The late afternoon sun cast long, distorted shadows across Gotham, but here, in the courtyard of the city's newest church, the light seemed a little warmer, a little purer. Oswald Cobblepot, a man whose name was more often whispered in fear-choked alleys, stood beside his mother, his posture unusually straight, his expression one of earnest pride. The reason for their visit was simple: for weeks, his mother had insisted, and Oswald, for all his power in the criminal underworld, was powerless against the quiet, unwavering will of the woman who brought him into the world. He was, first and foremost, her son.
"Do you see him, Mother?" Oswald's voice, usually a guttural rasp, was softer as he pointed a gloved finger toward a magnificent mural splashed across the church's facade. "The one with the… the flail? That is the holy man, the cleric who has become a legend in this city. I was there. I fought beside him, shoulder to shoulder, against the tide of monsters from Hell."
The smile that bloomed on his face was a startling thing—genuine, innocent, utterly devoid of the cunning and malice that were his trademarks. It was the smile of a boy desperate for his mother's approval. Had any of his lieutenants seen it, they would have questioned their own sanity. His mother, a frail woman wrapped in a thick shawl despite the mild air, squinted, her eyes tracing the painted figure before settling on her son. A flicker of pride mixed with a lifetime of worry colored her expression.
Observing from a discreet distance, leaning against a stone pillar, Marcus felt an involuntary twitch at the corner of his lips. Oswald's version of events was… generous. Marcus certainly didn't recall a penguin-shaped man charging into the infernal breach with him. Cobblepot had been present, yes, but on the perimeter with Gordon and the GCPD, firing his umbrella-gun at stray imps that scrambled from the chaos. A brave act for a man like him, perhaps, but hardly the epic partnership he was painting for his mother.
'Can't blame him for trying,' Marcus mused, pushing himself off the pillar and wandering into the church proper. The cool, incense-scented air was a stark contrast to the grimy streets outside. 'They certainly know how to honor their heroes, though.' When he had last departed this place, there was only a simple statue of Harrow near the entrance. Now, the interior was a gallery of divine warfare.
The murals were breathtaking. Rendered in a style that blended Renaissance reverence with the raw, dynamic energy of a modern comic book, they depicted the battle in stunning detail. The artist had perfectly captured the sheer terror of the demonic hordes and the stoic, overwhelming power of the figure at the center of it all. There was Harrow, his form wreathed in a golden aura, wielding a radiant weapon that unleashed crackling chains of light, binding and atomizing the shrieking demons.
"They're still calling it a flail," Marcus muttered to himself with a shake of his head, studying the depiction of his Atomos. The weapon did resemble a flail, but the glowing, volatile energy core was a far cry from a simple spiked ball on a chain. It was an incinerator, a tool designed to unmake infernal matter. Still, he supposed it was a close enough approximation for people who had witnessed a miracle and were struggling to comprehend it.
He moved past Oswald and his mother, who were now lighting a candle, their heads bowed together in a moment of quiet prayer. Marcus took his time, his footsteps echoing softly on the polished marble floor. He let his gaze wander over the vaulted ceilings and the stained-glass windows, each one telling a piece of the story. It was a beautiful, sacred space, a monument to a battle that had almost unmade the city.
'The irony is delicious,' he thought, a dry chuckle escaping him. 'Who would ever guess that Gotham's holiest site is built as a cork for the literal gates of Hell?' The paradox was amusing, but he couldn't deny the positive effect it had. The structure was grand, imposing. If it were any larger, it could rival the cathedrals of Old Europe.
After completing his tour, he headed back toward the massive oak doors. As he passed by Cobblepot again, he took a moment to truly look at the man. The Penguin was no longer the scrawny, perpetually damp creature he once was. Power, it seemed, was a good tailor and an even better chef. The man was stout, well-fed, and dressed in bespoke finery. The desperate hunger in his eyes had been replaced by the confident glint of a kingpin who had carved out his empire.
Stepping back out into the fading light, Marcus began to walk, letting his feet carry him away from the church. He had no intention of heading directly to Wayne Manor just yet. He wanted to see the city for himself, to observe what his absence had wrought, to see if Bruce and the others had truly grown.
It wasn't long before trouble found him. On a street where the church's influence began to wane, a group of men—their faces a collection of bruises and belligerent sneers—spread out, blocking his path.
"Easy there," Marcus said, his voice calm, his hands in his pockets. He knew their script before they even spoke.
The biggest of the lot, a mountain of cheap muscle in a stained tank top, stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. "Been watchin' you," the thug grunted, his eyes greedily sweeping over Marcus's clean, well-made clothes. "You walk like you got money. Look like you got money. Means you're gonna give us that money."
Another one chimed in, flashing a grimy smile. "Hand over the wallet, the watch, everything. Or else—"
CRACK!
The sound was sharp, like a tree branch snapping. The lead thug's boast died in his throat as Marcus's foot connected with his sternum. The man flew backward, a stunned expression on his face, before crashing into a pile of overflowing trash cans with a clatter of metal and refuse.
"Or else what?" Marcus asked the remaining thugs, his tone merely conversational.
The sudden, brutal efficiency of the takedown broke their confidence for a split second before rage took over. They were predators, and their prey had just bitten back—hard. With snarled curses, two of them lunged, switchblades snapping open, the cheap steel glinting under a flickering streetlamp.
"Gotham never changes," Marcus sighed, a whisper of disappointment in his voice. "Bruce, you have so much work to do."
What followed was not a fight. It was a disassembly.
He moved with an impossible, liquid grace. A sidestep here, a turn there. The first thug's lunge met empty air. Marcus's hand shot out, not to block, but to intercept. He caught the man's wrist, twisted it with an audible snap, and plucked the knife from his spasming fingers. Before the man could even scream, an elbow connected precisely with his jaw, and he crumpled to the pavement.
The second attacker, seeing his partner fall, hesitated. It was all the time Marcus needed. He flowed forward, the captured knife held in a reverse grip. He didn't stab. He didn't slash. He simply moved past the man, and as he did, the pommel of the knife struck a nerve cluster at the base of the man's neck. The thug's eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
The whole violent exchange took less than three seconds. The remaining thugs, who had been moving to encircle him, froze in terror.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
Marcus was a blur. One by one, the others were dispatched with the same cold, practiced precision, sent sprawling against the grimy brick walls of the alley.
"You wanted to threaten me?" Marcus said, his voice laced with an arctic amusement. He casually flicked the stolen knives through the air. They whistled with deadly accuracy, embedding themselves in the thick fabric over each downed thug's shoulder, pinning them to the walls and the ground. The wounds were painful, humiliating, but deliberately non-lethal.
"Worthless," he concluded, not even giving them a second glance as he turned and continued his walk.
The further he got from the church district, the more the city reverted to the Gotham he remembered. The decay, the grime, the palpable sense of dread hanging in the air—it was all there. It became clear that the city itself hadn't fundamentally changed. The only real difference was that one, single neighborhood.
That area around the church was, without a doubt, the safest place in Gotham. No mugger, gangbanger, or petty thief dared operate within its half-mile radius. It wasn't due to a sudden surge of piety. It was due to fear. The police, the mob, the common citizen—they had all seen what crawled out from under their city. They knew what was sealed beneath that hallowed ground.
Strict orders had come down from the highest echelons of both law and crime: no trouble near the church. No riots, no shootouts, no disturbances. No one wanted to risk an accident, a stray bullet, or a tremor that might crack the seal on that Hellmouth. The memory of that night was a scar on the city's collective psyche, one they had no desire to reopen. Anyone foolish enough to cause a scene would find themselves facing the unified, bipartisan wrath of every major player in Gotham.
The contrast was stark, but Marcus had to admit, the church had become a genuine beacon of hope, a small island of light in an ocean of perpetual darkness.
"Seems that portal to Hell serves a purpose after all," he mused, watching a mother calmly push a stroller down a street that, a year ago, would have been considered a warzone. "It gives them something to rally around. A common fear, a common salvation." Of course, there would always be human garbage that needed taking out.
"Bruce," Marcus said softly to the empty air, a faint smile on his face. "I wonder if you're still the same. Still walking through the darkest night with a bright, stubborn heart, refusing to give up." He chuckled. He had faith in the boy. His training might have altered Bruce's path, but the core of who he was—a Wayne, with all the responsibility and morality that name entailed—was immutable.
His tour of the city complete, Marcus decided it was time. He hadn't seen his students in far too long. Stepping into a dark, refuse-choked alley, he allowed the world to dissolve around him into a silent burst of Void energy. In the next instant, the shadows re-formed at the grand, wrought-iron gates of Wayne Manor.
Wayne Manor
The warm, savory aroma of roasting chicken and herbs filled the vast kitchen. Alfred Pennyworth, his focus absolute, meticulously basted the bird. Ever since Selina Kyle had become Master Marcus's student, she had become a permanent, if unofficial, resident of the manor. The old butler had long since grown accustomed to her sly wit and larcenous grace, a welcome spark of chaos in the quiet, cavernous home.
Lately, however, Alfred had become privy to a development far more entertaining than any of Selina's pilfered trinkets. It was, perhaps, inevitable. Two teenagers, both brilliant, both broken in their own ways, training and living under the same roof. The combustible chemistry of youth had done its work. Bruce and Selina were falling for each other.
To Alfred's endless amusement, they both seemed to believe they were masters of espionage, hiding their burgeoning feelings with all the subtlety of a rampaging elephant. Their attempts at discretion were so transparent they were practically invisible.
Bruce, in particular, was a disaster. He, who was being trained to become a master of stealth and deception, would turn a fascinating shade of crimson if Selina so much as brushed her hand against his while reaching for the salt at dinner.
Just yesterday, Alfred had observed him trying to "casually" compliment a difficult training maneuver she had executed. The boy had stammered, cleared his throat three times, and ended up muttering something about her "efficient kinetic energy transfer," which earned him a quirked eyebrow from Selina and a silent, shaking chuckle from Alfred in the doorway. He was utterly, hopelessly smitten, and utterly convinced no one could tell.