The League's stronghold was a fortress carved into the bones of a forgotten mountain—black stone towers piercing the mist, ancient torches burning with blue fire, and silence thick with judgment.
Rex had been stripped of his gear, given simple robes, and led down winding corridors until the air smelled of ash and incense. He walked flanked by assassins who never spoke, never blinked, never even breathed louder than a whisper.
Finally, they entered a vast throne room lit by a thousand flickering candles. At its heart stood a man cloaked in green and gold, face weathered by centuries but sharp with conviction.
Ra's al Ghul.
The Demon's Head.
His presence was suffocating.
"Richard Grayson," he greeted, stepping down from his throne. "No… Rex Mallory."
Rex narrowed his eyes. "So you know."
Ra's offered a faint smile. "The soul's thread runs deeper than flesh. You are not Nightwing, but you wear his shadow like a second skin. And yet, your spirit—untamed, unfamiliar… chaotic."
"I didn't ask to be here."
"No," Ra's said. "But the universe chose you. And I would know why."
He gestured toward a stone circle embedded in the floor—marked with ancient runes and inlaid with what looked disturbingly like bone.
"To walk this path, you must endure three trials," Ra's said. "Only then will you see the truth of why you were brought here."
Rex stared at the circle. His fists clenched. "And if I refuse?"
Ra's smiled coldly. "Then your mind will unravel… and Gotham will lose a second Nightwing before it ever truly knew him."
Rex sighed and stepped into the circle.
The moment his foot touched the runes, the flames dimmed.
The world rushed backward—
---
Trial One: The Case That Broke Him
Rex opened his eyes.
He wasn't in the mountain anymore.
He was back in Chicago.
His Chicago.
The air smelled of cigarettes and rain. Neon signs flickered outside frosted windows. He was standing in a familiar alleyway, lined with crime tape.
And in front of him—a body.
Small.
Crushed.
A little girl in a blue jacket.
And beside her, Detective Rex Mallory, younger, gaunt, eyes burning with guilt. His own voice echoed from memory:
> "Seven years old. Reported missing last week. Found dead behind a warehouse that was supposed to be clean."
> "Third child this month."
> "Same killer. Still no leads."
The scene froze.
Rex, the present-day Rex, stumbled back. His heart pounded.
"I remember this," he muttered. "The Little Star Killer. He left stars drawn on their hands with lipstick. We never caught him."
A voice whispered through the memory: "And that failure still haunts you."
The world shifted again.
He was in his old apartment now, surrounded by crime scene photos, red strings connecting walls. There were coffee cups, burnout marks, old cassette tapes with hours of suspect interviews.
And on the floor: Rex.
Rocking. Eyes bloodshot.
He saw himself scream and throw a chair across the room.
Barbara's voice echoed faintly from some distant thread: "You bury your pain under justice, Rex. But some wounds don't close just because you catch the next monster."
He was reliving his breaking point.
The point he almost quit.
The trial wanted to see if he'd face it.
The room grew dark.
Suddenly—the killer stepped out of the shadows.
A man in a clown mask.
Not the Joker, but a twisted echo. A fusion of Gotham and Chicago. The killer he never caught.
"You failed her," the killer whispered. "You always fail when it matters most."
Rex's fists clenched. "I never stopped trying."
"You stopped believing."
The killer lunged—
And Rex, instinct taking over, grabbed the attacker mid-charge and slammed him into the wall.
"I do believe," Rex snarled. "Because I never forgot her name."
The illusion shattered.
The lights snapped back.
The killer's body turned to smoke.
And Rex was left alone in the apartment, standing in the ruins of his greatest shame… but still standing.
A door appeared in the wall.
Carved into the wood: Truth lies beyond pain.
He stepped through it.
---
Back in the League's stronghold, Ra's al Ghul opened his eyes.
"He passed the first trial," he said to Talia, who stood watching from the shadows. "He faced his past not with vengeance… but with resolve."
Talia frowned. "So… what is he?"
Ra's looked toward the flickering fire pit.
"Something… new. A man born of death, pain, and second chances.
Back in the Wayne Manor
Wayne Manor had never felt so cold.
The storm outside had passed, but the silence that filled the walls was worse. It wasn't just a home anymore—it was a mausoleum. One where grief walked the halls wearing Bruce Wayne's face.
Down in the Batcave, blueprints glowed across the monitors. Surveillance feeds flickered. Satellite images displayed fragments of mountain ranges scattered across Eurasia—most unreachable by ordinary means.
But Batman wasn't ordinary.
He stood in front of the massive console, jaw clenched, cape swaying slightly as fans roared behind the screens.
Behind him, Barbara Gordon paced. "There has to be a way to intercept them. The League always leaves breadcrumbs—they want you to follow. You've done it before."
Batman didn't look at her. "This time, they're not baiting me. They want him to stay. That changes the game."
Barbara spun around. "So what? We just wait while they brainwash him into being a League pawn? He's not Nightwing. He doesn't have his history. His loyalty. But he chose to go. That means something."
Alfred cleared his throat gently from the stairs. "And it is worth noting that Master Mallory made that choice not out of weakness—but to protect you both."
Barbara looked at Batman. "He sacrificed himself. Just like Dick would've. Doesn't that mean he's one of us now?"
Batman remained silent.
He'd been staring at a particular satellite image for over five minutes. Finally, he spoke, quiet and grim:
"They've taken him to the Eastern Citadel. Hidden in the Hindu Kush. It hasn't been used in over a decade. Ra's must've reactivated it just for this."
He turned.
"The League will guard it with their best. Shadows. Traps. Talia will expect me. But not us."
Barbara raised an eyebrow. "You mean…?"
"I'm not going alone," Batman said.
He stepped to a side panel and opened it. A vault rose from beneath the floor—stacked with dormant tech and old prototypes.
"I've already begun assembling a team," he continued. "You, me, and a few trusted allies who have history with the League. If they want to play ancient games…"
He held up a stealth glider blueprint, then tapped the side of his cowl.
"…we'll rewrite the rules."
Alfred stepped forward with a tray of tea, setting it beside the keyboard. "If I may, sir… we've seen you walk through fire before. But I believe this time, you're not just chasing an operative."
Batman met his gaze. "No. I'm not."
He looked up at the hologram of Rex in Nightwing's gear—uncertain, rough-edged, out of place.
"He doesn't know who he is yet. But I do. He's got Dick's instincts. His drive. But also something else."
Barbara nodded, a hint of a smile touching her lips.
"Rex is a detective. He doesn't quit until he finds the truth."
Batman turned away. "Then let's make sure he survives long enough to find it."