The dining hall looked less like a cafeteria and more like the set of an epic fantasy film that had decided to go minimalist. A cavern carved straight from the mountain's heart, its vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadow, torchlight chasing patterns across the rough stone walls. Long wooden tables lined the space, their surfaces worn to a satin finish from decades of elbows, fists, and knives, scarred here and there with the marks of students who'd apparently believed "dinner" was another form of training exercise.
The food was simple—steaming bowls of rice, vegetables simmered with broth, tea so strong it could probably clean armor. Beneath those scents lurked something else, subtler but unmistakable: the kind of tension that comes from packing too many predators into one room.
Richard Dragon led them to a table near the center, his massive frame moving with the fluid grace of someone who had long ago learned to make power look effortless. His dark eyes swept the room with casual authority, and conversations dimmed the moment they entered—not out of politeness but calculation. Dozens of pairs of eyes tracked them—sharp, assessing, predatory in miniature. It wasn't curiosity; it was triage. Threat or asset? Rival or ally?
Dragon sat with the ease of a man who knew nobody in the room would challenge him, his broad shoulders settling back against the chair like he owned not just the seat but the entire mountain. His hands folded, scarred knuckles catching the torchlight. "Your classmates," he said simply, his deep voice carrying the kind of quiet command that made people lean in without realizing it. "Some of them have been here years. Some arrived last month. All of them understand that courtesy is not weakness." His dark eyes flicked to the three of them like a blade sliding free of a sheath. "But weakness pretending to be courtesy… will be exposed faster than you can blink."
Zatanna flopped into her seat with theatrical exaggeration, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders as she tugged the hood off her cloak like she was taking center stage. Those bright blue eyes sparkled with mischief as she surveyed the room, completely unbothered by the stares. "Okay, so, do they always do the creepy synchronized staring thing? Or is this just special opening-night treatment for the new kids?" She picked up her spoon, twirling it between her fingers with the kind of casual dexterity that suggested her hands were never really idle. "Because I've got to say, the ambiance is very 'Welcome to your doom, please enjoy the rice.'"
"They're trained to plan," Dragon replied, his voice calm but carrying through the hall like distant thunder. Every word was deliberate, measured. "The only question is whether they're planning to help you… or remove you."
Zatanna's spoon paused halfway to her mouth, those expressive eyebrows arching high. "Remove us?" Her voice pitched up in mock alarm. "From what, the seating chart? The dinner club? Please tell me it's not from the mortal coil, because I haven't even had dessert yet."
Hadrian smoothly accepted a bowl of rice from a silent monk, his movements controlled and graceful, every gesture carrying the kind of natural elegance that made diplomacy look like an art form. He offered the server a warm smile and a respectful nod before turning back to Dragon, his deep voice steady and reasonable. "Planning is natural, of course. The question becomes—competition for what, exactly? Resources? Recognition?" Those keen blue eyes held Dragon's gaze steadily. "Or something more fundamental?"
Dragon's lips curved into a smile that somehow felt like a warning, the expression transforming his weathered features into something both paternal and predatory. "Survival. Excellence. The right to walk out of this mountain more than you were when you walked in." He leaned forward slightly, his presence filling the space between them. "Everyone here is exceptional. Everyone here believes they are the most exceptional. Only some of them are correct."
Bruce wasn't eating. His broad shoulders hunched forward as he stared at the other kids—tracking posture, builds, the way they chewed, how their eyes darted or didn't. His jaw was set in that particular way that meant his brain was cataloguing threats, filing away weaknesses, building tactical assessments. When he leaned slightly toward Hadrian, his voice was a low rumble that somehow managed to be both protective and calculating. "Kid with the brown hair, third table. Favors his left leg—old injury, probably knee. Girl by the wall—right-handed but keeps her left shoulder back, suggesting she's trained to protect a weakness there. And that one..." His blue eyes narrowed as they fixed on a slight figure near the back. "Hasn't looked at us once, but she's positioned herself with clear sight lines to every exit. She's the most dangerous one in the room."
Zatanna blinked at him, those dark lashes framing wide blue eyes. "We've been here literally three minutes and you're already doing your whole Sherlock Holmes thing." She gestured with her spoon like a conductor's baton. "Some of us would like to actually eat before being murdered by the cafeteria critique squad."
"It's called situational awareness," Bruce said flatly, still not looking away from his systematic evaluation of potential threats. His voice carried that particular blend of certainty and irritation that suggested he thought everyone else was being dangerously naive. "You ignore your environment, you die. Simple as that."
"No, it's called being a buzzkill of epic proportions," she shot back, her voice dancing with amusement. "Honestly, Bruce, do you ever just... enjoy a meal? Like, without calculating the killing potential of the silverware?"
Bruce finally looked at her, one eyebrow raised in that way that suggested he was genuinely puzzled by the question. "The chopsticks here could puncture arteries if applied with sufficient force. So no, not really."
Dragon chuckled low in his chest, the sound warm but edged with something darker. His eyes crinkled with genuine amusement as he watched the interplay between the three children. "How many do you think finish the full program, Bruce?"
Bruce met his gaze head-on, that square jaw setting with the kind of determination that made him look far older than his nine years. His voice carried the weight of someone who thought in absolutes, who had already calculated the odds and accepted them. "Half. Maybe less."
"Close," Dragon said, nodding approvingly. "Sixty percent make it through all four years. The others learn the difference between potential and achievement. Between thinking you're ready... and actually being ready."
Zatanna tilted her head, casual curiosity masking the sharp intelligence in those blue eyes. Her grip on her spoon was just a little too tight, betraying nerves she refused to show. "And the other forty percent? What happens to them? Do they get certificates of participation and a nice parting gift?"
Dragon's smile widened, looking almost paternal until you noticed it didn't reach his eyes. "They go home. Alive, but humbled. There are significantly worse fates in this line of work."
"That's... reassuring, I suppose," Hadrian said with careful diplomacy, though those perceptive blue eyes flickered between his two friends, already gauging how much of Dragon's answer was truth and how much was psychological pressure designed to test their resolve. "At least we know the mortality rate isn't one hundred percent."
Zatanna sniffed her rice suspiciously, wrinkling her nose. "Jury's still out on the food poisoning situation though."
Bruce took his first bite without breaking eye contact with the other students, chewing methodically. "If it's poisoned, I'll know before either of you start showing symptoms. Body weight, metabolic rate—I'll drop first."
"Wow," Zatanna muttered, shaking her head in exasperation. "Comforting and charming. No wonder Alfred thinks you're going to give him gray hair."
Hadrian's deep laugh rumbled through his chest, rich and warm. "Well, I suppose if we survive dinner without anyone challenging us to single combat, the rest of our training should be relatively straightforward."
Dragon's smile took on a sharper edge, like sunlight on a blade. "Dinner is the easy part, Master Wayne."
The room's tension never fully lifted, but for the first time since entering the hall, the three of them shared a glance—not quite comfort, not quite defiance, but something that carried the seeds of what they were meant to become together.
---
A ripple of motion at the far end of the dining hall pulled every eye in the room. Not chaos—not yet—but that quiet electricity that always comes right before the first strike. The kind of tension that makes the air itself feel sharp.
A boy, maybe ten but carrying himself like he'd already seen a war or two, stood from his bench in one smooth motion. He was tall for his age, lean muscle stretched tight over a frame that promised to be imposing when he finished growing. His dark skin glistened with the sheen of recent training, and the close crop of his black hair made the angular lines of his face look older, harder. His stance wasn't clumsy teenage posturing; it was predator-coiled, weight balanced perfectly on the balls of his feet, every line of his body speaking to reflexes honed by months of discipline and pain.
"That's Ben Turner," Dragon said, not bothering to lower his voice. His tone carried easily through the stone chamber, and several nearby students leaned in to listen. "Eight months here. Considerable natural talent. Quick learner. His solutions tend to be... direct."
Across the table sat a girl no older than nine, but there was nothing childish about the way she held herself. Sandra Wu-San was compact and precise, every line of her small frame suggesting coiled steel wrapped in silk. Her black hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail that emphasized the sharp intelligence in her dark eyes. Her hands were folded neatly on the table as though she were meditating rather than facing down a brewing storm, but there was something in her stillness that radiated its own kind of violence—surgical, inevitable, patient as death itself.
"And that," Dragon continued, his voice taking on the tone of someone narrating a nature documentary, "is Sandra Wu-San. Six months. Where Ben believes in overwhelming force, Sandra practices surgical precision. Both approaches have their merits. Both can be fatal if improperly applied."
"Are they about to fight?" Hadrian asked quietly, though his diplomatic instincts were already cataloguing exits, guard positions, potential intervention strategies. Even at nine, he had the look of someone who thought in terms of de-escalation and peaceful resolution. "Because this feels very much like the moment before violence."
"They fight every day," Dragon said simply, settling back in his chair like he was about to watch a particularly interesting theatrical performance. "The question is whether today they'll use words, fists, or something sharper."
Zatanna leaned forward, chin propped in her hand, those bright blue eyes dancing with fascination rather than fear. "Do they fight over actual philosophical differences, or is this more like sibling rivalry with extra martial arts?" Her voice carried genuine curiosity, as if she were trying to solve an interesting puzzle rather than witness potential bloodshed.
Dragon's massive shoulders rose in a casual shrug. "Training methodologies. Resource allocation. Philosophical disputes over the nature of strength and weakness. With children like these, everything becomes a competition eventually."
Ben's voice cut across the hall, deep and edged with barely restrained aggression. The sound carried the weight of someone who had learned to project authority through sheer force of will. "You can sit there and meditate all you want, Sandra, but perfect technique that's never been tested under real pressure is just fancy dancing. All the breathing exercises in the world won't save you when someone's actually trying to kill you."
Sandra finally looked up from her contemplation, her voice quiet but clear, slicing through the murmurs like a blade through silk. When she spoke, every word was precise, measured, devastating. "And all the aggression in the world won't save you when you're too undisciplined to see the opening that ends the fight in one move. Strength without control is just destruction without purpose."
Ben leaned forward slightly, his fists flexing at his sides, the motion unconscious but telling. "You want to test that theory? Right here, right now?"
Sandra's smile was small, calm, and somehow more unsettling than any snarl could have been. "I test theories every day, Ben. The question isn't whether I'm ready for the answer—it's whether you can handle the lesson."
Bruce snorted under his breath, his eyes never leaving the tableau unfolding across the hall. "He's already lost," he said flatly, his voice carrying that particular tone of absolute certainty. "Telegraphing every intention. Leaning forward, shifting weight to his toes, flexing his hands. She could end this fight three different ways before he even realizes he's started it."
Zatanna smirked sideways at him, those expressive eyebrows dancing. "Oh good, live commentary. Maybe next time you can provide slow-motion replay and detailed statistical analysis."
Bruce's grip on his chopsticks tightened until his knuckles went white, but his voice remained level. "Details matter. You ignore them in a situation like this, people die. It's not analysis—it's survival."
Hadrian reached for his tea with diplomatic ease, his movements deliberately calm and measured. "Or, alternatively, they both sit down, finish their dinner, and live to argue philosophical differences another day when there's less of an audience."
Dragon's chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, the sound of someone who had refereed this exact scenario more times than he cared to count. "Ah. The eternal optimist speaks."
Zatanna stabbed her chopsticks into her rice like she was planting a flag, her voice dripping with affectionate exasperation. "Not optimist—Boy Scout. Honestly, it's adorable and occasionally useful. He still believes reason works on people who've been trained to settle arguments with violence."
Bruce didn't look away from Ben and Sandra, his entire body coiled with readiness despite his casual posture. "Reason works fine until the first punch gets thrown. After that, it's all about who's still standing when the dust settles."
Across the hall, Ben shifted his weight again, a coil of energy wound tighter and tighter, while Sandra remained an island of perfect calm, her dark eyes never leaving his face, reading every micro-expression like a book written in a language only she understood.
The entire hall held its breath, waiting for the spark that would turn tension into explosion.
---
"Enough."
Dragon's voice wasn't raised—it didn't need to be. The single word carried the weight of absolute authority, the sound of immovable stone and inevitable consequence. The effect was immediate and complete. The air itself seemed to shift, tension bleeding away like water from a broken dam. Both children turned their attention to him with the instant responsiveness of soldiers acknowledging a superior officer, their shoulders easing a fraction though their eyes remained alert, ready.
"Ben. Sandra." Dragon's voice carried easily across the hall, each name a statement of fact rather than a summons. "Our guests."
Ben's gaze moved toward their table with deliberate slowness, his dark eyes conducting their own tactical assessment. He looked at Bruce first—measuring the breadth of those young shoulders, the steady way he held himself, the kind of calm that didn't come from naivety but from someone who had already made peace with violence. Then Hadrian—controlled presence, natural authority, the sort of poise that whispered discipline and breeding without arrogance. Finally Zatanna—confidence wrapped in beauty, but the kind of confidence that had steel underneath the silk, that didn't back down when challenged.
His evaluation was quick, professional, surgical. When he spoke, his voice carried grudging respect mixed with the faint edge of someone already trying to pick a fight he hoped he'd enjoy.
"Wayne family." He gave the smallest nod, a strange mix of sympathy and warrior's acknowledgment. "Heard you were coming. Heard your parents got hit by professionals—real ones, not some street trash with delusions." His expression sobered slightly, genuine respect creeping into his voice. "Takes stones to show up here instead of hiding behind bodyguards and bulletproof glass like most rich kids would."
Bruce met his gaze head-on, those blue eyes steady and uncompromising. His voice was calm, controlled, but carried the grounded certainty of someone who had already wrestled with grief and decided what to do with it. "Hiding doesn't solve the problem. It just postpones it until the problem gets bigger and more people get hurt."
Ben's smile sharpened, white teeth flashing like winter frost. "Good answer. Real good answer." He stepped closer, his movements loose but ready. "I'm Ben Turner. Been here eight months, learned more about fighting in that time than most people learn in a lifetime. And that's Sandra Wu-San." His head tilted toward the girl without taking his eyes off Bruce, his grin widening. "Fair warning—she's probably already figured out six different ways to kill all three of you using nothing but chopsticks, good intentions, and that pretty smile."
Sandra didn't so much as blink, but a flicker of dry amusement danced in her dark eyes. When she spoke, her voice was silk over steel, perfectly composed. "Only six? I must be getting sloppy. Usually, I'm up to at least eight by now."
Zatanna blinked, those dark lashes framing suddenly wide blue eyes. "Wait—are you actually joking, or should I be concerned about my chopstick-related mortality rate?"
Sandra tilted her head with the precise movement of a bird of prey examining something interesting. Her voice remained perfectly serious, clinically professional. "I don't joke about professional matters, Miss Zatara. It's unprofessional."
Hadrian cleared his throat diplomatically, his deep baritone rolling out with that natural charisma that made even tension sound civilized. "Perhaps we could get to know each other as people before discussing various elimination techniques? I realize that might be considered radical thinking in a place like this."
Ben barked a laugh, sharp and sudden and genuinely delighted. "Pretty boy's got a point. Plenty of time for the murder talk later." He dropped into a chair at their table without asking permission, his posture relaxed but alert, legs spread wide like a man comfortable with the possibility of violence from any direction. "So what's the story? Rich kids playing at being dangerous because it seems exotic, or are you actually serious about this whole warrior training thing?"
Bruce's jaw ticked, a muscle jumping under the skin, but his eyes didn't waver from Ben's face. His voice carried the steady conviction of someone who didn't need to prove anything—just state the facts. "We're serious. Dead serious."
"Everyone's serious when they arrive," Sandra said, finally stepping forward to join the conversation. She moved with that natural grace that came from years of discipline, even her pause at the table seeming deliberate, calculated. "The question becomes whether they remain serious when training progresses beyond classroom theory and into practical application."
"And what exactly does that mean?" Zatanna asked, folding her arms across her chest, her sharp wit sparking to the surface like flint against steel. "Because the way you say 'practical application' makes it sound significantly less fun than it probably should."
Ben and Sandra shared a look—unspoken history flickering between them like lightning. It wasn't hostile, but it carried the hard edge of people who had survived more than they would ever admit to, who had seen things that aged you faster than years.
"It means," Ben said, leaning back and spreading his arms across the back of his chair like he was claiming territory, "that everything you think you know about your own limits? Every assumption you've made about what you can handle, what you're willing to do, what lines you won't cross?" His grin turned sharp. "All of it's wrong. Most of it in ways you really don't want to discover the hard way."
Sandra remained standing, balanced and watchful, her small hands relaxed but positioned where they could shift to violence in the space between heartbeats. "The masters here don't coddle students. They don't make allowances for age, family names, emotional comfort, or previous trauma. They don't care what advantages you walked in with or what disadvantages you're carrying. They present challenges designed to break you, and you either rise to meet them or you fail."
Bruce leaned forward slightly, those broad shoulders casting shadow across the table, his eyes locked on Sandra with the intensity of a predator recognizing another predator. His voice was low, deliberate, measured like someone already calculating the cost of war. "Define failure."
Sandra's lips curved into the faintest smile, sharp as a blade's edge and twice as dangerous. Her dark eyes held his without flinching, meeting that intensity with her own brand of quiet lethality.
"Anything less than complete success," she said, her voice soft and merciless as silk-wrapped steel. "Anything less than transformation into someone capable of surviving what's coming."
The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was taut, vibrating with the knowledge that the line had just been drawn, the challenge issued, the stakes made crystal clear.
"Well," Zatanna said brightly, her voice cutting through the tension like a bell, "that's not ominous at all. Should I be taking notes, or will there be a written exam later?"
Ben laughed despite himself, some of the combat readiness bleeding out of his posture. "Oh, I definitely like her. She's got the right attitude for this place—humor in the face of probable doom."
"Humor can be useful," Sandra acknowledged, though her tone remained cautious. "So can fear. So can anger. The balance between them determines whether emotions become tools or weaknesses."
Hadrian studied both of them with those perceptive blue eyes, his diplomatic mind already working to understand the dynamics at play. "You've both been here long enough to understand the system. What would you advise, for those of us just beginning?"
Ben's expression grew more serious, the playful edge fading into something harder, more real. "Trust nobody completely. Question everything they tell you. And when they push you past what you think is your breaking point?" He met each of their eyes in turn. "Keep going anyway."
"Also," Sandra added quietly, "learn to sleep lightly. Pain comes when you're not expecting it."
Bruce nodded slowly, as if filing away crucial intelligence. "How many students have you seen wash out?"
"Twelve," Sandra said immediately. "In six months."
"Fifteen," Ben corrected. "You're not counting the three who left during their first week."
"I don't count quitters," Sandra replied coolly. "Only people who actually tried and failed."
"Fair point," Ben conceded. "But still—that's a lot of empty beds in a short time."
Zatanna whistled low. "And here I thought regular school was competitive."
"This isn't school," Sandra said, her voice carrying absolute certainty. "This is selection. Survival of the fittest applied to nine-year-olds with above-average potential for violence."
"Cheerful," Hadrian murmured, though his tone remained diplomatic. "And the ones who make it through? What do they become?"
Ben and Sandra exchanged another look, this one carrying weight that hadn't been there before.
"Dangerous," Ben said simply.
"Necessary," Sandra added.
Dragon's voice cut through their conversation like a blade, though he hadn't raised his volume. "They become what the world needs them to become. Whether that aligns with what they want to become..." He shrugged those massive shoulders. "That's the real test."
---
Dragon watched the exchange with the patience of stone—ancient, immovable, inevitable. His dark eyes tracked every micro-expression, every shift in posture, cataloguing evidence in some internal ledger only he could read. When he finally spoke, his deep voice carried the weight of experience earned through blood and years.
"Ben represents one philosophy," Dragon said, his voice like a distant drumbeat—steady, resonant, commanding attention without demanding it. "Direct action. Overwhelming force. The belief that superior aggression can break through any obstacle, that strength properly applied makes strategy irrelevant."
Ben leaned back in his chair, that sharp grin spreading across his features like he was pleased to be quoted. "Damn right. You hit something hard enough, fast enough, it stops being a problem. Simple physics. Simple solutions."
Sandra's glance at him was dry enough to start fires. "Simple minds often prefer simple solutions."
"And Sandra represents another approach entirely," Dragon continued without pause, ignoring the verbal sparring. "Precision over power. Patience over passion. The belief that understanding your opponent's weaknesses makes your own strength irrelevant."
Sandra inclined her head slightly, accepting the assessment with no false modesty but no arrogance either. "Efficiency is elegance. Waste is weakness. Why use a hammer when a scalpel will suffice?"
Bruce's arms folded across that broad chest, the fabric of his simple shirt straining against muscle that came from more than just good genetics. He studied Sandra with the same quiet focus he'd been using on every corridor and doorway since their arrival, measuring, calculating, filing away information. "And when the scalpel breaks? When precision fails and you need raw power?"
Sandra's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Then you've already made a mistake in your initial assessment. Good planning prevents the need for desperate measures."
"Planning's great until someone punches you in the mouth," Ben shot back, his grin matching hers for sharpness. "Then all your careful calculations go straight to hell."
"Only if you've planned poorly," Sandra replied coolly.
Hadrian raised one hand diplomatically, his deep voice cutting through the building argument with natural authority. "Perhaps the real question isn't which philosophy is correct, but when each one is most appropriate?"
Ben and Sandra both looked at him with something approaching surprise, as if the idea of synthesis hadn't occurred to them.
"Spoken like a diplomat," Dragon said, and there was approval in his voice. "Integration is advanced thinking, Master Wayne. Most students waste months or years perfecting one approach, only to discover that real mastery requires adaptability."
"How advanced is advanced?" Hadrian asked, his tone carrying polite curiosity but his keen eyes already working through implications, consequences, the political ramifications of different approaches to conflict.
Dragon folded those scarred hands, his voice steady as bedrock. "Most students don't reach true integration until their third year, if they reach it at all. It requires abandoning ego, accepting that your instincts may be fundamentally flawed, and rebuilding yourself from the ground up. It's not comfortable."
"Sounds absolutely terrible," Zatanna said cheerfully, those blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Where do I sign up? Do you need a blood sample, or will a standard application suffice?"
Ben laughed outright, the sound warm and genuine for the first time that evening. "Oh, I really like her. She's got the right attitude for this place—enthusiasm for her own destruction."
Sandra's response was cooler but not dismissive, her analytical mind clearly reassessing Zatanna's potential. "Enthusiasm is useful. So is caution. So is the ability to recognize when you're out of your depth. The balance between them determines whether enthusiasm becomes courage or simply gets you killed faster."
Bruce finally leaned forward, those powerful forearms resting on the table like carved stone, his intense blue eyes locked onto Sandra's face with the focus of a predator sizing up potential prey. His voice was calm, controlled, but there was steel underneath the surface. "And which are you? Cautious or enthusiastic?"
Sandra met his stare without flinching, her own dark eyes steady and uncompromising. "I try to be what the situation requires. No more, no less. Adaptability is survival."
Ben snorted, shaking his head with mock disgust. "Translation: she's trying to be perfect at everything. It's annoying as hell."
"Perfection is a worthy goal," Sandra replied evenly, no heat in her voice despite the provocation. "Even if ultimately unattainable, the pursuit of it elevates performance beyond what most consider possible."
Hadrian shook his head slightly, those lips curving in that quiet, devastating smile that could probably charm state secrets out of enemy diplomats. "Perfection can paralyze as easily as it can elevate. Sometimes good enough, executed immediately, beats perfect executed too late to matter."
Sandra's eyes lingered on him, something like genuine respect flickering there for the first time. "True. Timing is a factor that perfectionists sometimes forget. But patience and precision often succeed where speed and aggression fail spectacularly."
"Both approaches," Dragon cut in mildly, though his voice carried the authority to end the debate, "have killed people. Students, teachers, enemies, innocents. The lesson isn't which tool is superior—it's learning which tool is appropriate for which job."
The philosophical tension eased after that, conversation flowing into more mundane topics—training schedules, the quality of the food, war stories that were probably half true and twice as dangerous as they sounded. Ben shared anecdotes with flashes of humor and hard-earned wisdom, Sandra corrected his more egregious exaggerations with quiet precision, Bruce countered with pointed, thoughtful questions that revealed a tactical mind already working through scenarios, Hadrian guided the tone and rhythm of discussion like a natural-born diplomat, and Zatanna kept slipping in irreverent observations that defused sharp edges before they could turn into actual conflicts.
By the time plates were cleared and tea cups drained, the hostility had softened into something else—not friendship, not yet, but the wary respect of predators who might, given time and circumstance, learn to hunt together instead of against each other.
As they stood to leave, Sandra approached Zatanna with the kind of careful intention that suggested she was consciously choosing to bridge a gap, to take a calculated social risk.
"Your reputation preceded you," she said, her voice soft but deliberate, every word chosen with precision. "Magic. Genuine supernatural capability. That's... unusual here."
Zatanna tilted her head, those expressive dark eyebrows rising with curiosity rather than defensiveness. "Unusual how, exactly? Are we talking 'interesting novelty' unusual or 'burn the witch' unusual?"
"Most training here focuses on the physical, the mental, pure strategy and tactics," Sandra explained, her tone remaining carefully neutral. "Supernatural capabilities introduce variables that most combat systems aren't designed to account for. Strengths that can become critical vulnerabilities under the wrong circumstances."
Ben, overhearing, grinned with the anticipation of someone who enjoyed complications. "You mean she might have unfair advantages. That's gonna make sparring interesting."
"Or dangerous disadvantages," Sandra corrected, her analytical mind already running through scenarios. "Magic that fails at crucial moments. Spells that backfire under stress. Power that requires preparation time when survival demands immediate response. Opponents who know how to disrupt mystical abilities."
"Thanks for the comprehensive motivational speech," Zatanna said dryly, though her smile took the sting out of the words. "Really filling me with confidence here."
Sandra's expression softened a fraction—rare, but genuine. "I'm not trying to discourage you. I just need to understand how you'll function under pressure, what your capabilities and limitations are. If we're going to be classmates, training partners, potentially watching each other's backs in live situations..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "I have to know what you're capable of."
"Fair enough," Zatanna acknowledged. She paused, then added with a sly smile and a sideways glance at Hadrian, "Though you should probably know—he's got magic too."
Both Ben and Sandra froze. Ben's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline, Sandra's carefully maintained composure cracked for just a heartbeat, revealing genuine surprise underneath.
Bruce didn't so much as twitch—except for the very corner of his mouth, which ticked upward in what might have been amusement at his friends' ability to surprise people who thought they had all the information.
Hadrian, for his part, exhaled slowly, as if mentally debating whether to deny, confirm, or deflect, before settling on the most diplomatic response possible. "Magic," he said mildly, his deep voice carrying that natural authority that made even admissions sound like statements of policy, "isn't a crutch or a shortcut. It's a responsibility. And like any responsibility, it requires training, discipline, and wisdom to wield properly."
Ben's grin spread wide, anticipation brightening his dark eyes. "Oh, this is gonna be fun. Six months until first evaluations. Let's see which of us adapts fastest to unexpected variables."
Sandra's gaze swept over all five of them, her expression thoughtful and calculating. "Adaptation determines survival. But so does understanding your teammates' capabilities before you need to rely on them in crisis situations."
Dragon's voice rumbled through their conversation like distant thunder, calm and absolute. "Then perhaps," he said, those dark eyes taking in the strange group they'd formed, the unexpected dynamics already developing, "you might just survive each other long enough to learn something useful."
---
The stone corridors seemed designed to swallow sound—every footstep magnified, every whispered word stretched and distorted by the flickering shadows cast by torches set into alcoves carved from living rock. The air was cooler here, heavy with the scent of old earth and pine smoke, and the silence between words carried the weight of centuries.
Hadrian fell into step beside Dragon, his long stride careful but confident, the kind of movement that betrayed both natural grace and conscious effort not to disturb the mountain's ancient calm. "Master," he said, pitching his voice low out of respect for the setting, "may I ask you something that's been troubling me?"
"You may ask," Dragon replied without looking at him, his massive frame moving with that fluid power that made every step look effortless. His tone was neutral as still water. "I may or may not choose to answer, depending on the question and my assessment of your readiness to hear the truth."
That earned a quiet snort from Bruce behind them, his voice carrying dry humor. "That's basically teacher-speak for 'don't waste my time with stupid questions.'"
Zatanna's laugh was like silver bells in the shadowed corridor. "You mean like when you sigh dramatically every time I ask about anything that isn't directly related to combat efficiency?"
"I sigh," Bruce said evenly, though there was fondness underneath the exasperation, "because most of your questions are specifically designed to annoy me rather than gather useful intelligence. There's a difference."
"Annoyance keeps your brain sharp," Zatanna shot back sweetly, those blue eyes dancing with mischief. "Consider it a training exercise in patience and emotional control."
Dragon's chuckle rumbled like distant thunder, the sound echoing off stone walls. "She's not wrong, Master Wayne. Controlling your reactions under provocation is a valuable skill."
Bruce shot him a look over his shoulder, one that promised future retaliation. "My reactions are perfectly controlled. You keep pushing, you'll find out exactly how controlled my responses can be."
"See?" Zatanna said triumphantly, gesturing with theatrical flair. "Sharp and pointy, just like I said."
Hadrian cleared his throat gently, bringing them back to the question at hand. "What I meant, Master, is… Ben and Sandra. They're remarkable for their age, yes, but they're also…" He searched for the right word. His tone stayed careful, diplomatic. "They feel older than their years. Harder. Is that what happens here?"
Dragon was quiet for several paces, the silence stretching until Bruce broke it.
"They're kids," Bruce said flatly. "Kids who look like they've already been through wars. That's not training—that's survival shaping them into weapons. And weapons break."
Dragon finally spoke, voice calm but edged with truth. "What happens here is that children are stripped of softness. All illusions removed. Some discover they are stronger than they ever believed. Some discover they are more fragile than they feared. And all of them—every one—discover that the person they thought they were was built from circumstances they had never questioned."
Richard nodded, his expression grim. "He's right. Pain strips away the lies you tell yourself. The question is whether you can handle what's left."
Hadrian's brows drew together. "And which discovery is worse? Finding out you're fragile… or finding out you're strong, but at a cost you can't live with?"
For a moment, Dragon's smile flickered in the shifting torchlight—shadowed, unreadable. "Ask me in six months, Master Wayne. After you've made your own discoveries."
Zatanna shivered theatrically, hugging her arms. "Great. So the orientation speech is basically: *You're all doomed, but you'll learn something along the way*. Super comforting."
Bruce's mouth twitched, a shadow of a smirk. "Better than most boarding schools. At least here they're honest about trying to kill you."
"Speak for yourself," Zatanna muttered. "I'm still hoping for some electives. Maybe pottery. Or interpretive dance."
"Only thing you'll be interpreting," Richard said dryly, "is how to stay conscious after the first lesson."
They reached their quarters, the heavy wooden door groaning as it swung open. The room beyond was simple—stone walls, straw mats, nothing to soften the edges.
Hadrian paused at the threshold, gaze sweeping the bare space. "Tonight," he said quietly, almost to himself, "we sleep as the children we've been."
"And tomorrow?" Bruce asked, already scanning the room for weaknesses, escape routes, anything useful.
Hadrian's smile was faint, reflective. "Tomorrow we find out what we're becoming. Whether it's worth the price… that remains to be seen."
Zatanna flopped onto her mat with theatrical resignation. "Fantastic. We're doomed philosophers. At nine. Somebody write that down."
Bruce smirked as he kicked his boots off and lay back. "Fine. I'll write it on your gravestone after the first evaluation."
"See?" Zatanna shot back, pointing at him with mock outrage. "That right there is why no one invites you to slumber parties."
Richard's laugh filled the room, deep and knowing. "Get some sleep, kids. Tomorrow, the real education begins."
The torches outside guttered in the draft as the door shut behind them, and the last night of their old lives slipped quietly into silence.
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