Jason sent word to Talia—short, direct, no room for negotiation. He knew where Slade was heading. But information like that came with a price.
The climb to the League's new stronghold was grueling. The mountain pass was narrow, the air thin enough to make his lungs burn. Stone steps, worn smooth by centuries of assassins' footsteps, wound up the cliffside like a serpent's spine.
At the top loomed a massive gate, flanked by twin statues—ancient, weathered sentinels with hollow eyes that seemed to track his every move. Their stone robes were carved with symbols Jason didn't recognize, remnants of a language lost to time.
The gate groaned open before he could raise a hand. No guards challenged him. No blades crossed his path. Just silence.
Inside, the fortress buzzed like a stirred hornet's nest. Masked soldiers moved in tight formations, sharpening swords, loading rifles, their movements precise but hurried.
The scent of oiled steel and smoldering incense clung to the air. Among them, Jason spotted unfamiliar figures—fighters in sleek, modern combat gear, their masks angular, their posture rigid. Not League. Not entirely.
A soldier in a blackened helm gestured for him to follow. Jason fell into step behind them, eyes scanning.
The halls were dim, lit by flickering torches that cast long, dancing shadows. Murals of past Demon Heads lined the walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow him. Ra's was among them, frozen in pigment and pride.
They stopped at a heavy oak door. The soldier knocked once, then melted back into the shadows, leaving Jason alone.
He pushed the door open.
Talia sat slumped in a high-backed chair, her usual poise shattered. Bruises mottled her arms, a fresh cut split her lip, and her knuckles were raw—defensive wounds. But it was her eyes that struck him: dark, exhausted, simmering with something between fury and defeat.
Beside her stood a woman Jason had never seen. Tall, lean, with the same sharp features as Talia but colder.
She wore fitted armor, a dagger strapped to her thigh, and a smirk that didn't reach her eyes.
"Welcome, Jason," Talia said, her voice hoarse. She gestured to the woman. "This is Nyssa al Ghul. My sister."
Jason's brows lifted. Sister?
Nyssa extended a hand. Her grip was firm, calloused. "I've heard so much about you."
Jason held her stare. "Funny. First I'm hearing of you."
A flicker of amusement crossed Nyssa's face. "There's a story there."
"One we don't have time for," Talia cut in, wincing as she shifted in her seat.
Jason crossed his arms. "Then give me the short version. And why she's here."
Talia exhaled. "She and my father had a… falling out. She took a faction of the League and left. Built her own empire."
Jason glanced at Nyssa. Of course Ra's had more secrets. The old man had probably buried more skeletons than Jason could count.
"And the injuries?" he pressed.
Talia's jaw tightened. "Deathstroke. He had me for days. Wanted the artifact's secrets." Her fingers curled into fists. "By the time I escaped, he'd already deciphered it."
Jason's stomach twisted. The thought of Talia—proud, unbreakable Talia—broken under Slade's hands made his blood simmer.
Nyssa leaned against the table, arms crossed. "She says you cracked Ra's code. What's your price?"
Jason didn't hesitate. "I go with you. And Slade's mine."
Talia's gaze darkened. For a heartbeat, Jason saw the conflict—the daughter's vengeance warring with the strategist's pragmatism. Then, slowly, she nodded.
Jason pulled a map from his jacket, spreading it across the table. "It's a black site. An island called Lian Yu, hidden in the North China Sea."
Talia frowned. "I've heard the name."
Nyssa's smirk returned. "I can take you there."
Jason eyed her. "How? The area's a maze of islands."
"Because," Nyssa said, tracing a finger over the map, "Ra's took me there. For training."
Silence settled over the room. Jason studied her—the way she held herself, the way her fingers lingered near her dagger. She wasn't just Talia's sister. She was Ra's' daughter. And if Ra's had trusted her enough to show her Lian Yu…
"Then we move now," Jason said, rolling up the map.
Talia pushed to her feet, grimacing. "Deathstroke won't be alone. He'll have an army."
Nyssa's grin turned razor-sharp. "So do we."
- - -
The chopper blades thundered overhead before Slade's boots even hit the damp earth of Lian Yu. The island smelled like salt and decay - a graveyard of forgotten experiments and half-buried secrets.
His mercenaries fanned out like a dark tide, their rifles sweeping across the overgrown ruins of what had once been a military compound.
Crumbling concrete walls, long since reclaimed by vines, stood as silent witnesses to the horrors this place had birthed.
"Fan out," Slade barked into his comms, his single eye scanning the tree line.
"I want every bunker, every tunnel checked. The serum samples have to be here somewhere."
The Mirakuru formula was his endgame, the key to building an army that could never be stopped.
His men moved with practiced efficiency, breaching rusted doors and kicking through debris. The occasional rat scurried from their path, the only signs of life on this cursed island.
Then the world exploded.
The first rocket hit the eastern ridge, sending a fireball curling into the dawn sky. Slade whirled, his sword already in hand as the familiar whump-whump-whump of approaching helicopters shook the trees. Not his. Not expected.
"Contact!" one of his lieutenants screamed just as the treetops erupted with gunfire. Leaves shredded under the barrage, his mercenaries diving for cover as a second chopper banked hard, its side-mounted machine gun painting the ground with bullets.
Jason felt the adrenaline surge as his chopper door slid open, the wind whipping at his all black get-up. Below, Deathstroke's forces scrambled like ants under a magnifying glass. Good. Let them feel what surprise felt like for once.
"Go! Go! Go!"
The pilot didn't need to yell - Jason was already leaping, his boots hitting the soft earth as he rolled to absorb the impact.
Around him, League assassins and Nyssa's hybrid forces hit the ground running, their war cries mixing with the staccato rhythm of gunfire.
The island had become a living thing– breathing fire, screaming metal. To the east, though injured, Talia moved like shadow given form, her sword flickering in the daylight as she cut through two mercenaries before they could raise their rifles.
To the west, Nyssa's forces employed brutal efficiency, their modified rifles spitting specialized rounds that punched through body armor.
Jason's pistol barked twice, dropping a sniper trying to reposition on a crumbling watchtower. The man tumbled like a broken doll, his rifle clattering down the rocks.
Somewhere in the chaos, he heard Deathstroke roaring orders, but the sound was swallowed by another explosion, someone had hit an ammo cache.
The ground became a chessboard of violence. Here, a pair of assassins fought back-to-back against four mercenaries, their blades weaving deadly patterns.
There, a League archer picked off targets from the high ground, each arrow finding its mark with eerie precision. The smell of cordite and blood hung thick in the air, mixing with the salt spray from the nearby cliffs.
Jason moved toward the sound of Slade's voice, his boots crunching on broken glass and spent shell casings. This time, the playing field was level. This time, it ended.
A mercenary lunged at him from behind a burned-out jeep. Jason sidestepped, driving his elbow into the man's throat before putting two rounds in his chest. No hesitation. No mercy. Not today.
Through the smoke and chaos, he caught glimpses of the real battle unfolding, not just between armies, but between ideologies. The League's cold precision against the mercenaries' brutal pragmatism. And somewhere in that mess, his personal war waited.
The chopper blades still thundered above it all, the sound now mixed with screams and the wet thunk of steel meeting flesh.
Determined to stay on course, he hailed one of the helicopters and took off, moving in Slade's approximate direction.
Lian Yu, the island that had birthed so much pain, would bear witness to one more bloody chapter.
Jason reloaded with practiced ease, his eyes sharp for even the faintest trace of Slade.
- - -
The distant echoes of gunfire and shouting faded into the background as Deathstroke and Jones pushed deeper into the dense foliage of Lian Yu's interior.
The jungle here was thicker, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and rotting vegetation. Sunlight barely pierced the thick canopy overhead, casting everything in a murky green twilight.
Jones wiped sweat from his brow, his rifle slung over his shoulder as he stepped over gnarled roots.
"How could they have cracked the code so fast?" he muttered, swatting away a cloud of insects. "We barely got our hands on the damn thing before they were on our tail."
Deathstroke didn't slow his pace. His tomahawk flashed in the dim light, cleaving through vines and low-hanging branches with practiced efficiency.
"Talia played us," he said, his voice a low growl. "Either she knew how to decipher it all along and held out under torture—which, I'll admit, would be impressive—or someone else figured it out faster than expected."
The ground beneath them sloped upward, the terrain becoming rougher. Rocks jutted from the earth like broken teeth, forcing them to navigate carefully. Somewhere in the distance, the rhythmic thud of explosions underscored the ongoing battle near the shore.
Jones glanced back the way they'd come. "You really think she'd let herself get carved up just to keep a secret?"
Deathstroke's lips curled beneath his mask. "You don't know the al Ghuls like I do. Pride makes people do stupid things."
Before Jones could reply, a new sound cut through the jungle—the unmistakable thrum of helicopter blades, growing louder by the second. Both men froze, their instincts screaming danger.
The trees above them shuddered as the chopper roared into view, its shadow slicing across the forest floor.
"Move!" Deathstroke barked.
They dove in opposite directions just as the machine gun opened fire. Bullets chewed through the foliage, sending splinters of wood and shredded leaves raining down.
Dirt erupted in geysers where rounds struck the ground, stitching a deadly line between where they'd been standing moments before.
Deathstroke rolled behind the thick trunk of a banyan tree, his pulse steady despite the close call. He peered around the edge, his single eye narrowing as two figures rappelled down from the hovering chopper, black-clad and moving with lethal precision.
One of them turned, and even from this distance, Deathstroke recognized those eyes—cold, furious, and utterly focused.
"Well, well," he murmured, stepping out from cover. He didn't bother reaching for a weapon yet. Instead, he rubbed his gloved fingers over his eyepatch, the leather creaking softly. "Thanks for coming, kid. I did promise to pay you back for this."
Jason didn't blink. He unsheathed his blade in one smooth motion, the steel glinting dully in the filtered light. "You can have the other one," he said to the assassin beside him, never taking his gaze off Deathstroke.
The second fighter—one of Nyssa's elites—nodded and melted into the trees after Jones, leaving the two of them alone in the clearing.
Jason adjusted his grip on the sword, settling into a stance Ra's had drilled into him a thousand times. "And I promised to finish the job." His voice was calm, but Deathstroke didn't miss the undercurrent of something darker beneath it.
"You owe me a death. I'm here to collect."
Around them, the jungle seemed to hold its breath. Somewhere far off, a bird shrieked, but the sound was swallowed by the distant chaos of the larger battle. Here, in this pocket of stillness, there was only the two of them—and the debt between them that could only be paid in blood.
Deathstroke finally reached for his own sword, the metal whispering as it left its sheath. "Then let's see if you live long enough to cash in."
Jason's answering smirk beneath his mask, was all the reply he needed.
The fight began.
- - -
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