The match started violently. Jason’s opponent closed the distance in an instant, delivering a spinning kick aimed at Jason’s head. 

He barely raised his guard in time, but the force sent him stumbling. A follow-up punch to his solar plexus knocked the wind out of him, dropping him to his knees.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jason muttered through gritted teeth, clutching his abdomen. He could feel Damian’s judging stare from the sidelines. The kid didn’t even bother to hide his irritation.

Shaking off the pain, Jason pushed himself back to his feet. This time, he held his ground, waiting for his opponent to make the next move. 

The man lunged forward with a ferocious punch, but Jason sidestepped just in time. Wielding his intuitive sense of muscle memory, he landed a sharp elbow to his opponent’s ribs, eliciting a grunt of pain.

For a brief moment, Jason felt a surge of pride. But his opponent was relentless. A brutal knee struck Jason’s side, followed by a punch that connected squarely with his jaw. Blood sprayed from his split lip as he hit the ground hard.

Flashes of memory assaulted him—blurry images of a clown, his manic laughter, and the crowbar that shattered his body. Rage ignited within Jason, primal and all-consuming. His vision blurred, but his movements became sharper, faster.

As his opponent leaned in to deliver another blow, Jason caught the man’s fist mid-air. The spectators gasped as Jason twisted the arm with a sickening crack, bone shards piercing through the skin. The man screamed in agony, but Jason wasn’t done.

Standing at the center, his chest heaving, eyes blazing with unbridled rage. His opponent lay sprawled on the ground beneath him, coughing up blood as Jason drove a savage knee into his ribs. 

The sickening crack of bone echoed through the courtyard, and the man let out a guttural scream that was cut short as Jason pounced on him.

Jason’s fists were a blur, slamming down with relentless fury. Each punch was accompanied by the wet, sickening sound of breaking cartilage and splattering blood. 

His lips twisted into a feral grin, the adrenaline coursing through his veins fueling his every strike. The victim’s face was already a ruined mess, swollen beyond recognition, yet Jason didn’t stop.

In the haze of his rage, a voice—low and gravelly—echoed in the back of his mind. It was a voice he hadn’t consciously thought of in weeks but one he couldn’t shake.

“We do not have to go that far to stop them, otherwise we wouldn’t know when we cross the line. And then nothing will differentiate us from them.”

It was Bruce’s voice, calm yet firm, but Jason couldn’t place it in his current state. His arm froze mid-punch for the briefest moment, as though his body hesitated to obey his bloodlust. 

The voice faded just as quickly as it came, drowned out by the pounding of his heart and the hunger for violence.

Jason’s hesitation vanished as quickly as it appeared. He let out a guttural roar and slammed his fist down again, crushing what little remained of the man’s face. 

Blood splattered across Jason’s hands, his arms, even his face. His breathing was ragged, and his body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer intensity of his bloodlust.

“Enough!”

The sharp command cut through the chaos, but Jason didn’t register it. Ra’s al Ghul’s voice carried authority, but Jason’s primal rage drowned out everything else. 

The surrounding soldiers exchanged uneasy glances but remained silent.

He raised his fist again, preparing to bring it down one more time, but the League soldiers were already moving.

Two of them rushed in, grabbing Jason by the arms and yanking him off the unconscious man. Jason thrashed violently in their grip, his muscles straining as he fought to break free. 

His wild eyes darted around, seeking another target, his mind still caught in the haze of the Lazarus-induced bloodlust.

“Jason.”

Ra’s voice rang out again, calm but commanding. It wasn’t a yell this time, but the tone carried more weight than the sharpest blade.

Jason froze, his chest heaving as his body began to register the carnage around him. The two soldiers holding him loosened their grip, sensing the shift in his demeanor.

Jason’s gaze flicked to Ra’s, standing tall on the edge of the circle. His emerald eyes burned with something akin to both disappointment and intrigue.

The courtyard fell into silence, save for Jason’s labored breathing and the faint groans of his victim. The man’s blood pooled on the ground, seeping into the cracks between the stones.

“Dismiss.” Ra’s announced, ending the training exercise as the soldiers dispersed in various directions, while others prepared to take the unconscious soldier to the infirmary.

Ra’s stepped forward, his boots clicking softly against the stone. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression calm but unreadable.

“What was that?” Ra’s asked, his voice as smooth as silk but carrying an undeniable edge.

Jason swallowed hard, his fists still clenched at his sides. “He wasn’t backing down,” Jason muttered, his voice rough. “I did what I had to do.”

Ra’s raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint, humorless smile. “What you had to do? Look around you, boy. This is not a battlefield; this is training. He was already defeated, yet you continued.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his gaze falling to the blood staining his hands. “I… I don’t know what happened,” he admitted through gritted teeth. “It was like something took over. I couldn’t stop.”

Ra’s studied him for a long moment, his piercing gaze seeming to cut straight through Jason’s defenses. 

“The Lazarus Pit is a gift, but it is not without its price,” he said, his tone measured. “It amplifies everything within you—your strength, your instincts… and your rage.”

Jason looked up, his eyes blazing. “Then why the hell did you bring me back with it?!”

The question hung in the air, raw and charged. 

Ra’s tilted his head slightly, his expression unchanging. “Because you are valuable, boy. You are a diamond in the rough. You are a force of nature—a force I intend to shape and refine.”

Jason let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “A force of nature? You mean a monster.”

Ra’s stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “A monster? No. You are something far greater. But only if you learn to master yourself.”

Jason’s gaze hardened, the fire in his eyes refusing to waver. “And if I don’t?”

Ra’s smiled faintly, the expression cold and calculating. “Then you will destroy yourself—and everything around you.”

The words sent a chill down Jason’s spine, but he refused to show weakness. He straightened, clenching his jaw. “I won’t let that happen.”

Ra’s nodded approvingly. “Good. Then let today be a lesson. Restraint is not weakness, Jason. It is strength—strength that separates the predator from the beast.”

Jason didn’t respond, his thoughts swirling as he glanced back at the unconscious man being placed into a stretcher. The sight of the blood made his stomach churn, but he forced himself to look.

Ra’s turned away, addressing the soldiers. “Take him to the infirmary. Ensure he is tended to.”

The soldiers moved quickly, lifting the broken man with care and carrying him out of the courtyard. Jason stood alone in the center, his fists still stained red.

Ra’s paused at the edge of the training grounds, glancing back over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, we continue your training. You will learn to control the darkness within you, Jason. Or it will consume you.”

Jason didn’t respond as Ra’s disappeared into the shadows, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the cold, unyielding weight of his actions.

                                  ****

The sun dipped below the jagged peaks of the mountain, casting the League of Assassins’ fortress in hues of gold and crimson. 

The cold wind whistled through the stone corridors, but Damian barely noticed. He had grown habituated to the chill, accustomed to the relentless demands of life within the League. 

His body ached from his daily climb to the summit and back, a grueling exercise meant to sharpen both his physical and mental discipline. Yet, despite his exhaustion, his mind refused to rest.

Jason face kept surfacing in his thoughts. Damian couldn’t shake the memory of the young teenager’s wild, unrelenting fury as he mercilessly beat his opponent into unconsciousness earlier that day. 

It wasn’t fear that gripped Damian—he wasn’t afraid of Jason. But there was something about the raw, untamed anger Jason wielded that left him unsettled. It was a kind of rage that felt almost animalistic, primal, and unrestrained.

Damian’s frown deepened as he trudged through the dimly lit corridor toward his quarters, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor. 

Every few steps, flashes of Jason’s unhinged expression filled his mind—his clenched jaw, his wide, feral eyes. Damian shook his head, muttering under his breath.

“Why can’t I stop thinking about it?”

As he turned a corner, the hallway leading to his mother’s chambers came into view. The ornate double doors, carved with intricate designs, were faintly illuminated by flickering torches. Damian slowed his pace, an idea forming in his mind.

‘Mother must be back from her mission by now, he thought, glancing toward the door. Maybe she’ll have some insight about him. She always knows more than she lets on.’

Without hesitation, Damian veered off course, quickening his steps as he approached her chambers. 

The faint scent of jasmine drifted through the cracks of the door, a scent he had long associated with her. Raising his hand, he knocked twice, firm and deliberate.

“Enter,” Talia al Ghul’s smooth, composed voice called from within.

Damian pushed the door open and stepped inside without uttering a word. Warmth greeted him immediately, a stark contrast to the cold stone corridors outside. 

A low fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Near a tall window, Talia stood with her back to him, gazing out at the fading sunset. She was still dressed in her mission attire, her long black cloak draped elegantly over her shoulders.

“Damian,” she greeted softly without turning. “I was expecting you.”

Damian frowned slightly, shutting the door behind him. “You always say that.

One of these days, I’ll surprise you.”

Talia turned to face him, a faint smile gracing her lips. “You are my son. There is little you do that surprises me.”

Leaning against the doorframe, Damian studied her. She looked tired, though her sharp eyes still held their usual intensity. “How was your mission?” he asked.

She waved a hand dismissively, crossing the room to pour herself a glass of wine from a nearby decanter. 

“Routine,” she said, her tone casual. “Nothing worth discussing.” She paused, glancing at him with a knowing look. “But I suspect you didn’t come here to ask about my mission.”

Damian hesitated, dropping his gaze briefly before meeting her eyes. “It’s about Jason,” he admitted, his tone more serious now.

Talia’s expression remained composed, though her eyes sharpened with interest. She took a sip of her wine, gesturing for him to continue.

“I can’t get the image of him out of my head,” Damian said, pushing off the doorframe to pace the room. “During training today, the way he grinned while violently bashing the face of his opponent—it wasn’t just bloodlust, Mother. It was something darker.”

Setting her glass down, Talia folded her arms and watched him closely. “Jason died in an unfortunate accident and in an attempt to rectify his mistake, your grandfather resurrected him with help of the Lazarus pit.” 

This came as a huge shock to Damian as he halted his pacing and turned to her with a confused expression, but she ignored and continued.

 “The prowess of the Lazarus Pit is a total mystery, even to your grandfather.” She said after a moment as Damian continued to pace back and forth, trying to process the reveal. 

“What’s happening to Jason are side-effects of his resurrection through the pit.” She added.

Damian stopped pacing, turning to face her once more. “You’re saying the Pit did this to him?”

She nodded slowly. “Partially. But the Pit only amplifies what is already there. Jason’s anger, his pain, even the overwhelming bloodlust—all of it has been magnified. He is fighting a battle within himself, one that will not be easily won.”

Her words made sense, but they didn’t ease Damian’s unease. He saw Jason as a danger to everyone around him and most of all… to himself. 

“And what if he can’t win that battle?” he asked quietly. “What if he loses himself completely and goes on a killing spree while we sleep at night?”

Talia stepped toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her touch was firm but comforting. 

“Then it will be up to us to guide him,” she said resolutely. “Your grandfather sees potential in Jason, and so do I. But he must be taught to master his violent impulses, or it will consume him.”

Damian searched her face, her calm certainty both reassuring and maddening. “You really think he can be saved?”

Her expression softened, and for a moment, Damian thought he saw a flicker of hope for Jason who he saw as a lost cause. “I do,” she said. “But it will not be easy. Jason’s path is his own to walk, and he must choose to fight for his humanity.”

Damian nodded slowly, though doubt lingered in the back of his mind as he recalled how much Jason seemed to enjoy his earlier act of insane violence. 

To him Jason was an enigma, a storm barely held together by force of will. But if his mother and grandfather believed in him, perhaps there was a chance of redemption for that lost cause.

“Thank you, Mother,” Damian said, stepping back toward the door. 

Talia returned to her place by the window, her gaze drifting back to the darkening horizon. “Goodnight, Damian,” she said softly.

As Damian left her chambers and made his way back to his own, he couldn’t shake the questions swirling in his mind. Could Jason truly overcome the darkness within him? Or get consumed by it. The thought stayed with him long into the night.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep