When the sun dipped below the horizon, when darkness descended upon this half of the world, during the hour of general sleep, the silence of the night in Tibet was broken by the quiet sound of helicopter blades.
Four iron machines glided along the slope of one of the highest mountains, completely black, without a single light that could betray their location. They descended upon the asphalt of the plaza suddenly, swiftly, and with practiced precision.
The cargo bays opened, and thirty-nine fighters spilled out onto the plaza. Each was dressed in yellow-tinted armor with a honeycomb pattern; helmets of the same color with black visors concealed their faces. In their hands were rifles already aimed at the only building on the main plaza of the League of Assassins base.
All ten members of the League of Assassins on night duty knew exactly who had come to visit. They immediately moved toward the helicopters, hurriedly donning their cuirass vests, protection for their forearms, shoulders, shins, thighs, and helmets.
At the same time, the leader of the attackers stepped onto the plaza. A tall, two-meter male figure clad in black-and-yellow modern armor. Armor plates made of Nth Metal were joined together by Kevlar fabric, leaving visible gaps necessary for mobility. On his head was a solid cast helmet. Its right side was painted black and had no eye slit, while the left side was painted a prominent orange. The man clearly did not shy away from his disability. Two katanas were strapped to his back, two pistols in thigh holsters, and an assault rifle slung over his shoulder.
the figure's movements were confident and professional, as were his orders.
"First group take the pagoda, second and third storm, fourth cover, recruits take the perimeter."
A finger in a yellow tactical glove pointed to the only building on the plaza, a four-story pagoda designed in the Japanese style.
"The objective is to kill Ra's al Ghul. Disable any fighters not caught in the sabotage non-lethally; they will yet become our allies."
The fighters immediately swapped the magazines in their rifles for those containing rubber bullets.
Ten traitors who had changed clothes quickly returned to the walls. A squad of ten fighters in yellow armor climbed onto the lower roof of the pagoda with slight awkwardness and visible tension. The third and fourth squads dispersed closer to the main entrance, while the fifth squad, led by Deathstroke, prepared for the assault.
Simultaneously, a sleeping-gas aerosol was being rapidly dispersed throughout the League of Assassins base—through ventilation, along corridors, and by hand. The already small number of combat-ready fighters, most of whom were away on missions, was rapidly dwindling. Those already in bed fell into a deeper sleep; those on guard duty collapsed onto the wooden floors. Only the luckiest and most paranoid managed to put on respirator masks in time.
Some were alerted by the sound of a body hitting the floor, some by comrades running through the corridor with canisters in hand, and some were near the first two and followed their lead.
Out of nearly a hundred fighters, only a handful remained conscious: twenty men and women, among whom was Ra's al Ghul, upon whom such a weak concoction had no effect; Talia, who was among those alerted by the sound of a falling body; and Damian, who, noticing an unnatural desire to sleep, saturated his respiratory tract with chakra to mimic the effect of a respirator.
The Head of the League of Assassins learned of the attack. A quick brainstorming session yielded the most acceptable solution.
"Flood the entire plaza with pepper smoke; our home shall become their grave," Ra's ordered calmly and immediately contacted Talia via a private line. "Take Damian and leave through Exit 54; David Cain will pick you up."
The man named Cain was right next to the leader; he nodded silently and left the room to follow the order.
Suddenly for the attackers, a dozen metal cylinders flew out of the pagoda, releasing thick, caustic white smoke in mid-air. The plaza was shrouded in mist within seconds, cutting off the ten traitors and the fighters who had just entered the pagoda from the main group.
"Abort Plan 3-D, implement Plan B-9," Deathstroke commanded calmly and immediately ran toward the main entrance.
It might seem foolish to rush into a building full of professional killers, but otherwise, the mercenary risked losing the initiative. The smoke did not scare him much; his fighters' helmets had built-in thermal imagers, but on the plaza, they would be too easy a target for the machine guns the League of Assassins disdained but certainly possessed.
Deathstroke was not concerned about the preparedness of the Shadows—he was stronger than them, for the super-soldier serum flowed through his veins. He was not frightened by the unknown—he had been a member of the League of Assassins and knew the layout of the main base perfectly. He was not stressed by possible traps—the traitors had already disabled them.
Kicking the wooden door open with a powerful strike, the mercenary immediately opened suppressive fire with rubber bullets. Following their commander, a group of stormtroopers rushed into the corridor, repeating his actions. The dark corridor lit up with flashes of gunfire, the roar hitting their ears, but it was empty. Following the first group, the second burst inside, moving forward in a steady line.
"Gamma formation," Deathstroke ordered.
The two groups immediately split into squads of four, forming diamonds where the last man turned his back to his comrades to watch the rear.
The sound of pistons echoed through the corridor, and a solid metal shutter, fifty centimeters thick, dropped from the ceiling.
"Wait!" Deathstroke commanded.
At the same time, deep within the main base of the League of Assassins, a disheveled woman burst into the room of the organization's future heir.
"Code Red, get ready!" Talia told her son in a sharp, stern voice. She expected to see a sleepy child, but instead, she was met by a serious and fully prepared man. At least, that was how Damian saw himself.
Classic black League of Assassins attire, a tanto on his belt behind his back, several leather bands with throwing projectiles, a pouch with smoke bombs and fast-acting medicines, and frowning eyebrows that only elicited endearment from the adults.
"Who? What strength? Equipment? Abilities?" Damian asked, his voice trembling slightly with excitement.
"We have traitors among us," Talia replied. Because of the respirator, her voice was muffled and at times even indistinguishable. "Trust no one. I will lead you to a safe place."
"What?! Traitors? How dare they! Off with their heads!" anger flared in Damian's chest.
When you are told for twelve years that the League of Assassins is your organization, you begin to believe it. You consider it your property, imagining yourself in the role of the leader of hundreds of assassins. Naturally, no one likes it when rats appear in their home.
The boy froze at the door. Thoughts swirled in his head, his brain rapidly producing one idea after another, some of them contradictory.
He could help repel the attack; his abilities were more than enough for a simple brawl without the involvement of superpowers and flying men in tights. Moreover, Damian was a significant figure on the battlefield, capable of turning the tide and helping to repel the assault.
On the other hand, based on knowledge from his past life, Damian knew where he would be sent, and he very much wanted to go there. To break free from the constant supervision of his grandfather and mother into the free world, giving vent to his desires, laziness, procrastination, and the ideas that had been spinning in his head for a long time.
Anxiety filled his mind, adrenaline flooded his blood, and a nervous tremor covered the boy's body. He had never been in a real battle before, neither in this life nor certainly in his past one, so fear began to grow in his heart, adding even more uncertainty.
"Wait, stop! If there is doubt, then the problem lies in the initial data," he began to gather his thoughts. "What do I want?"
The answer came quickly:
"I want to go to my father, to be free, to finally realize some of my ideas, to live a normal life not filled with constant training."
The doubts did not vanish.
"We don't have time, Damian," Talia hurried the boy, grabbing his hand and leading him down the corridor.
"I don't want to abandon everything," Damian continued to dig deep. "I want to thumb my nose at those who decided they could attack what is MINE. To break their faces, to prove they were wrong, that attacking the League of Assassins is the worst decision of their lives. I want to break their destinies, make them permanent invalids, make them burn from within in the flames of realizing their mistake!"
The rage in his chest intensified, sending a tremor through his entire body. Damian stood rooted to the spot, using chakra to attach himself to the floor, causing the woman pulling his hand to stumble.
"Damian!" Talia protested.
"I can't leave," the boy said gloomily. "I can't run away. It will eat me later; it will hang over my head forever as shame and resentment. I MUST stand up for what is mine!"
The boy fixed his mother with a firm, decidedly un-childlike gaze. The doubts vanished; the fear quickly turned to rage. Damian realized what he had to do.
"No..." his mother started to say, but was interrupted.
"Yes. This is exactly what an heir must do. We are going back. Unless, of course, you are afraid to go into battle."
The boy turned around and, under his mother's skeptical gaze, began to jog back in the opposite direction.
Twenty meters of straight corridor, a turn to the right toward the main exit, and two League of Assassins fighters appeared before Damian with unsheathed blades in their hands.
"Can't trust anyone, right?" the thought flashed.
The fighters ran toward him. Both stopped instantly and, a second later, took their stances.
While running, the boy formed four mudras, covered his entire body in a thin layer of chakra, and in the blink of an eye, he was behind the fighters. For the first second, he struggled with his protesting body—his vestibular system was acting up, his stomach wanted to reject his dinner, and his ears were ringing. Overcoming himself, the small figure jumped a meter into the air and, with two quick strikes to the base of the neck, knocked out the presumed traitors.
"That's a few hours of unconsciousness guaranteed," the boy noted in his head and continued his run.
Another turn, and ten meters ahead began a staircase where a trio of fighters was already running. Slightly slowing down, Damian changed his gait and added the influence of chakra, which completely removed the sound of his movement, allowing him to appear behind the fighters absolutely unnoticed.
"Understood."
That was all the trio uttered during several seconds of running up the stairs. The plan to overhear their conversation failed, and Damian faced a choice.
To knock out the trio or not?
If they were traitors, it would be good; if they were not traitors, it would be very bad. The boy understood that the combat capability of the entire League was at a minimum; most of the fighters were on missions, and those remaining at the base were mostly unconscious. One of the trio helped him make the choice.
"Those damn bastards, and to think we ate from the same pot," the man whispered very quietly.
"Quiet!" the second fighter hissed at him roughly.
By this time, the trio and Damian had run into the corridor. The boy immediately jumped to the ceiling, attaching himself to it with chakra. What he heard allowed him, albeit tentatively, to categorize the trio as allies. When the trio ran further away, the boy dropped to the wall and vanished into one of the many secret passages.