[Jason Todd’s POV]

The compound was eerily quiet today, which was unusual for the League of Assassins. Normally, the halls echoed with the sounds of clashing swords, grunts of exertion, and the occasional barked order from Ra’s al Ghul. But today? Silence. 

Even Ra’s himself had left for some mysterious business, leaving the rest of us to our own devices. For once, I had nothing to do but lounge around in my room, sprawled out on my bed like a cat soaking up the sun. It was a rare moment of peace, and I wasn’t about to waste it.

My room was sparse, almost sterile. The walls were bare stone, cold and uninviting, with a single narrow window that let in a sliver of pale light. 

The bed was simple—a thin mattress on a wooden frame—and the only other furniture was a rickety chair and a small table cluttered with a few books on combat techniques and a half-empty water bottle. It wasn’t exactly homey, but then again, I wasn’t here for the décor.

I’d been training nonstop for weeks, pushing my body to its limits, trying to unlock whatever secrets my fractured mind was hiding. 

Ra’s had been drilling me in meditation, combat, and strategy, but none of it seemed to help with the one thing I couldn’t control: the rage. 

It bubbled up without warning, a seething, violent urge that made my hands tremble and my vision blur. During sparring matches, I’d lose myself completely, driven by a bloodlust that left my opponents battered and broken. The others had started to avoid me, their eyes filled with a mix of fear and disgust. Even Ra’s, with his infinite patience, seemed wary of me at times.

The worst part was the blackouts. I’d come to mid-fight, my opponent on the ground, barely conscious, and no memory of how I’d gotten there. It was like something inside me took over, something primal and uncontrollable. 

Ra’s said my body was remembering, that my instincts were resurfacing, but that didn’t explain who I was before all this. Who had I been? What had I done to make violence feel so… natural?

I sighed, rolling onto my stomach and burying my face in the pillow. The questions were endless, and the answers were nowhere to be found. Maybe I didn’t want to know. Maybe ignorance was better than whatever truth was waiting for me.

The sound of a heavy thud against my door snapped me out of my thoughts. Before I could even sit up, the door swung open, revealing Damian al Ghul, the self-proclaimed “world’s deadliest assassin.” He stood there with his arms crossed, his usual smug expression plastered across his face.

“Hey, skunk hair… You up?” he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

I groaned, not bothering to lift my head. “With all your training, weren’t you taught how to knock, baby face?”

Damian’s eyebrow shot up, and he stepped further into the room, letting the door slam shut behind him. “Baby face? Really?” he said, his voice laced with mock offense. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

I rolled over onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “As you can tell, I wasn’t trying. Now get out of my room.”

He Ignored me, of course, striding over to the far corner of the room and grabbing the rickety chair. He dragged it across the stone floor, the legs screeching loudly, and plopped it down next to my bed. 

Sitting backward on it like some wannabe rebel, he rested his chin on his arms and fixed me with a piercing stare.

“So,” he began, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity, “what’s your story?”

I turned my head to glare at him. “What do I look like, your babysitter?”

His expression darkened, and for a moment, I thought I’d struck a nerve. “I don’t need a babysitter,” he snapped, his voice sharp. “Never had one, never will.”

I shrugged, unimpressed. “Go spar with someone if you’re bored. Leave me alone. I need a nap.”

Damian smirked, leaning back in the chair. “Oh, please. Even with one arm tied behind my back, I could take down two guys in a sparring match.”

I raised an eyebrow, propping myself up on one elbow. “Then go do it blindfolded. Throw in an extra guy if you’re feeling cocky enough.”

He paused, considering my words for a moment before brushing them off. “I meant, why are you here? Training with the League, under the direct supervision of both my mother and grandfather? The only one who’s ever had that kind of attention is me, and there’s a good reason for that.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. So, Ra’s and Talia had kept my resurrection a secret, even from their golden boy. No wonder Damian was so curious. He probably thought I was some kind of rival, a threat to his precious legacy.

“That’s for me to know and for you to zip it,” I said, lying back down. “Mind your own business, or you might catch a fist to the face one of these days.”

Damian’s smirk widened, and I knew I was in trouble. “How about this?” he said, leaning forward. “A real fight between us. 

A spar to complete domination. If I win, you tell me everything—how you ended up here, your relationship with my grandfather, and why you’re such a quick study. If you win, I’ll drop the subject. Forever.”

I groaned, shoving my face into the pillow. Of course, he’d come up with something like this. The little brat knew how to push my buttons. But the idea of wiping that smug grin off his face was too tempting to resist.

“A hand-to-hand combat?” I asked, peeking out from the pillow.

“No,” he said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Swords. We put our lives on the line.”

I sat up, staring at him. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

I hesitated for a moment, weighing the risks. Damian was a prodigy with a sword, and I was… well, I was still figuring things out. But the thought of finally putting him in his place was too good to pass up.

“You’ve got a deal,” I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “But don’t come crying to me when I hand your ass over to you—painfully.”

Damian stood, his smirk turning into a full-blown grin. “Good. Be at the sparring ground in ten minutes.” He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Oh, and Jase? Prepare to lose.”

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving me alone in the cold, empty room. I sighed, running a hand through my hair. This was either going to be the best decision I’d made in weeks or the worst. Either way, it was too late to back out now.

                                     ****

The sparring ground was a large, open courtyard surrounded by high stone walls. The floor was covered in a thin layer of sand, which crunched underfoot as I stepped into the arena. 

Damian was already there, twirling a practice sword in his hand with the kind of effortless grace that made me want to punch him even more.

“Took you long enough,” he said, tossing me a sword. I caught it mid-air, testing the weight in my hand. It felt… familiar, like an old friend.

“Let’s get this over with,” I said, taking my stance. “I’ve got a nap to get back to.”

Damian smirked, raising his sword. “Don’t worry. This won’t take long.”

The first clash of blades echoed through the courtyard, and I felt a surge of adrenaline. This was going to be fun.

                                   ****

[General POV]

The sparring ground buzzed with quiet tension as Jason strode onto the field, his boots crunching softly against the stone floor. 

The cool night air flowed in from the open archways, carrying with it the faint hum of distant wind. Torches flickered along the perimeter, casting long shadows that danced across the walls.  

At the center of the arena, Damian was already waiting, a wicked grin tugging at his lips as he twirled a short sword in his hand with practiced ease. 

The boy stood poised, his small frame deceptively relaxed, but his eyes gleamed with the sharp focus of a predator.  

Jason stopped a few feet away, rolling his shoulders as he took in the scene. The swords were identical—straight blades with leather-bound hilts, designed for speed and precision rather than brute force. 

He bent down, grabbed his weapon from the rack, and gave it a few experimental swings, the blade cutting through the air with a satisfying hiss.  

“Ready to lose, old man?” Damian taunted with reference to Jason’s streak of white hair, his voice dripping with arrogance.  

Jason smirked, resting the flat of the blade against his shoulder. “Old man? You’ve got jokes, baby face. Let’s see if you can back them up.”  

The two circled each other, their movements slow and deliberate, each sizing up the other. 

Damian struck first, lunging forward with a precise thrust aimed at Jason’s chest. Jason sidestepped with ease, his own blade darting up to deflect the strike.  

The clang of steel against steel echoed across the arena as the fight began in earnest. Damian moved like a whirlwind, his strikes fast and calculated, forcing Jason to stay on the defensive. 

The boy’s small size gave him an edge in speed and agility, and he used it to full advantage, darting in and out of Jason’s reach like an annoying fly that refused to be swatted.  

Jason, on the other hand, fought with a mix of brute strength and calculated patience. He parried Damian’s relentless strikes with practiced efficiency, his larger frame giving him the ability to absorb the impact of the blows without losing his footing.  

Damian’s smirk grew wider with each passing moment. “Not bad, old man,” he taunted between strikes, “but you’re moving slower than I expected. What’s the matter? Too much lounging around?”  

Jason’s jaw tightened. “Keep talking, kid. It’s gonna make beating you all the more satisfying.”  

Damian pressed the attack, driving Jason back with a rapid flurry of strikes aimed at his torso and shoulders. For a moment, it seemed like the boy had the upper hand, his blade coming dangerously close to landing a hit.  

But Jason wasn’t about to let a little brat show him up.  

Biding his time, Jason spotted an opening as Damian overextended on a particularly aggressive strike. 

In a single, fluid motion, Jason pivoted to the side, hooking Damian’s sword arm with his free hand while sweeping his own blade up to knock the weapon clean out of the boy’s grasp. 

The sword clattered to the ground, but Jason didn’t stop there. He spun around, disarming himself by tossing his own sword far out of reach.  

Damian barely had time to react before Jason’s fist connected with his jaw, sending the boy stumbling back.  

“No more swords,” Jason growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Let’s see how you do when it’s just fists.”  

Damian scowled, wiping a small trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “You’ll regret that,” he spat, charging forward with a feral determination.  

What followed was a brutal exchange of punches, kicks, and grapples. Damian was quick, his strikes sharp and precise, aiming for weak points in Jason’s defenses. 

But Jason’s sheer size and strength gave him an undeniable edge. Every hit he landed sent Damian reeling, the boy’s smaller frame struggling to withstand the impact.  

Damian managed to land a solid kick to Jason’s ribs, earning a grunt of pain, but it wasn’t enough to stop the older fighter. Jason grabbed the boy’s leg mid-kick, yanking him off balance and slamming him to the ground with a thunderous thud. 

“You’re fast, I’ll give you that,” Jason said, his voice steady despite the exertion. “But speed doesn’t mean much when you can’t hit hard enough to put me down.”  

Damian growled in frustration, flipping back onto his feet with a skillful maneuver. 

He rushed Jason again, throwing a series of rapid punches aimed at his face and chest. Jason dodged most of them, blocking the rest with ease, before catching Damian’s wrist mid-strike.  

With a sharp twist, Jason spun the boy around and pinned him in a chokehold, locking his arms firmly around Damian’s neck.  

“Give it up, kid,” Jason said, his voice calm but firm. “You’re good, but you’re not ‘that’ good.”  

Damian struggled against the hold, his movements becoming more frantic as the seconds ticked by. Jason loosened his grip just enough to avoid seriously injuring the boy, but he didn’t let go.  

Damian struggled, his pride refusing to let him yield, but Jason’s grip was unyielding. With a final, brutal punch to the back of Damian’s head, Jason knocked him unconscious. Damian’s body went limp, his face pressed into the cold floor of the arena.

Jason stood, breathing heavily, his knuckles bruised and bloodied. He looked down at Damian’s still form, his expression unreadable. There was no triumph in his eyes, only a grim satisfaction of whooping the kid. 

He had won, but the cost of victory was etched into the silence that followed. The arena was quiet now, the only sound the faint echo of Jason’s footsteps as he walked away, leaving Damian behind.

…..

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