The air in Varanasi smelled of smoke and incense, thick with the scent of the Ganges. Bells rang from distant temples, and the city pulsed with life—monks in saffron robes walked barefoot across stone paths, merchants called out from market stalls, and beggars sat beneath crumbling archways, whispering prayers for alms.
Bruce had been here for three months, but he still felt like an outsider.
His body had been broken and rebuilt in Moscow. His mind had been sharpened in London. His fists were weapons forged in Istanbul.
But there was still something missing.
No matter how strong he became, there was still rage inside him. An anger that burned, uncontrolled.
That was why he was here.
Because strength without control was weakness.
Bruce found the yogi deep in the city, past the crowded markets and winding alleys, where the walls were lined with ancient carvings of gods and demons.
The man sat cross-legged on a stone platform, eyes closed, his body motionless. If not for the slow rise and fall of his chest, Bruce would have thought he was a statue.
His name was Swami Rajan. He was said to be over eighty years old, but he moved with the grace of a man half his age.
When Bruce arrived, Rajan did not speak. He did not acknowledge him. He simply continued meditating.
Bruce stood there for hours, waiting.
Finally, as the sun began to set, Rajan opened his eyes.
"You are filled with fire," he said, his voice low, calm. "But fire is blind. If you do not learn to control it, it will consume you."
Bruce clenched his fists. He had come for discipline, for mastery.
"Then teach me."
Rajan studied him for a long time before nodding.
"Very well."
Bruce expected the training to be physical. He was prepared for pain, for hardship, for bruises and broken bones.
But Rajan had other plans.
For the first two weeks, Bruce was told to do nothing but sit.
No combat. No movement. Just stillness.
He sat beneath the temple's stone archways, watching the Ganges flow past. He sat in the heat of the day, in the cold of the night, until his legs ached and his back felt like it was breaking.
At first, it drove him mad. His mind raged—memories of his parents' murder, of the criminals he had fought, of the pain he had suffered. His body screamed at him to move.
But Rajan only told him:
"Breathe."
So Bruce breathed.
The thoughts didn't stop, but they slowed.
The pain didn't vanish, but he understood it.
Each day, he learned more.
He could slow his own heart rate, making himself appear dead if needed.
He could push pain aside, focusing his mind beyond suffering.
He could sharpen his senses, feeling the air shift before an attack even landed.
And the most important lesson:
His anger was not his enemy. It was a tool. A fire that could warm or destroy, depending on how he used it.
Rajan watched as Bruce changed.
He moved differently now—not just with speed, but with purpose.
He fought differently—not with rage, but with clarity.
When Rajan finally spoke again, it was not to praise him. It was to give him his next challenge.
On Bruce's final night in Varanasi, Rajan led him to the banks of the Ganges. The moon reflected off the water, casting long shadows across the city.
"There is nothing more I can teach you," Rajan said, watching the river. "But your journey is not over."
Bruce listened, silent.
"To master the mind is only half the battle. The body must follow. There is a man in the Himalayas, high above the world, who can teach you what I cannot."
Bruce frowned. "What can he teach me?"
Rajan smiled faintly. "How to wield death without being consumed by it."
Bruce understood.
He would go to the Himalayas.
He would seek this master.
And he would learn the way of weapons.
As he turned to leave, Rajan spoke once more.
"Remember, Bruce Wayne. A blade is only as deadly as the hand that wields it."
Bruce nodded, stepping into the darkness.
His journey continued.
The wind howled through the mountains, a violent force that clawed at Bruce's skin like unseen fingers. The cold was unlike anything he had ever known, even the cold in the Hindu Kush couldn't compare—bone-deep, relentless, merciless.
His breath came in short, sharp bursts, the thin air forcing his lungs to work harder. He had been climbing for hours, scaling jagged rock and snow-covered cliffs, his fingers numb, his muscles burning.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
Somewhere in these mountains, hidden among the clouds, was the man Rajan had spoken of. A master of weapons, a warrior who could turn any object into an instrument of war.
And Bruce was going to find him.
After two days of climbing, Bruce found the temple.
It was carved into the side of a mountain, ancient and worn, barely visible through the storm. The entrance was flanked by statues of warriors, their faces eroded by centuries of wind and snow.
Bruce pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside.
The air was warmer here, lit by torches mounted on the stone walls. The scent of incense filled the space, mixing with the metallic tang of sharpened steel.
The temple was not abandoned.
Men and women in dark robes moved across the stone floor, practicing with weapons—swords, spears, staffs, throwing knives. Their movements were precise, controlled, deadly.
And at the center of it all, standing on a raised platform, was the Master.
He was an older man, his face lined with years of battle, his head shaved, his robes simple. His eyes, however, were sharp—cold and calculating, like a predator sizing up its prey.
He studied Bruce in silence, then finally spoke.
"You are not the first to seek me out," he said, his voice low. "But you may be the first to leave alive."
Bruce met his gaze, unflinching.
"I want to learn."
The Master's lips curled into something like amusement. "Wanting is not enough."
Before Bruce could react, the Master moved.
Faster than Bruce thought possible.
A blade appeared in his hand, a curved dagger, and in a blur of motion, he lunged.
Bruce barely dodged. He felt the blade slice through the air, just inches from his throat. He spun, trying to counter, but the Master was already behind him.
A sharp kick to his ribs sent him crashing to the ground.
Bruce coughed, pain flaring through his side, but he forced himself up.
The Master twirled his dagger effortlessly. "You are quick," he said. "But you are not fast enough."
Bruce wiped blood from his lip. "Then teach me."
The Master watched him for a long moment, then nodded.
"Very well. But understand this—I do not teach restraint. I do not teach mercy. If you wish to master the blade, you must be willing to use it."
Bruce didn't answer.
Because deep down, he already knew his response.
Bruce's training was brutal.
He learned how to wield every weapon known to man.
The sword—sharp and deadly, requiring precision and discipline.
The staff—simple, but effective in skilled hands.
The throwing knife—small, silent, a tool of the unseen.
The bow—a weapon of patience, forcing him to control his breath, to wait for the perfect moment to strike.
Every day, he fought against the Master's students—warriors who had trained for decades.
And every day, he lost.
They outmatched him, overpowered him, broke him down.
But Bruce did not quit.
He studied their movements. He adapted, learned their weaknesses, their mistakes. He fought smarter, not harder.
And slowly, he began to win.
The Master watched his progress with cold approval.
"You are becoming a true warrior," he said one night, as Bruce stood panting after a grueling duel. "But there is still one lesson left to learn."
He gestured to a table in the center of the room.
On it lay a single dagger.
"The blade is a weapon of death," the Master said. "To truly master it, you must be willing to take a life."
Bruce stiffened. He knew what was coming.
A figure was dragged into the room—a man, bound and gagged. A prisoner.
"This man is a murderer," the Master said. "He has taken the lives of many. The world will not miss him."
Bruce felt his heart pounding.
He had trained for this.
He had learned how to kill a hundred different ways.
But now, faced with the moment, he felt something else.
Revulsion.
The Master held out the dagger. "Prove you are ready."
Bruce took the blade. His grip was steady. His mind was clear.
But he did not move.
Seconds passed.
The Master's expression darkened. "What are you waiting for?"
Bruce set the blade down.
The silence that followed was heavier than the mountains themselves.
"I will never kill," Bruce said. His voice was steady, unwavering. "That's not the warrior I want to be."
The Master exhaled slowly, then turned to his students.
"Kill him."
They attacked as one, a dozen warriors, each armed and deadly.
Bruce moved.
He dodged the first strike, twisting low, knocking one attacker off balance. He grabbed a staff from the rack and spun it, disarming another.
Blades flashed. He ducked, countered, turned their own weapons against them. Not to kill, but to disable.
He fought with everything he had learned.
Kalaripayattu from India.Savate from France.KGB combat from Russia.
Blow after blow, strike after strike, until he stood alone, surrounded by fallen warriors.
The Master watched him, his expression unreadable.
"You could have been the greatest of us," he said.
Bruce met his gaze. "I'll be something better."
Without another word, he turned and left.
He didn't stop walking until the temple was far behind him, the wind swallowing its presence.
Bruce had learned how to wield weapons—but more importantly, he had learned how to put them down.
His path was becoming clearer.
Not a killer. Not an assassin.
Something else.
A guardian. A protector. A legend in the making.
But there was still more to learn.
And the world was waiting.