More advanced chapters on P@treon.com/Saintbarbido.
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(Gotham Academy – Second Week)
The sterile order of Gotham Academy felt like a cage to Damian, just another system designed to control people.
He wasn't there to learn—everything in the curriculum was beneath him.
Advanced mathematics? He could solve the problems in minutes. History? Memorized already. Physics? Child's play.
No, Damian wasn't interested in what the school had to teach him. What fascinated him were the people—the predictable, dull rhythms of their lives, the cliques, the alliances, the constant social maneuvering.
It was like watching a pack of wolves fight over scraps.
"Did you hear? Marcus hasn't shown up since that new kid slammed him into the lockers."
"He's probably scared. That white-haired kid is freaky."
The whispers followed Damian wherever he went, but he paid them no mind. He strode through the halls with the confidence of someone who didn't care what anyone thought.
--
The first real challenge came during gym class.
The students were divided into teams for basketball, and Damian found himself surrounded by boys who saw the game as an opportunity to assert their dominance.
Oh boy. They had no idea.
"You're on my team, Ghost Boy," a tall, broad-shouldered senior named Trevor said, smirking.
Damian frowned at the nickname but didn't respond.
The game began, and it quickly became clear that Damian wasn't interested in playing fair.
He didn't care about the rules or the objective of the game. To him, it was just another fight—a chance to study his opponents and assert control.
Trevor went up for a layup, but Damian was faster. He intercepted the ball mid-air, his reflexes sharper than anyone expected. He landed gracefully, his movements fluid as he darted down the court.
The other team moved to block him, but Damian didn't flinch. He weaved through them with ease, his footwork so precise it felt more like a dance than a game.
When one boy tried to shove him, Damian sidestepped and used the boy's momentum against him, sending him sprawling to the floor.
The gym erupted into shouts as Damian scored effortlessly.
"Dude, what the hell was that?" one of the boys shouted, glaring at him.
"Winning," Damian said coolly, walking past him without a second glance.
By the end of the game, Damian's team had won by a landslide, but the tension in the gym was palpable. Trevor, now nursing a sore shoulder from one of Damian's "accidental" collisions, glared at him from across the room.
"Think you're tough, don't you?" Trevor said as the students filed out of the gym.
Damian stopped and turned, his expression unreadable. "I don't think. I know."
Trevor stepped closer, his fists clenched. "You've got a smart mouth for a scrawny rich kid. Keep this up, and you're gonna get what's coming to you."
"Maybe," Damian said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "But it won't be from you."
Trevor lunged, but before he could land a blow, the gym teacher intervened.
"Break it up!" the teacher barked, stepping between them.
"Lucky you."
Damian shrugged and walked away, leaving Trevor fuming.
---
Later that day, during lunch, Damian found a quiet corner of the cafeteria where he could eat in peace.
He wasn't interested in the noise and chaos of the other students, nor did he want to deal with anyone trying to talk to him.
But then she appeared.
Helena Bertinelli.
She was smaller than most of the other girls, with dark hair and striking violet eyes.
She moved quietly, her head down, as if trying to disappear. A fellow loner.
Damian wouldn't have given her a second glance if he hadn't noticed the bruise on her wrist.
It wasn't fresh, but it was obvious. And Damian knew a bruise like that didn't come from an accident.
He watched as Helena sat alone at a nearby table, picking at her food without eating.
A group of boys at another table snickered and whispered, their eyes darting toward her.
One of them—Trevor's lackey—made a loud, mocking comment about her clothes, and the others laughed.
Helena's shoulders tensed, but she didn't look up.
Damian's jaw tightened. He didn't care about these people. They were beneath him, insignificant.
But something about Helena's quiet resilience reminded him of the children he had seen in the orphanage—the ones who didn't fight back because they thought it wouldn't make a difference.
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.
The boys at the other table froze as Damian approached, his presence silencing their laughter.
"What's so funny?" he asked, his voice low and cold.
The leader of the group, a wiry boy with a smug grin, tried to play it off. "Nothing, man. Just joking around."
Damian stepped closer, his piercing green eyes locking onto the boy's. "Do I look like I'm laughing?"
The boy's grin faltered. "Hey, we didn't mean anything by it—"
Damian leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "If I hear you say another word about her, you won't be joking anymore. Understand?"
The boy nodded quickly, his face pale.
Damian straightened, his gaze sweeping over the group. "Good."
Without another word, he returned to his table. Helena glanced at him briefly, her expression wary, but she didn't say anything. Damian didn't expect or even want her to.
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The gymnasium was dark and empty, save for the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the high windows.
Trevor paced across the floor, his fists clenched and his jaw tight.
Behind him, his lackeys whispered nervously, their confidence clearly shaken after what had happened earlier that day.
"This kid thinks he's untouchable," Trevor muttered, stopping to face the others. "He needs to learn his place."
One of the boys, a wiry sophomore named Dean, frowned. "Are you sure about this? That guy… he's not normal. Did you see how fast he moved? It was like—"
"Shut up!" Trevor snapped. "He's just some rich punk who thinks he's better than us. And I'm going to show him he's not."
Dean and the others exchanged uneasy glances but didn't argue. Trevor had always been the leader of their group, and despite their doubts, they followed him as he outlined his plan.
---
The next afternoon, Damian stayed after school to use the gym.
He hadn't told Bruce about the confrontation with Trevor—there was no need. Damian didn't need anyone's help to handle his problems.
He trained alone, methodically practicing his strikes on a worn punching bag in the corner of the gym.
His movements were precise, his breathing steady. The rhythmic sound of his fists hitting the bag echoed through the empty room.
But he wasn't alone for long.
The creak of a door opening drew Damian's attention. He stopped mid-strike, his sharp eyes darting to the entrance. Trevor stepped inside, followed by Dean and two other boys. They spread out, blocking the exits.
Damian's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Let me guess. You're here to teach me a lesson."
Trevor cracked his knuckles. "Something like that. You've got a big mouth, Wayne. Time to shut it."
Damian shrugged, stepping away from the punching bag. "If you're smart, you'll leave now. You don't want this fight."
Dean hesitated, but Trevor sneered. "You're all talk, Ghost Boy."
Damian didn't respond. He simply shifted his stance, his weight balanced perfectly, his hands relaxed at his sides.
Trevor lunged first, throwing a wild punch aimed at Damian's head. Damian ducked easily, stepping into Trevor's guard and delivering a quick, precise jab to his ribs. Trevor staggered back, gasping for air.
"Still think I'm all talk?" Damian asked coldly.
The other boys rushed him at once, but Damian moved like a shadow, his strikes swift and devastating. A kick to the knee sent one boy sprawling to the floor. An elbow to the jaw left another clutching his face in pain.
Dean, the last of the group, froze as Damian turned to him.
"You don't have to do this," Damian said, his voice calm but firm. "Walk away."
Dean hesitated, then dropped his fists and ran.
Trevor groaned from the floor, struggling to sit up. Damian crouched beside him, his expression cold and detached.
"Next time you want to fight me," Damian said quietly, "make sure you know what you're up against."
Trevor glared at him, his face twisted with anger and humiliation. "This isn't over," he spat.
Damian smirked. "Yes, it is."
---
The fight didn't stay a secret for long. By the next day, the entire school was buzzing with rumors.
Some students whispered about how Trevor's group had been taken down single-handedly, while others speculated about who Damian really was.
Damian didn't care about the gossip. He walked through the halls with the same confidence as before, ignoring the stares and whispers.
Helena approached him during lunch, her expression hesitant.
"Hey," she said softly.
Damian looked up from his book, raising an eyebrow. "What?"
"I heard what you did," she said, her violet eyes flickering with something between gratitude and curiosity.
"I didn't do it for you," Damian said flatly.
Helena nodded. "I know. But… thanks anyway."
Before he could respond, she walked away, leaving Damian to wonder why her words had stuck with him.
---
That evening, Bruce confronted Damian in the study at Wayne Manor.
"The school called," Bruce said, his tone measured but firm. "Do you want to explain why there's another incident involving you and a group of students?"
"They started it," Damian replied, leaning back in the chair.
"And you finished it," Bruce said. "With broken noses and bruised ribs."
"They had it coming," Damian said coolly. "You said it yourself—no one survives alone. I was just making sure they remembered that."
Bruce sighed, rubbing his temples. "Damian, this isn't about survival. This is about control. You can't just fight your way through every problem. People don't respect power—they respect discipline."
Damian's eyes narrowed. "You don't get it. People only respect strength. The second you show weakness, they take advantage of you."
Bruce studied Damian carefully, his expression softening slightly. "I do get it. More than you know."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Bruce stepped forward, his tone calm but firm.
"You can't change the world by fighting everyone in it, Damian. If you want to survive—not just survive, but thrive—you need to learn to use more than your fists."
Damian scoffed but didn't argue.
"Consider this your last warning," Bruce said. "One more incident like this, and there will be consequences."
Damian didn't respond. He simply walked out of the room, leaving Bruce to wonder if he had gotten through to him.
'Broken noses? Mmph, they're lucky it wasn't bones.'