THE DEATH KNELL

Ra's al Ghul stood poised, his senses honed like a blade in the darkness. The art of deception was second nature to him, as it was to all masters of the League of Assassins. Misdirection, illusion, the subtle play of light and sound—these were weapons as deadly as any blade. And yet, he was no fool. He had spent centuries perfecting his craft, and the trick of throwing one's voice, of making it seem as though an enemy lurked where they were not, was nothing new to him.

This tactic could unnerve the weak, confuse the untrained. But for a warrior of his caliber, it was meaningless. A master of swordsmanship did not rely solely on sight or sound; he could sense the faintest tremor in the air, the quietest intake of breath. He had trained his body and mind to track the untrackable, to feel the heartbeat of his enemy even through the silence of the abyss. Darkness was not a disadvantage—it was his ally.

Yet, the Batman of this world was unlike the students of the League. He was not one of Ra's al Ghul's disciples, molded by the doctrine of the Assassins. No, this version of the Dark Knight had forged his path alone, through sheer will and relentless determination.

Ra's narrowed his eyes. He could feel the presence of his adversary not far ahead—still, unmoving. The voice that whispered through the void, coming from another direction, was nothing but a trick.

He would not be deceived.

A smirk ghosted across his lips. "Hmph. Naïve. Is this all heroes are capable of? Parlor tricks and illusions? Why not face me in open combat and prove to whom true glory belongs?"

A new voice, cold and calculating, drifted from the shadows. "I don't care about glory."

Ra's al Ghul stiffened. This time, the sound came from a completely different angle, yet he knew—Batman had not moved an inch.

An opening.

If Batman did not fight for honor, then neither would he. Honor was for the righteous, for the ones bound by conscience. He was bound by something greater—purpose.

His sword was an extension of his will, a manifestation of his centuries of discipline. Without hesitation, he struck. His blade sliced through the air, swift and silent. There was no telltale glint of steel, no shift in the wind to betray the movement. A strike like this could carve through the darkness itself.

But it met only empty space.

Ra's al Ghul's breath caught. Impossible.

He had aimed with precision, calculated every factor. He had sensed his opponent—he was certain of it. And yet, not even the trailing edge of Batman's cape had been touched.

A whisper echoed from the shadows. "Perhaps you should ask your daughter. She could tell you that a heartbeat and breath can be simulated by a simple computer program. All it takes is a micro-amplifier and a little planning."

The voice was everywhere at once.

Ra's al Ghul's jaw tightened as realization dawned. The entire hall was filled with miniature speakers. When? He had detected no tampering, no signs of preparation. How long had Batman been here, setting this up right under his nose?

He exhaled sharply, turning just in time to see the Dark Knight emerge from the shadows—directly behind him.

In that moment of distraction, Talia collapsed to the floor. Or rather, she was forced down.

Ra's al Ghul's expression darkened.

"You have no heartbeat," he murmured. "No breath. You are like the dead."

Batman's icy blue eyes, the only thing visible beneath the mask, gleamed in the dim light. "Black Canary taught me a technique used by certain martial artists—a South Asian practice called turtle breath. It allows one to slow their respiration, almost to the point of stopping. It's useful."

Ra's al Ghul gritted his teeth. "A cheap trick."

Batman remained motionless. "Does it scare you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Enough to make you reconsider your plans for Gotham?"

The Demon's Head chuckled darkly. "You're dreaming, Detective. You walked into my fortress alone. You should be the one surrendering."

With a flick of his wrist, he hurled a small steel sphere through the high window. A second later, the object burst into a violent explosion of fire and light, splitting the night with an ominous bloom.

The fortress, the cliffs, the vast snowy expanse beyond—all were bathed in the eerie glow.

The League of Assassins would see this signal from miles away. His warriors would come.

But something was wrong.

Batman hadn't even attempted to stop him.

No batarangs thrown. No quick, precise counter. Nothing. He simply tilted his head, as if watching a predictable sequence unfold.

Ra's al Ghul's fingers twitched. Why?

If the first signal had failed, he had another ready, but something about Batman's calm demeanor made him hesitate.

Batman shifted slightly. "You're mistaken about one thing," he said. "I never said I came alone."

Ra's al Ghul's stomach turned to ice. His assassins should have been here by now. Yet the hall remained deathly silent.

He clenched his jaw. Fine. He would deal with this himself.

He raised his sword again, stepping into his opening stance. But before he could strike, something struck the back of his skull with crushing force.

The world spun. His vision blurred. His knees buckled.

He barely registered the black-cloaked figure standing where he had once been.

A muffled voice broke the silence. "Uh… was that too much? I mean, he is 800 years old, right?" The man scratched his head. "He's gonna wake up, right? I don't have to—y'know—call an ambulance or anything?"

Talia stirred.

Batman reached down, pulling her up. She had been feigning unconsciousness.

She refused to meet his gaze. She hadn't wanted to face either of them—her father, nor the man she had once loved.

Batman spoke without looking at her. "You can't kill him. If what you told me is true, then the Lazarus Pit will heal his wounds and accelerate his recovery. We don't have much time."

The cloaked man exhaled in relief. "Whew. Good. Thought I overdid it." He crouched beside Ra's and, to Talia's horror, gave the unconscious man two reassuring pats on the back. "Sorry, bud."

Talia blinked, staring at him in disbelief. "Excuse me?"

The stranger ignored her, turning to Batman. "So, uh… we're taking the Lazarus water, right? This isn't gonna mess up some timeline thing, is it?"

Batman shook his head. "You haven't seen Talia before, so you wouldn't notice changes. But if the Lazarus Pit grants immortality, then her fate must already be written."

Talia's head snapped toward him. "What do you mean her fate?" she asked. "And why do you keep saying your Talia? What are you talking about?"

The hooded man sighed. "Right. So that's why she talks to Superman instead of me… Is it a lifespan thing?"

Batman's expression was unreadable. "Not lifespan. Emotion."

Talia barely registered what he was saying. Her mind was still reeling.

But then, suddenly, Batman was there—close, pressing his forehead to hers. Her breath hitched.

His voice was low, firm. "Listen, Talia. I'll make this simple. I need the Lazarus water. If you won't give it to me, I'll find it myself."

She bit her lip. So that was why he had come. Not for her. Not to settle old wounds.

For the League's greatest treasure.

She inhaled deeply, then turned without another word, leading him toward the hidden tunnels.

After all, what choice did she have?

She had always loved the Bat.