More advanced chapters on P@treon.com/Saintbarbido.
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-Gotham's Underworld – The Narrows-
-6 years later-
The underground fighting rings of Gotham were a world of blood, sweat, and greed.
Hidden beneath decrepit warehouses and abandoned factories, they thrived in the shadows, attracting desperate men and depraved spectators alike.
Here, there were no rules, no mercy—only survival.
At twelve years old, Damian was already a name whispered with fear and awe. They called him *The Ghost*.
A pale-haired kid who moved like smoke, struck like lightning, and left grown men crumpled in his wake.
Tonight, the air was thick with the smell of sweat and stale alcohol.
The crowd, a roaring mass of gamblers and gangsters, surrounded the makeshift ring in a darkened basement.
They shouted wagers and jeered at the fighters, the dim light casting jagged shadows on their faces.
In the corner of the ring, Damian stood still, his head bowed as his opponent paced on the other side.
The man was a mountain of muscle, twice Damian's size and easily three times his weight.
"This kid's gonna get himself killed," someone muttered in the crowd.
Damian didn't hear them—or maybe he didn't care. He was focused, his mind calculating every move, every angle.
His white hair was damp with sweat from his warm up, his scarred knuckles wrapped tightly in fraying brown bandages.
The referee, a wiry man with a broken nose, stepped into the center of the ring.
"No rules," he barked. "First one to stay down loses."
The crowd roared as the bell rang, and the mountain of a man charged forward, swinging a haymaker that could have shattered Damian's skull.
Damian ducked, his martial arts a blend of street fighting and various copied moves. His body was a shadow as he slipped past the blow. His opponent stumbled, momentarily off-balance.
Damian struck—three quick jabs to the ribs, his fists a flurry of motion. The man grunted, more annoyed than hurt, and swung again.
This time, Damian sidestepped and swept the man's legs out from under him.
The crowd gasped as the giant crashed to the ground, but Damian didn't stop. He was on him in an instant, driving a precise elbow into the man's temple.
The mountain roared, throwing Damian off with raw strength. The boy rolled to his feet, his expression calm, his breathing steady.
"Come on, kid! I've bet my life savings on you!" someone shouted.
The mountain charged again, but this time Damian was ready.
He feinted left, drawing the man into overextending, and then delivered a brutal kick to the side of his knee.
There was a sickening crunch as the joint gave way, and the man collapsed with a howl.
Damian stood over him, his cold, gray-green eyes unblinking.
The man tried to rise, but Damian raised his fist, stopping just short of delivering the final blow.
"Stay down," Damian said, his voice low but commanding.
The man hesitated, then slumped back to the ground.
The referee waved his arm, and the crowd erupted into cheers and boos.
Money changed hands as Damian stepped out of the ring, ignoring the outstretched hands and jeers from the spectators.
He took his winnings, grabbed his hoodie from a nearby chair and slipped it on, pulling the hood low over his face. The scars on his knuckles throbbed, but he didn't flinch.
Pain was an old friend.
---
Damian climbed the stairs of the basement, slipping into the cold Gotham night.
The neon signs of the Narrows flickered overhead, casting the streets in a garish, artificial glow.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets, his sharp eyes scanning the alleyways for trouble.
But tonight, trouble found him.
"Impressive fight," came a gravelly voice from the shadows.
Damian turned, his body tensing instinctively. A man stepped forward, his figure shrouded in the dim light of the streetlamp.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, his face partially obscured by the brim of a hat.
"Who's asking?" Damian said, his voice sharp and wary.
The man chuckled, his posture relaxed but his presence radiating authority. "No one you need to worry about. Just someone who's been keeping an eye on the underground scene."
Damian's eyes narrowed. He could tell this wasn't some ordinary thug or gambler.
The way the man stood, the way he spoke—it screamed discipline, control. Everything that screamed trouble.
"I don't do autographs," Damian said, turning to walk away.
The man stepped into his path, his movements swift but non-threatening. "You're talented," he said. "Too talented to waste your time here."
Damian's fists clenched at his sides. "What do you care?"
The man tilted his head, studying him. "You're smart, too. That's good. But let me give you some advice, kid: you're playing a dangerous game. A kid like you should be in school."
Damian scoffed. "I've been playing it my whole life."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, with a faint smile, the man stepped back. "Fair enough. Just remember—games like this don't end well."
As the man disappeared into the shadows, Damian's mind churned.
He didn't trust the stranger, but something about him felt… familiar. He shook the thought away and continued walking, his footsteps echoing in the empty streets.
What Damian didn't know was that the man was Bruce Wayne, working undercover by the moniker Joe Chill.
And for the first time in years, Bruce had seen something that made him pause—a boy with the potential to be so much more.
---
Damian sat on the floor of his dimly lit apartment, meticulously re-wrapping his bloodied knuckles with fresh bandages.
The room was sparsely furnished—a cot in the corner, a single chair, and a makeshift desk piled with books and notebooks.
Every object in the space had a purpose; there was no room for indulgence.
A small TV mounted to the wall buzzed faintly, playing the nightly news. Damian barely paid attention until a name caught his ear.
"Bruce Wayne attended tonight's gala to raise awareness for Gotham's struggling youth shelters..."
His head turned sharply toward the screen. The camera cut to a shot of Bruce Wayne, all charm and poise, addressing a crowd of reporters with a warm smile.
Damian frowned, his sharp mind piecing together fragments of the night before.
"That was him," he muttered.
The man from the alley. It had to be. His posture, his voice—everything about him screamed control and wealth. Damian didn't need to be a detective to connect the dots.
Why would someone like Bruce Wayne be in the Narrows?
He dismissed the thought with a shake of his head, finishing the knot on his bandages. It didn't matter who Bruce Wayne was or what he wanted. Damian had bigger things to focus on.
---
The next evening, Damian returned to the underground arena. The crowd roared as he entered the locker room, and he caught snippets of conversation—his name whispered with both awe and fear.
As he wrapped his hands in preparation for his next match, the door creaked open behind him.
A tall man with a scar running down his cheek stepped inside, his gaze cold and calculating.
"You've got people talking, Ghost," the man said, his voice gravelly.
Damian didn't look up. "I don't care."
The man smirked, leaning against the wall. "You should. Word's getting around. You're not just some street kid anymore—you're a draw. People are betting big money on you."
"And you want a bigger cut."
The man chuckled. "Smart. But no, I've got a better offer. There's a huge fight coming up. High stakes. You win, you don't just walk away with cash—you'll have every crew in Gotham wanting to work with you from Penguin to Black Mask."
Damian tightened the wrap on his knuckles, his mind already calculating. He didn't trust the man, but the offer intrigued him.
"When?"
"Tomorrow night. Midnight. Same place."
The man handed Damian a slip of paper with an address scribbled on it. "Be there. And bring your A-game."
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The following night, Damian arrived at a different venue—a larger, more secure arena hidden beneath an abandoned factory.
The energy in the room was electric, the crowd larger and louder than any he'd seen before.
The fight organizer greeted him with a grin, leading him to the ring. "Your opponent's no joke, kid. Name's Cutter. Ex-military, been tearing through fighters like paper."
Damian nodded curtly, his expression unreadable. He didn't care about Cutter's background. Every opponent was the same: an obstacle to be overcome.
As the bell rang, Cutter wasted no time, charging forward with the precision and brutality of a trained soldier.
Damian dodged the first blow, but the sheer speed of Cutter's follow-up caught him off guard.
A heavy fist connected with Damian's ribs, sending him stumbling back.
The crowd erupted into cheers and jeers, sensing blood in the water. But Damian didn't panic. He adjusted his stance, his sharp eyes studying Cutter's movements.
The man was an experienced fighter, strong and fast, focused but also predictable.
Cutter lunged again, this time aiming for Damian's head.
Damian ducked, countering with a swift uppercut that snapped Cutter's head back. The crowd roared as the momentum shifted.
Blow after blow, Damian wore Cutter down, exploiting every weakness in the man's technique. By the third round, Cutter was struggling to keep up, his movements sluggish.
Damian saw his opening—a precise kick to the back of Cutter's knee, followed by a brutal elbow strike to the temple.
Cutter crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
The crowd erupted in chaos, money exchanging hands as the referee declared Damian the winner.
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Unbeknownst to Damian, someone else had been watching the fight from the shadows.
High above the crowd, perched on a steel beam, Batman observed the young fighter with a mix of curiosity and concern.
The boy was different from the other fighters—his movements were calculated, his strikes efficient.
It was obvious he was self taught- but he'd mastered the style. A prodigy, not just in raw combat, but in strategy.
Batman's gaze narrowed. "Who are you?" he murmured under his breath.
After the fight, Damian slipped out of the arena and into the night, unaware that he was being followed. Batman trailed him from a distance, his suspicions growing with every step.
When Damian reached his apartment, he paused at the door, his instincts flaring. He turned sharply, scanning the darkness of the alleyway, but saw nothing.
Batman watched from the rooftop, impressed by the boy's awareness. He waited until Damian disappeared inside before retreating into the shadows.
Back at the Batcave, Bruce Wayne began piecing together what he had seen. He pulled up footage of the fight, cross-referencing it with reports from Gotham's underground.
"The Ghost," he muttered, leaning back in his chair. "A street kid with high combat-level skills. This isn't a coincidence."