his masters—every one of ‘em—then walked out of the camp like he’d taken a stroll after dinner.”

Ra’s raised a brow. “A dangerous man, then.”

“That’s one way to put it.” The barkeep leaned in, voice lowering. “Sells his blade to the highest bidder now. Calls himself Ryu.”

Henri nodded toward the stranger’s unusual clothing. “And ... that strange garb his?”

The barkeep’s face darkened with something like respect—or fear. “A memento from his homeland. A place called Japan.”

Japan. A name Henri had only encountered in obscure texts and half-whispered legends. A land so distant it might as well have been a dream. There was something curious—something deliberate—about the man. So Ra’s watched him. Observed how the drunkard’s sway was too balanced to be genuine, how even in his stupor he remained oddly aware of the room.

But his observations were cut short. Shouts erupted outside. Screams. The crack of torches being smashed into walls. Then—iron bells ringing the alarm. Raiders. Dozens of them, maybe more.

Henri rose instantly, hand gripping the hilt of his great scimitar. The steel sang as he unsheathed it, the blade catching firelight in a silver arc. As he turned toward the door, he was surprised to see Ryu already moving—no longer staggering, no longer drunk.

The transformation was instantaneous. The man snapped a black, featureless mask over his face and drew a long, gently curved blade Henri had never seen before. Its elegant form was nothing like the chopping swords of the desert or the straight-edged weapons of Europe.

“You’re going to help?” Henri asked, genuinely impressed.

Ryu shot him a glare sharp enough to cut stone. “Someone will pay me if I save this dung heap.”

He tested the edge of his blade—a fluid motion of practiced finesse.

Henri found himself unable to suppress his curiosity. “What kind of sword is that?”

Ryu growled, clearly irritated by the question yet unable to resist answering with pride. “It is called a katana,” he said. “It is from my homeland.”

Meanwhile...

They came from the deep desert—hard men burned black by sun and sand, wrapped in ragged keffiyehs and scavenged armor. Their eyes were sharp with hunger and cruelty, gleaming beneath torn cloths stained with dust and old blood. Curved blades hung at their sides, nicked and darkened from countless killings; their composite bows were strung with sinew, their quivers stuffed with mismatched arrows. Their horses were lean desert beasts, ribs visible, hooves striking sparks from the stones. These were no soldiers—only predators.

A roaming tribe of raiders who lived by fire and theft, taking water, livestock, and lives with equal indifference. They descended upon the village like a sandstorm with steel in its heart, eager for plunder ... and for suffering.

The raiders descended like locusts. Flames devoured rooftops, smoke twisting into the desert sky. Screams tore through the night as men and women ran in every direction, scattering like frightened birds before a storm. Arrows rained down without pattern or mercy. Horses trampled fallen bodies. Livestock bleated in terror, bolting down narrow alleys only to be hunted by laughing marauders.

Bandits ripped coin pouches off still-warm corpses. They seized water skins, tore sacks of grain from the hands of sobbing merchants, and kicked aside children who cried for parents already gone.

A cluster of raiders dragged several shrieking women toward the sand, shoving them brutally to the ground. The women screamed, clutching at their robes as the men loomed over them, chuckling lecherously.