The winds howled through the mountain pass, cutting through the narrow pathways of the Chaste's hidden fortress. It was a quiet, cold day, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside Bruce.
It had been four years since he had first arrived at the temple, seeking guidance, seeking purpose. And in that time, he had grown. He is now 20 years old physically stronger, mentally sharper, and far more skilled than he ever imagined he could be.
But now, standing before Stick in the dojo, his body bruised and bloodied from yet another brutal training session, Bruce knew it was time. Time to leave.
"I'm done," Bruce said, his voice calm, yet final. He looked Stick in the eyes, determination etched into his features. "I've learned everything I need to. I'm going back to New York."
For a long moment, Stick said nothing. The sound of the wind outside the temple was the only noise, carrying the weight of years of training, of silent companionship. Stick studied Bruce like he was searching for a crack, a sign of hesitation. But there was none. Bruce was set.
"No, kid," Stick finally replied, his voice low. "You're not ready."
Bruce's brow furrowed, his fists tightening. "I've fought alongside the Chaste. I've faced the Hand head-on. I've learned everything I can here. I'm ready."
Stick shook his head, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. "It's not about being ready to fight. It's about understanding what you're really up against. The world... the world doesn't give a damn about all the training in the world. It's a battlefield out there."
Bruce stared at him, his jaw tightening. He had heard this before. The warning. The doubt.
"I'm not just a warrior anymore, Stick," Bruce said. "I'm something else. Something better. I'm going back to make a difference. I can't stay here any longer."
There was a long pause. Stick's gaze softened, but only for a moment. Then his eyes hardened again, sharp as ever. "You'll never truly leave the war, Bruce. But if you're so sure, you've got one last thing to do for me before you go."
Bruce blinked, a small flare of suspicion rising within him. "What?"
Stick's voice dropped to a low murmur. "You have to kill her."
"Kill Who", Bruce asked
"Elektra Natchios," Stick continued, his tone grim. "One of the most elite warriors of the Hand. You've heard of her."
Bruce's eyes narrowed. Elektra. The assassin. The killer. Her reputation was deadly—more than just a warrior, she was a force of nature. Her skill was unparalleled, her mind a twisted labyrinth of bloodlust and ambition.
"Why her?" Bruce asked, trying to mask the confusion in his voice.
"Because she's a test," Stick answered, voice flat. "She's the final one. If you want to leave the Chaste, you need to prove you can kill someone like her."
Bruce's chest tightened. "I can't kill her," he said firmly. "You know I don't kill."
Stick's face twisted into a sad, knowing smile. "I know. But this is the way it has to be. You don't get to pick your enemies, Bruce. Not when they're this dangerous." He stepped closer, his blind eyes staring right through Bruce. "You kill her, or you don't leave. That's the deal."
Bruce didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He met Stick's gaze head-on, knowing the truth. He had made his decision. But there was something else—a secret he had to keep hidden.
"I'll do it," Bruce said, voice steady. "But I won't kill her. I'll bring her alive, and you won't know the difference."
Stick's eyes flashed with something like disappointment. He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "You're as stubborn as they come, kid. Fine. Do what you need to do. But don't think it'll be easy. Elektra's not like the others. She won't fall without a fight. You'll need everything you've learned, and more."
The following morning, a group of Chaste warriors gathered around Bruce in the main hall. The air was heavy with the weight of finality. These were the same faces he had trained beside for years. They had bled together, fought together.
They didn't speak as they handed him a small envelope—a single address written in dark ink. It was Tokyo. A warehouse in the city.
"Bring her back dead," one of the warriors said, his voice cold. "You know what to do."
Bruce took the envelope, slipping it into his jacket. His mind was racing, but he forced himself to stay calm. This felt too easy. A mission this simple, this straightforward? It didn't sit right with him. There had to be more to it.
He glanced at Stick, who was standing by the doorway, silently watching him. There was something in Stick's face—an unreadable look that Bruce couldn't quite place. Was it pity? Regret? Or was it simply the weight of a man sending his apprentice into a war?
"Stay alive," Stick said. "And don't make me regret this."
Bruce nodded, a mixture of resolve and uncertainty swirling inside him. He had to trust Stick—he had no reason not to.
But there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind. This wasn't over.
Bruce gathered his things, the weight of his pack heavy on his shoulders. He had been with the Chaste for nearly five years. It was everything he had known for the past 4 years. Yet, he had made his decision. He was going back to New York.
As he passed through the stone halls for the final time, he could feel the presence of the Chaste around him. Their silent approval, their unspoken doubts.
He had become more than just a warrior. He had become something else.
And now, he was going to test that.
He walked out of the fortress, the cold mountain air biting at his skin. The sun was setting behind him, casting long shadows over the stone path ahead.
Bruce didn't look back.
It was a cold evening in Tokyo when Bruce stepped into the warehouse. The streets outside were quiet, the city's lights glistening through the cracked windows, but inside the building—it was silent. He had tracked Elektra here, or so he thought. The place was empty, save for the rows of crates and boxes. Bruce's eyes scanned the darkness, his heart racing. His instincts told him something wasn't right. He wasn't alone.
The sound of movement echoed through the empty space. Bruce tensed, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of a short blade he had taken from his previous mission. Then it happened.
A series of screens flickered on, revealing the image of Stick, standing in a shadowy corner of the Chaste's hidden fortress. His voice crackled through the speakers, low and cold.
"You've done well, Bruce. But your journey ends here," Stick said, his words slicing through the air like a blade. "If you enter the Chaste, you can never leave it. You were never meant to."
Bruce's heart skipped a beat. A trap.
Before he could respond, the sound of steel clashing against the floor rang out as ninjas flooded the room, their dark figures moving with deadly precision. There were at least twenty-five of them—each one armed to the teeth with swords, spears, and a range of other weapons. Bruce took a step back, his mind racing as he prepared for the fight of his life.
"I didn't ask for this." His voice was low, almost a whisper. But the moment they attacked, all hesitation left his mind.
The first ninja lunged at him with a katana, and Bruce deflected the blow, his body moving with precision. He had trained for this. The Chaste's style, Alfred's teachings, the yogic breathing techniques—all of it flowed through his body in perfect harmony.
Bruce parried another strike, ducking low as a spear whizzed past his head. He used the momentum to kick one of his opponents in the chest, sending him crashing into a nearby crate. Another ninja came at him from the side, wielding twin daggers. Bruce caught one of the blades in his forearm, his flesh splitting open with the sharp sting of metal. It didn't matter.
He kept fighting. His breath came in ragged gasps, his movements fluid and unforgiving. He wasn't going to die here. Not like this.
Bruce took down a few of the ninjas—kicking, striking, disarming them—each move a carefully calculated strike. But soon, they started to surround him, the odds stacking higher against him with every passing second. He fought, each swing of his fists and kicks sending his opponents crashing to the floor in a blur of blood and steel.
But then it happened.
A sharp pain shot through Bruce's stomach, and he gasped in shock. A sword had pierced his abdomen. The world around him blurred as he staggered, falling to his knees. His breath came in shallow gasps. The blood flowed freely from the wound, pooling around him.
Pain. Real pain. His fingers trembled as he pressed against the sword, trying to pull it out. But the world seemed to close in.
Then, he remembered—his yogic training. The breathing exercises that had helped him control his body and mind in the past. He exhaled slowly, his breath finding a rhythm in the chaos around him. Focus. Control.
His mind cleared. The pain was still there, but it became background noise as he shifted his weight. The battle wasn't over. He wasn't dead yet.
Bruce pulled the sword from his stomach, his hands slick with his own blood. He ignored it, focusing instead on the remaining ninjas. He grabbed a nearby spear from one of the fallen enemies, wielding it with deadly grace as he cut down his attackers one by one.
He didn't kill them. Bruce wasn't that person—not yet. But the brutality of his strikes left them gasping for air, crippled by pain. Each movement was precise. Each strike, a calculated blow designed to incapacitate, not kill.
Three ninjas remained. They circled him, watching, waiting. Bruce was battered, bloody, his breath ragged, but he wasn't done.
One lunged at him with a blade. Bruce deflected it with his spear, knocking the sword out of the ninja's hands. With a swift move, he kicked the ninja off his feet, sending him crashing into a wall. Another ninja swung a broad-bladed weapon at him, but Bruce ducked just in time, used his spear and drove it through the attacker's leg, pinning him to the floor.
Only one remained—a tall, imposing figure with a Kusarigama, a weapon Bruce had only seen in training. The chain weapon whirred through the air, catching Bruce off guard. It impaled his shoulder, the sharp metal cutting through flesh and bone.
He screamed in pain, but instead of pulling back, he grabbed the chain and held it fast. He pulled the ninja toward him, using every ounce of strength he had. With a roar, Bruce threw his opponent to the ground, landing a devastating DDT, knocking the ninja unconscious. The chain fell loose, and Bruce ripped it out of his shoulder, collapsing to his knees.
The warehouse was silent for a moment. Bruce's chest heaved with exertion. Blood poured from his wounds, staining the cold concrete. His body was on fire, every muscle aching.
Then the screen flickered back to life. Stick's face appeared, his expression unreadable.
"I'm impressed, Bruce," Stick said, his voice low. "You've passed the test. But I have one final request for you."
Bruce glared at the screen. "What is it, Stick?"
"You don't leave the Chaste," Stick said. "Not ever. You can't. It's too late for you now." Stick's voice was almost apologetic. "I'm sorry, but it's the only way."
Bruce's lips curled into a bitter smile. He'd thought of Stick as family. He'd trusted him. And this was how he repaid him?
"Fuck you, Stick. Fuck you and the Chaste." Bruce spat, his voice low and filled with venom. "I thought you were better than this. But this... this is who you really are."
Stick didn't react. His expression hardened, and he sighed deeply. "I'm sorry, Bruce. You always were too stubborn for your own good."
The screen went black.
Bruce looked at the screen again. A timer had appeared. It was counting down. One minute left.
His heart raced. He could feel the pressure building in his chest. There were explosives hidden all around him. He could hear the faint hum of the timers as they ticked down, each second bringing him closer to the end.
His eyes darted around the room. There was no way out. The doors were locked, and the walls were solid. He stumbled toward the exit but found it sealed shut. This was it. He was going to die here.
But then... something changed.
Suddenly, a golden light filled his vision. Bruce blinked, his eyes struggling to focus. And then, he saw them—his parents.
"Mama... Papa…" Bruce whispered, tears welling in his eyes. Their faces were soft, peaceful. A vision. A dream.
"Never give up, Bruce," his father's voice echoed. "We're with you. Always."
Bruce felt a surge of determination that he hadn't felt before. He wiped his eyes, pushing himself to his feet. There was no time to waste. The timer was still ticking down.
With new resolve, he looked around. A glass window at the top of the warehouse caught his attention. There was no way up—but he could make one.
He grabbed nearby weapons, throwing them with pinpoint accuracy, using their sharp points to impale into the walls. Each weapon formed a makeshift staircase, one that would get him closer to his escape.
The timer hit ten seconds. His hands were shaking, his body screaming in pain. But Bruce refused to stop. He had to survive.
With everything he had left, he climbed the weapons, his bloodied hands gripping the sharp edges. The timer hit five seconds. Bruce pushed himself up, throwing himself toward the window. He struck it with all his might, shattering the glass.
As he tumbled through the broken window, the warehouse exploded behind him, sending shards of glass and debris flying. Bruce hit the ocean below, his body crashing into the cold water.