After Christmas, the temperature had warmed up a little. But for Gotham, that was no good thing. The snow that should have drifted down had turned into another night of cold rain, raging mournfully through the dark city. The streets were empty. Then, two dazzling beams appeared at the end of the road. The Batmobile crossed the bridge between two towers and headed out of the city.
In the equally pitch-black cemetery, only the small chapel at its center glimmered with faint light. Raindrops struck the distant sea, raising sheets of mist that swept toward the shore as though they would swallow this place whole. The graves had never been so thick with deathly Qi. When Bruce, clad in the Hell Bat armor, set foot here, he felt nothing but sorrow and heaviness in his heart.
One grave had been disturbed. Bruce knew it was Damian's grave. Damian apparently had no intention of concealing any of this. Or perhaps he was using these traces to blatantly tell Batman that he was the one who had returned from the dead. His resurrection had nothing to do with Batman. He had crawled out of the grave on his own, defeated Death as he always had, and returned from Hell.
Bruce looked toward the chapel and walked over. The moment he stepped onto the stairs, he saw a small figure standing before the cross in the dim candlelight. Jesus' face was completely shrouded in shadow, his indistinct features carrying a hint of grief.
"Damian." The name was practically squeezed from his throat. His vocal cords had grown unfamiliar with it, leaving his pronunciation somewhat dry.
"I thought you wouldn't dare come." The boy's voice was clear and bright. Damian's voice had changed very late; Bruce had once even thought he would never inherit