A Waltz of Blades and Claws

Gotham's night was as gloomy as ever. Icy rain drifted down from lead-gray clouds, draping the city of sin in a damp, frigid veil. Yet deep beneath Wayne Manor, the atmosphere in the Batcave burned hot as fire.

In the days since returning to Gotham, Bruce's life had been filled with a calm, efficient rhythm. By day, he was the business emperor who had retaken control of Wayne Enterprises, consolidated resources with thunderous decisiveness, and left the board of directors too intimidated to speak. At night, he returned to his true identity, making final preparations for the coming war in his underground kingdom.

The Kryptonite sample brought from Luthor's vault for research now lay quietly in the Applied Sciences Department's highest-level containment laboratory. Lucius Fox, Wayne Enterprises' head of technology, was leading his elite team in round-the-clock analysis. Faced with this "alien mineral," something capable of overturning modern physics, Lucius displayed both the fervor and rigor of a top scientist. He continually reported astonishing discoveries to Bruce—this crystal not only emitted a unique radiation devastating to certain biological cells, but its internal energy structure, on a microscopic level, even violated known laws of thermodynamics.

"Bruce, this thing... it doesn't seem naturally formed. It's more like a... weapon. A weapon 'designed' according to some principle we can't understand," Lucius said during an encrypted call, his tone more grave than ever before.

"Keep researching, Lucius," Bruce replied simply and directly. "I need you to decipher everything about it, then forge me a 'shield' that can resist it and a 'spear' that can wield it."

Meanwhile, at the foot of the Alps in Switzerland, another promise was being fulfilled at a private sanatorium closed to the public.

Slade Wilson, codenamed "Deathstroke," the mercenary hailed as the world's best, had shed his killing intent. Dressed in ordinary clothes, he sat quietly on a bench outside the intensive care unit. Through the thick isolation glass, he could see his son, Jericho, lying in the hospital bed, connected to an array of sophisticated life-support equipment.

With Bruce sparing no expense, the world's foremost neurosurgeons and tissue-regeneration specialists had been urgently gathered there. After a twenty-hour microsurgery that could only be called a medical miracle, Jericho's vocal cords, brutally severed by thugs, and his damaged laryngeal nerves had been successfully repaired and grafted. Though the postoperative recovery would be long and painful, the attending physician had assured Slade that Jericho had over a ninety percent chance of speaking again.

For a father, this was undoubtedly the best news possible. As Slade watched his son's steady breathing from beside the bed, a rare light—one that could almost be called tenderness—appeared in his sole remaining eye beneath a face long hidden behind a mask and etched with scars and hardship.

He knew that Bruce Wayne had not only healed his son, but had also used this method to completely purchase his loyalty for the coming years. He had come out ahead in this deal.

When Deathstroke had finished handling his son's follow-up arrangements and returned to Gotham, he received an encrypted message from Bruce.

Its content was simple: "Batcave. Training grounds. Tonight, show me what the world's best is worth."

It was both an invitation and a challenge.

Inside the Batcave, the vast training area was brightly lit, illuminating every inch of alloy flooring until it gleamed. Thousands of sleeping bats hung upside down from the lofty dome, as though they were the most loyal spectators in this underground palace.

Bruce had been waiting there for some time. He was not wearing the heavy Arkham Knight Armor capable of withstanding tank shells, but a lighter, more agile training combat suit. Woven from high-strength nanofibers, it clung tightly to his perfect musculature, like that of an ancient Greek sculpture. Streamlined carbon-alloy armor plates covered his vital joints and torso, providing necessary protection while preserving his full range of movement.

He held two jet-black, nonmetallic Escrima sticks. Under the lights, their shafts reflected a somber dark gleam, as if they could swallow all light.

Heavy footsteps came from the other end of the passage. Slade Wilson entered in full combat gear. His signature blue-and-orange high-tech suit stood out sharply beneath the lights. A one-eyed mask concealed his face, leaving only a single hawk-sharp eye that remained fixed on Bruce. Crossed over his back were a high-frequency vibrating katana and a collapsible energy staff, while his tactical belt was loaded with pistols, explosives, and all manner of lethal tools.

With every step he took, the iron-blooded killing intent forged through countless battles grew heavier. The air throughout the training grounds seemed to congeal and turn oppressive with his arrival.

"Your son is recovering well," Bruce spoke first, his voice calm and even as it echoed through the cavern.

"I know. I've already had my accountant handle the Wayne Medical bill." Deathstroke's voice emerged from the mask's modulator, hoarse and low, without a trace of emotion.

"That's not the point." Bruce slowly rotated his wrists, and the two sticks carved perfect black arcs through his palms, raising sharp whistles through the air. "Slade, you cleaned up Gotham's trash for me, and I healed your son. Our transaction is settled."

He paused, and his gaze sharpened like a sword leaving its sheath.

"But our partnership has only just begun. The enemies I'll face in the future will be far more powerful than Bane and his rabble. So before I formally bring you into my plans... I need to personally weigh the worth of the world's greatest mercenary."

"Heh..." Deathstroke let out a low, cold chuckle. He reached behind his back with his right hand and gripped the handle of the energy staff. "Bruce Wayne... or rather, Batman. I appreciate your honesty. I'm equally curious just how strong the man who could crush Bane atop Wayne Tower as easily as squashing a bug really is."