Damian Wayne: Dark Son

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The cold chamber echoed with whispers.

Damian stood beneath a vaulted ceiling, stripped of his gear, surrounded on all sides by robed spectators in owl masks. Their silence was oppressive. Watchful. Expectant.

Across from him, a row of Talons stepped forward—seven in total, each clad in dark armor, their movements precise and fluid. Their masked faces betrayed no emotion, only the shared, simmering intent of violence.

Above them on a balcony of marble and brass, the Court's leader leaned over a railing, peering down at the scene like a noble watching gladiators at play.

"So," Damian said, folding his arms. "Was this the whole plan? Lure me in with the scabbard, dangle my friends on execution platforms, and make me dance for your amusement?"

The man chuckled behind his mask. "Oh no, Damian Wayne. We did not lure you. You came willingly. All we did was prepare the stage."

The crowd murmured in approval.

"And you knew I would?" Damian asked, voice cool.

"Of course," the leader replied. "Because you are exactly as we hoped. The White Demon. The Prodigy of the Shadows. Killer of Ghost Dragons. Breaker of the Ashura Path. Tamer of Predators. And most importantly—a man who cannot walk away from a challenge."

Damian's fingers curled slightly.

"Then say it," he said. "You want a show. You want me to prove I'm the Alpha. Say it."

The man nodded, a gleeful giggle escaping him.

"Good good good!! You're exactly as I hoped! Prove it to the Court, Damian Wayne. Defeat our seven finest Talons—and your shadow friends shall live. More than that… if you succeed, anything you desire will be yours."

The words hung in the air.

Damian tilted his head slightly, considering.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Anything," the man confirmed. "Your Grandfather's throne. Cassandra Cain's freedom. A private army. Your own piece of Gotham. Immortality. We can give you more than the League ever could."

Damian chuckled. It was cold. Amused. He had no Grandfather, perhaps he'd overestimated their information gathering.

"You must be very confident in your little knife dancers." Damian motioned at the still Talons.

"They're not little," the man said prideful. "They're deathless."

The Talons moved, taking positions around the center of the ball room, forming a circle. Their clawed gauntlets clicked as they prepared their weapons—sickles, claws, curved blades honed for speed and cruelty.

A moment of stillness. Damian sighed before gesturing 'Come' at his adversaries.

Then a voice from the crowd.

"Begin."

The first Talon lunged—blade glinting, fast as lightning. Silent, sharp, perfectly lethal.

Damian didn't even blink.

He caught the Talon's wrist mid-strike, twisted it with a sickening crunch, and drove a fist straight into the assassin's chest. The blow echoed across the hall like a thunderclap.

The Talon flew backward—spinning mid-air—before smashing into one of the stone owl statues lining the arena wall. The statue cracked. The Talon didn't move.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even a few Court masks tilted in disbelief.

Damian discarded the arm in his grip and rolled his neck, clearly bored.

"Deathless Talons?" he scoffed, dusting his knuckles. "More like weak little bitches."

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then the Court Leader's voice bellowed from the balcony above. "Kill him! All of you! NOW!"

The remaining six Talons surged forward in unison—silent killers with inhuman agility. They encircled Damian like wolves around a lion.

Damian just smiled.

He stepped sideways, dodging a claw meant for his face, caught a wrist, and spun the Talon into a sweeping arc—slamming the assassin like a bat into two of his comrades. They crashed into the stands, knocking over a group of owl-masked nobles who screamed as weapons carved into their flesh.

One Talon attacked from behind—Damian flipped him overhead with a shoulder throw, then kicked him like a missile into the crowd, shattering chairs and bodies alike.

"Whoops," Damian said, sidestepping another blade. "Friendly fire's such a pain."

As their Leader indignantly roared, another tried leaping at him with twin daggers. Damian's palm crashed into the Talon's face, sending him skidding across the marble floor in a spray of green liquid and broken teeth.

The third Talon lunged with a spear. Damian dodged it cleanly, gripped the shaft, and swung the Talon around in a wide arc—launching him into the balcony above. The noblewoman he collided with let out a scream cut short by a crunch of bones.

The last two Talons hesitated. Despite being corpses, they could recognize the danger.

Damian grinned.

The assassins charged anyway.

Too slow.

Damian caught the blade on his forearm—skin glowing faintly red from Ashura reinforcement and threw it at the head of one Talon—then punched the last Talon in the gut, lifting him clean off the ground.

With one hand, he caught the Talon by the throat as he dangled, struggling to stab Damian's chest.

The blade didn't pierce. His skin was too dense.

"Stop complaining," Damian called up to the enraged Leader of the Court, "about your dead little rich friends. This is a battlefield, not a dinner party. And amateurs don't belong on it."

The Talon in his grip still flailed.

Damian tightened his grip.

The leader's sharp voice roared from the balcony.

"That's it! Enough games!"

A mechanical gate opened behind the arena.

Three massive shadows stepped forward.

Killer Croc. Clayface. King Shark.

Towering. Monstrous. Brutal.

They dropped into the arena with thunderous impact, the floor trembling beneath their combined weight.

Damian's eyes slowly widened.

The Talon in his grip gave one last stab.

Damian didn't even look—he hurled the Talon aside like garbage. The force of the throw obliterated the Talon into dried flesh and green sludge upon the concreye walls of the chamber.

A smirking Damian reached up, ripped the remnants of his shirt from his chest—revealing a sculpted frame coiled with tension. His ebony tattoos writhed like snakes across the skin of his arms and chest, pulsing.

Then he laughed.

A wild, excited laugh.

Finally.

A challenge.

Damian rolled his shoulders, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Across from him stood the three monsters.

Killer Croc, hunched forward, claws twitching with anticipation.

Clayface, mass shifting like boiling tar, eyes wary.

King Shark, silent, breathing deep—waiting.

Damian tilted his head. "You guys are strong."

"Indeed," the Leader of the Court said from above, folding his hands. "Even your League cannot prepare you for what's before you. Three superhumans. You cannot survive this, Damian Wayne. Give up and submit to us, the Court of-"

Damian didn't even glance at him as he interrupted. "Shut the fuck up. You wanted a show? Enjoy it."

Then he stopped bouncing and raised a hand.

"I'll give you one chance," he said to the three. "SUBMIT to me now. Acknowledge me as your Alpha and I'll spare you."

Clayface hesitated. His muddy brow creased. Something in Damian's voice made his tar-like body quiver. More than the Bat-family, this silver haired, single red horned guy scared the shit out of him. And he was made of mostly shit.

But Killer Croc laughed, loud and rasping. "A brat like you? The Court's offering enough for me to crush your skull, boy."

Damian smiled, unafraid. "Then step forward Crocky. Let's see if your greed outweighs your instinct to survive."

Croc snarled and lunged.

The claws slashed down—Damian slipped left, dodged again, then again. Quick, calculated movements.

But Croc's tail swung wide—smashing into Damian's foreguard. It threw off his balance, sending him sliding across the floor, exposed.

Croc's claws raked across his chest. Three deep scratches.

The Court erupted in cheers as blood splattered across the arena floor.

Damian jumped back, hand to his chest, blood dripping between his fingers.

Croc turned to the others. "See?! He bleeds!"

Then— Phantom step!

crack!

Damian's knee collided with Croc's chin, lifting the massive beast into the air. Croc flipped backward, crashing down like a felled tree.

Groaning, Killer Croc pushed up. His jaw hung oddly, clearly broken, chest scales shattered. Blood freely dripping off his mouth.

But he noticed something else.

The claw marks on Damian's chest? Gone. Regenerating with a red vapor.

Damian stalked forward, eyes glowing, a smile of pure hunger on his face.

A terrified Croc tried to speak—plead—but his broken jaw only produced gargled noise.

Damian raised his hand. Ashura energy flaring across his skin.

"Too late Crocky."

The hand fell and sliced through reptilian skin and flesh.

Killer Croc's head hit the floor seconds later.

Silence gripped the chamber.

Then—CRUNCH.

King Shark's jaws clamped onto Damian's neck and shoulder, from behind.

Or tried to.

Damian didn't even flinch. King Shark's teeth had sunk in—and stopped.

Ashura-hardened flesh.

There was an awkward silence.

Damian slowly turned his head, locking eyes with Shark's lone eye.

"…My turn."

Damian's mouth opened—and he bit.

He ripped a chunk out of King Shark's neck and gills, spitting the flesh out with a bloody snarl. Shark recoiled, flailing, incapable of sound due to his damaged vocal chords.

But Damian was already behind him, arm hooked under the jaw. The fingers tightened on the slimy fish neck.

Rip.

The head tore free, blood spraying in a massive arc.

He tossed the shark head at the Court. Just like Croc's.

"Did someone order fish? Also, worst homecoming ever. It's like you didn't even try." A bloody Damian shook his head.

Screams erupted. Nobles in owl masks panicked.

"GUARDS!" the Leader shouted. "Kill him! Kill Hiiiimmm!!!"

Dozens of bodyguards opened fire.

"Rude."

Damian exhaled.

Ashura energy swirled outward, a perfect barrier of vibrating red energy.

Bullets stopped inches from his skin. Caught. Trapped.

They hovered like insects in the scarlet aura of Ashura.

He walked forward—slowly, calmly—as the guards emptied their magazines to no effect.

Before him, Clayface shivered beneath the barrage—bullet holes tearing through him.

Damian stopped at his front. "Kneel. Submit. Acknowledge me as Alpha… and live."

Clayface stared up at him, the world frozen in that moment. Something in Damian's voice. His eyes.

Trembling, he knelt.

"…Master," the muddy supervillain whispered.

Ashura flared.

The bullets aimed at Clayface melted mid-air, caught in the swirling red mist that cocooned them both.

Damian smirked. "That's more like it."

He turned to the Court. The guards reloading. The Gothamite nobles screaming.

Damian raised both arms.

"I had fun," he said. "Now let me return the favor."

The bullets contained in his red aura snapped free—launched by Ashura force.

Thousands of projectiles exploded across the chamber.

Court members and their security fell screaming.

Blood soaked the marble.

Wood shattered. Stone and concrete cracked.

Damian stood amidst it all—unmoving.

Only a few nobles remained, trembling behind shattered chairs and scorched masks.

The Leader, blood trailing from his lips, crawled toward the exit.

"Clayface," Damian said, "save my friends."

Clayface nodded, melting into a river of sludge, rushing into the adjacent chamber, displayed on the L.E.D screen.

Damian walked forward, whistling a haunting tune.

The Leader, mask broken—blue eyes wide with terror—looked back just as a foot stomped onto his ankle.

He screamed.

"You should've known," Damian said, leaning down. "You had no idea who you were dealing with."

Ashura flared at his palm—a spiraling, funnel-like storm.

It plunged into the Leader's chest.

Ripping. Tearing. Unmaking.

Damian pulled back his arm.

There was nothing left of the Leader but a shredded suit and blood-slick marble.

A fate that met all surviving members of the Court as sharp whips of Damian's tattoos flew out and slashed Gotham's elites.

Done with the cult massacre, Damian grabbed his Predator helmet and stepped through the gaping hole Clayface had carved in the stone wall, Ashura still simmering across his skin like smoke from a dying fire.

On the other side, the execution chamber was dimly lit, golden light shining from shattered chandeliers above.

Two execution platforms stood tall at the center. Chains hung slack.

And the Talon lying dead at Cassandra's feet?

Already decapitated.

Clayface's mud trail stopped just behind her. He hadn't saved her.

She'd saved herself.

"Of course," Damian muttered, stopping before the platforms.

Cassandra, still panting, turned to him—snarling. Her eyes gleamed with fury as she launched at him, no hesitation.

Before she could reach him, Clayface surged forward and caught her mid-air, cocooning her torso and arms in a tightening bind of mud.

"No!" she yelled, struggling, "Let go—!"

"Jesus Cassie Relax," Damian said, removing his Predator helmet, his white hair clinging to his blood-slick forehead. "You'll dislocate something again."

Cassandra thrashed even harder.

"Save your strength," Damian added, rolling his eyes. "I came for a rescue. You're welcome, by the way."

Hanzo—Jason Todd—remained seated on the edge of his ruined execution platform, calm, arms crossed.

"Out of everyone I was expecting to save us, you were my last guess." Jason said, managing a tired smile. "But I'll take it. I thought I was done for."

"Yeah, well," Damian shrugged, "you're Lucky I showed up. I'm counting it as a favor by the way."

Clayface gently lowered Cassandra to the ground but didn't release her fully.

She glared at Damian. "Still running your mouth."

Damian smirked. "You know the deal Cassandra. First to complete their mission wins." He gestured around. "Court of Owls? Gone. Bane? Captured and detained. That makes me the winner of our little competition."

Cassandra's expression tightened.

"You know what that means," he pressed, "Time to submit to the Alpha. Me, incase you're wondering."

"In your dreams," she growled, fangs almost flashing.

Damian's brow twitched. "You're in no position to refuse. You were captured. Beaten. By Talons."

That was the wrong thing to say.

Cassandra went still. The mud around her quivered.

Then—

"They never beat me," she spat. "They had help."

Huh?

Damian blinked. "Help?"

Her voice was a low growl now. "If it were just the Court, I'd have been done and gone before you even stepped foot on this pathetic city."

Damian looked over at Jason, confused. "She serious?"

Jason's face went pale. He nodded. "Dead serious, I'm afraid."

He leaned forward, voice quieter now, almost reverent. "I've fought monsters. Killers. Metas. But the guy they had working with the Court? I've never felt anything like him. He broke through our formation like it was made of paper. I didn't even see him move."

Damian's eyes narrowed. "Who was it?"

A third voice answered, smooth and calm as silk.

"They're talking about me."

Damian froze.

The hairs on his neck rose.

No Alpha Instincts warning him. No detection from the Predator Helmet's systems. Nothing.

He turned slowly.

Through the hole on the wall, a man stood behind him, hands clasped behind his back.

Not a single sound had come from his arrival.

Lean. Relaxed posture. Slightly Asian features. Orange gi.

He was smiling.

And in that moment, Damian's instincts screamed the truth:

He stood no chance.

"Richard Dragon," Damian whispered, voice dry, instantly recognising one of Shiva's fellow students.

Jason looked away.

Cassandra, even as she struggled, went quiet.

The man regarded them all with calm eyes that missed nothing.

"So," Richard said softly, black eyes fixed on Damian, "shall we talk about what comes next, Son of the Bat?"