Two years had passed since Bruce Wayne's life changed forever. Two years since his parents were murdered before his eyes, the world became a colder, darker place. Two years since Alfred had taken him under his wing, training him in the fundamentals of combat and discipline.
Now, in the year 1980, Bruce was ten years old. And Alfred had taught him everything he could—or at least, everything he was willing to.
"You've learned all the basics," Alfred said, watching as Bruce effortlessly went through a set of strikes against a heavy bag in the manor's training room. "Your technique is precise, your footwork is solid, and you've got a sharp mind for tactics."
Bruce paused, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Then teach me more."
Alfred crossed his arms. "No."
Bruce's face tightened. "Why not?"
"Because you're ten," Alfred said simply. "Because what you're asking for isn't training—it's war. And I won't be the one to send you down that path."
Bruce's fists clenched. "So that's it? You're just going to stop?"
Alfred sighed. "I was supposed to help you channel your anger, not fuel it. You're a child, Bruce. You shouldn't even be thinking about—"
"I'm not a child," Bruce snapped.
Alfred gave him a hard look, but Bruce didn't back down. Instead, he turned and stormed out of the room, heading straight for his bedroom.
He flopped onto his bed and grabbed the remote, turning on the TV. The screen flickered to life, and within seconds, the news filled the room. A woman, her voice heavy with sorrow, spoke over footage of a crime scene.
"A five-year-old boy was left orphaned tonight after his parents were murdered in an armed robbery…"
Bruce stared at the screen, his chest tightening. The scene looked painfully familiar—the yellow police tape, the flashing red and blue lights, the body bags.
The reporter continued, shifting to another story. A mugging in Brooklyn. A violent robbery in Queens. A woman beaten in an alley just blocks from Wayne Tower.
Crime. Everywhere.
The city was rotting. People were dying, suffering, living in fear.
And no one was stopping it.
Bruce turned off the TV and sat in silence for a long moment. Then, with newfound determination, he got up and marched straight back to Alfred.
The butler was in the study, reading, but he barely had time to look up before Bruce spoke.
"Teach me more."
Alfred set his book down. "Bruce—"
"Not just fighting. Everything. How to investigate. How to use weapons. How to track people. All of it."
Alfred studied him carefully. "And why exactly do you need all of this?"
Bruce met his gaze without hesitation. "Because this city needs someone to protect it."
Alfred searched his face, looking for doubt, for hesitation. But there was none. Just unwavering certainty.
"You're sure?" Alfred asked.
"One hundred percent."
Alfred exhaled slowly. He had known this moment would come eventually, but he hadn't expected it to come so soon. He looked into Bruce's eyes—so young, yet so much older than they should be.
Finally, he gave a small nod. "Very well."
Without another word, he stood and motioned for Bruce to follow.
Alfred led him to the living room, stopping in front of an old grandfather clock. Bruce frowned as the butler reached for the clock's hands and carefully set them to 10:47 PM.
A low click echoed through the room. Then, to Bruce's shock, the entire clock began to move, sliding to the side and revealing a dark passageway beyond.
Bruce's eyes widened. "What is this?"
"A secret entrance," Alfred explained, stepping inside. "Come along, Master Wayne."
Bruce followed, his heart pounding. The passage was narrow and cold, the walls rough and uneven. As they descended deeper, the air grew damp, and the distant sound of rushing water filled Bruce's ears.
Then they stepped into an open space, and Bruce froze.
It was a cave. A massive one.
Bats fluttered in the darkness above, their wings making eerie whispers against the stone ceiling. The floor was uneven, parts of it submerged in shallow water. A waterfall cascaded down one side of the cave, its constant roar filling the cavern. But what caught Bruce's attention the most were the massive metal pillars rising from the cave floor, supporting a network of empty platforms.
"Where… are we?" Bruce asked, his voice almost lost in the vast space.
"When the Waynes first built the manor centuries ago, they discovered this cave beneath the estate," Alfred explained. "They created secret entrances throughout the property in case of emergencies."
Bruce swallowed hard. "And you never told me about this?"
"You weren't ready," Alfred said. "Until now."
He walked over to a rusted generator near the cave's edge and flipped a few switches. With a clunk and a low hum, the cave flickered to life. Old floodlights along the walls powered on, casting long shadows across the cavern.
Bruce took in the full scope of it. The sheer size. The possibilities.
"This will be our new training ground," Alfred said, stepping onto one of the platforms. "Up here, you'll learn more than just the basics. You'll learn everything."
Bruce hesitated, staring up at the platforms. "But you said—"
"I said you weren't ready," Alfred corrected. "But you made your choice. So if you want to learn, you're going to do it the right way."
Bruce nodded, stepping onto the platform beside him.
"Let's begin," Alfred said.
And with that, Bruce Wayne's real training started.
4 YEARS LATER
The cavern echoed with the sound of rapid strikes—metal colliding with metal, fists pounding into steel.
Bruce Wayne, now fourteen years old, stood in the center of one of the elevated training platforms, surrounded by ten reinforced dummies. They weren't ordinary training equipment—each one was crafted from heavy steel, built to withstand blows that would shatter bones. But that didn't slow Bruce down.
He moved like a shadow, his body weaving between the dummies as he struck with precision and speed. His punches and kicks landed with enough force to dent the metal, and in just under four minutes, the last dummy toppled over with a loud clang.
Breathing heavily, Bruce stepped back, wiping the sweat from his forehead. A new record. But still… it wasn't enough.
Alfred, standing at the edge of the platform with his arms crossed, gave a slow nod. "Not bad, Master Wayne. You've shaved off twenty seconds from your last attempt."
Bruce rolled his shoulders, feeling the slight ache in his muscles. "It's still too slow," he muttered. "If those were real enemies, I wouldn't have time to waste."
Alfred sighed. "You've trained for six years. Your speed, strength, and technique are remarkable for someone your age." He gestured to the downed dummies. "Most grown men would struggle with even one of these, yet you took them all down in minutes."
Bruce knew that was true. But deep down, he could feel it—there was still so much more to learn.
"I need to keep training," he said. "Not just here. I need to go out and learn from the best."
Alfred's expression darkened slightly. "I was afraid you'd say that."
Bruce turned to face him fully. "You know I can't keep training here forever."
Alfred's jaw tightened. "I know you're capable, but that doesn't mean you should leave. This world is dangerous, Bruce. These people you want to learn from—they aren't kind teachers in a school. They are killers, warriors, people who will break you without hesitation."
Bruce clenched his fists. "Then I'll let them try."
Alfred shook his head. "And if they succeed?"
"They won't."
The sheer determination in Bruce's voice made Alfred pause. He had known Bruce long enough to understand that once he set his mind on something, there was no stopping him. The boy—no, the young man standing before him—wasn't asking for permission. He was telling Alfred what was going to happen.
Alfred sighed, rubbing his temple. "You truly are your father's son."
Bruce's gaze softened for a moment at the mention of his father, but it passed quickly. "I need to do this."
A long silence stretched between them before Alfred finally nodded. "Fine. But before you go anywhere, you'll have to prove to me you're ready."
Bruce frowned. "How?"
Alfred stepped forward, rolling up his sleeves. "You'll fight me."
Bruce's heart quickened. He had sparred with Alfred before, but this was different. This wasn't practice—this was a test.
"If you impress me, I'll help you find the people you need," Alfred continued. "But if you fail, you stay here and train longer. Agreed?"
Bruce didn't hesitate. "Agreed."
The moment the words left his mouth, he lunged.
But Alfred was faster.
He sidestepped with ease, and Bruce's punch met nothing but air. Before he could recover, Alfred swept his leg, forcing him to roll back onto his feet.
Bruce attacked again, this time mixing his strikes—punch, kick, feint. But Alfred dodged each one, reading his movements before they happened.
Bruce grit his teeth. He's been holding back all these years.
Then he saw his opening. A small shift in Alfred's stance—weight favoring the right. Bruce faked a jab and pivoted, throwing a sharp kick toward Alfred's ribs.
It almost landed.
Almost.
Alfred caught Bruce's leg mid-air and twisted, sending him crashing onto his back. In a blink, Alfred's foot was pressed lightly against Bruce's throat.
It was over.
Bruce stared up at the cave ceiling, frustration burning inside him.
Alfred removed his foot and offered a hand. Bruce took it, pulling himself up. "I lost," he muttered.
Alfred smirked. "Badly."
Bruce exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "So, I stay?"
"No," Alfred said simply.
Bruce blinked. "What?"
"You lost. But I'm still impressed," Alfred admitted. "You nearly got me a few times." He dusted off his sleeves. "You're not at my level yet—but if I'm being honest, you're not far off. And I'm not the best teacher out there. There are others who can push you further."
Bruce felt a spark of excitement. "Then you'll help me find them?"
Alfred sighed. "I'll use the Wayne family's resources to gather information on the greatest martial artists in the world. But you're the one who will have to track them down."
Bruce nodded. "I will."
"Then let's get out of this cave. We have work to do."
That night, Bruce returned to his room and ran himself a hot bath.
As he sank into the water, his mind drifted. Soon, he would leave this place behind. The manor, the cave, the life he had known.
But he didn't feel scared. He felt ready.
He thought about his parents. About the countless children who, like him, had lost everything to the cruelty of this world. To men who stole, who killed, who took what wasn't theirs because they were too weak to survive any other way.
His hands clenched beneath the water.
Soon, people like them would know fear.
Real fear.
And Bruce Wayne would be the one to bring it to them.