The mountain winds were louder now.
Sharper. As if the death of Talia had changed the pitch of the world around Nanda Parbat—less a place now, and more a crucible left still-burning after the forge.
Jason stood at the edge of the courtyard, Red Hood helmet in place, cloak whipping behind him like a blade's echo. The fortress loomed behind him. Silent. Watching. Waiting.
Before him stood the League.
Not all of them. Not the full weight of centuries. Just those who had survived the night—and stayed. The rest had vanished into shadow. Cowards. Or planners.
Jason didn't care which.
He stood taller than them now, and not because of posture. They watched him with the same eyes they had once turned on Ra's. On Talia.
But this time, there was no bloodline to bow to.
Just consequence.
He stepped forward once. No speech. No theatrics. Just presence.
"You want to know what comes next?" he said.
No one answered.
"Nothing you've ever sworn to matters anymore."
He looked at them—not as a brother, not as a soldier, but as something colder.
"Ra's is a ghost. Talia is dead. Their empires were built on ego, on ideology. I've burned both."
He turned, pacing slowly in front of them.
"I am not here to be your master. I'm not interested in legacy. I don't want loyalty. I want results."
A murmur rippled through the group—quiet, uncertain.
Jason ignored it.
"You were trained to kill. To vanish. To shape the world from the dark."
He stopped.
"So let me reshape you."
He raised one gloved hand.
"From this day forward, we are not pawns. Not mercenaries. Not ghosts in someone else's game."
He stepped closer, and even through the mask, they felt his eyes.
"We are a fire without a name. We don't kill for money. We don't kill for thrones. We kill for balance. For retribution. For the blood that stains alleys and never makes the news."
Another pause. Calculated.
"We purge corruption from the shadows. Governments. Gangs. Judges. CEOs. No warnings. No witnesses. No survivors."
The finality in his voice was not anger. It was doctrine.
"We will be the nightmare whispered between criminals when the lights go out. A shadow on the mountain. And no one—no one—will command us again."
Silence held like frost.
Until one voice broke it.
A tall assassin, older, masked in gray—Karesh, a loyalist to Ra's—stepped forward.
"You are not the Demon's Head. You are not even blood."
Jason didn't answer.
Karesh drew his blade and dropped into a low stance.
"You do not command us."
Jason moved before the breath between words had faded.
Tactum ignited.
One step inward—Jason struck Karesh's forearm mid-swing, pivoted, and slammed his shoulder into the man's center mass. Bone cracked. Karesh staggered—Jason spun behind, hooked his arm around the assassin's throat, and dropped him cleanly to the stone.
The crowd flinched.
Jason held Karesh down, blade drawn—then, with mechanical precision, drove it into the man's side. Deep. Nonlethal. Disabling.
He stood, breathing evenly.
"Anyone else?"
No one moved.
Not even the wind dared.
Another assassin—a younger one, masked in red—knelt to help Karesh. But as he did, he looked up at Jason.
And nodded once.
Not in allegiance. But in acknowledgment.
Jason saw it.
Not devotion. Obedience.
It was enough.
Later That Night
Jason stood alone on the highest spire of the fortress, helmet removed, the cold air burning against his face.
The sky was cloudless now. Honest.
Beneath him, the League moved silently—restructured, cautious, uncertain. But functioning. Orders had been given. Protocols rewritten.
The old hierarchy was gone. What came next would not be clean. There would be splinter factions. Assassins who defected. Retaliation from League loyalists abroad.
Good.
He would welcome it. Invite it. Let the chaos come.
He had already become the storm.
In the reflection of the helmet at his feet, he saw not the boy who died.
Not the weapon reborn.
But the man who rewrote the code that forged him.
"This isn't a throne," he whispered to himself.
"It's a fuse."
And he'd just lit it.