## Seven Hours Later – Remote Airstrip, Location Unknown
The cargo plane hit the makeshift runway like a meteor with trust issues. The impact sent shockwaves through the cabin that made Bruce's teeth clack together, Zatanna's stomach lurch into her throat, and Hadrian grip his armrest hard enough to leave fingerprints in the metal. Through the scratched windows, the world outside looked like God's rough draft—jagged peaks stabbing into a sky so pale it seemed drained of hope, surrounded by valleys that disappeared into shadow.
"Well," Zatanna said, pressing her face to the window as the plane finally shuddered to a stop, "this looks like the kind of place where optimism goes to die."
"Cheerful," Hadrian replied, though his diplomatic smile was strained around the edges. "I'm sure the brochures just don't do it justice."
Bruce said nothing. His eyes were already cataloging the terrain, noting sight lines, potential defensive positions, escape routes. The airstrip was nothing more than a scar carved into the mountainside—packed earth and loose gravel that looked like it had been hacked out with pure stubbornness and possibly dynamite. The kind of place that didn't appear on any official maps because official maps had standards.
When the cockpit door swung open, it wasn't Mitchell who stepped out.
This pilot was older, harder—the kind of man who looked like he'd been carved from leather and left to cure in bad weather for about forty years. Deep lines etched his face, pale gray eyes that had seen too much, and hands that moved with the careful economy of someone who'd learned not to waste motion. His flight jacket was patched in three places, and when he spoke, his voice had the gravelly texture of a man who'd spent decades breathing high-altitude air and cigarette smoke.
"End of the line, kiddos," he said, scanning the three of them like they were cargo manifest he needed to check off. "Grab your gear. Your ride's waiting, and it doesn't keep schedules. Name's Rick O'Malley, and I've been flying death traps into places like this since before you lot were born."
"Not even a 'thanks for flying Air Sketchy'?" Hadrian asked, flashing his most diplomatic smile—the one that had charmed heads of state and defused international incidents. "I was expecting at least a mint or a small bag of peanuts."
O'Malley's weathered face cracked into something that might have been amusement if it hadn't looked so dangerous. "Son, I've flown arms dealers, war criminals, missionaries, and mercenaries. Half of 'em paid me in blood money, the other half in prayers. You three?" He gestured dismissively. "You're just expensive luggage with opinions and trust funds."
Zatanna's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline, her voice dripping with theatrical outrage. "Excuse me? Expensive luggage? I'll have you know I'm a highly sophisticated young woman with impeccable taste and a vocabulary that would make sailors weep."
"Uh-huh." O'Malley's pale eyes fixed on her with the kind of look that had probably made grown men reconsider their life choices. "Lady, I've flown Russian oligarchs' daughters who threw tantrums because the caviar wasn't the right shade of black. You want to impress me? Try surviving the next forty-eight hours without whining."
"I don't whine," Zatanna said with wounded dignity. "I provide colorful commentary on substandard experiences."
"That's whining with a thesaurus," Bruce said flatly, still studying the terrain beyond the windows.
She whirled on him. "Et tu, Bruce? I thought we were friends."
"We are," he replied without looking at her. "That's why I'm telling you the truth."
O'Malley barked a laugh—harsh, but not entirely without warmth. "Sharp kid. You'll need that edge where you're going." His expression grew more serious as he looked at Bruce. "You've been watching the perimeter since we landed. Good instincts. Out here, paranoia's not a disorder—it's a survival skill."
Bruce finally turned from the window, his young face set in lines too hard for a nine-year-old. "You've flown this route before. Multiple times. The landing approach was too precise for someone unfamiliar with the terrain."
"Very good." O'Malley nodded approvingly. "Seventeen times in the past five years. Mostly picking up people who thought they were tougher than they were. Some of them even made it out in one piece."
"Some?" Hadrian's diplomatic smile faltered slightly. "That's... not the most encouraging statistic."
"Kid, I'm not here to encourage you. I'm here to fly you to people who'll either make you into something useful or send you home in bags." O'Malley shouldered his gear bag. "Fair warning—the next leg of your journey makes this flight look like first class."
—
Outside, the air hit them like a physical blow—thin, sharp, clean enough to cut glass. The silence was absolute, the kind that pressed against eardrums and made city-born children realize just how much noise they'd been living in their entire lives. Pine and snow fought for dominance in the scent, undercut by the vast indifference of stone that had been watching the world turn for millions of years.
"Holy—" Zatanna started, then caught herself. "Holy cannoli. It's like breathing through a straw made of ice."
"Altitude," Hadrian said, though his own breathing was more labored than he'd like to admit. "We're probably somewhere around twelve thousand feet."
Bruce adapted within moments, his body adjusting with the kind of stubborn efficiency that would characterize the rest of his life. "Higher. Fourteen thousand, maybe fifteen. Look at the treeline."
Their "ride" stood waiting in a loose semicircle—six shaggy pack mules that looked like they'd been bred for spite, and a guide who appeared to have wandered directly out of a mountain legend.
The man was stocky, built like a tree stump with shoulders, skin bronzed by decades of high-altitude sun and weather that could strip paint. He leaned on a walking staff that was obviously more weapon than walking aid, and his eyes—sharp, dark, patient—swept over the three children like he was already calculating which one would complain first, which one would quit, and which one might actually survive what was coming.
"Seriously?" Zatanna stared at the mules with the kind of horror usually reserved for tax audits and cafeteria mystery meat. "We just graduated from flying death trap to... what, medieval road trip? Are we going to start paying for things with goats next?"
The guide's English came with an accent that sounded like it had been polished by too many borders and refined by necessity. His voice was calm, patient, with the undertone of someone who'd had this conversation before. "They are sure-footed where helicopters crash. Silent where engines scream. Patient where machines fail. And yes, young lady—they smell. You'll get used to it, or you'll walk."
"Walking's looking pretty attractive right about now," she muttered.
"Is it?" The guide's dark eyes fixed on her with uncomfortable intensity. "Twenty miles through mountain passes. Snow. Wind. Altitude that makes sea-level children faint. Still want to walk?"
Zatanna's mouth opened, then closed. She looked at the mules again. "The smelly option it is."
Hadrian, ever the diplomat, stepped forward with a respectful nod. "I'm Hadrian Wayne. This is my brother Bruce, and our friend Zatanna. We appreciate you taking the time to guide us."
The guide studied him for a long moment, as if weighing sincerity against politeness. "Wong. And I am not taking time—I am being paid. Well. Enough to risk my neck bringing city children into mountains that eat grown men."
"Cheerful," Bruce said, circling one of the mules with the methodical attention he'd one day bring to crime scenes. He checked its hooves, its gait, the way its tack was arranged, the condition of the straps. "How long to the destination?"
"Two days if weather holds," Wong replied, watching Bruce's inspection with something that might have been approval. "Three if it doesn't. Four if city children slow us down. Five if they panic."
"Six if they keep asking stupid questions," O'Malley added unhelpfully from behind them.
Hadrian's diplomatic smile never wavered, though his tone carried just the slightest edge. "We'll do our best not to disappoint. Though I should point out that 'city children' is a bit presumptuous—you don't know where we're from."
Wong's expression didn't change. "You smell like car exhaust and artificial air conditioning. You squint at the sun like it personally offended you. And you," he looked directly at Zatanna, "are wearing shoes designed for walking on sidewalks, not mountains. City children."
Zatanna looked down at her boots—expensive, stylish, completely inappropriate for the terrain ahead. "These are designer."
"They are foolish," Wong said bluntly. "I have spare boots. They are ugly. They will keep your feet."
"Keep my feet?" She blinked. "What happens to feet in the wrong shoes?"
Wong's smile was not reassuring. "You do not want to know."
O'Malley clapped Hadrian on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "Good luck, lads and lady. You'll need it more than most. These mountains have a sense of humor, and it's darker than a tax collector's heart." He nodded to Wong. "Don't lose 'em on the first day. Bad for my reputation."
Wong grunted something that might have been agreement or dismissal.
"Your reputation?" Bruce asked, finally looking up from his mule inspection.
O'Malley's grin was sharp as winter wind. "Kid, half my clients don't make it to where they're going. The other half wish they hadn't. But they all pay in advance, and I've never failed to deliver 'em to the drop-off point. What happens after that?" He shrugged. "Not my problem."
"Inspiring," Zatanna said dryly. "Really filling me with confidence about this whole adventure."
"Adventure?" O'Malley laughed, but there was no warmth in it. "Sweetheart, this isn't an adventure. Adventures are fun. This is an ordeal with mountain views."
As the plane's engines wound up for takeoff, the three children found themselves alone with Wong and six extremely judgmental-looking mules.
"Right," Wong said, shouldering his pack with practiced ease. "First lesson—mountain does not care about your feelings. Mountain does not negotiate. Mountain does not give second chances. You respect mountain, or mountain keeps you. Forever."
Bruce's jaw set in the stubborn line that would define most of his adult life. "Understood."
"Is it?" Wong studied him with those sharp dark eyes. "We will see."
—
The journey that followed became the kind of memory that would be argued about for years—character-building according to Bruce, elaborate torture according to Zatanna, and "educational in ways that can't be taught in classrooms" according to Hadrian.
The mules were indeed sure-footed. They were also possessed of personalities that seemed specifically designed to test human patience. Zatanna's mule—which she'd immediately named "Spite" due to its attitude—had a talent for stopping dead in the middle of narrow mountain paths for no discernible reason.
"This thing is doing it on purpose," she complained after the fourth inexplicable halt, tugging at reins that might as well have been attached to a mountain. "I can literally feel it laughing at me. There's mule mockery happening here."
"It's an animal," Bruce said, walking alongside his own mule with the grim determination of someone cataloguing every rock formation they passed. His mount—which he'd named nothing because naming implied attachment—seemed to respect his no-nonsense approach. "It doesn't mock. It responds to consistent commands and confident leadership."
Spite turned its head and sneezed directly onto Bruce's shoulder—a wet, deliberate sound that left no doubt about its opinion of human leadership.
Hadrian bit back a laugh. "I think your leadership just got reviewed."
"Constructive criticism," Bruce said, wiping mule snot off his jacket with the kind of patience that suggested this was not the worst bodily fluid he'd deal with in his lifetime. "It's expressing an opinion."
"The opinion appears to be 'screw you and your leadership theories,'" Zatanna said, finally coaxing Spite into motion again.
Wong, walking ahead of them with the steady pace of someone who could probably traverse these paths blindfolded, called back without turning around. "Mule judges character. Yours needs work."
"Which one of us are you talking to?" Hadrian asked.
"Yes," Wong replied.
By midday, they'd gained significant elevation, and the thin air was making itself known. Zatanna had stopped complaining about Spite's attitude and started muttering under her breath—small spells to ease breathing, ward off the growing headache, and keep her hands warm despite the expensive gloves she'd brought.
"Okay, seriously," she panted during one of their rest stops, "who decided humans should live this high up? This is clearly meant for birds and mountain goats and possibly insane monks."
"Speaking of which," Hadrian said, pointing ahead to where prayer flags fluttered in the distance, "I think we're getting close to insane monk territory."
Bruce had his binoculars out—military-grade, naturally—scanning the path ahead. "Three more switchbacks. Then a straight climb for about half a mile. After that..." He lowered the binoculars, expression thoughtful. "After that, we're committed."
"Committed how?" Zatanna asked.
"No way down except the way we came," he explained. "And from what I can see, the path we're on gets narrow. Very narrow. One person wide, with a drop that goes down far enough to make falling a permanent solution to temporary problems."
Wong nodded approvingly. "Good eyes. Yes—after next climb, only way out is up. Or down very fast."
"Comforting," Zatanna muttered.
Hadrian, ever the optimist, gestured to the spectacular vista around them. "Look at the positive side—if we fall, the view on the way down will be absolutely breathtaking."
"That's not positive," she replied. "That's gallows humor."
"Same thing, different marketing," he said cheerfully.
As they climbed higher, the conversation turned to what awaited them at the monastery. None of them knew exactly what Richard Dragon's training would involve, though Alfred had hinted at physical conditioning that would make military boot camp look like a spa retreat.
"I've been thinking," Hadrian said as they navigated a particularly treacherous section of path, "about what we're actually signing up for. This isn't just martial arts lessons, is it? This is... transformation. Complete personality reconstruction."
Bruce's response was immediate and flat. "Good. We need reconstructing."
"Speak for yourself," Zatanna said, though her voice lacked its usual conviction. "I'm reasonably happy with my current personality, thank you very much."
"Your current personality almost got you killed three weeks ago," Bruce pointed out with his usual tact.
"That wasn't my personality's fault! That was a psychotic assassin's fault!"
"Same result," he replied. "Dead is dead, regardless of whose fault it is."
Wong's voice carried back to them, dry as mountain air. "Dead people very quiet. Much easier to guide."
"Are you threatening to kill us?" Zatanna asked, half-joking.
"No need," Wong replied. "Mountain happy to do job for free."
The afternoon brought weather—not the gentle weather of civilized places, but the kind of weather that treated human comfort as a personal insult. Wind that cut through expensive winter gear like it was tissue paper, and a cold that seemed to seep directly into bone marrow.
"This is insane," Zatanna said through chattering teeth as they pressed on through what Wong cheerfully called "light mountain weather." "People don't live in places like this. People visit places like this by accident, then leave as quickly as possible to tell horror stories to their friends."
"People do live here," Wong corrected. "Have lived here for thousands of years. They just tougher than city people."
"Or crazier," she muttered.
"Sometimes same thing," he agreed.
Bruce, despite being the youngest and smallest of them, seemed least affected by the conditions. He'd found his rhythm—steady, economical movement that conserved energy while maintaining pace. His breathing was controlled, his posture efficient. Even the cold seemed to bother him less than it should.
"How are you doing that?" Zatanna demanded during one of their brief rest stops. "You're nine years old. You should be the one complaining the most."
Bruce looked at her with the kind of serious expression that belonged on someone three times his age. "Complaining wastes energy. Energy is a finite resource. Waste it on words, you don't have it for survival."
"God," she said, shaking her head. "You sound like a fortune cookie written by a Navy SEAL."
"Thank you," he replied, apparently taking it as a compliment.
Hadrian, breathing hard but still maintaining his diplomatic composure, managed a wry smile. "Bruce has a point, though. Complaining doesn't change the weather. It just makes us more miserable about things we can't control."
"I'm not complaining," Zatanna protested. "I'm providing valuable commentary on clearly suboptimal conditions."
"That's complaining with a college vocabulary," Bruce said.
She glared at him. "I hate that you're right."
"I usually am," he replied matter-of-factly.
Wong watched this exchange with something that might have been amusement. "City children always think mountain should accommodate them. Mountain thinks city children should accommodate mountain. Mountain always wins argument."
"What happens to people who don't accommodate?" Hadrian asked.
Wong's smile was not reassuring. "Mountain keeps them. Sometimes as ice. Sometimes as bones. Sometimes just as stories other climbers tell around fires."
"Cheerful," Zatanna said. "Really painting a picture of hope and survival here."
"Hope useful emotion," Wong agreed. "Also dangerous. Hope makes people take stupid risks. Better to have respect than hope."
As the day wore on and they climbed higher, the conversations became more sporadic. The altitude was having its effect—even Bruce's efficient breathing couldn't completely compensate for air that thin. They moved in a kind of focused silence, each step requiring more effort than the last.
But there were moments of beauty that stopped them in their tracks—views that stretched for what felt like hundreds of miles, valleys that looked like they'd been carved by gods with too much time and not enough supervision, skies so vast and blue they made sea-level dwellers understand why ancient peoples thought heaven was up.
"I'll say this," Hadrian admitted during one such moment, standing on a rocky outcropping that gave them a panoramic view of the world below, "the commute to this job is spectacular."
"If you survive it," Wong added helpfully.
"Always with the encouragement," Zatanna said, but she was smiling despite herself.
As evening approached, Wong led them to what he called a "suitable camping spot"—which turned out to be a relatively flat area surrounded by rocks that provided some shelter from the wind. It wasn't comfortable by any civilized standard, but it was clearly luxury accommodations by mountain standards.
"First night," Wong announced as they set up their basic camp. "Not so bad, yes? Tomorrow harder."
"This was the easy day?" Zatanna asked, collapsing onto her sleeping roll with theatrical exhaustion.
"Very easy," Wong confirmed. "Tomorrow we climb. Really climb. Today was just walking uphill."
Bruce was already setting up his area with military precision—everything organized, everything accessible, everything planned. "What's the elevation gain tomorrow?"
"Three thousand feet," Wong replied. "Maybe four, if weather good."
"And if weather's bad?" Hadrian asked.
Wong's shrug was eloquent. "Then we wait. Or we die. Mountain decides."
"I'm starting to think this mountain has some serious decision-making authority," Zatanna observed.
"Mountain is democracy," Wong said seriously. "Everyone gets vote. Mountain gets veto."
As they settled in for their first night in the high country, with stars appearing overhead like pinpricks in black velvet and the silence so complete it seemed to have weight, each of them carried the same unspoken thought: whatever waited at the end of this journey, they were already being changed by it.
Whether that change would kill them or save them remained to be seen.
—
The second night found them camped beside a stream that ran quick and cold with snowmelt, the sound of it a constant whisper against the mountain silence. The water caught starlight like scattered silver coins, and the fire Wong had built crackled with the kind of warmth that made the surrounding cold feel even more hostile by comparison.
Zatanna lay on her back on her sleeping roll, staring up at a sky so crowded with stars it looked like someone had taken a handful of diamonds and flung them across black silk. "You know what's weird?" she said, her breath fogging in the sharp air. "I keep waiting to be terrified. Like, properly terrified. We're three kids in the middle of nowhere, heading toward people we don't know, to learn things that might actually kill us. This should be the part where I panic and demand to go home."
"But you're not," Hadrian observed, feeding small branches into the fire with careful precision. Even in the wilderness, his movements had that diplomatic grace—measured, thoughtful, designed not to offend.
"No," she admitted. "I'm not. Instead, I feel... excited? Like this is exactly where we're supposed to be. Like everything up until now has been preparation for this moment."
Bruce was hunched by the fire, poking at the flames with a stick and watching the way the light played across the surrounding rocks. Every few minutes, his eyes would sweep their perimeter, cataloguing shadows and potential threats. "Maybe that means we're making the right choice."
"Or," Hadrian said with diplomatic care, "it means we've completely lost touch with normal human self-preservation instincts."
"Were we ever normal?" Zatanna asked quietly, rolling onto her side to look at her companions. "Really? Even before the assassination attempt—were any of us actually normal children?"
The question hung in the thin mountain air like smoke from their fire.
Bruce's voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "No. But maybe normal was never an option for us. Maybe this is who we were always going to become. We just needed the right catalyst."
"Catalyst," Zatanna repeated, tasting the word. "That's a very scientific way to describe 'psychotic killers trying to murder our families.'"
"Scientific is better than emotional," Bruce replied, still watching the flames. "Emotion clouds judgment. Clear thinking wins fights."
She gave him a long look, part exasperation, part affection. "Listen to yourself. You're nine years old and you sound like a military strategist giving a lecture on battlefield psychology."
"Good," Bruce said with complete seriousness. "Strategists survive. Nine-year-olds get people killed."
From his position across the fire, Hadrian raised an eyebrow. "Optimism. Always your strong suit, brother."
"Realism," Bruce corrected. "Optimism without preparation is just wishful thinking."
Zatanna groaned, flopping back onto her sleeping roll. "One day, Bruce, you're going to have to learn to sugarcoat something. Just once. For team morale."
"Morale based on lies doesn't last," he replied. "Better to train for worst-case scenarios and be pleasantly surprised when they don't happen."
"Translation," Hadrian said cheerfully, settling back against his pack, "he's incapable of believing things might actually work out well."
Bruce shot him a look that was pure Wayne intensity, even filtered through a nine-year-old's face. "Things work out well for people who plan for them not to."
From the edge of their camp, Wong's voice carried over the crackling fire. He sat with his walking staff across his knees, a shadow against shadows, watching the darkness beyond their small circle of warmth. "Boy has good instincts. Mountains teach same lesson. Plan for worst. Hope for best. Survive either way."
Zatanna propped herself up on one elbow, curiosity overriding exhaustion. "Wong, can I ask you something? Why do you do this? Guide city children to places that want to kill them?"
Wong was quiet for so long they thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of experience and loss. "Once, I was city child too. Thought I knew everything. Thought world owed me easy path. Mountain taught me different. Mountain saved my life by nearly taking it."
"How?" Hadrian asked gently.
Wong's smile was barely visible in the firelight. "That story for another night. Tonight, you sleep. Tomorrow, mountain begins real lessons."
"What kind of lessons?" Zatanna asked.
Wong's chuckle was dry as desert wind. "Kind that separate children who will survive from children who will not."
"And which category are we in?" Bruce asked.
Wong studied all three of them for a long moment. "Ask me tomorrow night. If you make it."
Zatanna pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Great. Bedtime stories by Master Encouragement over there."
"Better than fairy tales," Hadrian said with diplomatic cheer. "At least his stories come with practical survival tips."
Bruce, already lying down with his eyes closed, spoke without opening them. "Stop talking and conserve energy. Tomorrow will require everything we have."
"Wow," Zatanna whispered theatrically. "What inspiring leadership. I feel so motivated to face the dangers ahead."
"You should be," Bruce replied seriously. "Motivation based on realistic assessment of challenges is more reliable than motivation based on false confidence."
Hadrian snorted with laughter. "Bruce, has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner needs work?"
"I don't have a bedside manner," Bruce said. "I have facts and preparation."
"Same thing, different marketing," Zatanna said, echoing Hadrian's earlier words.
From the darkness, Wong's voice carried one final observation: "Children who joke together survive together. Mountain respects loyalty more than skill."
The fire popped and settled. The stream whispered its endless conversation with the stones. Above them, the mountains kept their silent vigil, ancient and patient and utterly indifferent to human hopes and fears.
But in their small circle of warmth and friendship, three children who were no longer quite children began the process of becoming something new—something harder, something more dangerous, something the world would need.
Whether they knew it or not.
—
## Day Three – The Monastery Gates
Dawn came like a knife—sharp, cold, and absolutely uncompromising. The monastery revealed itself slowly as the morning mist lifted, emerging from the mountain face like something that had grown there rather than been built. At first, it was just shadow against stone, then details began to emerge: terraces carved into impossible angles, towers that jutted from sheer cliff faces, prayer flags that snapped in the wind like colorful challenges to gravity itself.
It wasn't just architecture built on a mountain—it was the mountain transformed into architecture, stone sculpted over centuries into a balance between human ambition and natural law. The entire structure seemed to flow from the rock itself, as if some ancient engineer had looked at an impossible cliff face and said, "Challenge accepted."
Zatanna blinked at it through the thin morning air, squinting against the glare of snow and stone. "Right. Because nothing says 'warm welcome' like a fortress monastery carved into a death cliff by people who clearly had issues with the concept of easy access."
Hadrian, still mounted on his mule, leaned forward with the expression of a man seeing something that redefined his understanding of human possibility. "It's magnificent. Absolutely insane, yes—but magnificent. The engineering alone must have taken centuries. The sheer audacity of looking at this mountain and deciding to live in it rather than on it... It's not just construction, it's a philosophical statement."
Bruce wasn't listening to either of them. His eyes were working methodically across the monastery's defenses, cataloguing walls, towers, angles of approach. "Fortified high ground. Single access route. Natural choke points at every level. Commanding view of all approaches. Zero chance of successful siege without air superiority, and even then..."
Wong guided his mule up alongside Bruce's, studying the boy with something like approval. "You see stronghold. Good. But also see home. Five hundred people live here. Study here. Die here, if necessary."
"Five hundred?" Hadrian looked genuinely impressed. "How do they supply a population that size at this altitude?"
"Carefully," Wong replied. "And with much planning. And sometimes not at all, when weather bad."
"What happens when supplies run out?" Zatanna asked.
Wong's smile was not reassuring. "People get very motivated to make do with less."
The mules carried them up the final approach—a path that had clearly been designed by people who believed visitors should earn their welcome through genuine suffering. It switchbacked up the cliff face in a series of cuts so narrow that Zatanna found herself staring down drops that made her stomach climb into her throat.
"This is insane," she muttered, gripping her mule's reins so tightly her knuckles went white. "People built this path. Human beings with functioning brains looked at this cliff and thought, 'Yes, this seems like a reasonable place for a road.'"
"Not road," Wong corrected. "Path. Big difference. Road allows mistakes. Path requires commitment."
"Commitment to what?" she asked.
"To not dying," he replied cheerfully.
Bruce, naturally, seemed completely unaffected by the exposure. He rode with the same steady attention he'd shown throughout the journey, occasionally glancing down at the drop beside them with clinical interest rather than fear. "The path's designed to prevent mounted assault. Single file only. Easy to defend."
"It's also designed to give visitors heart attacks," Zatanna pointed out.
"Side benefit," Wong agreed.
Finally, after what felt like several years but was probably only twenty minutes, they reached the gates. Massive doors of ancient wood bound with iron—the kind of gates that had probably watched empires rise and fall while remaining fundamentally unimpressed by human ambition. They stood open just wide enough to admit their small party, but the opening felt more like a mouth than a welcome.
"End of road," Wong announced, sliding down from his mule with practiced ease. "Also end of easy part of journey."
"This was the easy part?" Zatanna demanded, finally dismounting with legs that felt like overcooked pasta.
"Very easy," Wong confirmed. "Now real test begins."
Just inside the gates stood a man who redefined Zatanna's understanding of physical presence.
Richard Dragon wasn't large in the way that intimidated through bulk—he was large in the way that a coiled spring was large, all contained power and controlled lethality. Compact, perfectly balanced, with the kind of muscle that came from decades of training rather than genetics. His posture was military-perfect, hands clasped behind his back, eyes that seemed to strip away pretense and catalog weaknesses with the efficiency of a computer system.
When he smiled, it was the smile of a predator who had decided—for now—not to hunt.
"Master Wayne. Master Wayne. Miss Zatara." His voice carried the kind of quiet authority that made people pay attention without quite knowing why. Deep, controlled, with undertones that suggested he could switch from conversation to violence without changing his tone. "Welcome to my humble abode. I trust your journey has been... educational."
Zatanna slid off her mule with as much dignity as she could manage, then immediately regretted it as her legs nearly gave out. "Educational is one word for it. Traumatic, character-building, and mildly hallucinogenic from altitude sickness are several others."
Dragon's smile widened slightly, genuine amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "Good. If it had been comfortable, you wouldn't have learned anything useful. Comfort is the enemy of growth."
Bruce stepped forward, all nine years of him radiating the kind of focused intensity that suggested he was already cataloguing everything from Dragon's stance to his breathing patterns. "Alfred Pennyworth spoke highly of your training methods."
"Alfred Pennyworth," Dragon said, inclining his head with what might have been respect. "A man who survived more wars than most generals, more betrayals than most spies, and more assassination attempts than most heads of state. If he recommended you, then perhaps you are not a complete waste of my time."
"High praise," Zatanna muttered, shooting Hadrian a look.
Hadrian, every inch the diplomat despite exhaustion and altitude, stepped forward with a bow that managed to be respectful without being servile. "Master Dragon, we're grateful for the opportunity to train here. We understand this isn't just about learning techniques—it's about fundamental transformation."
Dragon studied him for a long moment, and something like approval flickered across his features. "Diplomatic. Good. Words have power, and you use them well. But here, words are currency that buys you nothing. Only discipline, only commitment, only the willingness to break yourself down and build yourself back up—only these things have value."
Bruce's jaw set in the stubborn line that would define most of his future conflicts. "We're not here for comfortable."
"No," Dragon said, his gaze shifting to Bruce with something that might have been recognition. "I can see that. The question is whether you're here for necessary."
"Define necessary," Hadrian said with diplomatic caution.
Dragon's smile turned sharp as a blade. "Necessary is the willingness to discover who you really are when everything you thought you knew about yourself has been stripped away. Necessary is the courage to face the fact that the children who walked through these gates will not be the same people who walk back out."
"And if we're not willing?" Zatanna asked.
Dragon shrugged, the gesture somehow managing to be both casual and threatening. "Then you leave. There are no half-measures here. You either become what you need to become, or you return to your previous lives with the knowledge that some challenges are simply beyond you."
Bruce's jaw tightened, his nine-year-old face already set in the hard lines of a man planning wars. "Failure isn't an option."
Dragon turned, studying him. "Failure is always an option, Master Wayne. It's the possibility of failure that makes success matter. The question isn't whether you'll fail—it's whether you'll let the *fear* of failing stop you from trying."
Hadrian, standing between them like a born mediator, inclined his head slightly. "Fair. Though… some of us may be more stubborn about definitions than others."
Zatanna smirked. "Translation: he's nervous too."
They continued walking deeper into the mountain. Rooms flickered past like scenes from a dozen lifetimes—armories with weapons ranging from chipped wooden staves to sleek plasma blades, libraries stacked with scrolls and leather tomes in languages none of them could read, meditation chambers that practically hummed with silence.
Finally, Dragon stopped in a side corridor with three heavy oak doors set into the stone. "Your quarters," he said. "Spartan by your standards, but adequate. You'll find training clothes, basic necessities, and a schedule for tomorrow's activities."
The kids glanced into their rooms one by one. Each was nearly identical—stone walls, a narrow bed, a desk, a single candle, and a window looking out over mountain peaks so sharp and vast they felt unreal. No distractions. No comforts. Just… the essentials.
Zatanna wrinkled her nose. "It's like a prison cell had a baby with a hotel room from the *worst* budget travel brochure."
"Bed. Desk. Window. It's enough," Bruce said, already stepping inside and checking the view like he was cataloging sightlines.
"Enough for you maybe," she muttered. "Some of us appreciate ambiance."
"Ambiance doesn't make you stronger," Bruce shot back.
"No, but it does make me less cranky. Which makes *you* safer."
Dragon's smile returned, that unsettling mix of warmth and predator's patience. "Dinner is in one hour. Use that time to settle in, change, and prepare yourselves mentally. Tomorrow, your real education begins."
Hadrian tilted his head. "And what exactly is the curriculum, Master Dragon?"
The man's eyes gleamed with something that was not quite humor. "The curriculum is becoming more than you thought possible. Rest well—you'll need it."
He walked away with the same quiet authority he'd entered with, leaving the three children staring at their new reality.
Zatanna leaned against her doorway, arms crossed. "Well. This is it. The moment we stop being who we were and start becoming terrifying badasses."
"Any regrets?" Hadrian asked gently.
She shook her head. "Not yet. Probably tomorrow. Possibly in ten minutes. Depends on what's for dinner."
Bruce stood at his window, watching the razor peaks stretch endlessly into the horizon. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw set like he'd already decided the outcome of every trial ahead.
"Ask me in six years," he said.
And just like that, their real education began.
---
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