Batman Legacy
Copyright© 2025 by Uruks
Chapter 5
Action/Adventure Story: Chapter 5 - The origin story of Batman meant to capture the grit and spirit of the comics. This is just a fanfiction and is not meant for commercial use. While I do my best to honor the original story of Batman, I admit that it has my personal flair in it that you may notice if you're familiar with my work. I used AI to help me refine the book, but the dialogue, plot, and tone are all mine. I've always loved Batman and wanted to write my own fanfic that includes Gotham's full story and his legend. Enjoy.
Caution: This Action/Adventure Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Romantic Heterosexual Crime Fan Fiction Superhero Science Fiction
The Demon Clan Village
Less than an hour later, the forest opened around them—not in a clearing, but in a series of subtle, deliberate absences. What at first looked like nothing but layered foliage and tangled branches slowly resolved itself into structures—houses molded from wood and stone, their walls masked with woven mats of leaves, their roofs buried beneath moss and low-hanging boughs. Smoke rose in the faintest of streams through cleverly concealed vents, dissipating into the night air before it could betray the village’s location. It was not a settlement meant to be seen. It was meant to be missed.
The ninja escort moved silently into the hidden thoroughfare, their steps sure upon narrow, packed-earth paths that threaded between shadowed homes. Lanterns were hooded, casting only slivers of warm light that revealed glimpses of faces peering from behind reed screens.
Women emerged first, drawn by the return of their warriors. Children followed, small shapes in dark cotton robes, clutching at their mothers’ sleeves or bobbing eagerly ahead. There were no cries of welcome—not loud ones. Just sharp intakes of breath, soft calls, hurried footsteps, the restrained joy of a people for whom silence was survival.
Ryu’s mouth opened wide as they stepped into the central lane. His eyes roamed over the village he had not seen in nearly a decade—the familiar curve of rooftops, the arrangement of stepping stones, the scent of pine smoke and river water. His shoulders trembled.
Then a young woman at the edge of the crowd froze. Her eyes widened. Her hand flew to her mouth. And then, without hesitation, she ran.
“Ryu!” she cried, the word thick with disbelief and emotion.
He barely had time to register her before she crashed into him, tackling him to the ground. She wrapped her arms around his neck, laughing and sobbing at once, her face buried against his chest.
“Hina...” he breathed, stunned.
Hina clung to him like someone embracing a ghost. Her laugh hitched into a sob. “You idiot,” she choked out in Japanese. “You absolute idiot ... you’re alive.”
Ryu, flustered and suddenly awkward, patted her head as if she were a startled animal rather than his wife. His eyes flicked upward and met Ra’s al Ghul’s gaze. The immortal stood a short distance away, watching with a faint, approving smile that softened the hard lines of his face. Ryu’s cheeks burned. Somehow, facing slavers and raiders had never embarrassed him. This did.
Then Hina pulled back just enough to look at him—and promptly smacked him in the chest.
He flinched. “Ow! What was that for?” he snapped, still in Japanese.
“For being gone so long!” she shot back, tears still running down her cheeks. “Nearly ten years, Ryu! Ten! Do you have any idea what that’s like?”
“That wasn’t my fault,” he protested. “I was captured by slavers while I was fishing.”
She narrowed her eyes. “It probably was your fault to begin with. You were likely drinking. You always were when you went ‘fishing.’”
A ripple of laughter passed through the nearby men. Jinichi barked a sharp laugh of his own.
“She’s not wrong, big brother,” Jinichi called out in Japanese, grinning. “You did enjoy your sake.”
Ryu shot his younger brother a murderous glare. Then he turned it on Hina, pointing at her accusingly. “You drank more than I ever did.”
Hina’s face went crimson. She gave him another sharp smack. “Don’t say things like that to your wife in front of everyone!”
He scowled, more flustered than truly angry, and shoved her off him a little too roughly. She landed on her backside with a small yelp.
“Mama!” a high voice cried.
A small boy—no more than ten—darted out from the crowd and threw his arms around Hina where she sat in the dirt. Hina shifted, wincing, then gathered him close, one hand splayed protectively over his back.
Ryu went absolutely still. Hina lifted her head. Tears still shone in her eyes, but now there was something else there—relief, fear, hope all braided together. She turned the boy gently so he faced the man standing rigid in front of them.
“Haruto,” she said softly, in Japanese. “This is your father. Ryu. He’s come back to us.”
The boy stared up at him—wide dark eyes, hair as black as Ryu’s had once been before hardship and wandering had streaked it with gray at the temples. His small hands tightened in his mother’s sleeve. He looked confused. Curious. A little frightened.
Ryu’s breath caught. His mouth opened, then closed again. For once, no curse, no grumble, no sardonic remark would come. He turned his head slightly—toward Ra’s al Ghul—as if silently asking for guidance in a battle he had never trained for.
Ra’s stepped forward, boots making no sound on the packed earth. He rested a steady, almost gentle hand on Ryu’s shoulder and leaned close enough that only he could hear.
“Tend to your family, Ryu,” Ra’s murmured in English. “Think not of me. I believe it will be best if we speak with your elders in the morning.”
Ryu swallowed hard and gave a small, shaky nod. Hina and Haruto watched him as if he were still in danger of vanishing, as if any sudden movement might cause him to dissolve back into nightmare and memory.
Ryu turned to Jinichi, voice low but steady now. “Find Ra’s al Ghul lodgings for the night,” he said in Japanese. “Someplace suitable. He is ... under my protection.”
Jinichi nodded at once. “Of course.” He bowed toward Ra’s—respectful, if still cautious—and gestured for him to follow.
As Ra’s al Ghul walked deeper into the hidden village beside Jinichi, he glanced back once. Ryu was still kneeling in the dust, his wife clinging to him, his son staring up at him with awe and uncertainty. A man who had killed and bled on foreign soil for a decade now sat there as if he’d been knocked flat by a single word: Father.
Ra’s allowed himself a fleeting, private thought as he turned away. The way they were together ... reminded him of his time with Sora. However, such things were no longer his concern. His allies could have families ... needed families. They were mortal. But Ra’s al Ghul. Such things were a luxury for him now.
Ryu’s Household...
The hut Ryu was led to was small, but built with the same deliberate, unseen artistry as the village itself. The walls were a lattice of woven branches and packed earth, smooth and cool to the touch. The floor was packed clay, worn flat by generations of silent feet. A low fire pit in the center was vented by a cleverly disguised flue in the roof, its smoke curling away into the night without a trace. The light it cast was warm and intimate, making the shadows in the corners of the single room dance like timid spirits.
Hina moved with a quiet grace, her presence filling the small space. Ryu watched her, his heart a clumsy drum in his chest. She was more beautiful than he remembered, a delicate beauty honed by a decade of resilience. Her face was heart-shaped, with high cheekbones and a full mouth that was quick to frown but, he now recalled, even quicker to smile. Her long, dark hair was tied back in a simple braid, but stray strands framed her face, softening the determined set of her jaw. She was slender, but with the toned, wiry strength of a woman who had known hard labor and survived.
Haruto sat on a woven mat across the fire, his small knees pulled to his chest. He was a perfect miniature of Ryu, but without the hard edges. His hair was a soft, unruly black, his eyes wide and dark, holding the same spark of intelligence he saw in his brother Jinichi, but tempered with a child’s shyness. He watched his father from across the flames, a mixture of awe and fear in his gaze, as if Ryu were a magnificent, unpredictable creature that had wandered into his home.
Ryu himself felt like an ox in a teacup. A decade of wandering, of sleeping on hard ground and in crowded tents, had made him large and rough. His hands, resting on his knees, were calloused and scarred. His rugged good looks were weathered by sun and strife, his features sharper, his hair streaked with premature gray at the temples. He felt every one of his thirty-three years in this hut, which smelled of pine, woodsmoke, and home.
Hina returned from the small cooking area with three wooden bowls. She served them with a simple, nourishing broth of river fish and wild mushrooms, with a side of steamed rice. She placed a bowl in front of Ryu, her fingers brushing his for the briefest of moments. The touch was electric, a jolt of memory and longing.
“Itadakimasu,” she murmured, the traditional grace a familiar comfort.
They ate in near silence, the only sounds the soft clinking of their spoons against the wood and the crackle of the fire. The weight of ten years of unsaid things hung in the air, thick and heavy. Ryu cleared his throat, the sound too loud in the small space.
“Jinichi tells me you are training, Haruto,” Ryu said, his voice gruffer than he intended. He winced internally. “To be a shinobi. Like your uncle.”
Haruto flinched at being addressed directly. He looked from his bowl to his mother, who gave him a small, encouraging nod.
“H-hai,” the boy whispered, not looking at Ryu. “I practice every day. With my shuriken and my kunai.”
“Good,” Ryu said, nodding. “That is ... good. You must listen to your sensei. Be better than your old man. I was always getting hit.”
He tried for a light tone, but it came out as a grumble. Haruto just shrugged, shrinking a little further into himself. An awkward silence descended again. Ryu’s shoulders slumped. He was a warrior who could face down a dozen armed men without flinching, but he couldn’t talk to his own son.
He took a deep breath, the scent of the broth filling his lungs. He looked directly at Haruto, his gaze softening.
“Haruto,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “I am sorry.”
The boy’s head snapped up, his eyes wide.
“I am sorry that I was not here,” Ryu continued, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue. “I am sorry I missed your first steps, your first words. I am sorry I was not here to teach you how to hold a blade or climb a tree. That was my failure. But I swear to you, on my ancestors’ spirits, that I will never leave you again. You will never have to wonder where your father is. I am home.”
The fire crackled. Hina stared down into her bowl, but Ryu could see the tremor in her hand. Haruto simply stared, his young mind working to process the weight of his father’s vow. There were no tears, but the air was thick with a sorrow so deep it felt like a physical presence.
Ryu turned his gaze to Hina. “And Hina,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I know I am an idiot. I know ten years is a long time. I have no right to ask for your forgiveness. But I want you to know ... I have thought of you every single day. You and Haruto. You were the reason I fought to stay alive. I love you. I never stopped.”
Hina finally looked up, her eyes shimmering in the firelight. She didn’t speak, but the look on her face was one of profound, soul-deep relief. It was as if a decade of tension had finally been released, leaving her raw but hopeful. She gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Haruto pushed his half-eaten bowl away. “I am tired, Mother,” he said softly.
Hina seemed to shake herself from her reverie. “Of course, my love.” She rose and crossed the small space, kneeling to hug him. She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Sleep well.” Then, she looked over at Ryu. “Haruto. Say goodnight to your father. Give him a hug.”
The boy froze. His eyes darted to Ryu, then to the floor. His small hands clenched into fists at his sides. The weight of expectation was too much.
A wave of panic washed over Ryu. He was about to lose this fragile connection. He forced a smile, trying to make it look easy.
“It is alright,” he said, his voice gentle. He looked intently at his son, trying to convey a world of understanding in a single glance. “We are men, you and I. We can understand each other just fine without hugging, right?”
He gave his son a slow, deliberate wink. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, a flicker of something—amusement, recognition—passed through Haruto’s eyes. The corner of his mouth almost, almost, quirked into a smile. It was the smallest victory, the most precious thing Ryu had ever seen.
Instead of a hug, the boy rose to his feet and bowed to his father, his small body perfectly straight, a gesture of formal respect that was far more natural to him than an embrace.
“Goodnight, Father,” he said, his voice clear and steady.
“Goodnight, Haruto,” Ryu replied, his throat tight.
Haruto turned and disappeared behind a woven screen that partitioned off a small sleeping nook, leaving his parents alone in the warm, glowing quiet of the hut.
The silence after Haruto’s departure was a heavy blanket. Ryu and Hina moved in a careful, synchronized dance of avoidance, gathering the wooden bowls and wiping them clean with a damp cloth. The clink of wood against wood was the only sound, each one a tiny, sharp strike in the oppressive quiet. The tension was a physical presence in the small hut, a thrumming current that arced between them across the fire pit. Ryu’s rugged frame felt clumsy and large; Hina’s delicate beauty seemed carved from ice, untouchable.
Finally, Hina broke the silence, her voice barely a whisper. “I am sorry ... for getting angry when you first arrived. For striking you.”
Ryu stopped wiping the bowl in his hands. He looked at her, at the sincere regret in her dark eyes. “I am also sorry for being too rough with you,” he replied, his voice low and gravelly. “I was ... startled.”
A small, sly smile touched Hina’s lips, the first genuine, unguarded smile he had seen from her. It was like the sun breaking through clouds. “I remember you being more rough than that when we were younger,” she said, a teasing glint in her eyes. “I did not mind then.”
Ryu felt a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the fire. He watched her, really watched her, as she finished her tasks. The way the firelight caught the curve of her neck, the graceful line of her arms. She was his wife. The reality of it began to sink in, displacing a decade of lonely memory.
He hesitated, the question feeling like a boulder in his throat. “Hina ... has there been anyone else?” He forced himself to continue, “It is alright if there was. I can understand. Ten years is ... a long time.”
She stopped moving and turned to face him fully. Her gaze was direct, clear, and unwavering. “There has been no one.”
He knew, with a certainty that went beyond words, that she was telling the truth.
She looked at him then, her own skepticism dawning in her eyes. “And you? In the foreign lands? A handsome man, alone for so long...”
Ryu let out a short, rough laugh, the sound startling in the quiet hut. “Hina, I was in a land where I could barely understand the word for ‘water,’ let alone anything else. The women ... even the whores ... held no appeal. They were strangers.” He grew serious again, his gaze softening as it held hers. “Besides,” he murmured. “Your memory stayed with me every day. I knew you would never betray me. That knowledge was all the comfort I had.”
Her cheeks colored, a delicate blush blooming in the firelight. “And I knew you’d never betray me,” she whispered back.
And with that admission, something inside Ryu, something that had been cold and dormant for a decade, ignited. A burning need that had been one of his soul’s drives for the ten years he was gone—the need to come home—now focused itself into a singular, aching want. He took a step forward, and the space between them vanished. The electric pull was undeniable, a force of nature drawing him to her.
Hina saw it. Her breath hitched, and she froze, her eyes wide as he loomed over her. He wanted to take her right then and there, against the wall, on the floor, to claim the decade he had lost in a single, desperate act. But he held himself in check, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
“Hina. I know that I have been gone a long time,” he said, his voice thick with husky need. “And perhaps it is too soon to ... to put expectations on you. But I want us to be man and wife again. As we used to be.”
She stared at him flatly for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Are you asking for permission to bed your wife, Ryu?”
He tried to speak, to explain the hesitation, the respect, the fear, but the words wouldn’t come. He just stood there, a powerful warrior reduced to a stammering boy.
Then Hina’s smile returned, wider and more wicked than before. She reached out and took his calloused hand in her soft one. “If you hadn’t asked, I was going to make a slut of myself until you found your balls again,” she said, her voice a sultry whisper. She tugged him toward the woven screen that separated the main room from the sleeping area. “I have not been with a man in ten years, husband. There is no way in all the hells that I am going to let shyness keep me from having this.”
Once behind the screen, in the dim, private space of their bedroom, the awkwardness vanished. They tore at their own clothes and each other’s, a frantic, silent dance of need. His rough tunic and her simple cotton robe fell away, and the sight of her nearly took Ryu’s breath away. Her body was lean and toned from a decade of hard work, but her curves remained soft and womanly. Her breasts were small, perfect handfuls with dusky nipples that hardened under his gaze. Her waist was narrow, flaring out to hips that he remembered gripping with a desperate fervor. She was more beautiful than his memory, a real, living, breathing woman, not a ghost.
He was a man carved from hardship and battle. His chest was broad and corded with muscle, his stomach a washboard of hard-earned ridges. Scars, white and silver, marked his skin, a roadmap of his survival. Hina’s hands roamed over them, her touch both a question and an answer, re-memorizing the terrain of her husband’s body.
They came together on the simple futon, slow at first, relearning the map of each other. He entered her, and the sensation was overwhelming—a homecoming so profound it was almost painful. She was tight, hot, and impossibly wet, her body welcoming him back after a decade-long absence. He moved slowly, savoring every inch, every gasp she made. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him down for a deep, searching kiss.
But the slowness could not last. Ten years of abstinence and longing fueled a fire that could not be contained. Their instincts took over, their inhibitions vanishing like smoke in the wind. Ryu began to thrust harder, faster, his powerful body driving into hers with a primal rhythm. Hina met him, her hips rising to meet his, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper.
The futon creaked softly beneath them, a sound that was both obscene and beautiful in the quiet night. Hina tried to stifle her moans, burying her face in his shoulder, but the pleasure was too great. A soft cry escaped her lips, then another.
Ryu, remembering their son just feet away, gently placed his hand over her mouth. Her eyes, dark and glazed with passion, widened slightly before she understood. She moaned into his palm, the sound muffled but no less desperate. He could feel her hot breath against his skin as he continued to move, his strokes becoming more urgent, more demanding.
He watched her face as he took her, watched the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way her eyelids fluttered. She was a goddess, a warrior, his wife. He shifted his angle, and she cried out sharply against his hand, her body arching as a powerful orgasm ripped through her. Her inner muscles clenched around him, a rhythmic, milking sensation that sent him over the edge. With a muffled groan against her neck, he buried himself deep and spilled himself into her, a decade of loneliness and longing pouring out in a single, shuddering release.
They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and sweat, their hearts hammering against each other’s ribs. Ryu removed his hand from her mouth, and she took a gasping breath. He rolled off her, pulling her into his arms, her back pressed against his chest. They lay there in the darkness, listening to each other breathe, the silence no longer tense, but filled with a profound, sated peace. Ryu was home.
The quiet that followed was warm and heavy, a stark contrast to the tension that had filled the hut only an hour before. Ryu lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, while Hina rested her head on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns along his powerful chest. The steady, rhythmic beat of his heart under her ear was a lullaby she hadn’t realized she’d been missing for a decade. The air in their small nook was thick with the scent of their lovemaking, a primal perfume that was more comforting than any incense.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. There was no need. The language of their bodies had said more than words ever could. But as the afterglow settled into a quiet intimacy, Hina’s mind began to turn to the catalyst of this impossible reunion.
She propped herself up on an elbow, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder to brush against his skin. Her face, softened by the firelight and their recent passion, was etched with a gentle curiosity.
“The foreigner,” she said softly, her voice barely disturbing the quiet. “Ra’s al Ghul. He is the one who saved you?”
Ryu turned his head to look at her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He nodded slowly. “He is.”
“What is he like?” she pressed. “To travel with a man like that ... to owe him your life. It must have been ... strange.”
Ryu was silent for a moment, his gaze distant as he searched for the right words. How could he explain Ra’s al Ghul? How could he put into words the sheer force of will that emanated from the man, the feeling of standing in the presence of something ancient and powerful?
“He is unlike any man I have ever known,” Ryu said at last, his voice a low murmur. “When you look at him, you do not just see a man. You see ... a mountain. A force of nature.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “He is powerful—dangerously intelligent. I have seen him devise strategies that would make our clan elders weep with envy. He can be ruthless, Hina. More ruthless than any shinobi I have ever known. He does what must be done, without hesitation.”
Hina shivered, and Ryu pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her shoulders.
“But,” he continued, his tone softening. “There is more to him than that. There is a ... surprising kindness about him. It is not a soft kindness. It is a hard, practical thing. He saved me not because he pitied me, but because he saw a use for me. But in his own way, he has shown me more respect than most men I have called brother.” He thought of Ra’s’ quiet instruction to tend to his family, a gesture that had meant more than any grand declaration.
A new kind of tension entered Hina’s posture, a subtle stiffening that had nothing to do with their recent intimacy. She looked at him, her eyes searching his. “And what does he want, Ryu? A man like that does not save a lost shinobi for nothing. What does he want for our village? For our clan?”
Ryu’s gaze drifted toward the thin screen, beyond which their son slept. The weight of the future settled upon him, a mantle far heavier than any armor. He could feel the great, turning gears of destiny that Ra’s had set in motion.
“I am not sure,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “He speaks of a new world. A better one, forged from the ashes of the old. He speaks of justice, but a justice that is absolute and unforgiving.” He looked back at his wife, his dark eyes holding a somber light. “He has a vision, Hina. A vision so vast it is terrifying. And I think he believes our clan can be the sword that carves it out.”
He took a deep breath, the reality of it all finally settling in his bones.
“I do not truly know what he wants for us,” he said, his voice filled with a strange, awed certainty. “But I have a feeling, here...” He placed a hand over his heart. “Nothing will ever be the same again.”
Dawn in the Demon Village
Morning light filtered weakly through the canopy, a dim wash of silver slipping between the tall black pines that shielded the Demon Clan’s hidden home. The forest was always quiet, but at this hour, the quiet felt ceremonial—like the breath held before a blade is drawn.
Ra’s al Ghul stepped from the hut the shinobi had offered him as guest lodging. He did so without fatigue. He had lain awake long before the first bird’s call, not out of restlessness, but anticipation. Sleep had become a courtesy his body barely required since the Lazarus Pit had changed him. Food and water, likewise, were little more than habits. Sometimes he wondered—curiously, not fearfully—how long he could survive without either.
Two masked ninja approached and bowed, motioning silently for him to follow. Ra’s inclined his head in acknowledgment, and together they walked along a narrow path that wound between hidden homes and moss-dark rooftops nearly swallowed by the growing light.
As they neared the center of the village, Ra’s slowed. On a small rise beside a trickling stream stood Ryu—fully garbed in black shinobi attire, the steel headband of the Demon Clan gleaming at his brow. Beside him stood Hina, her hands clasped in front of her, and Haruto, clutching the sleeve of her robe. The family stood facing one another in a tender, unguarded moment.
Ryu bent toward Hina, pressing his forehead lightly to hers. Then he kissed her—gingerly at first, then deeper as she melted into the embrace. Haruto watched, confused but smiling, until Ryu knelt to wrap an arm fiercely around his shoulders and draw him close.
When Ryu lifted his gaze and spotted Ra’s, the shinobi pulled back from his wife with one last lingering kiss and pressed a steadying hand to his son’s cheek. He said something soft to them in Japanese—promises, perhaps—and then he strode down the rise toward Ra’s with a step lighter than the night before.
“So,” Ryu said in English, falling into step beside him. “What will you say to the village elders?”
Ra’s allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. “I will tell them my vision for the world,” he said. “Justice brought to the wicked. Protection for the innocent.”
He paused. “I will ask to stay here for a time, to learn their skills. And afterward—when I am ready to leave—I will invite any who wish to follow me to do so.”
Ryu frowned sharply. “That ... is a very bold request, my friend.” His voice lowered. “This land is harsh, but it is our home. My people will not part from it easily. The very idea of your proposal ... it could anger them. You may cause trouble.”
Ra’s gave a soft, knowing chuckle. “There is always trouble, Ryu. And there is always change.” His eyes drifted toward the elder’s house awaiting them in the clearing ahead. “I believe my coming here was providence. A time of change is approaching—for me, and for the Demon Clan.”
Ryu reached out and gently tugged Ra’s to a halt. “Let me translate for you,” he insisted quietly. “I love my people. But I do not know if they will understand you. They may try to kill you if they take offense.”
Ra’s placed a warm, reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “If they try to kill me, then that is simply the workings of fate,” he said. “I have learned to accept these things, whether they benefit me or not.”
His expression deepened into solemnity. “If they do become angry, then distance yourself from me. Condemn me, if you must. I will not allow you to be ostracized from your own people for my sake.”
Ryu stared—astonished, humbled, and unsettled all at once. The ninjas waiting at the entrance gestured with a bow. It was time. Ra’s stepped forward.
The hut of the elders was larger than the others but built with the same restrained simplicity—woven reed walls, a roof of layered branches, and a wide mat laid across the entrance. Inside, the light was dim, scented faintly with burning cedar. Ra’s knelt the moment he stepped in, settling onto his knees with his spine straight and his head bowed.
Before him sat six elders. The central figure drew Ra’s’ attention instantly. The leader. Elder Kurogane Daizo. Old—but not diminished. His posture was perfect, his back straight as a spear shaft. His hair, long and white, was tied in a high knot. His face, lined with decades of discipline, bore the calm unreadability of a man who had seen both war and wisdom—and been conquered by neither. Even seated, Ra’s sensed the coiled potential of a warrior who could still kill a man before the man realized he had moved.
The murmur of conversation rippled among the elders. One leaned toward Daizo, speaking in Japanese. “Where is Ryu? Will he not translate for this foreigner?”
Ra’s raised his head slightly. In perfect Japanese, he replied, “If it pleases the elders, I would speak to you in my own words.”
Silence struck the room. All eyes lifted sharply.
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