Chaos erupted in the heart of the League’s stronghold. 

Ra’s al Ghul stood unwavering despite the blood seeping through the fabric of his robes, staining the dark green silk a deeper crimson. 

The bullet wound in his arm pulsed with each heartbeat, yet his posture remained rigid, his very image of indomitable will. 

Before him, black-clad intruders poured into the courtyard like a tide of shadows, their assault rifles gleaming dully in the pale morning light as they fanned out with military precision. 

Every muzzle was trained on the Demon’s Head, his daughter, and his grandson, three generations of al Ghul legacy standing against the storm. 

“Take the boy.” The command left no room for debate, Ra’s voice cutting through the cacophony like a blade through silk. 

Talia moved before the echo faded.

Her fingers closed around Damian’s wrist with the certainty of a falcon’s talons, yanking him behind her.

The assassins flooding through the arched gateways moved with a synchronization that made her stomach clench, these weren’t mere mercenaries. 

Their footfalls fell in perfect rhythm, their attacks coordinated with lethal efficiency. These were trained killers. 

“Stay close,” she ordered Damian, her voice sharp as the steel in her hand. 

“I don’t need protection!” Damian spat, his young face contorted in a mix of fury and indignation, his small hands already gripping his own dagger. 

But Talia’s attention was already elsewhere – mapping escape routes, calculating threats, her mind working with the cold precision that had kept her alive through countless coups and betrayals. 

The second gunshot shattered the moment.

Talia’s body moved before her mind fully registered the threat. She twisted, using her momentum to slam Damian against a weathered stone pillar just as the bullet struck where his head had been, sending chips of ancient rock spraying through the air. 

The acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with the metallic tang of blood from the courtyard. 

“They’re not just here to raid,” Talia realized aloud, her voice barely above a whisper yet carrying terrible certainty. This was an extermination. A purge. 

Damian’s emerald eyes burned with defiance, his small chest heaving, but before he could voice another protest, a shadow detached itself from the corridor ahead. 

Talia’s dagger met the attacker’s blade in a shower of sparks, the ringing clash echoing off the courtyard’s walls. 

Without breaking rhythm, she drove her knee upward, feeling ribs give way beneath the impact. The assassin stumbled back, choking on blood. 

“Move!” The command left her lips like the crack of a whip, her palm pressing firmly between Damian’s shoulder blades to propel him forward. 

Ra’s’ sword moved like liquid silver, each swing a masterpiece of violence. The blade sang as it parted flesh and bone, his movements so precise they seemed choreographed. 

An attacker fell, throat opened. Another collapsed, clutching at the ruin of his abdomen. Yet for all his lethal grace, the numbers were against him. 

Then– destruction. 

The traditional fusuma doors that had stood for generations, elegant wooden frames papered with delicate scenes of mountain landscapes–exploded inward in a hail of splinters. 

The sound was deafening; centuries of craftsmanship reduced to flying shrapnel in an instant. Through the ruined doorway poured more black-masked figures, their weapons glinting like a field of deadly stars in the morning light. 

“Get him out of here!” Ra’s voice carried over the din, the order absolute. 

This time, Damian didn’t resist. Talia felt the subtle shift in his posture the moment his training overrode his pride. 

She wrapped her arms around him, pulling his small form tight against her chest, and leapt from the balcony without hesitation. 

Wind rushed past Talia’s ears as they fell. The extended rooftop rushed up to meet them, its clay tiles baking in the morning sun. Impact came with a thunderous crack as their combined weight shattered the ancient terracotta. 

They skidded downward in a cascade of broken fragments, Talia’s body twisting mid-fall to take the brunt of the impact, her arms forming a protective cage around Damian. 

For one breathless moment, the world was dust and pain and the sharp scent of broken clay. 

Then training took over. Talia rolled them to their feet in one smooth motion, her eyes already scanning for the next threat even as she assessed Damian for injuries. 

Ra’s al Ghul had already begun his bloody work on the balcony above. 

The Demon’s Head stood silhouetted against the pale sky, his sword raised high like a standard of defiance. 

Every gun on the spot turned toward him as one, forming a perfect semicircle of death. The simultaneous gunfire was deafening, a wall of lead and fire rushing toward its target. 

Ra’s moved like a specter. 

His blade became a silver blur, deflecting bullets with impossible precision. Sparks flew as steel met lead, the ricochets whining through the air like angry hornets. Step by calculated step, he closed the distance, his expression one of terrifying calm. 

Then he struck. 

The first attacker died with Ra’s sword buried to the hilt in his chest, the blade punching through armor as if it were parchment. 

As the others continued firing, Ra’s danced between the bullets, his footwork a deadly poetry. Each slash sent arcs of crimson through the air; each parry rang like a death knell. 

One by one, they fell. 

The last surviving attacker backpedaled desperately, his boots slipping in his comrades’ blood. The whites of his eyes showed stark against his black mask as he emptied his clip in a panicked spray. 

Ra’s sidestepped the barrage with contemptuous ease. Then he leapt – a perfect, soaring arc that carried him over the final distance. 

The attacker had just enough time to scream before the sword found its mark, punching through his open mouth and out the back of his skull in a grisly fountain of gore. 

Silence fell. 

Then–the unmistakable crack of a high-powered rifle from the shadows of the inner corridor. The bullet passed so close to Ra’s face that it stirred the hairs of his beard. His head snapped toward the darkness, his eyes burning with primal fury. 

“Who would dare?” The words dripped with venom, with the outrage of a king defied in his own hall. This wasn’t battle – this was cowardice.

Without another word, he charged into the darkness, his sword hungry for one more kill. 

– – –

The stronghold burned. 

Flames clawed at the ancient stone walls, their orange tongues licking the darkened sky as smoke coiled thick and suffocating. 

The League’s sanctum, once a fortress of shadow and discipline, had become a slaughterhouse. The air trembled with the roar of gunfire, the shriek of missiles, and the dying cries of assassins cut down before they could strike. 

Talia moved like a wraith through the carnage, her son Damian pressed close behind her. The courtyard was a nightmare of flickering firelight and blood-slicked stone. 

Bullets chewed through the air, stitching death into the ranks of her warriors. Above, the mechanical beasts of war—four AH-64 Apache helicopters—hovered like vultures, their miniguns spitting leaden fury. 

Then came the thunder. 

Missiles streaked from the choppers, slamming into the open field. Dirt and bodies erupted in geysers of flame. A direct hit vaporized three assassins mid-charge, their swords flashing uselessly before they were reduced to crimson mist. 

Talia seized Damian’s arm and yanked him behind a crumbling section of wall just as shrapnel whined past, embedding itself in the stone where his head had been. 

“Stay down,” she hissed. 

Twice now, in the span of ten brutal minutes, death had reached for him-and twice, Talia had ripped him from its grasp.

Damian exhaled sharply, his small frame pressed against the scorched stone wall. His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.

His eyes—green and sharp as dagger points—flickered with something between fury and fear. But he obeyed. 

Across the courtyard, the League’s warriors fought with the desperation of cornered beasts. Some fell, their bodies jerking under hails of gunfire. 

Others, faster, deadlier, twisted through the bullets like serpents, closing the distance to bury blades in mercenary throats. But for every soldier that fell, another seemed to take his place. 

Then, the reinforcements arrived. 

Five CH-53E Super Stallion helicopters descended, their rotors whipping the smoke into frenzied spirals. 

Ropes uncoiled like striking vipers, and mercenaries rappelled down, boots hitting the ground in synchronized thuds. M16s and M13s glinted in the firelight as they fanned out, advancing in disciplined formation. 

Talia’s jaw tightened. This was a massacre, not a battle. 

She couldn’t wait any longer. 

“Stay here.” The command left no room for argument. She shoved Damian deeper into cover, ensuring the shadows swallowed him whole. Then she stepped into the fray. 

A bow found its way into her hands—snatched from a dying assassin whose chest was a ruin of bullet wounds. The arrows were League-forged, their tips designed to punch through steel. She nocked, drew, and released in one fluid motion. 

The arrow streaked through the chaos, a silver whisper in the night. It found the cockpit of the nearest Apache, piercing the pilot’s throat with surgical precision. Blood painted the glass as the chopper lurched, its controls slipping from lifeless fingers.

The co-pilot scrambled, hands grappling at the cyclic, but the bird was already spiraling. It struck the ground in a fireball that sent shockwaves through the battlefield. 

Her warriors roared. 

Talia became a storm. Arrows flew, each one a death sentence. She emptied her quiver, then discarded the bow and moved like vengeance incarnate. A mercenary lunged—she broke his wrist, stole his rifle, and put two rounds through his skull before turning the weapon on the next. 

Gunfire. Screams. The stench of burning flesh. 

She fought her way toward the fences, where more mercenaries poured in like a black tide. A soldier dropped from the wall, rifle swinging toward her—she was already moving. 

Her knee crashed into his ribs, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Before he could recover, she used his collapsing body as a stepping stone, launching herself onto the wall. 

Now she had the high ground. 

A pump-action shotgun barked in her hands, its roar drowning the cacophony. Shell after shell, she cut down the reinforcements, her aim unerring. Bodies tumbled from the wall like broken dolls. 

Behind the crumbling barricade, Damian watched. His small hands clenched into fists. 

A mercenary spotted him—grinned—raised his pistol. 

A blade flashed. The man’s arm hit the ground before he could pull the trigger. His scream was cut short as an assassin’s sword took his head. 

Damian didn’t flinch. 

His gaze locked onto the fallen pistol. An opportunity. 

In a heartbeat, he was moving. Small, fast, lethal. He snatched the gun, rolled into a crouch, and fired. Two mercenaries dropped before they even registered the threat. 

“A child?” Their faces twisted in disbelief as they dropped dead.

Damian advanced, his shots precise, his stance that of a trained killer. The League’s blood ran thick in his veins. 

Above, the remaining choppers faltered. League assassins, now regrouping, rained arrows and launched projectiles with deadly accuracy. One Apache took a direct hit to its rotor, spinning wildly before exploding midair. 

The mercenaries, once an unstoppable wave, now wavered. 

But Talia knew this wasn’t over. 

To her ignorance, Slade’s true objective wasn’t the League.

It was Ra’s al Ghul. 

And somewhere in the fortress, her father was alone and outnumbered.

– – –

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep