The mountain dawn broke like a blade across the horizon, painting the ancient monastery in shades of amber and blood. Six years had transformed the training ground from a place of desperate flailing into something that resembled a carefully choreographed dance of death—except the dancers were now fifteen years old, and the choreography had been written in sweat, blood, and an absolutely unreasonable amount of philosophical discussions about the nature of violence.
Bruce Wayne stood at the edge of the courtyard, no longer the compact nine-year-old who'd arrived with rage in his eyes and revenge in his heart. At fifteen, he'd grown into his frame like a wolf into its pelt—broad-shouldered, lean-muscled, every movement economical and predatory. His jaw had sharpened, his eyes had grown colder, and somewhere along the way he'd developed the kind of presence that made even hardened warriors take a step back when he entered a room.
He was currently destroying a wooden practice dummy with the kind of methodical precision that suggested he was working through complex tactical problems rather than simply hitting things. Each strike was a question asked and answered—*What if they block high? Counter low. What if they're faster? Use their momentum. What if there are twelve of them? Adaptive response, environmental exploitation, systematic elimination.*
"You're overthinking again," came a familiar voice from behind him—calm, aristocratic, carrying just enough amusement to be annoying.
Bruce didn't pause in his combination. "There's no such thing as overthinking. There's only inadequate preparation disguised as confidence."
Hadrian Wayne had grown into exactly what genetics and training had promised—tall, elegant, moving with the kind of natural grace that made violence look like calligraphy. His dark hair was longer now, tied back with a leather cord, and those green eyes held depths that spoke of battles fought, lessons learned, and a maturity that went far beyond his fifteen years. The Dragon's Claw pendant still rested against his chest, but now it pulsed with a steady rhythm that suggested complete synchronization between bearer and artifact.
"There absolutely is such a thing as overthinking," Hadrian replied with diplomatic patience, settling onto a nearby stone bench that had probably witnessed this exact conversation a thousand times before. "It's that thing you do where you calculate seventeen different scenarios for a simple sparring match and end up so deep in tactical analysis that you forget to actually *hit* your opponent."
"I hit my opponents," Bruce said flatly, driving an elbow strike into the dummy's throat with enough force to crack wood.
"Eventually. After mentally running through their entire family tree and calculating the optimal angle of attack based on prevailing wind patterns and the phase of the moon."
Bruce finally stopped, turning to fix Hadrian with a look that could have stripped paint. "The phase of the moon affects tidal patterns, which affects humidity, which affects grip strength and respiratory efficiency. It's relevant data."
"Bruce, we're in the mountains. There are no tides here."
"The principle remains valid."
Before Hadrian could formulate a response that wouldn't escalate into their usual philosophical debate about the nature of preparedness versus paranoia, a third voice cut through the courtyard—musical, theatrical, and completely unrepentant about interrupting their moment.
"Oh my GOD, you two are still arguing about tactical moon phases? It's been six years. SIX YEARS. At some point you're going to have to accept that Bruce is a beautiful disaster of over-preparation, Hadrian is an elegant disaster of diplomatic overcomplexity, and I am a spectacular disaster of controlled chaos." Zatanna Zatara punctuated this announcement by backflipping off the monastery's second-story balcony, landing in a perfect crouch that somehow managed to look both athletic and theatrical.
She'd grown into her stage presence the way some people grew into their shoes—naturally, inevitably, with the kind of confidence that suggested the universe had simply been waiting for her to catch up with her own potential. At fifteen, she was all lean muscle and controlled energy, moving like water given form and purpose. Her long black hair was still pulled back in that signature braid, but now it fell past her shoulders like a dark waterfall, and those blue eyes sparkled with the kind of mischief that made Dragon sigh heavily and mutter about "controlled demolition" and "acceptable property damage."
"Morning, Z," Hadrian greeted with genuine warmth. "Practicing your dramatic entrances again?"
"Practicing implies I need improvement," she replied with a grin that could have powered a small city. "I'm perfecting. There's a profound philosophical difference, which Bruce would probably explain using seventeen tactical examples if we gave him the opportunity."
Bruce's expression shifted into what might have been amusement if he remembered how to smile properly. "Your dramatic entrances are going to get you killed someday. You spend so much time making sure everyone's watching that you forget to check if anyone's *shooting*."
"Haven't been shot yet," Zatanna pointed out cheerfully.
"Yet is the operative word in that sentence."
"Optimism, Brucey. You should try it sometime. I hear it's very good for your complexion."
"I'm not optimistic. I'm realistic. Realism keeps you alive."
"Pessimism with better marketing," Zatanna stage-whispered to Hadrian, who was trying very hard not to laugh.
Richard Dragon's voice rolled across the courtyard like distant thunder, cutting through their familiar banter with the weight of absolute authority. "If you three are quite finished with your morning comedy routine, perhaps you'd care to join me for what I'm told passes for conversation among civilized people."
He stood in the center of the training ground like a monument to controlled violence, somehow looking exactly the same as he had six years ago—same massive frame, same bronze skin marked with old scars, same dark eyes that seemed to see everything and judge accordingly. The only visible change was a few more grey hairs at his temples, which Zatanna had once theoretically attributed to "the stress of managing three beautiful disasters with delusions of competence."
Bruce crossed the courtyard in three strides, his posture shifting automatically into something more formal—respect for the man who'd forged him into a weapon, even if he'd never quite admit it out loud. "Master Dragon."
Hadrian followed with his usual diplomatic grace, bowing slightly in a gesture that managed to convey both respect and equality. "You wanted to see us?"
"I want many things," Dragon replied with dry humor. "World peace, competent students, tea that doesn't taste like regret. The probability of achieving any of these remains frustratingly theoretical."
Zatanna bounced up beside them, still grinning despite the serious atmosphere. "If it helps, I promise to only set fire to things on purpose from now on. That's got to count for something in the competence column."
"Miss Zatara, the fact that you consider 'only setting fires intentionally' an improvement is precisely why I'm going to die with grey hair and unfulfilled dreams of peaceful retirement."
"You love us," she said confidently.
"I tolerate you," Dragon corrected, but there was something warm in his voice that suggested the distinction was purely academic. "There's a significant difference."
Bruce's expression had shifted into something more analytical, reading the tension in Dragon's posture, the careful way he'd positioned himself, the subtle indicators that this wasn't just another morning chat about tactical philosophy and proper knife maintenance. "This isn't a social call."
"Excellent deduction," Dragon acknowledged. "Six years of training haven't completely destroyed your observational skills."
"What's the situation?" Hadrian asked, his voice taking on that particular quality of command that suggested he was already preparing to coordinate whatever crisis was about to unfold.
Dragon gestured toward the monastery's main hall with one massive hand. "Walk with me. We have matters to discuss, and I'd prefer to do it somewhere that doesn't involve curious monks eavesdropping on conversations about classified training protocols and theoretical violence applications."
They followed him through corridors that had become as familiar as their own heartbeats over six years of intensive training—past meditation chambers and weapons halls, through courtyards where they'd learned to move like shadows, up stairs that had witnessed their transformation from children into something far more dangerous.
Dragon led them to his private study, a circular room at the top of the eastern tower that overlooked the mountain peaks like a fortress observing its domain. The space was exactly as they remembered—walls lined with texts in a dozen languages, weapons mounted with ceremonial precision, and a massive wooden desk that had probably witnessed centuries of similar conversations about duty, destiny, and the absolutely unreasonable expectations placed on people who were technically still teenagers.
He settled into his chair with the kind of controlled grace that only came from decades of making every movement count, then fixed them with those dark eyes that seemed to catalog their souls. "Sandra and Ben departed six months ago," he began without preamble. "Their training was complete. Their paths diverged—Sandra toward the League of Assassins, Ben toward more... independent operations. Both of them are precisely where they need to be."
Bruce's jaw tightened slightly—the only visible reaction to information about his training partners leaving without saying goodbye. "And us?"
"Your training is also complete," Dragon said simply. "Or as complete as it can be within these walls. The rest will come from the world beyond these mountains—from enemies fought, battles won and lost, mistakes made and survived."
Zatanna tilted her head, those blue eyes suddenly serious beneath the theatrical exterior. "That sounds suspiciously like you're about to give us a graduation speech, Master Dragon. Should we prepare emotionally for inspirational wisdom and possibly tears?"
"I save my tears for students who disappoint me," Dragon replied dryly. "Fortunately, you three have merely driven me to the edge of madness rather than actual disappointment. It's a subtle but important distinction."
Hadrian leaned forward slightly, his diplomatic instincts immediately latching onto implications that hadn't been explicitly stated. "You said our training is complete. That suggests there's something remaining before we can actually leave."
Dragon's expression shifted into something that might have been approval, pride, or possibly sadistic anticipation—with Dragon, it was often difficult to tell the difference. "Precisely, Master Wayne. There is one final task. One last test to determine whether six years of systematic preparation has actually prepared you for what waits beyond these walls."
Bruce's hands clenched into fists, but his voice remained steady. "What kind of test?"
Dragon rose from his chair, moving to the window that overlooked the training grounds far below. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of hard experience and uncomfortable truths. "For six years, you three have developed complementary specialties. Bruce—tactical analysis, direct combat, systematic elimination of threats through overwhelming force and strategic precision. Hadrian—magical capability, team coordination, supernatural support that reshapes entire battlefields."
He turned back to face them, and his expression was absolutely serious now—no humor, no warmth, just the cold assessment of a master evaluating his students' readiness for genuine war.
"Zatanna—mystical misdirection, creative chaos that turns every encounter into controlled mayhem where your opponents never quite know what's real and what's theatrical illusion." His dark eyes swept across all three of them. "These specializations have made you formidable individually and devastating together. But specialization without foundation is simply weakness disguised as strength."
Hadrian's fingers moved unconsciously to the Dragon's Claw pendant, and understanding dawned across his aristocratic features. "You want us to fight without our primary advantages."
"Not just without them," Dragon corrected with the kind of calm certainty that made even simple statements sound ominous. "I want you to prove that everything you've learned—every technique, every tactical principle, every lesson about violence, survival, and teamwork—exists independently of the supernatural abilities that have become your crutches."
Zatanna's theatrical demeanor cracked slightly, revealing genuine concern beneath. "You want us to fight without magic? Any magic? At all?"
"Correct, Miss Zatara."
"But..." She gestured helplessly, as if trying to encompass six years of magical training in a single hand movement. "Magic is basically my entire skill set. It's like asking Bruce to fight without tactical analysis or asking Hadrian to fight without... whatever it is Hadrian does that makes him so devastatingly elegant all the time."
"Diplomatic intervention and strategic positioning," Hadrian supplied helpfully, though his voice carried its own note of concern. "And I see the point Master Dragon is making. If we're rendered unconscious, captured, or placed in situations where magical resources are compromised or unavailable, we need to be capable of surviving through purely mundane means."
"Exactly," Dragon confirmed. "Magic is a tool. An extraordinarily powerful tool, certainly—but still just a tool. What happens when that tool breaks? When you're exhausted, wounded, separated from your artifacts and allies? Do you collapse helplessly, or do you adapt and overcome through the foundational skills that no enemy can ever truly take away from you?"
Bruce's expression had shifted into something approaching satisfaction—the look of someone who'd been waiting six years for exactly this kind of challenge. "You want to see if we can win without our safety nets. Without the advantages that make us special. Just raw skill, pure technique, and the teamwork we've drilled into muscle memory."
"Precisely. Tomorrow at dawn, you three will face your final trial. No magic—not Hadrian's dragon, not Zatanna's illusions, not even the subtle enhancement spells you've both been using without quite realizing it." Dragon's voice was implacable as stone. "Just three students against whatever I've prepared for you, armed with nothing but what I've spent six years teaching you about violence, survival, and the absolutely critical importance of not dying when people try to kill you."
Zatanna swallowed hard, her theatrical confidence wavering for the first time in years. "And if we fail?"
Dragon's smile was sharp as winter steel. "Then you stay here until you're actually ready, and we have this conversation again next year. Or possibly the year after. I have nothing but time, and you three have futures that depend on being genuinely prepared rather than simply believing you are."
Hadrian stood with fluid grace, his diplomatic mask firmly in place despite obvious nerves. "Understood, Master Dragon. We'll be ready."
"Will you?" Dragon's dark eyes held depths that suggested he knew exactly how unprepared they felt. "We'll find out tomorrow. Dismissed."
They filed out of the study in silence, each lost in contemplation of what the next day would bring. As they descended the tower stairs, Zatanna finally broke the quiet with characteristic theatrical timing.
"You know what? Six years ago, I would have been absolutely terrified by this conversation. Now I'm only moderately terrified. That's growth, right?"
"That's denial wearing a brave face," Bruce replied, but there was something almost gentle in his tone. "But for the record, Z—you've got this. We've all got this."
"Since when did you become the optimistic one?" Hadrian asked with genuine surprise.
"I'm not optimistic. I'm confident. Confidence based on systematic observation of our capabilities and realistic assessment of probable success rates." Bruce paused at the base of the stairs, looking at both of them with rare vulnerability. "We're ready. Maybe not as ready as we'd like to be, but ready enough. And together? We're going to prove exactly why Dragon spent six years turning us into weapons."
Zatanna reached out and grabbed both their hands, squeezing with surprising strength. "Together," she echoed. "No matter what he throws at us tomorrow—we face it together."
Hadrian squeezed back, his aristocratic composure cracking to reveal genuine affection for his chosen family. "Together," he agreed. "And if we happen to survive this final trial without permanent scarring or psychological trauma, drinks are on me when we get back to civilization."
"I'm holding you to that," Zatanna said with a grin that was only slightly manic. "Expensive drinks. The kind that come in bottles with fancy labels and pretentious descriptions."
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
As they separated to prepare for what might be their last night in the monastery that had become their home, none of them could quite shake the feeling that tomorrow's trial would either prove them worthy of the path they'd chosen—or break them completely.
But they'd faced worse odds before.
At least, that's what they told themselves.
---
The courtyard was silent as death when they assembled at first light, mist clinging to the ancient stones like the ghosts of ten thousand training sessions. The prayer flags hung motionless in air so still it felt like the mountain itself was holding its breath.
Richard Dragon stood at the center of the space like a monument to controlled violence, but he wasn't alone.
Twenty figures lined the courtyard's perimeter—monks, former students, hired specialists whose reputations preceded them like warning flags. Each one radiated competence and lethality in equal measure, and each one looked at the three teenagers with the kind of professional assessment usually reserved for evaluating weapons before battle.
"Your final trial," Dragon announced, his voice carrying easily across the silent courtyard, "is survival. These twenty warriors represent everything you might face in the world beyond these walls—superior numbers, professional training, coordinated tactics, and the absolute intention to defeat you through whatever means prove necessary."
Bruce's pale eyes swept across the opposition with tactical precision, already calculating angles, identifying leaders, noting equipment and positioning. "Twenty against three. Those are terrible odds."
"For them," Zatanna added with theatrical bravado that didn't quite mask genuine nervousness.
Dragon's smile was sharp as broken glass. "Your objective is simple—survive thirty minutes against overwhelming opposition without using any magical abilities whatsoever. No Patronus dragons, no reality-bending illusions, no mystical enhancement of any kind. Just the techniques I've spent six years drilling into your muscle memory and the teamwork you've developed through countless hours of systematic violence."
Hadrian's hand moved unconsciously toward the Dragon's Claw pendant, then stopped as he remembered the restrictions. Without the artifact's enhancement, he'd be fighting on pure technique and training—formidable certainly, but not supernatural. "Thirty minutes. No magic. Against twenty professional fighters." His voice remained diplomatically calm. "This should be... educational."
"If you're still conscious enough to learn," Dragon agreed. "You have exactly sixty seconds to coordinate strategy before the trial begins. Use them wisely."
The three teenagers immediately drew together in a tight circle, voices low and urgent.
"Classic defense in depth," Bruce said immediately, his tactical mind already working through scenarios. "We can't afford to get separated or we're dead. Mobile triangle formation—I take point for direct engagement, Hadrian coordinates from center position with superior sight lines, Z provides flexible support and counters whatever they throw at us."
"Agreed," Hadrian nodded. "Without magic, my primary value is tactical overview and adaptive planning. I'll call out threats and coordinate positioning while you two handle the actual violence."
Zatanna spun her kali sticks once—a nervous habit from years of training. "No magic means I'm pure physical chaos. I'll focus on misdirection through movement rather than supernatural means—make them think I'm attacking from one direction while actually hitting from another. Old school theatrical technique."
"Environmental exploitation," Bruce added, his eyes already mapping the courtyard's features. "Water barrels for temporary obstacles, training equipment for improvised weapons, architectural features for tactical advantages. We use everything."
"Thirty seconds," Hadrian said, checking the position of Dragon's fighters. "Pattern rotation every three minutes to prevent them from adapting to our movements. Bruce calls primary targets, I verify tactical soundness, Z executes chaos insertion where needed."
"And if things go completely sideways?" Zatanna asked.
Bruce's grin was absolutely feral. "Then we adapt and improvise. Same as always."
"BEGIN!" Dragon's voice cracked across the courtyard like a gunshot.
The twenty fighters moved as one—a coordinated wave of violence that spoke of professional training and systematic preparation. They didn't charge mindlessly; they flowed into position with practiced efficiency, cutting off escape routes while maintaining formation integrity.
Bruce met them head-on with the kind of controlled aggression that had defined his fighting style for six years. His opening combination was textbook perfect—explosive movement into the closest opponent's guard, elbow strike to jaw, knee to solar plexus, immediate pivot to engage the next target before the first had finished falling.
"High left, Bruce!" Hadrian called out, his superior positioning giving him overview of the entire battlefield. "Two coming around your blind side!"
Bruce's response was immediate and instinctive—he dropped into a roll that carried him under a coordinated attack, came up between his two would-be ambushers, and drove them into each other with calculated force.
Zatanna flowed through the chaos like water finding the path of least resistance, her kali sticks a blur of controlled violence. She wasn't trying to seriously injure anyone—Dragon would never forgive them for permanently damaging his carefully assembled test subjects—but every strike was precisely placed to disorient, disrupt, and create openings for her teammates.
"Feint left, strike right!" she called out, suiting action to words with theatrical flair. Her movements were pure deception—elaborate wind-up that suggested a high attack, sudden shift into a leg sweep that sent two opponents sprawling.
"Good!" Hadrian confirmed, already repositioning to maintain optimal oversight. Without his magical enhancement, he was relying purely on training and natural talent, but six years of systematic preparation had made him formidable even without supernatural assistance. "Bruce, shift southeast three steps—they're trying to box you in!"
The battle raged with brutal efficiency. The twenty fighters were good—professionally trained, systematically prepared, working with practiced coordination. But they were also predictable in ways that three teenagers who'd spent six years training together could exploit with surgical precision.
Bruce's tactical analysis identified their squad leaders within the first minute. His systematic elimination of those key figures disrupted their coordination, forced improvisation, and created gaps in their formation that Zatanna immediately exploited with that characteristic combination of athletic ability and theatrical timing.
Hadrian orchestrated from the center position, his tactical callouts becoming shorter and more precise as the battle progressed. He didn't need full sentences anymore—his teammates understood his shorthand perfectly after years of drilling.
"West high!"
Bruce pivoted, blocked.
"East sweep!"
Zatanna flipped over the attack.
"North pressure, redirect south!"
Both of them shifted as one, turning an attempted pincer movement into a fatal tactical error that left three opponents tangled together and temporarily out of the fight.
Ten minutes in, they'd reduced the effective opposition to fifteen through careful target selection and systematic exploitation of environmental features. Bruce was bleeding from a split lip and sporting bruises that would be spectacular by tomorrow, but his movements hadn't slowed. If anything, pain seemed to sharpen his focus.
Zatanna's theatrical energy had transformed into something harder, more dangerous—pure kinetic violence without the usual accompanying commentary. She'd stopped making jokes, stopped seeking applause. Now she just fought with the kind of quiet intensity that spoke of complete focus on survival.
Hadrian called out positioning corrections with machine-like precision, his aristocratic composure burned away by the demands of tactical coordination under overwhelming pressure. Sweat poured down his face, his breathing was labored, but his mind remained sharp and analytical.
Fifteen minutes. Twelve opponents still standing and fighting with renewed desperation.
Twenty minutes. Nine opponents, but the survivors were the most skilled—the ones who'd adapted to the teenagers' tactics, who'd learned to counter their patterns.
Twenty-five minutes. Seven opponents, and everyone was exhausted. Bruce's combinations were getting slower, Zatanna's acrobatic evasions less spectacular, Hadrian's tactical calls coming with noticeable delay.
"Final push," Bruce gasped between ragged breaths. "Everything we've got. Hadrian, remember Singapore pattern?"
"Confirmed," Hadrian replied, immediately understanding the reference to a training drill from three years ago.
"Z, you're the chaos insertion point. On Hadrian's mark."
"Ready," Zatanna confirmed, her voice rough but determined.
"Now!"
What followed was beautiful in its complexity—months of drilling crystallized into thirty seconds of perfectly coordinated violence. Bruce drove forward with renewed aggression, drawing attention and commitment from their opponents. Zatanna exploded into motion from an unexpected angle, her kali sticks creating openings that shouldn't have existed. Hadrian flowed through the gaps they created, his sword work economical and devastatingly precise.
When Dragon's voice finally cut through the courtyard—"TIME!"—all seven remaining opponents were on the ground, and three exhausted teenagers stood in the center of the space, barely able to remain standing but absolutely victorious.
The silence that followed was profound.
Dragon studied them with those dark, implacable eyes—taking in their injuries, their exhaustion, the way they automatically oriented toward each other even in victory. When he finally spoke, his voice carried something that might have been pride if Dragon actually admitted to experiencing emotions like a normal human being.
"Acceptable."
Bruce laughed—actually laughed—a sound rough with exhaustion and vindication. "We did it. Six years of systematic preparation, and we actually did it."
Zatanna collapsed dramatically to the ground, spreading her arms wide like she was making snow angels in the ancient flagstones. "I'm never moving again. This is my life now. I live here. I'm a permanent fixture of this courtyard. Future students can use me as a cautionary tale about the dangers of overconfidence."
Hadrian sank down beside her with considerably more dignity, but he was grinning despite obvious pain and exhaustion. "We proved ourselves without magic. Without supernatural advantages. Just technique, teamwork, and the training Master Dragon spent six years drilling into us."
Dragon approached them slowly, his massive frame casting long shadows across the courtyard. When he spoke, his voice carried weight that made them all pay attention despite their exhaustion.
"You have graduated from my instruction. Your foundation is solid, your teamwork exceptional, your adaptation under pressure remarkable. The world beyond these mountains will test you in ways that make today's trial seem gentle. You will face opponents with resources and capabilities that exceed anything I could prepare you for. You will suffer defeats, experience losses, and discover limitations you never knew existed."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"But you will also triumph in ways you cannot yet imagine. You will save lives, prevent tragedies, and reshape the world through choices only you can make. The question is whether you will do so with the wisdom to know when violence is necessary and when it is simply convenient—whether you'll become the weapons I've forged you to be, or something better."
Bruce climbed to his feet with visible effort, standing at attention despite obvious pain. "We'll be better, Master Dragon. Whatever the world throws at us—we'll adapt, overcome, and emerge stronger."
"See that you do," Dragon replied. Then, softer: "I am proud of all three of you. Not just for what you've become, but for how you've chosen to become it. Now go—rest, recover, and prepare for departure. The world has waited long enough for your particular brand of controlled chaos."
As they limped toward the monastery's medical wing, supporting each other with the easy familiarity of family forged through shared suffering, none of them could quite believe that six years had passed. Six years of systematic training, brutal education, and transformation from children with potential into weapons with purpose.
Tomorrow they would leave the monastery—fifteen years old, dangerous beyond measure, and absolutely ready to face whatever awaited them in the world beyond the mountains.
But tonight, they would rest together one final time in the only home they'd known for the past six years, dreaming of the battles yet to come and the legacy they would build.
The real war was about to begin.
And they were finally ready for it.
—
The late afternoon sun painted the monastery's stone corridors in shades of amber and shadow as Bruce Wayne methodically packed his few belongings into a weathered canvas duffel. Six years of intensive training had taught him the value of traveling light—everything he owned could fit in a single bag, and most of it was weapons or tactical gear that had been maintained with obsessive care.
His fingers traced the edge of a throwing knife, testing its balance one final time. The blade had been a gift from Dragon after their first successful mission simulation three years ago. Bruce had kept it razor-sharp ever since, a physical reminder of the standard he'd committed himself to maintaining.
"Still talking to your knives?" Zatanna's voice carried from the doorway, musical with amusement despite the weight of their impending departure. She leaned against the frame with practiced casualness, her own bag slung over one shoulder—considerably larger than Bruce's, stuffed with stage props, magical components, and what she insisted were "essential theatrical supplies."
Bruce didn't look up from his packing. "They're more reliable conversationalists than you are."
"Ouch. That would hurt if I didn't know you meant it as a compliment." She pushed off from the doorway and flopped onto his narrow bed with theatrical abandon. "Can you believe it? Six years. Six entire years of systematic violence, philosophical torture, and Dragon's particularly creative interpretations of 'acceptable training methods.'"
"Best six years of my life," Bruce replied, and meant it with an intensity that made Zatanna's expression soften.
"Mine too, Brucey. Mine too."
Hadrian Wayne appeared in the doorway moments later, moving with that characteristic aristocratic grace that had only become more pronounced over their years of training. His own packing was already complete—his belongings organized with the kind of methodical precision that spoke to diplomatic training and natural inclination toward order. The Dragon's Claw pendant still rested against his chest, pulsing with that steady silver light that had become as familiar as breathing.
"Everyone ready?" His deep voice carried calm authority that made people naturally defer to his judgment. Six years had transformed him from a diplomatic child into something approaching a young statesman—someone who could command rooms through presence alone, who made even violence look like a carefully orchestrated performance.
"Define 'ready,'" Zatanna replied, rolling onto her back to stare at the stone ceiling. "Ready to leave the only real home we've had for six years? Ready to face whatever cosmic horrors are waiting for us in civilization? Ready to pretend we're normal fifteen-year-olds instead of walking weapons with trust issues and concerning proficiency with deadly force?"
"When you put it that way," Hadrian said with a slight smile, "perhaps 'ready' is overstating our current psychological condition."
Bruce zipped his duffel with decisive finality. "Ready or not, we're leaving. The world isn't going to wait for us to feel comfortable about our reentry into society."
"Spoken like someone who's already planning his next seventeen tactical maneuvers," Zatanna observed. "Do you ever just... exist? Without the constant mental warfare simulation?"
"No."
"Fair enough."
The sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor made all three of them turn toward the door. Richard Dragon filled the doorway with his massive frame, his presence immediately commanding attention and transforming the casual atmosphere into something more formal, more weighted with significance.
"Final checks complete?" His dark eyes swept across each of them in turn, cataloging their preparedness with the systematic attention that had defined six years of training.
"Yes, Master Dragon," they replied in unison—six years of military-style drilling had made certain responses automatic.
Dragon stepped into the room, his gaze lingering on Hadrian with particular intensity. "Master Wayne—a moment, if you would."
Hadrian straightened, diplomatic instincts immediately shifting his posture and expression into something more formally attentive. "Of course."
Dragon's weathered hand moved to rest briefly on Hadrian's shoulder—a gesture of genuine affection from a man who rarely displayed such emotions openly. "Six years ago, when I gave you the Dragon's Claw, I mentioned it was temporary. A tool to help you understand and access your magical potential, not a permanent solution to every supernatural challenge."
Understanding dawned across Hadrian's aristocratic features, followed immediately by resignation. His hand moved unconsciously toward the pendant, fingers brushing the jade surface that had become as familiar as his own heartbeat. "You want it back." His voice remained diplomatically calm, but there was genuine regret beneath the composure. "I understand. It was never truly mine—just borrowed for the duration of my training. And I can cast without it now, even if it's more difficult."
He began to lift the leather cord over his head, already preparing himself for the loss of the artifact that had defined so much of his magical development. The Dragon's Claw pulsed once beneath his fingers, as if protesting the separation, and for a moment Hadrian's composure cracked to reveal something approaching grief.
Dragon's hand shot out with surprising speed, gently but firmly preventing Hadrian from removing the pendant. "Stop."
Hadrian froze, confusion flickering across his features. "Master Dragon?"
Dragon's expression held depths that spoke of decisions made, legacies passed, and responsibilities transferred. "I don't want it back, Hadrian. The Claw chose you six years ago—truly chose you, in ways I've only seen twice before in my lifetime. It remembers every bearer across a thousand years, and it has decided that you are worthy of carrying that legacy forward."
He released Hadrian's shoulder, stepping back slightly to create space for the weight of what he was about to say. "For six years, the monks and students here have called you 'The Dragon'—not as mockery or casual nickname, but as recognition of who you've become. Someone who wields power with wisdom, who leads with compassion, who understands that true strength lies not in domination but in protection."
Dragon's voice carried the kind of ceremonial gravity usually reserved for coronations or battlefield promotions. "The world needs to see The Dragon, Hadrian. Not just another trained fighter, not just another talented magician, but someone who represents the synthesis of both—someone who proves that power and principle can coexist, that violence and wisdom need not be contradictory."
Zatanna had sat up on the bed, her theatrical demeanor abandoned entirely as she watched this unexpected transfer of legacy unfold. Even Bruce had stopped his mechanical packing, pale eyes fixed on Dragon and Hadrian with rare open emotion.
Hadrian's hand remained frozen on the pendant, fingers trembling slightly as he processed the implications. "You're giving me the Dragon's Claw. Permanently. You're asking me to carry your legacy."
"I'm not asking," Dragon corrected with gentle firmness. "I'm *telling* you that you're ready. That six years of preparation, trial, and systematic transformation have prepared you to walk in the world as someone who can reshape it through example and action. The Dragon's Claw is yours, Hadrian. It has been yours since the moment it accepted you. I was merely confirming what the artifact itself already knew."
He gestured to encompass all three teenagers, his expression growing more intense. "You three are going to face challenges that will test everything I've taught you. You'll encounter enemies with resources and capabilities that exceed anything we've prepared for. You'll be forced to make impossible choices with inadequate information and devastating consequences."
Dragon's voice took on prophetic weight. "But you'll also save lives, prevent tragedies, and reshape the world in ways I can only begin to imagine. And Hadrian—when you do these things, when you stand against darkness and refuse to be moved, the world will see The Dragon. Not Richard Dragon the teacher, but Hadrian Wayne The Dragon—the next generation of a legacy that stretches back centuries."
Zatanna cleared her throat, her voice surprisingly thick with emotion. "That was... that was possibly the most beautiful thing I've ever heard, and I'm a performer who specializes in dramatic moments. Seriously, Master Dragon—where have you been hiding this inspirational speaking ability for six years? This should have been our graduation speech!"
"I save the inspirational moments for when they actually matter, Miss Zatara." But there was warmth in Dragon's voice, affection tempered by the knowledge that these particular students were about to step beyond his ability to protect or guide them.
Bruce crossed the room with purposeful strides, extending his hand toward Hadrian with unusual formality. "Congratulations, Dragon. You've earned it."
Hadrian gripped Bruce's hand, their six years of shared training and mutual respect crystallized in that simple gesture. "We all earned it. Every trial, every mission, every impossible challenge—we faced them together. This legacy doesn't belong to me alone."
"No," Dragon agreed quietly. "But you'll be the one carrying it forward visibly. Bruce will operate from shadows, using fear and tactical superiority to dismantle criminal enterprises from within. Zatanna will reshape reality itself through creative applications of chaos and theatrical misdirection. But you, Hadrian—you'll be the one who stands in the light, who shows the world that heroes can exist without compromise, that power can be wielded with wisdom, that The Dragon's legacy continues through you."
He moved to the door, then paused with his hand on the frame. "Your transport arrives at dawn. Rest well tonight—it's your last night in this sanctuary before you face whatever awaits beyond these mountains. And remember..." His dark eyes swept across all three of them one final time. "I trained you to survive, but you'll teach yourselves how to live. Choose wisely which lessons to prioritize."
After Dragon's footsteps had faded down the corridor, silence settled over the room like snowfall—peaceful, contemplative, weighted with the knowledge that tomorrow everything would change irrevocably.
Zatanna was the first to break it, naturally. "Well. That escalated unexpectedly. One moment we're packing our bags like normal people leaving boarding school, the next moment we're witnessing mystical legacy transfers and receiving prophetic warnings about our cosmic significance. Tuesday really outdid itself this time."
Hadrian laughed despite the weight of responsibility settling around his shoulders like an invisible cloak. His hand remained on the Dragon's Claw pendant, feeling its steady pulse against his chest—no longer a borrowed tool but a permanent part of his identity, a physical reminder of who he'd become and what he represented.
"The Dragon," he said softly, testing how the title felt in his own voice. "Six years of training, and I'm walking away with a mystical artifact and a nickname that's going to make introduction at social events remarkably complicated."
"Could be worse," Bruce offered with unusual levity. "You could have Dragon's tendency toward dramatic timing and cryptic philosophical statements. Then you'd be truly insufferable at parties."
"I'm already insufferable at parties," Hadrian replied with aristocratic dignity. "I just do it with better posture and more sophisticated vocabulary than most people."
Zatanna threw a pillow at him. "You're both insufferable at parties. Bruce because he analyzes everyone's potential threat level and escape route efficiency, Hadrian because he accidentally makes everyone else feel intellectually inadequate just by existing elegantly in their proximity. Meanwhile, I'm the only one of us who actually knows how to have fun."
"Your definition of fun involves setting things on fire 'for dramatic effect,'" Bruce pointed out.
"And your definition of fun involves systematic dismantling of criminal organizations through tactical application of violence and psychological warfare. We all have our hobbies."
They fell into companionable silence as evening shadows lengthened across the stone floor, each lost in contemplation of the path that had brought them here and the uncertainty of what awaited them beyond the monastery's protective walls.
Tomorrow they would leave as The Dragon and his companions—three teenagers who had been forged into something unprecedented, who carried the weight of six years' intensive training and the responsibility of shaping whatever future they could claim through skill, determination, and the bonds they'd formed through shared suffering.
But tonight, they were just Bruce, Hadrian, and Zatanna—three friends who had found family in each other when the world had taken their first families away, who had survived six years of systematic training that would have broken lesser people, who had emerged not just dangerous but *wise* about how and when to deploy that danger.
"Together," Zatanna said softly, echoing their promise from six years ago. "Whatever comes next—we face it together."
"Together," Bruce and Hadrian agreed in unison.
And in that ancient room, as the last light faded from the mountain peaks and stars began to emerge like diamonds against black silk, three young warriors prepared for tomorrow's departure—knowing that the real war was just beginning, and that they were finally, *finally* ready to fight it.
The Dragon's legacy would continue.
And the world would never be quite the same.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there