## Month Four: Magical Development
The ancient stone chamber reeked of ozone, charred parchment, and what could only be described as "magical mishap"—a cocktail that had become depressingly familiar over the past few weeks. Scorch marks decorated the walls like abstract art, and in the far corner, a training dummy lay slumped at an angle that suggested it had lost a very one-sided argument with something involving fire.
"Magic," Richard Dragon's voice rumbled through the chamber like distant thunder, each word carrying the weight of centuries, "is intention given form through will and technique. The universe does not respond to wishes, child. It responds to clarity."
His massive frame cast long shadows as he moved, every step deliberate, powerful. The man was built like a mountain given human form, and when he spoke about magic, even the stones seemed to listen.
Zatanna Zatara twirled a strand of her dark hair around her finger, those impossibly blue eyes sparkling with mischief despite the destruction surrounding her. "Right, clarity," she said, her voice carrying that particular brand of theatrical exasperation that only a precocious nine-year-old could master. "So when I *clearly* wanted a nice little fireball for practice and instead got an inferno that nearly took out half the ceiling, does that mean the universe just has a flair for the dramatic? Because honestly, I can respect that."
She gestured grandly toward the smoking crater that used to be the chamber's north wall, her movements fluid and expressive, like she was conducting an invisible orchestra.
Richard's dark eyes fixed on her with the patience of stone. "The universe, Miss Zatara, is not your stage partner."
"Maybe not," Zatanna shot back with a grin that could light up Broadway, "but it clearly knows good theater when it sees it. I mean, look at that crater—pure artistry. A little heavy on the destruction, sure, but you can't say it lacks impact."
From the doorway, Bruce Wayne stood with his arms crossed, those intense blue eyes taking in every detail of the magical carnage. Even at nine, there was something unsettling about his stillness—like a predator calculating the best angle of attack. "You're going to burn this place down before we finish training," he muttered, his voice carrying that particular gravelly quality that made him sound older than his years.
"Oh, relax, Grumpy McGrumpface," Zatanna shot back, turning to give him a theatrical wink. "I've got it totally under control. Watch this—"
As if summoned by her confidence, she snapped her fingers with a flourish. A tiny spark appeared in her palm, flickered bravely for exactly two seconds, then promptly exploded in a puff of acrid black smoke that sent her into a violent coughing fit.
"*Hack*—okay, so maybe—*cough*—not *totally* under—*wheeze*—control," she gasped between fits.
Hadrian Wayne stepped forward with fluid grace, his tall frame moving with the kind of natural elegance that made everything look effortless. Those green eyes held a mixture of amusement and concern as he waved the air clear with calm efficiency. "Perhaps," he said in that deep, cultured voice that somehow managed to sound both gentle and authoritative, "less theatrical flair and more focused concentration would yield better results?"
"Easy for you to say, Lord Fancy-pants," Zatanna replied, still coughing slightly as she shot his pendant a pointed look. "Your magic comes with an instruction manual courtesy of ancient dragon spirits. Meanwhile, I'm out here free-styling like a jazz musician with pyrotechnics."
Richard cut across their banter with the precision of a blade through silk. "Control first. Precision second. Raw power last." His voice carried absolute authority. "Without discipline, you are not a sorceress, Miss Zatara. You are a hazard with a wand."
Zatanna crossed her arms, jutting out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout that somehow managed to be both adorable and defiant. "I prefer 'adorable hazard with excellent fashion sense,' thank you very much. It's more accurate and significantly more charming."
Bruce snorted. "Charming until you blow us all up."
"Details," she waved dismissively.
---
Hadrian's magical training, by stark contrast, appeared almost meditative—at least until it spectacularly wasn't. He sat cross-legged in the center of the chamber, his posture perfect, breathing controlled. The Dragon's Claw pendant rested against his chest, pulsing with a soft, rhythmic glow like a heartbeat made of light.
Around him, a shimmering ward flickered into existence, held for exactly three seconds, then collapsed like a deflated balloon. For the third time in a row.
"You know," Zatanna observed from the sidelines, propping her chin on her hand with academic interest, "it's *supposed* to be a protective shield. Right now it looks more like a sad disco ball having an existential crisis."
Hadrian opened one green eye, fixing her with a look that somehow managed to be both patient and mildly exasperated. "Your constructive criticism is, as always, deeply appreciated."
"Hey, I calls 'em like I sees 'em," she grinned. "At least I didn't say it looks like you're losing a staring contest with your jewelry."
From his position near the door, Bruce's voice cut through with dry humor: "He *is* losing a staring contest with his jewelry."
"Thank you, Bruce," Hadrian said with the kind of long-suffering tone usually reserved for saints dealing with particularly trying martyrdom. "Your support is overwhelming."
"I live to serve," Bruce replied with a smirk that suggested he lived to do the exact opposite.
Hadrian exhaled slowly through his nose, clearly marshaling his patience. He adjusted his hands, closed his eyes, focused his breathing... and the ward fizzled out again like a candle in a hurricane.
Richard crouched beside him, his massive presence somehow comforting rather than intimidating. When he spoke, his voice was low, deliberate, carrying the wisdom of ages. "The amulet remembers every bearer before you, young Wayne. Their victories. Their failures. Their fears. Their triumphs. It is not resisting you—it is waiting."
"Waiting for what, exactly?" Hadrian asked, and for the first time, there was a crack in his composed facade, a hint of the frustrated boy beneath the sophisticated exterior.
Richard's dark eyes held depths like ancient wells. "For you to stop commanding the magic like a general ordering troops. Start listening to it like a conductor hearing his orchestra."
The words settled over the chamber like stone finding its place in an arch. Hadrian's shoulders relaxed slightly, and he closed his eyes again. But this time, instead of forcing his will outward like a battering ram, he let himself sink into the gentle hum of the Claw's power. He listened to its rhythm, felt its ancient memories, and for the first time truly *partnered* with it instead of trying to dominate it.
The ward that bloomed around him was breathtaking—not the flickering, uncertain shield from before, but a dome of solid silver light that shimmered like dragon scales in moonlight. It pulsed with quiet power, beautiful and unmistakably protective.
Zatanna's jaw actually dropped. "Oh, that is just *not fair*. When you mess up, it's all 'patience and philosophy' and 'listening to ancient wisdom.' When I mess up, it's 'hazard with excellent fashion sense' and 'don't burn down the monastery.' Where's my mystical pep talk?"
"You set fire to the ceiling," Bruce reminded her with the tone of someone stating an obvious fact. "Twice."
"That was *artistic expression*!" she protested, throwing her hands up dramatically. "The first time was an accident, but the second time? Pure creative vision. You wouldn't understand—you have no soul."
"My soul is fine," Bruce replied dryly. "It's just not interested in being cremated for the sake of your artistic vision."
Richard's low chuckle rumbled through the chamber. "Perhaps, Miss Zatara, you might benefit from the same lesson. Magic is not a performance—it is a conversation."
"But I *like* performances," she said plaintively. "They're fun. They have drama. Conversations are just... talking."
"Conversations," Hadrian said, standing and letting his ward dissolve gradually rather than snapping it off, "can be quite dramatic when conducted properly. Consider it performance art with practical applications."
Zatanna brightened considerably. "Ooh, now *that* I can work with."
---
The real breakthrough came three days later, in the monastery's main courtyard. The afternoon sun painted everything in shades of gold and amber, and a light breeze carried the scent of mountain flowers. Hadrian stood in the center of the open space, the Dragon's Claw glowing like molten silver against his chest.
He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his friends' attention, the ancient stones beneath his feet, the whisper of wind through the peaks. When he spoke the incantation, it wasn't in the commanding tone he'd used before—it was gentle, respectful, like greeting an old friend.
What erupted from the tip of his practice wand was nothing short of magnificent.
A silver dragon uncoiled into existence, vast and luminous and absolutely breathtaking. Its wings unfurled with a sound like rolling thunder, each scale catching the light like polished mirrors. When it moved, it was with the fluid grace of quicksilver given form and purpose.
The Patronus circled above them once, twice, its presence filling the courtyard with a sense of ancient power and timeless protection. When it finally descended to land beside Hadrian, it lowered its great head with the solemn dignity of a knight acknowledging his king.
"Holy shit," Zatanna whispered, then immediately clapped her hand over her mouth and looked around guiltily.
Bruce was staring, his usual mask of composure completely abandoned. "You've got a *dragon*. An actual, honest-to-God *dragon*."
Hadrian reached up slowly, almost reverently, and rested his hand on the Patronus's gleaming snout. The creature's silver eyes held depths of wisdom that seemed to span centuries. "This one," he said softly, his voice carrying a note of wonder, "it doesn't just protect. It understands. It *knows* things."
The dragon's magnificent head turned, those burning silver eyes fixing on Bruce and Zatanna in turn. Without words, without sound, they felt its intent wash over them like a gentle tide—*protect, support, fight if needed, die before allowing harm to come to those under its care.*
Bruce's hands slowly clenched into fists, but there was no aggression in the gesture—just a kind of awed respect. "Figures," he said, his voice rough with emotion he didn't quite know how to process. "Of course you'd have a dragon. Because apparently the universe has decided that some people get to be knights in shining armor, complete with mythical creature sidekicks."
"Correction," Zatanna said, finally finding her voice again. Her blue eyes were wide with wonder and just a touch of theatrical envy. "He doesn't *have* a dragon, Bruce. He *is* a dragon. The shiny magical pendant just finally figured that out and decided to make it official."
Richard's voice rumbled behind them, carrying approval tempered with the weight of hard experience. "This is power, young Wayne. True power. But remember—every flame burns. Every blade cuts. And every dragon, no matter how noble, demands responsibility equal to its strength."
Hadrian nodded solemnly, his hand still resting on his Patronus's snout. The dragon's wings mantled slightly, silver light playing across its scales. "I understand."
"Do you?" Richard's dark eyes were serious, almost sorrowful. "Power like this... it changes everything. The choices you make, the enemies you face, the prices you pay. Are you ready for that burden?"
For a moment, Hadrian looked every inch the nine-year-old boy he was—uncertain, perhaps a little frightened. But then his shoulders straightened, and when he met Richard's gaze, there was steel in those green eyes. "I have to be ready. We all do. Because if we're not..." He glanced at Bruce and Zatanna, at the ancient monastery around them, at the vast world beyond the mountains. "If we're not ready, who will be?"
Zatanna sighed dramatically, sparks twinkling at her fingertips like fairy lights. "Well," she announced, "at least if the world ends, we'll go out in spectacular style. I mean, between Lord Dragon-pants here and my inevitable mastery of creative pyrotechnics, our final battle is going to be absolutely *legendary*."
Bruce's expression shifted, that predatory stillness settling over him like a mantle. "We're not going out at all," he said quietly, but his voice carried absolute conviction. "We're going to win. Whatever comes, whoever tries to stop us—we're going to win."
The silver dragon's wings flared wide, catching the afternoon sunlight and throwing patterns of light and shadow across the courtyard. For a moment that stretched into eternity, the ancient space felt like the center of something vast and inevitable—destiny taking shape, heroes being forged, legends beginning their first tentative steps toward immortality.
---
## Month Five: Weapons Training
The monastery's weapons hall sang with the music of steel—blade meeting blade, wood striking wood, the sharp percussion of combat punctuated by grunts of effort and the occasional colorful curse. The children were no longer content with fists and footwork alone. Today, Richard Dragon had placed proper weapons in their hands, and the ancient hall buzzed with deadly potential.
"Real fights don't wait for fairness," Richard announced, his massive frame dominating the center of the hall like a monument to controlled violence. His voice carried the weight of hard experience, each word shaped by battles fought and wars won. "Your enemies will use whatever works—knives, guns, poison, explosives, psychological warfare. So will you. No excuses, no noble restrictions, no playing by rules that don't exist. Survival is the only victory that matters."
Bruce Wayne stood before the weapons rack like a kid in the world's most dangerous candy store. His blue eyes gleamed with something that was part excitement, part predatory anticipation, and entirely unsettling. "Finally," he breathed, running his fingers along a particularly wicked-looking training blade. "Real knives."
He selected two curved daggers, testing their weight with the kind of instinctive knowledge that shouldn't exist in a nine-year-old. When he spun one experimentally, the motion was fluid, natural—like the blade was simply an extension of his hand.
"Knives aren't toys, young Wayne," Dragon warned, but there was something approving in his tone.
Bruce looked up at him with a grin that belonged on a wolf, not a child. "That's funny, Master Dragon, because they feel exactly like toys. Really, really *fun* toys." He lunged forward in a practice strike, his form aggressive but slightly overcommitted—the enthusiasm of youth overriding tactical thinking.
Richard's massive hand shot out, catching Bruce's wrist mid-thrust with casual ease. A simple twist and suddenly Bruce was on his knees, his weapon arm trapped, the dagger pointing harmlessly at the floor.
"A knife doesn't make you dangerous," Richard said calmly, his grip like an iron shackle. "Training makes you dangerous. Precision makes you dangerous. Thinking three moves ahead while your opponent is still planning his first—that makes you dangerous." He released Bruce with a small, almost gentle shove.
Bruce rolled with the momentum, came up in a crouch, and immediately started grinning again as he rubbed his wrist. "Noted and filed for future reference. I'm still keeping the knives though."
"I wouldn't expect otherwise," Richard chuckled.
Across the hall, Hadrian Wayne had selected a practice sword—elegant, perfectly balanced, the kind of blade that whispered of nobility and ancient traditions. He held it with natural grace, testing its weight, his movements precise and controlled.
"Of course you'd pick the gentleman's weapon," Bruce called out, still twirling his dagger with increasingly complex flourishes. "What's next, a coat of arms and a family motto?"
Hadrian's green eyes sparkled with amusement as he slid into a perfect guard position. "Better than compensating with something small and sharp, don't you think?" he replied in that calm, cultured voice, but there was definitely a teasing edge to it.
The weapons hall fell silent for exactly two seconds, then Zatanna Zatara burst into laughter so sudden and loud she nearly dropped her rattan sticks. "Oh my GOD," she gasped between fits of giggles, "he did NOT just—oh, that was beautiful! Absolutely savage! Bruce, are you going to take that?"
Bruce's grin sharpened to something that could cut glass. "Oh, he went there. Lord Fancy-pants just made it personal." He started moving toward Hadrian with the kind of fluid, predatory grace that made him look far older than nine. "Big words from someone hiding behind three feet of steel, sword-boy. Let's see if your shiny stick can actually stop me when I go for your throat."
Hadrian's posture shifted subtly—still elegant, still controlled, but now carrying the promise of violence. "By all means," he said smoothly, his voice carrying the kind of quiet confidence that came from knowing exactly how dangerous you were, "please try. I find practical demonstrations so much more educational than theoretical discussions."
"Oh, this is happening," Zatanna said, bouncing on her toes with excitement. "This is actually happening. I love you guys so much right now."
"Don't think I didn't notice you picking the exotic weapons, Z," Bruce said without taking his eyes off Hadrian. "Kali sticks? That's basically cheating."
"Cheating?" Zatanna's grin was pure theater, wide and bright and completely unrepentant. She began twirling the rattan sticks in complex patterns, the wood becoming a blur of controlled motion. "This isn't cheating, Brucie-boy. This is *art*. This is flow and rhythm and making violence look absolutely gorgeous. Watch and weep."
She flowed forward like water given form, her strikes coming in fluid combinations that seemed to follow some internal music only she could hear. Bruce tried to block, his daggers flashing up to intercept, but each deflection only set up the next strike. The sticks moved in impossible patterns—high, low, spinning, thrusting—until Bruce found himself being driven steadily backward, his defenses crumbling under the relentless rhythm.
A final combination sent him stumbling over a training mat, and he landed flat on his back with a grunt of surprise.
From the sidelines, Richard's laughter rumbled like distant thunder. "Kali—the art of flowing like water and striking like lightning. Beautiful work, Miss Zatara."
Bruce groaned, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. "I just got schooled by someone with magical broomsticks. This is not how I pictured my day going."
"They're weapons, not broomsticks," Zatanna corrected sweetly, spinning one stick behind her back in a flourish before pointing it at his chest like a sword. "And don't worry—I'll be happy to sign your cast after I break your arm. I've got this gorgeous purple pen that would look amazing against white plaster."
Hadrian stepped between them before Bruce could launch himself back into the fray, raising his sword in a perfect gentleman's salute. "If we're quite finished with this particular comedy routine," he said with that hint of dry humor, "perhaps we could focus on actually surviving Master Dragon's lesson? Unless, of course, you'd prefer another demonstration of Zatanna's superior stick-handling technique."
Zatanna's eyes lit up like Christmas morning. "Oh, don't tempt me, Henry. I've got at least six more combinations I've been dying to try out on a moving target."
"I volunteer Bruce," Hadrian said immediately.
"Hey!" Bruce protested, scrambling to his feet. "I vote we test them on the guy with the overpriced sword instead."
Richard clapped his hands once, the sound cracking through the hall like a whip. "Enough. You're thinking like children—individual glory, personal victories, showing off for each other. Real combat isn't about being the best with your chosen weapon. It's about adapting, improvising, using everything and everyone around you as tools for survival."
He moved to the center of the hall, his presence immediately commanding their attention. "A blade rusts. A stick breaks. A gun runs out of ammunition. But the fighter who knows how to turn anything—a pen, a belt, a handful of sand, their own teammate—into a weapon? That fighter doesn't lose."
Sandra Woosan emerged from the shadows near the far wall, moving with the kind of silence that made you question whether she'd been there all along or had just materialized out of thin air. "Adaptability over specialization," she said in her precise, analytical voice. "Environmental awareness over equipment dependence. Team coordination over individual skill."
"Exactly," Richard nodded approvingly. "Miss Woosan understands. Your weapons are tools, not crutches. Learn to use them perfectly, then learn to fight just as well without them."
Ben Turner vaulted over a low practice barrier with casual athleticism, landing in a crouch that showed off muscles that were becoming increasingly impressive for a nine-year-old. "So basically," he said with that easy grin, "we're learning to be scary no matter what we've got in our hands. I can work with that."
Bruce hefted his daggers, but his expression had shifted from playful aggression to something more thoughtful. "Environmental weapons. Improvised tools. Using the terrain." His blue eyes were calculating now, seeing angles and possibilities. "This isn't just about fighting—it's about making the entire battlefield work for you."
"Now you're learning," Richard rumbled approvingly.
The next hour was a masterclass in creative violence. Richard had them cycling through weapons, then taking them away and forcing improvisation. Zatanna learned to make her magic work with whatever was in her hands—a broken chair leg became a staff, a handful of dust became a blinding cloud. Bruce discovered that his knives were just as effective when thrown, when used to cut improvised trip wires, or when abandoned entirely in favor of using someone else's weapon against them.
Hadrian found that his sword work translated beautifully to other weapons—a staff, a length of chain, even a purely decorative banner became deadly in his hands when backed by proper footwork and timing.
"Again!" Richard commanded, and steel, wood, and laughter filled the hall as they threw themselves back into training with renewed purpose.
Bruce grinned, spinning a dagger while eyeing the weapons rack. "Next time, I'm picking something bigger."
"Dream on, Brucie," Zatanna laughed, already reaching for a different set of sticks. "Size doesn't matter—it's all about technique."
Hadrian just sighed like the long-suffering adult of the group. "Children," he muttered, though the fond smile on his lips betrayed him completely.
Dragon's approving nod encompassed them all. "Good. You're beginning to understand. A true warrior doesn't just master weapons—they become one."
The weapons sang as training resumed, but now it was a different song—not the clash of individual ambitions, but the harmony of a team learning to fight as one.
---
## Month Six: The Test
The monastery wore an unsettling quiet that morning, the kind of silence that seemed to press against your skin and make every shadow look like it might suddenly sprout knives. Even the mountain wind had stilled, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Richard Dragon's voice cut through the oppressive calm like a blade through silk: "This is not a drill. Not a game. Not a rehearsal." His massive frame dominated the main hall, every word carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Your lives are at stake. The lives of those who trained you are at stake. The future you've been preparing for starts now. Respond as you have been trained—or fail."
Bruce Wayne's jaw tightened, that familiar predatory stillness settling over him like a second skin. But there was something different now—a coiled readiness that spoke of months of training finally finding purpose. "Finally," he said quietly, his voice carrying deadly satisfaction. "Real enemies. Real stakes. Real consequences."
Hadrian Wayne's hands rested lightly on the hilt of his practice sword, the Dragon's Claw pendant pulsing with soft silver light against his chest. His green eyes swept the hall with tactical precision, already calculating angles and escape routes. "Let's ensure our stakes remain theoretical rather than terminal," he said in that calm, cultured voice that somehow managed to sound both reassuring and absolutely confident.
Zatanna Zatara bounced on her toes, rattan sticks spinning in complex patterns that made the air whistle. Her blue eyes sparkled with anticipation rather than fear. "I call dibs on making their day spectacularly, dramatically, and *artistically* unpleasant," she announced with theatrical flair.
"Please don't get us killed for style points," Bruce warned, flexing his fingers as he settled into a combat stance.
"Where's the fun in that?" Zatanna shot back with a grin.
Sandra Woosan materialized from the shadows near the eastern wall, her movements so silent she might have been made of mist. "Twenty-three hostiles," she reported in her precise, analytical voice. "Professional grade equipment. League of Assassins operational patterns. They expect to find Dragon alone."
Ben Turner cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp in the quiet hall. "Twenty-three against six? Sounds like they're the ones who should be worried."
Richard's dark eyes held depths like ancient wells. "They're here," he said simply.
The attack came from six directions at once.
League operatives flowed into the monastery like liquid death—men who had toppled kingdoms, assassinated emperors, and erased entire bloodlines from history. They moved with the precision of predators who had never known failure, their weapons gleaming with professional lethality.
They did not expect children.
They certainly didn't expect *these* children.
Bruce met the first wave head-on with a battle cry that was part war whoop, part wolf howl, and entirely terrifying coming from a nine-year-old. He moved like controlled violence given form—knives flashing in surgical strikes, elbows slamming into nerve clusters, shins snapping into kneecaps with sounds like breaking branches. Every movement was economical, precise, designed to end fights rather than prolong them.
"Knives in play, cover my left flank!" he shouted, his voice carrying command authority that belonged on someone three times his age. "Hadrian, I need eyes on the upper level! Z, light 'em up!"
"Copy that!" Hadrian's silver dragon streaked across the vaulted ceiling like a comet, its keen eyes marking enemy positions and relay tactical information through their bond. "Three hostiles attempting to flank from the western corridor—redirect southeast!"
The dragon's intelligence let him anticipate ambushes, coordinate team movements, and provide protective wards that shimmered like polished steel around his teammates. He fought with one hand on his sword, the other weaving tactical magic that turned the entire battlefield into his personal chessboard.
Zatanna whirled through the chaos like a force of nature having a very good day. She flipped off walls, vanished into shadows, then reappeared behind unsuspecting assassins with theatrical timing that would have made Houdini weep with envy. Her sticks became a blur of controlled destruction, while shadows seemed to leap from her fingertips—knocking weapons aside, tripping enemies, turning straight corridors into impossible mazes.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" she called out over the sounds of combat, currently using an assassin's own momentum to send him crashing into a stone pillar. "Welcome to my show! Tonight's performance: 'How to Rearrange Your Face in Seventeen Easy Steps!' Admission is free, but the experience will cost you everything!"
Bruce laughed—actually *laughed*—mid-fight as he rolled under a sword thrust and came up with both daggers buried in an operative's armor. "About time you started earning your keep, Z!"
"I've *always* earned my keep," she shot back, currently hanging upside-down from a wooden beam while using her sticks to clock someone in the skull. "You just weren't paying attention!"
Hadrian's Patronus dragon swooped down with wings spread wide, silver claws extended, intercepting an assassin who had been drawing a bead on Zatanna with a crossbow. The dragon's tackle sent both weapon and wielder tumbling, while Hadrian himself flowed through a series of sword forms that would have been beautiful if they weren't so absolutely lethal.
"Wall to your right, Bruce!" he called out, his voice cutting through the chaos with perfect clarity. "Shift two steps left and duck!"
Bruce followed the instruction without hesitation, a thrown knife whistling through the space his head had occupied a heartbeat before. "Thanks for the heads up, Lord Dragon-pants!"
"Always a pleasure!"
Sandra and Ben moved like complementary forces of nature through the monastery's rear corridors. Sandra was precision incarnate—every strike calculated, every movement efficient, turning the building's architecture into a weapon as she used structural weak points and environmental hazards to neutralize opponents with minimal effort.
Ben was her perfect counterpoint—raw athletic ability channeled through months of training, vaulting over obstacles, sliding under attacks, and delivering devastating combinations that sent grown assassins flying like rag dolls.
"Sorry, not sorry!" Ben called out cheerfully as he clotheslined someone hard enough to lift them off their feet. "But you really should have thought twice before attacking kids!"
The League operatives tried to coordinate—they were professionals, after all, trained to adapt to unexpected situations. But every tactical adjustment they attempted played directly into the children's carefully drilled teamwork.
When they tried to use superior numbers, Zatanna's misdirection split them apart and made them attack shadows and illusions. When they attempted to use superior reach and experience, Hadrian's tactical foresight had the team in perfect position to exploit openings before they even appeared. When they tried to rely on superior aggression, Bruce's sheer ferocity and Sandra's cold precision punished every moment of hesitation.
"This is impossible," one operative gasped as he found himself surrounded by children who fought like demons.
"Nah," Bruce said conversationally, currently holding the man in a submission hold that shouldn't have been physically possible given their size difference. "This is just Tuesday."
The battle raged through corridors and courtyards, up stairwells and across rooftops. But the tide was never really in doubt—not once the children found their rhythm, not once they started moving as a single organism with six deadly limbs.
In exactly thirty-seven minutes, twenty-one League operatives lay unconscious or incapacitated throughout the monastery. Two had been captured alive and restrained for questioning. Not a single child had suffered more than minor scrapes and bruises.
When the final assassin went down—courtesy of Zatanna dropping on him from a second-story window while shouting "Surprise, motherfucker!" in a voice that would have made a sailor proud—Bruce kicked his daggers into their sheaths and straightened up, chest heaving but grinning like a maniac.
"Well," he announced to the wreckage-strewn hall, "that was the most fun I've had since we got here."
Zatanna dropped into a theatrical bow, somehow managing to make it elegant despite being covered in dust and sporting a rapidly darkening bruise on her cheek. "Fun for me, absolutely. You guys looked like you were having religious experiences. Very intense, lots of meaningful violence."
Hadrian surveyed the battlefield with those keen green eyes, his sword still ready but his posture relaxed. "They underestimated us severely," he observed in that calm, analytical tone. "I suspect that particular tactical error won't be repeated."
"Damn right it won't," Bruce agreed, cracking his knuckles with satisfaction.
Ben jogged up from the eastern wing, barely breathing hard despite having just finished demolishing three assassins in single combat. "You guys see the looks on their faces when they realized we weren't just playing around? Priceless. Absolutely priceless."
Sandra emerged from whatever shadows she'd been using for cover, her analytical mind already processing lessons learned. "Individual skill successfully integrated into team tactical framework. Synergy achieved in six months. Most military units require years to reach this level of coordination."
"Yeah, well," Bruce said with that predatory grin, "we're not most units."
Richard Dragon stepped into the main hall, his massive presence somehow managing to make the aftermath of the battle seem small and contained. He surveyed the scattered operatives, the scorch marks on the walls, the weapons embedded in ancient stone, and his expression remained perfectly, professionally neutral.
"Acceptable," he said simply.
But the weight behind that single word conveyed more approval than any flowery speech could have managed. These weren't just students anymore—they were warriors.
"This is merely the beginning," Richard continued, his dark eyes sweeping across each of them in turn. "Now that you know what you are capable of individually, what you can accomplish together, we begin preparing you for the war that comes whether you are ready or not."
The monastery bells began to toll, their bronze voices carrying across the mountain peaks like a funeral dirge or a victory song—it was impossible to tell which.
Hadrian's Patronus dragon circled overhead, silver light playing across its magnificent scales as it settled into a protective position around the group. "Phase Two awaits," Hadrian said quietly, but his voice carried absolute certainty.
Dragon's expression grew grave, almost sorrowful. "The League will not underestimate you again. Ra's al Ghul himself will take notice. You have announced yourselves to the world in the most dramatic way possible."
Zatanna spun her sticks once more, the motion unconscious and fluid. "Well, if we're going to have enemies anyway, at least they'll be interesting ones. And when the real war comes..." She paused dramatically, eyes sparkling with anticipation. "It's going to be absolutely *spectacular*."
Bruce cracked his knuckles again, that predatory stillness settling over him like armor. "Spectacular or not, we're going to win it. Whatever comes, whoever tries to stop us—we're going to end them."
Hadrian's calm voice provided the final note: "We'll adapt. We'll overcome. And we'll survive long enough to see the other side of victory."
Richard's low, approving rumble filled the ancient hall. "Good. Remember this moment, all of you. Remember how it feels to stand together after your first real battle. Because from now on, victory is a teacher. The war will be an executioner."
And in that ancient hall, five children—bound by shared hardship, extraordinary skill, and a unity forged in fire—stood ready. Not just trained. Not just prepared. But *unforgettable*.
---
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