"Ugh… huff!"
The pain wracked Ra's al Ghul's body, forcing a ragged gasp from his lungs. Teeth clenched, he suddenly swung his left arm—fist clenched—and drove it hard into Downton's temple.
Crack!
A sharp snap echoed as the knuckle of Ra's al Ghul's left thumb shattered under the impact.
Agony flared, mingling with bitter shame, carving deep lines into his brow.
He inhaled sharply, twisted his torso, and lashed out with his right arm like a steel whip—fluid, boneless, striking with lethal precision.
Crack!
Another brittle sound—and his arm went limp.
Now, his right hand hung like overcooked noodles, utterly useless.
At least training has its uses.
Without it, the broken hand and fractured leg would've dropped him to his knees. But not now. Not yet. He still stood—proud, defiant, even with only one good limb left.
Downton watched him for a long moment, then gave a faint, almost respectful nod.
"Not bad," he said, voice low. "You're finally starting to look like the Lord of the Assassins you claim to be. You've still got no heart for it—no mind—but your will? That's commendable."
He stepped closer, voice dropping to a growl.
"Someone like you… even dying by my hands won't erase your stubbornness. You'll be remembered as stubborn to the death."
A cold smile tugged at his lips. "So… my turn, isn't it?"
Without warning, Downton slammed his right foot into the ground. The park path fractured beneath him—paving stones exploding outward like shrapnel. In the same motion, his hand shot out like lightning, seized Ra's al Ghul by the throat, and hurled him into the trunk of an ancient oak.
BOOM!
The tree—thick enough for two men to embrace—shattered at the base and crashed to the earth. Downton didn't stop. He followed through, dragging Ra's al Ghul's broken form and slamming him into a nearby rockery.
CRASH!
Stones erupted in every direction, scattering like shrapnel. Before they even hit the ground, Downton's fists became a blur—afterimages hammering Ra's al Ghul's body with brutal, machine-like rhythm.
Ra's al Ghul couldn't scream. His chest caved inward, ribs pulverized to dust. His vision flickered.
Plan… setback.
This beast can't be tamed by brute force. Not even with an arsenal. Every wound only brings him closer to becoming a dragon…
Then I'll need a grander stage. A tragedy. A symphony of joy and sorrow. Only then can I shatter his will… and claim him.
With the last of his strength, Ra's al Ghul parted his lips.
"I am the Demon Lord. Remember my name. When I return… you will worship me as a god!"
"God?" Downton snarled. "You're nothing but mystical nonsense, you son of a bitch!"
He wrenched Ra's al Ghul's head from his shoulders with a wet tear of flesh and sinew—then, like a basketball, slammed it down onto the jagged rocks.
Picking up the mangled head, Downton stared into the shattered eyes. Blood dripped from his knuckles.
"I don't care whose god you think you are," he muttered. "But I will be the nightmare that haunts your soul—even in death."
He paused.
"…Huh?"
His head snapped up. Eyes narrowed.
Someone's watching.
He turned slowly, scanning the empty park.
Nothing.
No movement. No breath. No trace.
"Interesting…" he murmured.
He inhaled deeply through his nose—grimacing at the stench of blood and ruptured viscera—then shook his head.
"My senses don't lie. Something was here. Watching. I've felt this… before."
A memory surfaced—dim lighting, clinking glasses, whispers behind silk curtains.
"The Iceberg Lounge…"
He tilted his head back, gazing at the sky beyond Gotham's smog-choked horizon. Sunlight pierced the clouds, warm and golden, glinting in his eyes.
"Still can't see you," he said with a low chuckle. "Heh… hiding well. But it doesn't matter."
He dropped Ra's al Ghul's corpse. It slumped against his bare chest, slick with gore—especially around his face. Disgusted, he wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, then began plucking wildflowers and broad leaves to scrub away the blood.
As he walked, the manicured paths of the Champs-Élysées gave way to quiet streets. A few abandoned cars sat crookedly along the curb—doors ajar, engines cold. The town of Smallwell had emptied long ago. No one dared stay when monsters walked the earth.
Downton wrenched the door of an Audi open with a metallic groan, then slid inside with a grin.
"Thanks to nature's bounty," he muttered sarcastically, ripping open the dashboard near the ignition and yanking at a tangle of wires.
Two minutes of frustrated probing later, he scowled. "Alright, fine—some things just aren't easy if you don't know the first thing about them."
He'd always specialized in hot-wiring running cars, not dead ones. Everyone's got their limits.
Giving up with a shrug, he hopped out and broke into a sprint—clocking roughly four seconds per hundred meters—heading blindly through town. He didn't need a map; the locals would point him the way.
As he left the smoldering ruins of his fight with Ra's Al Ghul behind, the streets of South Smallville began to stir.
For the past ten minutes, gunfire had echoed from the northern district, drawing police and panic alike. Now that the worst seemed over, residents cautiously emerged—phones in hand, filming everything, piecing together footage of the shattered wreckage of that black Rolls-Royce Cullinan.
When they saw Downton—blood-splattered, wild-eyed, radiating raw intensity—the boldest of the local internet "celebrities" didn't flee. They flocked toward him like moths to a flame, recording with trembling hands.
Downton zeroed in on the nearest one: a young woman holding her phone like a shield. In one smooth motion, he snatched it.
"Hey, pal," he said, voice rough but oddly cheerful. "How do I get to the Music Café?"
"It's got navigation, bro!" she blurted out, eyes wide. "Your whole look—blood, scars, that jacket—it's chef's kiss! Why didn't I think of doing street photography like this? Tell you what—fifty bucks, let me snap a few pics with you. Maybe a collab short?"
Then her smile faltered. "Wait… why are you in my phone?"
On-screen, the live stream comments scrolled furiously:
"OMG is that him??"
"Viking warlord vibes!!"
"Dude's built like a tank—but he's gotta be 6'5"! The blogger's only 5'8"!"
"Basketball player?"
"Nah, he's got that Gotham edge…"
Downton smirked, then yanked the woman closer. "For the record," he announced to the camera, "I'm 187 centimeters. So your '175-cm' blogger? More like 158. And those legs? All filter magic, folks. Don't be fooled by digital lies."
He killed the stream with a swipe and tapped the Maps app.
"I'll borrow this," he said, tossing the phone over his shoulder without looking.
The woman yelped as she went flying—crashing through the glass window of a flower shop, landing unconscious in a cloud of petals and shattered ceramic.
CRASH!
The other livestreamers froze. Their own feeds exploded with panicked chatter and zoomed-in replays of the throw.
Downton ignored them and turned back to the navigation—only to hear a distant shout:
"Boss Downton!"
He blinked. "Already famous? I've only been in Kansas two days…"
Turning, he saw the waitress from the diner—now astride a sleek, matte-black motorcycle—roaring toward him with a man in tow on a matching bike. As they skidded to a halt, he caught her saying:
"Danny, that's the guy from Gotham who gave me the Ghostfire! Took down three bikers with one punch—don't even think about messing with him."
She killed the engine and beamed at Downton. "You're alive! Thank god—I thought you got buried in that explosion! And thank you so much for the bike!"
Downton chuckled, then pointed at the second motorcycle. "Heh… funny thing. I only gave you one Ghostfire. So where'd that second one come from?"
The waitress flushed. "Oh… uh. After the biker gang torched the diner, I couldn't stay. So I called Danny—my boyfriend—and we figured… well, if we're running, might as well run smart. I sold your bike, sure—but why stop at one? So we… kinda… took the other two from your stash and rode them here. Thought we'd sell 'em in Gotham to cover first month's rent." She gave a sheepis
h grin. "I actually went to elementary school there. Feels like coming home."
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