The flickering torches cast long shadows, the flame dancing eerily as if mocking the stillness that hung in the air. It was as though the fortress itself had been built to serve as a reminder of the League's might and dominance over all who entered its gates.
The structure was built like a maze, each hallway and passage seeming to twist and wind in endless directions.
Jason had lost count of how many times he'd been turned around in the first few days, the walls so alike that he could hardly tell where one room ended and another began.
The cold stone halls were broken only by occasional doors leading to training rooms, armories, and even small, dimly lit chambers where assassins went to meditate, pray, or prepare for missions. There was little ornamentation here, everything was functional.
The floors were hard stone, the walls plain and unadorned save for the occasional weapon rack or symbolic banner of the League.
Jason, in his initial days, had spent most of his time wandering the labyrinthine passages, trying to make sense of it all. The first few hours felt like a blur, his senses were overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the place, by the silent presence of assassins moving in and out of shadow, always purposeful, always calculating.
Their eyes were cold, often unreadable, and their movements smooth as if they had been trained since childhood to blend into the environment, to become one with the shadows.
But despite the overwhelming sense of dread and awe that had gripped him at first, Jason couldn't help but notice the discipline that ran through the League like an unbreakable thread.
It was the discipline of warriors, of those who had been trained from their initiation to embrace the art of death.
Each assassin, young or old, carried themselves with a quiet, controlled power. They moved with a sense of purpose, always alert, always aware of their surroundings. There were no loud voices, no casual chatter—only silence, broken occasionally by the soft shuffle of feet or the clink of metal.
The assassins practiced at all hours of the day, moving like phantoms through the corridors, their movements fluid and precise.
The clang of swords against swords, the sharp grunts of exertion, and the occasional sound of a body hitting the floor became the soundtrack of Jason's early days in the League.
One of the first things Jason had learned was the way the League's hierarchy functioned.
The structure was rigid, governed by the code set down by Ra's al Ghul himself. At the top was Ra's, a figure both revered and feared by all who served him.
He was not just the leader; he was a symbol, a living legend, the master of this hidden world. His word was law, and his presence commanded respect, though it was a respect built on a foundation of fear.
His followers never questioned him openly, and anyone who did was swiftly dealt with.
Jason had seen it happen more than once.
Once, in the early days of his training, he'd witnessed an assassin—a young man, maybe in his twenties—speak out of turn in Ra's presence.
He hadn't even been disrespectful, just a little too bold in his questioning. The next moment, the man was being dragged away, his face pale with fear, his eyes wide with terror. Jason had never seen him again.
The League's rituals were just as strict, designed to reinforce this respect and maintain order.
Each morning, Jason woke before the sun rose, following a rigorous schedule set down by Ra's and his trainers. The days were long and punishing.
The first few hours were spent in meditation, with the goal of sharpening the mind and focusing the will. They meditated on the principles of the League, on the art of war, and on the cold, dispassionate nature of their work.
From there, they moved into physical training—everything from hand-to-hand combat to the use of various weapons.
But what struck Jason most was the reverence the assassins held for Ra's. It wasn't just the fear of his power, it was something deeper, something almost religious. In every hall and every chamber, his presence was felt.
The assassins spoke of him in hushed tones, never daring to raise their voices when discussing him. When his name was spoken, it was with a mixture of respect and awe.
Ra's was the center of everything—the reason they fought, the reason they existed. Every assassin in the League had sworn an oath to him, pledging their loyalty, their lives.
At first, Jason had found it all overwhelming. But in the League, everything was calculated, controlled.
The idea of living under such strict structure, of constantly being monitored and pushed to the brink of exhaustion, was a shock to his system. Every day was a challenge, a test of his will and determination.
Still, Jason couldn't deny the growing sense of purpose that had begun to form within him. The League's methods, though brutal, had a certain logic to them.
He could feel himself getting stronger, faster, sharper, more precise. It was hard not to admire the efficiency of the training, even if he wasn't quite ready to embrace the harsh philosophy behind it.
The more he trained, the more Jason began to adapt. His movements became smoother, more fluid, like second nature. He learned how to blend into the shadows, how to move with silent grace.
He learned how to read his opponents, how to predict their every move before they made it. But the most important thing he learned, the thing that had begun to make him feel a strange sense of belonging, was control.
Although it was hardly noticeable, he was slowly gaining control over his rage.
Every day, the bloodlust clawed at him, trying to take over. The ghost of the Lazarus Pit still lingered within him, pushing him toward violence, toward destruction.
But with every sparring session, with every training exercise, Jason found new ways to try and control it. It wasn't easy—it would never be easy, but the League was teaching him something he couldn't have gotten anywhere else.
The control that had eluded him in Gotham when he still had his memories before the accident. The discipline that Batman had always tried to instill in him, was beginning to take root—but through lessons from Ra's.
Still, there were moments when the rage threatened to overwhelm him and break free—moments when the scent of blood in the air, the thrill of combat, was too much to resist.
And in those moments, Jason had to remind himself that he wasn't just fighting to kill. He was fighting to survive. He was fighting for something more.
Ra's al Ghul had once told him, "In the end, only the strongest will survive, and the world will bend to the will of the few who are worthy of it."
Jason had to decide whether or not he was one of those few. And in the League, he knew that meant embracing the brutal truth of their teachings—no matter how difficult or painful it was.
He wasn't sure he was ready for it yet. But he was learning, and for now, that was enough.
****
The fortress courtyard buzzed with energy, alive with the relentless clashing of swords, the sharp grunts of soldiers, and the rhythmic hum of disciplined drills echoing off the ancient stone walls.
Two months had passed, and the air was thick with sweat and tension as the League's warriors honed their skills under the watchful eyes of their commanders. But Jason Todd was absent from the crowd this morning.
Instead, he was with Ra's al Ghul in a secluded chamber, its walls lined with ancient weapons and scrolls depicting the League's philosophy.
The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a single skylight that bathed the center of the room in an ethereal glow. Jason stood in its center, his shirt discarded, his chest heaving as fresh cuts oozed blood. Ra's loomed over him, his sword poised at Jason's throat.
"That is enough for today," Ra's said, his voice calm but authoritative.
Jason grinned despite the pain, spitting out blood as he struggled to rise. "Not done yet, old man," he rasped, his tone defiant. His body ached, every muscle screaming for rest, but the adrenaline coursing through him drowned out the pain.
Ra's arched an eyebrow, intrigued by the boy's resilience. "As I said, enough," he repeated, sheathing his sword with a decisive click.
Jason scowled but reluctantly sank back to the floor, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath.
Despite his disappointment, a small part of him was relieved. The relentless training was exhilarating, but it pushed him to his limits—and sometimes beyond them.
"You continue to show improvement," Ra's remarked, pacing slowly around Jason. "Your movements grow sharper with each session."
Jason wiped blood from his lip, smirking. "Yeah, it gets easier after a few fights. But here's the kicker—how come I can pull off moves I don't even remember learning?"
Ra's stopped, his piercing gaze meeting Jason's. "The mind may forget," he said, "but the body remembers."
Jason's eyes flicked toward the courtyard, where soldiers sparred with mechanical precision. "Weird. It's like instinct takes over sometimes," he muttered. "Almost like I'm watching someone else fight through me."
Ra's nodded, pleased by the observation. "Your subconscious mind is blending what it once knew with what I am teaching you now."
Jason tilted his head, considering this. Deep down, fragments of his past nagged at him—blurry images of a shadowy figure, a sinister laugh, and a crowbar flashing in the dark. But he kept those memories to himself.
"What if I never get my memories back?" he asked, his voice quiet but steady.
Ra's paused, his expression unreadable. "Should that happen, you will still have a home here. You are one of us now, Jason—a warrior, a member of the League."
Jason glanced down at his bloodied hands, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. He didn't fully trust Ra's—not yet. But the man's words planted a seed of belonging, a dangerous comfort that Jason couldn't ignore.
"Thanks, I guess," he muttered, pushing himself to his feet with a wince.
Ra's allowed himself a faint smile. "Rest now. Tomorrow, we take your training to the field, we are going to work on your stealth."
As Jason left the chamber, the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at Ra's lips. The boy was strong, cunning, and driven by a fire that could either destroy him—or make him invincible. Either way, Ra's intended to wield that fire for his own ends.