Jason carried Damian’s unconscious form through the stone halls of the League’s fortress. His boots echoed loudly against the floor, the weight of the boy on his shoulder barely registering. A few League members passed by, their curious glances flickering between Jason and the limp body draped over him.  

“What?” Jason barked at one particularly bold assassin who stopped mid-step to stare. The man quickly averted his gaze and continued on his way.  

Jason smirked to himself. The League members feared him—not that he cared. Most of them whispered behind his back, calling him a savage or a monster. And honestly? They weren’t entirely wrong.  

The Infirmary was a small, sterile room tucked away in one corner of the fortress. Jason shoved the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside, unceremoniously dumping Damian onto one of the beds.  

The sound of the boy groaning made Jason grin. “Welcome back, little brat,” he said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall.  

Damian’s eyes fluttered open, squinting against the harsh light of the room. He groaned again, sitting up slowly and rubbing the back of his neck. “You… cheated,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.  

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Cheated? Really? You’re the one who suggested swords, kid. You didn’t exactly specify that I couldn’t throw them out of the fight.”  

Damian glared at him, though the effect was dampened by the bruise already forming on his jaw. “You didn’t have to hit so hard,” he grumbled.  

Jason smirked, walking over to grab a chair and sitting backward on it, mimicking Damian’s earlier stance. “I went easy on you,” he said, leaning forward. “Trust me, if I wanted to really hurt you, you wouldn’t have woken up so fast.”  

Damian opened his mouth to retort, but a new voice interrupted them.  

“What is going on here?”  

Both of them turned to see Talia standing in the doorway, her sharp eyes scanning the scene with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity. She was dressed in her usual black assassin’s attire, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.  

“Nothing much,” Jason said casually, leaning into his chair. “Just teaching your kid a lesson in humility.”  

Talia’s gaze flicked to Damian, who was still sitting on the infirmary bed, glaring daggers at Jason. Her expression softened slightly as she took in her son’s battered state.  

“Damian,” she said, her voice stern but not unkind, “what have I told you about challenging opponents without fully understanding their capabilities?”  

“I can handle myself,” Damian replied stubbornly, his arms crossed.  

“Clearly,” Jason said, smirking.  

Talia shot him a warning look, but Jason just shrugged, unapologetic.  

“You underestimated him,” Talia said, turning back to Damian. “And you paid the price for your arrogance. Let this be a lesson to you.”  

Damian’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.  

“And you,” Talia said, her gaze shifting to Jason. “Did you really need to go so far? He is still a child.”  

Jason stood, his smirk fading slightly. “He challenged me,” he said evenly. “I warned him. If you don’t want him getting his ass handed to him, maybe you should teach him to pick his fights more carefully.”  

Talia’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she crossed the room and placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder.  

“Rest,” she said softly to her son. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow’s training.”  

Damian nodded reluctantly, lying back down on the bed.  

Jason turned to leave, but Talia’s voice stopped him at the door.  

“Jason.”  

He glanced over his shoulder.  

“My father will hear about this,” she said, her tone neutral but laced with meaning.  

Jason smirked. “Looking forward to it.”  

With that, he walked out, leaving Talia and Damian alone.  

Jason made his way back to his quarters, his mind still replaying the fight. As much as he hated to admit it, the kid wasn’t bad. He had potential—raw, untamed, and frustratingly arrogant potential.  

By the time Jason reached his room, the torches in the halls had burned low, casting the stone walls in a dim, flickering light. He pushed open the door to his plain, sparse chamber and collapsed onto the bed with a heavy sigh.  

The fight had been satisfying, sure, but it left a strange taste in his mouth, like a word at the tip of his tongue but is unable to recall it. 

Damian’s relentless determination unknowingly reminded him of… well, himself. The kid had that same stubborn fire Jason used to have, back before everything went to shit.  

Jason closed his eyes, the faint sound of the wind outside lulling him into a restless sleep.  

Tomorrow would bring another day of training, and violence. But for now, at least, he could rest—if only for a little while.  

                                      *****

The morning sun barely peeked over the horizon when Jason was summoned to the Ra’s al Ghul’s chamber. The fortress was unusually quiet, the usual bustle of training exercises and assassins moving through the halls absent at this early hour. 

Jason had a bad feeling about this, but he kept his face blank as he approached the towering double doors of Ra’s al Ghul’s study.  

Two guards opened the doors silently, their expressions stoic as they stepped aside to let him in. Jason entered, his boots clicking softly against the polished stone floor. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the faint glow of the morning sun filtering through the narrow windows.  

Ra’s sat at the far end of the room, his hands folded neatly on the ornate desk in front of him. He was as composed as ever, his piercing green eyes fixed on Jason with an unsettling intensity.  

“Ah, Jason,” Ra’s said, his voice calm and measured. “Do take a seat.”  

Jason hesitated for a moment before complying, dropping into the chair across from the Demon’s Head. He slouched slightly, his body language casual but his muscles tense, ready for whatever this meeting was about.

His initial thought was that he was summoned due to the tomfoolery between him and Damian, and of which hand landed the Demon’d head grandson at the infirmary. 

“I understand,” Ra’s began, “that you and my grandson engaged in a rather… spirited sparring session last night.” His prior thoughts were spot on.

Jason smirked, leaning back in the chair. “Spirited is one way to put it. The kid asked for it.”  

Ra’s tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Indeed. Damian is brash, overconfident, and far too eager to prove himself. Traits I have attempted to temper, though clearly with limited success.”  

Jason shrugged. “Sounds like a ‘you’ problem.”  

Ra’s ignored the comment, leaning forward slightly. “And you, boy—what do you think you proved by defeating a kid?”  

Jason’s smirk faded. He hadn’t expected that question. “Look, the kid needs to learn when to back off. He’s not invincible, no matter how much he wants to believe it.”  

Ra’s studied him for a long moment, his gaze sharp and calculating. “You misunderstand me. I am not questioning your actions—I am questioning your motivations.”  

Jason frowned, his hands curling into fists on his lap. “Motivations? What are you getting at?”  

“You hold yourself apart from the League,” Ra’s said, his tone almost gentle. “You train, you fight, but you do not belong. Not truly. You cling to the remnants of a life you cannot even remember, and yet you reject the path we offer you. Why is that?”  

Jason’s jaw tightened. He hated the way Ra’s could get under his skin with just a few well-chosen words. “Maybe I don’t want to belong,” he said, his voice cold. “Maybe I’m just here to figure out who the hell I am and then get the hell out.”  

Ra’s leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “You seek answers, yet you resist the very tools that could provide them. Your body remembers, Jason. Your instincts, your skills—they are fragments of the man you were. The League can help you rebuild yourself, piece by piece. But only if you embrace what we offer.”  

Jason’s fists clenched tighter, his knuckles turning white. “And what’s the catch, huh? Swear loyalty to you?”

Ra’s allowed a small smile. “Loyalty is earned, not demanded. But you would do well to remember that the League saved you—gave you a second chance at life when you had none. Perhaps it is time to consider what you owe in return.”  

Jason shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “I don’t owe you anything,” he growled. “You brought me back, sure, but you didn’t do it out of the goodness of your heart. So spare me the speech about gratitude.”  

Ra’s remained seated, unruffled by Jason’s outburst. “As you wish,” he said calmly. “But consider this, Jason: the path you are choosing to walk now is a lonely one. You may reject the League, but in doing so, you reject the only family you have left.” 

Jason’s chest tightened at those words, but he didn’t let it show. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, slamming the doors shut behind him.  

Ra’s deliberately chose his words with precision to implant the notion of a lonely, purposeless life in his mind. If he desired a life filled with meaning, he would willingly join the League of Assassins.

                                   ****

Back in his quarters, Jason paced restlessly, Ra’s words echoing in his mind. ‘The only family you have left.’ The phrase grated on him, stirring up a storm of emotions he couldn’t quite name.  

He glanced at the mirror hanging on the wall, his reflection staring back at him with a mix of frustration and confusion. Who the hell was he? What kind of life had he lived before all of this? The blurry flashes of memory that haunted him—fights in dark alleys, the sound of laughter that felt achingly familiar—only added to his frustration.  

Jason punched the wall beside the mirror, the impact sending a dull ache up his arm. “Screw this,” he muttered, grabbing his gear and heading for the training grounds.  

If he couldn’t figure out who he was, he’d settle for what he was. And right now, what he was—what he’d always been—was a fighter.  

                            ***

[The next day]

The training grounds were as inhospitable as the League itself, tucked deep within the shadow of an ancient mountain, veiled by thick mists that hung like a perpetual fog. The air was thick with the scent of wet stone and sharpened steel, the ground covered in loose gravel and dirt, worn smooth by years of constant use. 

Towering structures of black stone loomed in the distance, like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching long over the field. Above them, the sky was a brooding expanse of grey, heavy with the promise of rain.  

A series of wooden practice dummies, their faces carved into grimacing masks, stood in various positions across the grounds, a testament to countless hours of training and sacrifice. 

Nearby, a large open space stretched for hundreds of feet, the perfect setting for combat drills, where warriors honed their skills beneath the watchful eyes of the League’s most feared masters.

Today, it was Lady Shiva who commanded the field.

….

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep