One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the base was bathed in the soft glow of torchlight, Ra's summoned Jason to his private quarters.
The room was sparsely furnished, with a large wooden desk, a few chairs, and a map of the world pinned to the wall. Ra stood by the desk, having a neutral expression.
"You have made significant progress," Ra's said, his voice calm but commanding. "But true mastery can only be achieved through practical field application. A mission has come up that will test your skills."
Jason's eyes narrowed. "What kind of mission?"
Ra's gestured to the map, his finger tracing a line to a small village nestled in the mountains. "There is a target here—a man who has betrayed the League.
He is hiding in the village, protected by a group of mercenaries. Your task is to infiltrate the village, eliminate the target, and retrieve a valuable artifact he has stolen. You must do this without being seen or noticed until you have retrieved it and assassinated the target."
Jason studied the map, his mind already working through the details. "When do I leave?"
"At dawn," Ra's replied. "This will be your final test. If you succeed, you will have proven yourself worthy of the League's teachings."
Jason nodded, a determined glint in his eyes. "I won't fail."
- - -
The village was a ghostly settlement swallowed by towering pines, their skeletal branches clawing at the overcast sky. Wooden houses, their beams blackened by time, stood like sentinels beneath thick blankets of moss.
Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, carrying the scent of burning oak and spiced meat. Laughter echoed through the narrow streets, but Jason didn't let the illusion of peace fool him.
'Too quiet for a mercenary base.'
He moved like a wraith, his boots barely disturbing the damp earth. The League's training had honed his instincts to a razor's edge—every rustle of leaves, every shift in the wind, spoke to him. His fingers brushed the hilt of a dagger strapped to his thigh, the cold metal a silent promise.
'Guards. Two at the gate, four patrolling the perimeter. Too many for a simple village.'
His target's hideout loomed ahead—a fortified manor encircled by a high stone wall, its surface slick with ivy. Mercenaries prowled the grounds, their rifles slung over their shoulders, eyes sharp.
Jason smirked beneath his mask. Amateurs.
He waited, counting the seconds between patrol rotations. Then—flick—a pebble arced through the air, landing in the underbrush with a soft crunch.
The nearest guard spun. "You hear that?"
Jason was already moving, scaling the wall with practiced ease. His muscles coiled as he dropped into the courtyard, rolling behind a rain barrel. The scent of damp wood and gun oil filled his nostrils.
No alarms. Good.
The manor's back door was reinforced steel, but the lock was a joke. Three picks, a twist, and the mechanism surrendered with a soft click. Inside, the air was thick with incense—sandalwood and something bitter. Camouflage. They're hiding something.
He ghosted through dim corridors, his senses hyper-alert. The study door was ajar, golden candlelight spilling onto the hardwood floor.
There.
A man sat at an oak desk, his back turned, a familiar ornate box resting before him. The build matched his target's—broad shoulders, military-straight posture. Jason's grip tightened on his knife.
End this quick.
In three silent strides, he was behind him. "Don't move," Jason murmured, voice low and lethal. "This doesn't have to get messy."
The man tensed—then moved. A dagger flashed in the candlelight, slicing toward Jason's throat.
'Shit.'
Instinct took over. Jason twisted, catching the man's wrist and driving a brutal elbow into his windpipe. The mercenary gagged, crumpling like a puppet with cut strings.
Jason yanked down the scarf masking the man's face.
It wasn't the League's target, Slade Wilson.
A muscle in his jaw twitched as he thought to himself. 'Slade should be here somewhere.'
He did not know why the name or picture of his target was so familiar to him, but he ignored that and was so focused on executing his mission with acute efficiency.
Footsteps echoed in the hall—heavy, purposeful.
Jason acted fast. He dragged the unconscious merc behind the desk, then slid into the vacated chair, pulling the scarf over his own face. The door creaked open.
A guard stepped in, his rifle slung lazily over one shoulder. "Didn't realize you were still here, sir. Just checking in."
Jason kept his voice smooth, bored. "I'm reviewing intel." He slowly walked towards the door and closed it behind him.
The guard hesitated. "You… weren't with the main force?"
Jason's pulse spiked, but his tone remained ice. "I had separate orders." Curious as to where the main force may have gone to as it was only reasonable that their leader might be with them, he asked.
"Where'd the main force head off this morning?" Jason kept his voice casual, leaning against the doorframe like he belonged there. "Just finished my assignment, but by the time I got back to file my report, the place was half-empty."
The guard smirked, puffing out his chest. "Oh, you missed the fun. Boss took the big guns out for a hunt."
Jason raised an eyebrow, feigning mild interest. "That so? What's the target?"
"The League of Assassins' stronghold," the guard said, pride dripping from his words.
"Slade's gonna carve up Ra's al Ghul himself and bring back his head as a trophy. Let's see the 'Demon's Head' survive that." He barked a laugh, sharp with mockery.
Jason's jaw clenched behind the mask, teeth grinding against the sting of the insult. It burned—not just the words, but the casual arrogance behind them.
They'd slaughtered an entire unit like it was nothing. He forced a chuckle anyway, rough and approving, the sound scraping his throat like gravel.
"Damn. Wish I'd been on that op." A shake of his head, the picture of a soldier denied glory. "Nothing left but cleanup now, huh?"
The guard shrugged, oblivious. "Pretty much." Then, with a camaraderie that made Jason's skin crawl, the man clapped him on the shoulder—
—and froze.
Jason saw it the second the guard's gaze flicked downward, toward the unconscious man's boot protruding from behind the desk. A half-breath of hesitation. A widening of pupils.
Too late.
Jason was already moving.
With much practiced efficiency, his hand snapped up in a knife-edge strike, driving into the guard's exposed throat with surgical precision.
The man's choked gasp died as his windpipe collapsed; he folded like a marionette with its strings cut, knees hitting the floor before his body toppled sideways.
No time to dwell. No time to check pulses.
'They're inside the League.'
The realization coiled like ice in his gut. He snatched the artifact from the desk—its weight suddenly too light for the havoc it carried—and was at the door in three strides.
Shadows swallowed him as he slipped into the corridor, his breaths measured, his footfalls silent. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but discipline kept his movements efficient, invisible.
He retraced his steps through the hideout's labyrinthine halls, a ghost in enemy territory.
A guard turned the corner ahead; Jason melted into an alcove, pressing flat against the wall until the man passed, whistling. Another heartbeat, and he was moving again, slipping out a side entrance into the knife-cold air of the forest.
Dawn had bled into midday by the time he cleared the tree line, the sun high and pitiless.
The artifact was secure in his pack, but his fingers twitched toward the comm unit at his belt. Static hissed back—jammed, or the League's channels were chaos. Either way, the message was clear.
They're under attack. And Ra's doesn't know.
He broke into a sprint.
- - -
[The League of Assassins stronghold]
Training had begun, and Jason was nowhere to be found. When that happened, he was usually with Ra's or receiving secluded instruction from him. But this morning, Talia spotted her father on the balcony above, surveying the training grounds as she led the assassins through their drills.
Damian had also noticed the older boy's absence. Under his mother's orders, he had gone to drag Jason down to the courtyard, eager to annoy the shit out of him before training even started. To his irritation, the room was empty. Jason wasn't in his usual spot atop the mountains either, where he often went to clear his head.
As another instructor took over the weapon drills, Talia seized the moment to approach her father. His undisturbed demeanor suggested he knew exactly where Jason was—and that bothered her.
She climbed the stairs, her steps measured, and joined him at the balcony's edge.
"Father," she greeted, her voice steady.
"Daughter," he replied, his gaze still fixed on the courtyard below. "As always, your training sessions are commendable. You will make a fine leader for the League, guiding my grandson when the time comes for him to claim his inheritance."
"Thank you, Father."
The praise warmed her, as it always did. She had spent her life striving to meet his expectations, honing herself into the perfect weapon—not as the heir he might have wanted, but as the assassin he needed.
Yet something gnawed at her.
"Jason wasn't present for training this morning," she remarked, keeping her tone neutral. "He didn't report in, nor did he give notice. That isn't like him."
Ra's finally glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "You're concerned for the boy."
It wasn't a question.
"There's no need for worry. I sent him on an errand—a challenge to help provide him with insight on the strength he must still attain."
Talia's fingers twitched, the only outward sign of her unease. Her father's missions were brutal by design, but this secrecy was unusual.
"What mission required such discretion that he couldn't inform me?"
"I ordered him to tell no one. He left before dawn." Ra's paused, weighing his next words. "A containment box was stolen from my gallery. It appeared to be a mere artifact, but it held a tracker—one that was likely discovered and destroyed by now. Only one man could have taken it without detection."
Talia's stomach tightened. "Who?"
"Slade Wilson."
Her breath caught. "You sent Jason after Deathstroke?" Disbelief sharpened her voice. "He's outmatched in every way—experience, skill, combat instinct."
Ra's remained impassive. "It will serve as a lesson. Either he rises to the occasion, or he perishes. Survival alone will force growth."
"This isn't training, Father. It's a death sentence."
"He won't die so easily."
"How can you be certain?"
"Intuition." Ra's turned back to the courtyard, his voice low. "He has the will to survive. If he returns, he will have earned his place. If not… then he was never fit for the role I envisioned."
Talia bit back her protest. There was more to this. "What was in the artifact?"
Ra's exhaled, as if amused by her focus. "The question isn't what it contained, but what was engrav—"
"Mother!" Damian's voice cut through the air as he strode toward them. "He's gone. No one has seen Jason all morning."
Talia forced calm into her tone. "Your grandfather sent him on a mission."
Damian's jaw tightened. The implication was clear—Jason was being groomed in ways he wasn't. A flicker of resentment burned in his eyes.
Ra's noticed. He extended a hand, drawing Damian closer. "You need not worry. None of this diminishes your birthright." He gestured to the assassins below, moving in flawless unison. "This is your legacy, Damian. The League will be yours."
Pride swelled in the boy's chest, but before he could respond, Ra's stiffened. His sharp eyes caught the glint of a rifle muzzle from a nearby doorway.
"Get down!"
He shoved Damian aside as Talia dropped. A gunshot rang out—a near miss, but the bullet grazed Ra's shoulder.
Blood seeped into his robes.
"We've been breached!" he snarled.
Talia's gaze snapped toward the
shifting shadows. Dark figures poured
into the courtyard like ink spilling
across parchment, their movements
precise, predatory. The glint of
firearms in their grip caught the pale
morning light, cold, impersonal,
lethal.
"Get him out of here," Ra's ordered, unsheathing his sword, his wound ignored.
- - -
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