(General P.O.V)
With the Court of Owls destroyed and his mission to find Cassandra complete, Damian decided getting answers from Richard Dragon was more important than Cassandra and Jason's revenge.
With Clayface's assistance, they left the tunnels for a more conversation appropriate setting. Damian allowed the mud powered villain to leave but with the knowledge that he now worked for him- the cost for the Alpha's mercy.
The diner was a quiet pocket in the storm.
Outside, Gotham's skies cracked open with distant thunder, and rain drizzled against the glass. Inside, four figures sat in a booth that didn't belong in the same space—two assassins, a vigilante, and a legend.
Damian sat on the edge, shoveling eggs and hash browns into his mouth with an appetite that could've embarrassed a wild animal.
Cassandra narrowed her eyes at him. "Now? You're eating now?"
Damian shrugged between bites. "Didn't eat before coming to save your ass. You're welcome, by the way."
Across from them, Jason pointed a thumb at Richard Dragon, seated calmly at the far end of the booth. "You realize we're sitting with a guy who almost killed both of us, right? We can't trust him. And he owes me a new gun."
Damian wiped his mouth with a napkin, his red eyes fixed on Richard. "Relax, Hanzo. No one said anything about trust."
He set the fork down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"I just want answers before I decide how I'm going to kill him."
Richard chuckled—low, relaxed, amused.
Cassandra didn't. Her hand darted for the steak knife by her plate, and she lunged across the table.
Damian's hand caught her wrist mid-swing.
"Sit," he told her flatly. "If we're going to kill him, we'll do it after we hear him out."
Cassandra glared but relented, withdrawing her hand with obvious reluctance.
Richard took a slow sip from his water glass, watching them over the rim.
"I'm not here to fight you, Damian Wayne" he softly said in a slight asian accent. "I'm here to train you."
The table went quiet.
Jason raised an eyebrow. Cassandra tilted her head. Damian narrowed his eyes.
"That's it?" he asked. "The whole kidnapping, staging an ambush, letting the Court of Owls nearly execute my fr- allies, that was your pitch?"
"You wouldn't have taken me seriously otherwise. And, I had to be sure."
Had to be sure of what?
"Hmm." Damian began tapping his fingers on the table, a steady, thoughtful rhythm.
"That fight with the Talons…" he said slowly. "That was a test. You wanted to see what I could do."
Richard nodded slightly. "Very good."
"Why?" Damian asked. "Why me? What's so important that you'd go this far just to train me?"
Richard leaned forward, the shadows under his eyes deepening. His voice dropped, no longer amused.
"Because we're the same."
Cassandra's eyes narrowed again. Jason stopped fidgeting to stare at Damian in question.
Damian tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
"We both carry something inside," Richard said softly, darkness flashing through his black eyes. "Something Primal. Violent. A demon that hungers for blood and battle."
Outside, lightning forked across the sky. The thunder rolled in moments later, deep and slow.
Damian's eyes flicked to Richard's hands—calm, still, no tremble. Then to his eyes—calculated, deadly serious and gaze fixed on Damian's horn.
"You mean this," Damian replied in a low voice, red viscous energy swirling above his palm. "Ashura."
Richard nodded in recognition. "I carried it once. Not like you do now, but... I've seen what it becomes if not tamed before it's full awakening."
Silence blanketed the table again.
Something wasn't adding up.
Damian leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, watching Richard sip calmly from a glass of water as if he hadn't revealed something shocking.
Damian narrowed his eyes.
"You say you want to train me," he said slowly. "I can buy the whole 'us being similar crap' but let's cut the bull."
He leaned forward. "What do you really, really, want from me?"
Richard set the glass down, his fingers slow and deliberate.
"I understand the distrust," he said. "But the reason why will have to wait—until you're ready."
Jason's hand slammed against the table.
"Bullshit."
The silverware rattled. The tension snapped.
Cassandra didn't speak. She just stood. Then, in one fluid motion, she vaulted over the table, her foot glowing with Chi as she launched a kick directly into Richard's chest.
The impact echoed through the diner. Richard slid back across the floor, skidding past the counter, his palms smoking from the parry.
He didn't fall.
But he also didn't attack.
Jason was already moving, stepping up beside Cassandra, drawing two knives from his jacket.
"Second round," he said through gritted teeth, "won't go the same."
Richard's eyes flicked to Damian, still seated at the booth, looking utterly unfazed.
"You're not going to stop this?" Richard asked.
Damian propped his feet up on the table.
"You started this," he said with a shrug. "Might as well show me if you're really worth my time."
Around them, the few remaining customers in the diner scrambled out the door. A manager reached for the phone—
Thunk.
A small blade embedded itself in the cord, slicing it cleanly.
Damian lobbed a thick roll of cash onto the counter.
"For the damages," he said. "Oh, and beat it."
The man didn't hesitate.
As the front door swung shut behind him, silence returned.
Damian sat back, folding his arms, eyes sharp. This wasn't just a fight.
It was a test.
"Begin," he muttered.
Cassandra moved first. No warm-up, no hesitation—just raw, explosive movement backed by rage. Her fists were fast, her feet faster. Every blow she threw carried weight, her Chi coiling around her limbs like whips of pressure.
Jason wasn't far behind, a blur of red and steel, darting in at angles Cassandra left exposed. They moved like a team forged in blood and survival.
But Richard?
Richard moved like water.
He parried Cassandra's strikes with subtle wrist rotations, redirecting her force into the air. He ducked Jason's blades by millimeters, every shift in his body minimizing damage while maximizing distance. His feet barely lifted off the ground, but his control of space made the entire diner feel like it belonged to him.
Damian watched, eyes tracking every step, every breath, every muscle twitch.
Cassandra's heel brushed his temple. Jason's blade passed close enough to cut a thread on his jacket.
Richard spun between them, never once attacking, only defending—reading them.
"Interesting," Damian whispered.
He wasn't here just for the show.
He was learning whether Richard Dragon had what it took to become his new Master.
(Damian's P.O.V)
The thing about Richard Dragon?
He doesn't fight like a martial artist.
He moves like one, sure—stance, balance, power. But what he does? That's not fighting.
That's breathing.
Each movement is natural, subconscious. Like blinking or heartbeat. I've seen killers, legends. Trained with the best. Shiva. Sensei. Even Ra's. But watching Dragon in action feels like watching water teach fire how to burn.
Across the broken remains of a table, I study him—arms loose at his sides, barely sweating. Meanwhile, Cassandra's fists snap forward like pistons, her feet blurring against the tiles as she surges in and out using Phantom Step. Jason flanks with precision, short blades aiming for tendons, ribs, throat.
It's a master class. Two-on-one.
And yet, Richard flows.
He doesn't block like we do. He catches. Deflects. Bends. Redirects. One moment, he and Cassandra are matching stances—Shiva's influence unmistakable. The next, he's abandoning form completely, intercepting with open palms, tripping her rhythm by simply not being where she thinks he'll be.
No tells. No signals.
Just instinct.
O-Sensei taught both him and Shiva, but Richard's mastery goes beyond mimicry. He doesn't follow forms. He responds. As if the fight itself is speaking a language only he understands.
Cassandra's frustration shows. Her strikes are clean, precise. But he's always just out of reach. And when Jason nearly lands a stab from behind, Richard twists like a dancer, using Jason's momentum to shove him into Cassandra.
Their bodies crash, stumble—and that's when Cassie kicks it up.
Chi bursts from her skin in controlled flashes. Her image flickers. Phantom Step—fast, chaotic afterimages that dart between shadows.
It's like fighting a ghost.
Richard exhales and—
Clap.
Just one.
The sound cuts through the air like a whip crack, and all at once Cassandra's afterimages disperse. Her rhythm falters. Her breathing hitches.
My eyes narrow.
He didn't just break her focus.
He disrupted her Chi.
Infused sound with Chi itself—turned it into a wave that scrambled her internal chi system from the inside. I've never seen anything like it.
Could Ashura do that?
Could I embed that kind of chaos into vibration—compress it into sound, movement, heat? Just an instant of watching him fight has opened my mind to endless possibilities.
Who the fuck is this guy?
A sharp crack yanks me out of my thoughts. A plate rockets past my head, shattering against the wall. A heartbeat later, Jason follows it—spinning through the air like a ragdoll.
I don't move from the booth. Just stretch out one arm, catch Jason mid-air, and redirect him like a spinning top back toward the fray.
Even without looking, Richard ducks and Jason crashes into Cassandra. The two of them tumble out through the front window in a burst of glass and rain.
Oops. I wince.
That's when Richard turns—heading toward the broken window.
But I kick the table in front of me. It screeches and slides across the floor, blocking his path.
He stops.
Turns.
Meets my eyes.
A beat of silence.
Then another.
He sees it.
My grin, too wide.
The heat i feel burning in my eyes.
The red Ashura veins twisting beneath my skin.
His own fire, golden to my crimson sparks to life behind his calm stare.
"You want a turn now too?" he asks, voice mild, yet I hear the ripple of excitement within.
I stretch my neck. The bones pop. "Of course."
A pause. "It's only natural for when an Alpha meets a worthy challenger."
"But you know you can't win."
"I know," I say, smiling wider. "And it's pissing me off. In a good way."
He chuckles, stepping forward.
I stand.
Muscles tighten. My breath slows. Everything in me itches to explode.
Then—
Woo woo.
Sirens in the distance.
Damn it.
"Looks like we're out of time Son of the Bat."
Richard sighs and shakes his head.
He walks toward the exit, unfazed. Just before he disappears through the door, he looks back, "Think about my offer before it's too late."
He tosses a small white card my way which I snatch out of the air.
Simple print.
No flourish.
'Dragon's Heart Dojo.'
An address and contact number.
I stare at the card and smirk.
Oh, I'll be coming.
But next time?
I'm not walking away without that man bleeding.