The Last Stand Is Forged
Damian woke at 6:00 a.m. sharp.
For once, there was no alarm—no system prompt, no mission countdown. Just habit.
He dressed quickly and headed downstairs, where Bruce, Dick, and the rest of the Bat-Family were already preparing for their morning workout. The cave echoed with familiar sounds—weights clanking, boots striking stone, quiet determination.
After the session, while everyone was still cooling down, Damian disappeared into the kitchen.
What followed was… unexpected.
Using the Jōichirō Yukihira template, now fully completed and integrated, Damian moved with effortless precision. Knives flashed. Flames rose and fell in perfect control. Aromas filled Wayne Manor—rich, layered, unmistakably professional.
One by one, the Bat-Family drifted toward the dining room.
Alfred paused mid-step.
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
Barbara stared at the spread laid out before them: perfectly cooked eggs, crisp vegetables, warm bread, expertly seasoned meats, sauces balanced to perfection.
"…Did you kidnap a five-star chef?" Barbara asked slowly.
Damian, already seated, took a sip of tea.
"No. I was interested in cooking. So I learned."
No one believed that—but no one argued after the first bite.
After breakfast, the family headed down to the Batcave. Routine resumed—diagnostics, patrol schedules, quiet strategy discussions.
Before dispersing, Damian approached Bruce.
"I'm going out for a while," he said calmly. "I'll be back by six or seven."
Bruce studied him for a long moment. Suspicion flickered—but Damian wasn't evasive. Just… certain.
"Be back alive," Bruce said at last. "That's an order."
Damian nodded. "I will."
High above Gotham, Toothless waited.
Damian mounted the dragon and took off, vanishing into the clouds. They flew far—past the city, past civilization—until they reached a hidden mountain pass, surrounded by dense forest and silence.
There, Damian stepped into his personal dimension.
The staff awaited him.
Sleek. Balanced. A fusion of Cyberpunk-era technology, Damian's own engineering, and precision craftsmanship. The final component hovered nearby.
The Hextech Crystal.
Carefully, reverently, Damian integrated it into the core.
The moment it locked into place—
The staff ignited with brilliant blue light.
A shockwave rippled outward—not physical, but pure magic, surging through dimensions, leylines, and realities.
Across the world—
Magic users froze mid-step.
Gods straightened from their thrones.
Ancient beings opened their eyes.
They felt it.
Not evil.
Not good.
But absolute.
A power radiating from the United States—strong enough to rewrite destiny—yet impossible to pinpoint.
The gods of magic raged. The pantheons whispered. But no matter how they searched, the source remained hidden.
The System's voice echoed calmly.
"Hextech Staff: Complete."
"Classification: World-Class Relic."
"Usage Condition: The Last Stand."
"Purpose: Altering the destiny of planetary destruction."
"As long as the staff remains within system storage or the host's dimension, its exact location cannot be determined."
Damian exhaled slowly.
Good.
Then—
"Mission Complete."
"Reward Granted."
A new fruit materialized before him.
The Sube Sube no Mi.
Smooth-skinned, pale, strange—radiating a quiet, defensive power.
The System explained:
Type: Paramecia
Effect: The user's body becomes extremely slippery
Defensive Capability: Attacks slide off harmlessly
Mobility Enhancement: Allows rapid sliding movement
Physical Adjustment: Excess fat slips away naturally
Damian stared at it for a long moment.
"I know who this is for," he murmured.
He stored the fruit away.
Hours later, Damian returned to Gotham with Toothless and slipped back into the manor unnoticed.
Restless.
Bored.
Power without action always felt like wasted time.
Then his comm buzzed.
Bank robbery. In progress.
Damian smiled faintly.
Moments later, Fire Shadow shot into the sky—flames cutting through the evening air—as he caught up to Nightwing, who was already en route.
"Thought you could handle this without me?" Damian asked.
Dick laughed. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Damian rolled his shoulders, relaxed—as relaxed as someone with gods watching him could be.
Just another patrol.
For now.