More advance chapters on [email protected]/Saintbarbido.
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Damian leaned against the cold brick wall of a London alley, watching the grand castle in the distance.
Preparations for the Duchess Society's annual banquet was in full swing, its towering structure awash in resplendent lighting, making it a highlight atop its hilly perch.
"What's that?" A tourist nearby asked a vendor on the sidewalk.
"Duke Francis' Summer Castle madam. Every year for a century or so, the Duke's family been hosting a sorta celebration party for royals and such. Waste of my taxes if you ask me. But what do I know?"
"Oh, cool."
Unlike the sightseers, Damian wasn't here to admire the view.
Talia's voice echoed in his mind.
"This is your graduation test, Damian. Infiltrate the Duchess Society, retrieve the Dragon Medallion, and deliver it to a dojo in Indonesia. But remember—this is no ordinary mission. The Duchess Society is a den of thieves, spies, and nobles. MI6 will be there, and you are a Kill on Sight target. Do not fail."
Damian adjusted the cap over his dyed black hair, exhaling slowly. One year of training had led to this. The mission wasn't just about the medallion—it was a measure of him.
He stepped into the shadows, a plan already in motion.
Entry required an Invitation and Identification documents.
Forging false documents that would pass heavy scrutiny was easy. As for an Invitation, Damian didn't steal one—he arranged for someone to invite him.
Princess Leia of Belgium.
The sheltered noble was attending with Lord Alistair, a privileged fool with a weak stomach.
Damian observed them for days, mapping their habits, routines.
He had learned Leia's tastes, her expressions, the way she let Alistair make decisions for her.
Perfect.
The night before the banquet, he made his move at an upscale café.
Leia and Alistair sat under the glow of streetlamps, sipping fine tea, oblivious. Damian, disguised as a waiter, poured a single drop of colorless, odorless liquid into Alistair's cup.
Minutes later, the noble paled, sweat forming on his brow.
"Excuse me—I must—" He bolted from his chair, nearly knocking it over, and disappeared into the restroom.
Damian slid into his seat smoothly.
"Pardon me princess," he said with quiet charm. "It appears your companion is indisposed. May I offer an alternative?"
Leia blinked, taken aback. "And you are…?"
"Damian Wayne," he answered with a slight bow. "It would be an honor to rescue you from a night of boredom and pre-occupied boyfriends."
Leia hesitated—only for a moment. Alistair wouldn't be back anytime soon.
A small smile curved her lips. "Very well, My Knight in shining armor. I suppose Alistair won't be missed."
Damian really did spare her boredom. His charm and wit swept her away. Accidentally, he steered the conversation to the Duchess Society Banquet and before long she invited him as her date.
Stepping out of the carriage, Damian's feet landed on a wide parking avenue filled with all sorts of luxurious cars.
Up close the Duke's castle was even grander, guarded by silent professionals. Not men hired for their size, but their skill. He could see it in their movements.
"May I." A smiling Damian offered his hand to Leia, helping her down.
"Handsome, dashing and a gentleman? How lucky for me." The princess said.
"Nothing but the best for you, Princess." was his quick reply, which made her giggle as they approached the entrance.
Damian handed over forged credentials. He kept his heartbeat steady as the guards scanned them.
A moment of tension. A flicker of hesitation.
Then—a nod.
They stepped aside.
Inside, the banquet hall was a field of power games.
Golden chandeliers cast a warm glow over the aristocracy, their laughter, clinking glasses and sharp whispers filling the air. The scent of rare perfume and aged wine reached his nose.
Leia clung to Damian's arm, already enamored. "This place is breathtaking."
Damian's gaze swept the room, calculating. "It's a battlefield."
She laughed, assuming he was joking.
He wasn't.
Moments later, he excused himself. Leia barely noticed—she was too caught up in the spectacle, unaware that she had outlived her usefulness.
Damian moved into the kitchen, slipping past the overworked staff. A brief scuffle with an unsuspecting waiter later, and he had his disguise.
Dressed as a server, he became invisible, with access to the entire castle to do as he pleased.
After setting his preparations, he moved through the crowd with a tray in hand, cataloguing every detail. Especially the security.
MI6 was here. Just like Talia said. He knew they would be holding a grudge for him killing Barton and his men. But he was confident in his disguise as he appeared in their field of view and they failed to recognize him.
"Well well...who do we have here?" Damian's battle instincts stirred.
Near the bar stood a man whose posture was too disciplined, whose gaze saw too much.
Agent 007.
Damian recognized him instantly from the League's information network.
And beside him—Agent 005.
The best MI6 had to offer, watching over the noble families. Watching for him. Talia had purposefully leaked his attendance to make the test more challenging.
A hush fell as the Duke's daughter, Princess Tanya, host of the event, took the stage to present the final auction item.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "Welcome to another year of the Duchess Society Banquet, where we celebrate our high society's greatest rogues, adventurers, and collectors."
Soft chuckles rippled through the room.
"This year," she continued, "we have a treasure unlike any other."
She turned, gesturing to the woman beside her.
"Allow me to introduce Natalia Romanova. A private contractor of unparalleled skill."
Damian froze.
Even in glasses and facial disguise, he recognized her immediately.
Natalia Romanova.
Black Widow.
Her sharp gaze swept the room, calculating, assessing.
A problem. But only if she saw through his own disguise.
Tanya smiled as she unveiled the final item.
"The Dragon Medallion, procured from a Temple in Taiwan by my dear Natalia. A relic said to resurrect its bearer into a god."
The crowd murmured in awe as the ancient artifact was revealed—golden, encrusted with red gems across the edges and inscribed with coiling dragons on its face.
Damian exhaled through his nose, smirking.
That medallion was his.
Beneath his breath, he muttered, "Showtime."
Ignoring the Princess speech on the bid starting at 10 million euros, he reached into his pocket, fingers closing around a matchstick coated in red phosphorus, scraped off a matchbox from the kitchen.
With a flick, he threw it.
The stick sailed through the air headfast and accurate, igniting from air friction due to the red phosphorus and sulfur reacting. Aflame, it landed atop a tower of vodka-filled glasses.
Flames erupted.
Panic.
The fire alarm screamed.
The sprinklers activated—but instead of water, the room filled with an dark green gas.
The laughing gas he had set earlier, while in disguise.
Within seconds, the crowd dissolved into chaos.
And amidst the confusion, he pulled out a red Ashura demon mask over his face and strode toward the stage through the fog of gas.
All around him, some of the world's most powerful nobles, spies, and thieves were reduced to wheezing, tear-streaked messes, overcome by the powerful laughing gas that now thickened the air.
Lords and ladies clutched at their stomachs, some collapsing onto velvet-lined chairs, others barely able to stand as their manic laughter rang through the golden chamber.
Damian moved among them unseen, the mask concealing half of his face, his hands deft as they plucked valuables from shaking fingers and loosened collars. Rings, bracelets, diamond-studded brooches—all his now.
He hesitated when it came to Leia, passing by without stealing her possessions.
Finally, he jumped on the stage for the real prize.
The Dragon Medallion sat atop a pedestal before him, gleaming under golden light. His target.
With a flick of his wrist, it was secured in his belt pouch.
Time to go.
Kicking away a laughing guard who tried to stop him, Damian's sharp gaze surveyed the chamber to make his leave. On the far side of the hall Princess Tanya was being led toward the main exit.
Not by her guards.
By Natalia Romanova.
Unlike the others, Black Widow was untouched by the gas.
Her movements were unaffected, posture calm, her blue eyes sweeping the room as she guided Tanya out. A professional through and through.
Damian clicked his tongue.
Of course, she had come prepared. Natalia had likely taken a countermeasure before the banquet even began—maybe through micro-doses of similar agents or some Red Room enhancement.
She wouldn't come after him now.
But she had seen his work. She had marked him.
And Black Widow never let something like this slide.
Damian exhaled through his nose, eager for when they'd see each other again.
For now? Escape.
He slipped out of the hall unnoticed, his body moving like a shadow. Like he'd been taught.
By the time the guards realized what had happened, he had already discarded his waiter's uniform and was scaling the side of the castle.
He reached the rooftops just as the first sirens blared in the distance.
MI6 had mobilized fast. Too fast.
The moment his feet hit the cobblestone streets of London, the city erupted with roaring engines and flashing lights.
Cars screeched onto the main road. Helicopters cut through the sky.
Damian gritted his teeth. So they were expecting him.
Not that it mattered.
He had planned for this.
He sprinted toward a low stone wall, vaulting over it with ease, landing on the roof of a double-decker bus moving at full speed.
His suit was created from special chameleon moth silk, blending in with the bus roof. The helicopter's spotlight moved away, losing him.
However, a deep engine growl rumbled behind the bus.
A sleek Aston Martin maneuvered through traffic, moving like a predator closing in. The small car soon pulled alongside the bus.
The driver? Agent 007.
They made eye contact and Damian felt the weight of the moment settle in his chest.
The most famous operative in MI6's history. A legend among spies.
Damian almost smirked.
Now this could be interesting.
He jumped off the bus, onto a truck, then a Cab and like that crossed the street.
In seconds Damian was running across rooftop and moving vehicles to stay ahead.
Bond's pursuit was relentless, his car never more than a few turns behind. Every escape route was cut off, every street flooded with MI6.
He needed an out.
Then he saw it.
The Thames River.
Damian waved at 007 and jumped off the bridge.
He landed hard on the deck of a passing tour boat, rolling with the impact before rising to his feet.
The boat swayed beneath him, the cold London wind cutting through the night air.
For a brief moment, he thought he had lost Bond.
Then he heard the heavy thud of boots hitting the deck behind him.
He turned.
Bond had followed.
The legendary spy adjusted his suit and tie, eyes steady. No words. No theatrics.
Just a silent promise of violence.
Bond moved first.
His strike was clean, efficient, and brutally precise. Aimed at the ribs—a disabling blow.
Damian blocked with ease, twisting into a counterattack.
Their battle was fast, brutal.
Bond fought like an experienced killer, every move measured, his strikes blending traditional combat with hidden gadgets—shock rings, retractable garrote wire, pressure-point darts.
But Damian?
Damian fought like a monster.
Where Bond was controlled, Damian was overwhelming. He pushed the tempo, testing Bond, forcing him to react rather than attack.
Bond gritted his teeth. With a bloody nose and a swelling eye, he realized he was outmatched. He wasn't used to being dominated.
And yet, this was Damian taking it easy on him as Talia explicitly told him to kill no one. It was really hard not to maim his opponent. Damian had spent the last year training from the greatest warriors on Earth.
He was faster. Stronger. Unpredictable.
And he was winning.
Bond's movements became sharper, more desperate—his years of experience keeping him in the fight. But Damian could see the cracks.
Bond dodged left.
Damian was already there.
His fist connected with Bond's jaw.
The MI6 agent stumbled backward.
Damian didn't hesitate.
A powerful kick to the chest sent Bond flying off the boat.
He hit the water with a heavy splash, disappearing beneath the waves.
It was over.
Damian exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.
"Not bad, old man," he muttered.
But in the end, experience alone wasn't enough.
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Two days later, Damian stood at the entrance of a secluded dojo, hidden deep within the misty mountains of Indonesia.
The Dragon Medallion was secured in a wrapped box in his hands.
His mission was almost complete.
But as he took a step forward, his senses flared.
A whisper in the wind. A shift in the air.
Danger.
Before he could react, a cold blade pressed against his throat.
Damian froze.
Then, he smirked.
"I heard you coming," he murmured. "If you wanted to kill me, you should've moved faster. Lucky for you, I'm not looking for a fight."
A soft chuckle came from behind him.
"The Ashura I know is never not looking for a fight."
Damian's eyes widened.
That voice.
Slowly, he turned his head.
There, standing in the moonlight, was Shiva.
And holding the katana to his throat
Cassandra Cain.
His former master. His former rival.
And judging by the look in their eyes
They weren't happy to see him.