Tibet, 2001
The snowstorm had calmed, but the wind still howled across the barren plateau. The peaks around them rose like white giants, jagged and ancient, stretching into the pale sky.
A lonely figure sat on a rock near the frozen slope, gnawing lazily at an apple, his reddish sunglasses faintly reflecting the endless sheets of white around him. His breath didn't fog, his skin showed no sign of frostbite. He looked like a man on vacation, not someone sitting in the middle of nowhere at the roof of the world.
The boy in front of him, however, was shivering despite the thick cloak wrapped around him. His dark hair was wild and damp from the melting frost clinging to it, and his eyes carried a stubborn fire that refused to dim.
"Stop nagging me to train you! I am not some hidden cultivation master!" The man said flatly, waving his free hand as if swatting away a fly. His tone was careless, but behind the glasses his sharp gaze didn't miss the boy's persistence.
The boy didn't flinch. He straightened, brushing the snow from his shoulders. "I know you are not an ordinary human. Just watching you standing without any protection in -40 degree temperature proves it. I can offer you any amount of money or treasures you wish for."
He bit into the apple again, crunch loud in the silence, and raised an eyebrow. "Go home, kid. I don't need your money. Buy some steroids or something with that. That's better than training."
He spoke casually, almost mocking, but there was a weight to his words that carried an unshakable finality. Anyone else might have turned away then, but the boy held his ground.
"I understand you wish to stay here in seclusion," the boy said, his voice steady despite the shiver in his body, "but you probably don't know how much I can offer. I don't lack money. Even if you don't need it, the money can help these people."
He gestured vaguely down toward the valley, where a small village was tucked against the mountain, smoke barely visible from the chimneys.
His chewing slowed. He sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "No, it won't," he said flatly. "Money will only bring their downfall. The more you have, the more you want. A man can go without drinking wine his whole life. But if you give him a taste of wine first, he'll eventually start craving it. That's the nature of humans."
The boy clenched his fists at his sides. He wanted to argue, but there was no hesitation in that man's tone, and he also knew it was the truth.
The man turned his head slightly, looking at him now. "Look, kiddo. I only saved you accidentally. I don't usually stay here. I'm just passing through. You've already been trained properly. Your body knows discipline, your movements aren't those of a beginner. You just need to temper your heart and mind."
The boy shook his head sharply. "Then teach me that. Teach me whatever you can. I will be grateful." His voice dropped lower, almost desperate, and then he bowed deeply, snow sliding off his cloak as he pressed his forehead close to the frozen ground.
For a long moment, only the wind filled the silence. The man stared at the boy, expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. He could see it. The weight in his shoulders, the anger barely contained in his chest, the way his jaw locked even when he bowed. This was no ordinary brat after all.
He let out another long sigh, tossing the apple core into the snow. "Alright," he said at last, tone resigned. "Since you won't budge, I'll guide you for the remaining time I stay here. But you must prepare yourself. It's going to be rough."
The boy straightened at once, his eyes flashing with resolve. "I accept. Pain is an old friend."
For the first time, he let out a genuine chuckle, low and amused. "Let's see if you can say that after the training begins."
The wind whistled, sharp against the cliffside. The plateau stretched out endlessly, painted in whites and grays. Edward stood, brushing off his robe, then motioned with his chin toward the higher slope.
"Come," he said.
The boy followed immediately, his steps uneven at first, then steadying. Despite the freezing cold, despite the thinness of the air, he kept up. They climbed, passing through jagged ridges until they reached a clearing where the rocks were bare, the snow swept away by constant wind.
Edward walked to the center and stopped. "Sit," he ordered.
The boy obeyed, dropping down cross-legged on the frozen ground. He didn't complain, didn't ask questions.
Edward studied him for a moment, then lifted his hand. With a casual flick, the snow and loose gravel shifted, as if the mountain itself obeyed him. From beneath, a bed of long, thick thorns emerged, tangled and cruel, each tip sharpened like a needle.
The boy's eyes widened briefly, but his expression hardened again.
"Sit on it," Edward said simply.
There was no hesitation. The boy removed his cloak, folded it neatly, and placed it aside. He sat on the bed of thorns without flinching. His jaw tightened as the sharp points pierced through his clothes, biting into his flesh, blood welling at once.
Edward watched him quietly, hands folded behind his back. He didn't offer comfort, didn't explain. This was the beginning.
The boy's breath came slow, controlled. His eyes shut tightly. He was meditating—or trying to. The wind cut through him, the pain clawed at him, but he stayed still.
Edward turned his gaze to the horizon. The mountains seemed endless, timeless. "Let's see if you can endure," he murmured softly to himself.
Behind him, the boy clenched his fists harder, jaw grinding, but he didn't scream. Not once.
The training had begun.
The lonely mountain peak was not so lonesome for the next few months.
*****
A cold wind blew across the mountain, sharp and unforgiving. The air was thin, and the sky above was pale and still. Snow rested on the rocks nearby, untouched by anything living.
On a patch of flattened ground near the edge of a cliff, a young man sat alone on a bed of thorns. His body trembled slightly, but he didn't move.
His breathing was slow, steady, even as blood ran from his back and legs. The thorns pierced through the thin layer of cloth he wore and dug deep into his skin. Every breath hurt. Every second that passed was another moment of pain.
But he didn't cry out. He didn't scream.
His face was pale, jaw clenched tightly. His black hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his fists rested on his knees, knuckles white from how tightly they were clenched.
He was meditating. Or trying to.
But his mind wasn't calm.
All he could think about was pain. Not just the pain in his body, but the pain in his heart. The despair. The helplessness. The anger that came after. All of it boiled inside him, and no matter how hard he tried to push it down, it stayed there, burning quietly, always ready to rise.
He wanted revenge. He wanted justice. And more than anything, he wanted to never feel powerless again.
Behind him, quiet footsteps approached. They barely made a sound, but the young man heard them.
A calm voice spoke.
"Ignoring pain isn't salvation, my dear disciple."
The voice was gentle but full of wisdom, carrying across the cold wind like it didn't care about the weather.
"You must accept it. Embrace it. And move on, even if it tries to hold you back. You can't live in the past forever."
The young man didn't turn his head. He kept his eyes shut, kept his breath steady, but his jaw tightened more. He spoke through gritted teeth.
"I don't want to move on," he said. "I want to remember. I want to take everything I felt, everything I lost, and turn it into strength. That's why I begged for your teaching. I want to make it into a weapon for justice."
The man who stood behind him said nothing for a moment.
He looked young, maybe a bit older than the boy in front of him. His face was smooth, without a single wrinkle. But his eyes were old. Not just tired—but full of things seen, things learned, and things let go.
His hair was white as snow, and he wore simple robes, plain and a little worn from time. He wore a reddish sunglass that hid his serene eyes.
He finally spoke after a while.
"No one saves us but ourselves," he said. "No one can, and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path."
He stepped forward, his hands behind his back. "I am just a wandering soul. I can't save you from yourself."
The young man opened his eyes then. His gaze was sharp and full of fire.
"I don't wish to be saved," he said. "I want to become something more than just a person. I want to be a symbol. I want them all to feel the pain I felt. The fear. The veangence. That's the path I've chosen to walk."
The older man walked up beside him, then slowly reached out and ruffled the young man's hair with one hand. His touch was gentle. Soft.
"Remember this always," he said, his voice steady and kind. "Hatred does not end with more hatred. Only with love. That's the eternal rule."
The young man scrunched his eyebrows but didn't interrupt.
"Don't blind yourself with grief. Don't let hatred guide you. And don't stay attached to what's already gone."
He looked up at the cloudy sky above them.
"The root of suffering is attachment," he said. "Don't live in the past. Don't dream only of the future. Focus your mind on the present. On what's in front of you."
Then he turned back to the young man. There was a small, gentle smile on his face. It was full of radiance, and it carried warmth.
"I believe you can find the light," he said softly. "Even with the darkness you carry, even with the past you've lived, you will find your way. I have faith in you, my precious disciple."
For a moment, it felt like the wind itself grew warmer. Like the whole world brightened just a little. The quiet, peaceful strength in his smile seemed to push back against the cold around them. As if the world has achieved Nirvana.
The young man looked away, blinking quickly.
His eyes were wet.
He didn't want to cry, not here, not now. But the warmth in his mentor's voice reached a part of him that he'd tried to lock away for a long time. It hurt, but it also felt like something inside him was loosening. Not breaking, just unburdened.
He remembered clearly, the day this man found him. He had escaped from his old mentor who betrayed his trust, broken and bleeding, barely able to walk. He should have died. He thought he would.
But this man had found him lying at the foot of the mountain and carried him here.
He fed him. Treated his wounds. Watched over him while he slept. Never once asked for anything in return.
The young man had tried to repay him. He'd offered money, services, even to take him to his home and gift him generously. But the man had only laughed and said, "I'm already the wealthiest man in the world."
And somehow, it hadn't felt like a joke.
There was something different about him, something hard to explain. He looked like a man in his early Thirties, but he spoke with the wisdom of someone far older. And people listened to him.
The villagers below the mountain respected him deeply. Even though they had very little, they always brought him offerings—vegetables, fruit, even handmade blankets. Even children would rush to share their sweets with him.
They bowed to him with respect when they saw him, not because they were told to, but because they wanted to. They smiled when they saw him, every single time. A pure smile of joy and peace.
The young man wiped his eyes quickly with the back of his hand and sniffed, pretending nothing had happened. He didn't turn around. He stared straight ahead.
"Master," he said after a moment as if nothing happened. "You still haven't stopped pretending to be Buddha, have you? You're stealing his quotes again. You should start coming up with your own lines."
The older man froze for a second. Then the soft smile disappeared. A small vein popped on his forehead. Without a word, he smacked the young man lightly on the top of the head.
"Ow," the boy muttered, rubbing it.
The man turned away and began walking off, hands behind his back as he grumbled.
"Stupid brats these days… No respect for their elders. People would kill to have me offer a lesson to them ."
The young man stood up slowly, wincing as the thorns pulled out of his skin. Blood dripped from his legs and soaked the thorns beneath.
He took a deep breath, then let it out as he started walking away. His steps were slow but steady. His back straight. yet he couldn't stop himself from watching his mentor's back that alway gave him a glimpse of hope.
As he walked away, the bed of thorns remained behind, stained with red. The blood had spread outward, drop by drop, until it formed a small, strange shape.
If someone had looked closely… they might have noticed.
It looked like the shape of a bat.
*****
The next morning was unusually still in the high mountain air. Snow stretched endlessly, pure and white, broken only by sharp stone ridges and the tiny streams that cracked through the ice.
Bruce stirred awake in the small house of stone and wood that had sheltered him the past weeks. The air inside was quiet, too quiet. He sat up quickly, his instincts already sharpened from training and hardship.
The cot was neatly arranged, his master's belongings gone. The only thing left was a folded letter on the low wooden table and a small, strange amulet that pulsed with a faint light.
Bruce's jaw tightened. His hand hovered over the letter for a moment before he picked it up and began to read.
"Dear disciple.
I have resumed my journey to see the world and watch how much humans have changed. Plus, I have to check on my kids. Your Master is too handsome, and my wives can't bear to stay apart from me for long, unlike your lonely self.
I'm not good at goodbyes, so I spared you the tearful departure as you clung to my foot and sob how grateful you are and all that. I know, I'm such a great guy!"
Bruce scoffed. He could almost hear the smugness dripping from every stroke of ink, see that teasing grin on his master's face. But despite himself, a faint smile tugged at his lips. He shook his head, muttering under his breath, "This guy…"
The letter continued.
"Despite your skepticism and tragic past, you have become a fine man. Although you will still be a snotty brat in my eyes. I wish you good fortune, and that you may find peace and happiness despite your questionable choice of career.
Funny, all my disciples are not right in the head. There's that blue fella, who is full of confusion and contradictions. Then the kid who is obsessed with finding the Pirate King's treasure, although he might actually find some of it. Then I got you. The emo kid with lots of issues.
Hahahaha, did that annoy you? If so, then you still need mental fortitude. Go home kid, and maybe live a little for yourself instead of giving everything for others. Your path is a hard one, but I have faith you have the ability to walk on it. Perhaps only you can.
So raise your head high and move on with your life. Carry yourself with pride, but also show humility when needed. Be wrathful to the evil, but show compassion to the innocent. You are my disciple after all.
P.S. – I left this gift for you. It'll grant you protection from magic, mind control, and save your life in case you are in a bad condition. And also, don't be so gloomy all the time. No girl will stay with you if you act so edgy all the time."
Bruce chuckled, the sound quiet but genuine, and picked up the amulet. It was cold in his hand, but it pulsed softly as if alive. The glow shimmered faintly against the wooden walls, chasing away the shadows.
He studied it carefully, then tucked it close to his chest, feeling the warmth radiate through his skin.
He turned toward the open window, where the mountain stretched endlessly. The wind rushed against the cliffside, but the view was breathtaking—an endless expanse of peaks and valleys bathed in pale light.
He whispered softly, almost to himself, "You are really kind, Master. Although you acted annoying and willful often, your compassion and empathy are sincere. Somehow, I don't find it untrue when you claimed to be Buddha. But… a part of me keeps thinking of another person. Someone far older than him."
He let the thought fade, unwilling to chase it further. He began to gather his belongings, what little he had. His master had taught him much, but now it was time to walk his own path.
The time had come for the boy lost in tragedy to become the man who would fight for justice.
***
Far above the earth, past clouds that swirled like oceans of mist, another scene unfolded. A colossal structure drifted across the skies—Avalon, the flying fortress city Edward and Death had forged from nothing but will, wisdom, and power.
From a distance, it looked like a floating island wrapped in light, its edges rimmed with gold and silver, waterfalls of magic cascading down into the clouds.
Though built as a fortress, it was not a grim place of war. Its walls gleamed white, its towers crowned with gardens and spires. Courtyards overflowed with flowers that bloomed even in the high air.
Fountains shimmered, and birds followed its drifting path as though drawn to its warmth. Despite its immense strength, Avalon was as much a sanctuary as it was a fortress.
Here Edward lived, not as the warrior who had once saved the world, but as a husband and father. His wives were by his side. Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, regal and composed; Hera, the once-jealous goddess who now found warmth and devotion in Edward's presence; and Death herself, the Endless who carried both eternity and tenderness in her smile.
Fifty years earlier, his life had changed forever. After long years of uncertainty, all three of his wives became pregnant almost at once. For Edward, it was joy mixed with terror. He, who had faced gods and monsters, found himself pacing nervously, careful not to spark the storm of their pregnancy moods.
Hippolyta remained calm mostly, carrying herself with grace. But she too had her moments when she acted spoiled. Hera became almost inseparable from him, her usual pride softened into something warmer.
Death… Death was another matter. Her emotions swayed like the tide—one moment mad at the way he smelled like , the next moment clinging to him as if he were her anchor. Edward stumbled through it all, Diana often rescuing him with laughter as she helped soothe their moods.
And then, in 1950, their children were born.
Cassie Elric came first, the daughter of Edward and Hippolyta. She bore her mother's beauty and mismatched eyes, one blue, one red. Her golden hair framing a face that carried both beauty and strength.
From birth, she radiated power, divinity tied to Strength and Love . She would cling to her father and wouldn't go to sleep unless he put her to bed. He indulged her often, as he knew these days would not last forever.
Next came Alphonse, Edward and Hera's son, his red eyes blazing against his blond hair. A striking figure even as a newborn, Edward had laughed that he looked like a miniature mongrel king. His domain was Water and Courage, and even as a boy he carried himself with a natural boldness. But he was also kind and gentle.
Hera was happy beyond imagination. She doted on him without care. She would still drag Edward away from time to time to have another child. Alphonse being a mischievous kid would even egg her, saying he wanted another sibling.
Then came the most mysterious of all. Sophrosyne Elric, son of Edward and Death. Pale-skinned, dark-haired, with Edward's piercing blue eyes and looks.
His birth shook the world. Half the earth fell into shadow while the other half blazed with light, as if creation itself bowed to his arrival.
He bore two domains. Light and Darkness, opposite and intertwined. Death named him over Edward's playful protests, with an ancient Greek word meaning Balance and Harmony.
For more than thirty years, Avalon rang with the laughter and cries of their children. They grew quickly, divinity accelerating their strength and understanding. Edward was there for every moment of it. He was a proud father, guiding them with love and wisdom.
Diana, though older, found her role as sister fleeting, for she too set out into the world, determined to see what her father had once given everything to protect.
Edward, in his usual stubborn way, refused to let her wander in armor that resembled more fashion than protection. He forged her a suit of gold and silver, elegant yet unbreakable, a gift of both love and worry.
Cassie and Alphonse lived partly as mortals, schooling in America, blending among human children, though their powers had to remain hidden. They wrestled with dual identities, balancing childhood with the burden of divine blood. But they found the way to balance it with their fathers help.
Soph, however, was different. He was too powerful and born with knowledge. He was rather mature and responsible. Despite being the youngest, he was the one taking care of his siblings.
Edward would often take him to enjoy things a kid should. He wanted him to have a childhood rather than growing up too soon. Soph also loved and admired his father, although he was a momma's boy.
Being a mother for first time, Death would rarely let him out of sight and doted on him. She even made a solar eclipse because Soph curiously asked how it looked like.
He was also beloved by his uncles and aunts—the Endless themselves. Destiny read to him from books no mortal eyes could glimpse. Even Morpheus visited with gifts, though his glares at Edward never softened, resentment lingering from that "cursed video" Edward had once taken.
Desire and Despair, much to everyone's surprise, grew fond of Edward after that same incident, though the details remained whispered jokes among the family. Olethros also returned to his duty after the war, but he would rarely be in his realm. He was often seen carrying Soph on his shoulders, laughing like a warrior who had rediscovered joy.
Death watched all this with quiet bliss. She, who had guided countless souls, who had thought herself beyond the experience of motherhood, found herself smiling at the children's laughter, at Edward's playful scolding, at the warmth of family.
Hera and Hippolyta stood with her often, the three mothers united by love, watching their children play in the gardens of Avalon.
It was peace. A fragile, fleeting peace, but beautiful.
Yet Edward was not one to stay in silence forever. By the 1990s, he left Avalon to check on the world again. He found it steadier than he had expected.
The Order, or Illuminati he once built, now worked tirelessly to limit conflict, to guide humanity toward balance. But Edward knew the wheel of history never stayed still. Trouble was always waiting.
It was during these wanderings that he came upon Nepal, one of his old retreats. There, in the snow, he found a boy—bloodied, broken, barely alive. A boy who had lost everything, yet whose eyes still carried a fire that refused to go out.
Edward carried him back to his small house, tended his wounds, and in time, trained him in the ways of discipline and spirit.
That boy was Bruce.
Edward had seen many disciples across the centuries, each carrying their burdens, their flaws, their strange ambitions. Bruce was no different. Driven, scarred, stubborn beyond reason. Edward mocked him, challenged him, tested his patience. But he also guided him, sharpening the steel of his will, tempering his grief into focus.
And then, as always, Edward left. He returned to Avalon, to his wives, his children, knowing full well that the timeline of this universe, the DC world, was entering its turbulent era. The era of heroes and villains was about to unfold.
Bruce, left alone with the letter and the amulet, stared long into the horizon. He carried the lessons of his master not as chains, but as a compass. The house behind him, the letter in his hand, the amulet at his chest—these were not farewells, but new beginnings.
He would go home. He would forge himself into something more than a man. A symbol. The Dark Knight of Gotham.
The upcoming years won't be peaceful anymore. Filled with lots of chaotic world ending events.
They were officialy in the canon timeline of DC universe after all.