The wind howled like a dying beast, screaming through the valleys of the Hindu Kush mountains. Snow fell in thick sheets, covering the jagged rocks below in a blanket of white that stretched endlessly in every direction.
Bruce Wayne pulled his coat tighter around his body, but the cold still seeped into his bones. His breath came out in short, sharp clouds, freezing the moment it left his lips.
He had been in these mountains for two weeks now. Two weeks of suffering.
After leaving Wayne Manor, Bruce had set out on the first leg of his journey—to survive in the most brutal conditions imaginable. Alfred had pointed him toward a man, a ghost from a forgotten war, known only as Kyros.
Kyros was an old soldier, a legend among mercenaries. He had disappeared decades ago, choosing exile over imprisonment. He was said to have trained killers, assassins, men who could survive in conditions that would kill most within days. If Bruce wanted to learn to endure, Kyros was the man to teach him.
Finding him had been the first challenge.
The journey up the mountain had nearly killed Bruce. The air was razor-thin, cutting into his lungs with every breath. He had no shelter, no fire, no food. His rations ran out after three days, forcing him to eat snow to stay hydrated.
His body had begun to break down—muscles aching, skin cracking from the cold. Sleep was impossible. The wind howled so loud it felt like a living thing, whispering in his ears, telling him to give up.
But he didn't.
On the seventh day, he collapsed in the snow. His fingers were blue. His stomach had stopped growling days ago, surrendering to the hunger. His vision blurred.
Then he felt the cold steel of a knife against his throat.
Kyros, the Ghost of the mountain
Bruce forced his eyes open and saw a man crouching over him. He was wrapped in furs, his face covered in a thick, tangled beard. His eyes were sharp—black and empty, like two pits carved into his skull.
"You're still alive," the man muttered in a voice like grinding stone. He pulled the knife away and stood. "Impressive. Most don't make it past five days."
Bruce tried to speak, but his throat was raw.
Kyros tossed something at him—a chunk of raw meat. "Eat."
Bruce hesitated, but hunger overpowered his hesitation. He bit into it, the frozen flesh tearing against his teeth. The taste was awful, but he forced it down.
Kyros watched him. "You came here for something," he said. "What do you want?"
Bruce swallowed the last of the meat and forced himself to sit up. "I want you to train me."
The old soldier studied him for a long moment. Then, without warning, he grabbed Bruce by the collar and threw him into the snow.
"If you survive the night," he said, turning away, "we'll talk."
Then he was gone.
That night was the longest of Bruce's life.
Kyros had left him with nothing. No fire, no shelter, no food. The temperature dropped below freezing, and the wind howled like a pack of wolves. Bruce curled into himself, his body convulsing.
By midnight, his fingers were numb. His lips cracked and bled. He could feel the ice forming on his eyelashes.
But then he heard something.
A low, guttural growl.
Bruce turned his head. In the darkness, he saw them—wolves. Three of them, their yellow eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
They were starving.
Bruce tried to move, but his body was stiff, sluggish from the cold. The first wolf lunged.
Pain exploded in his arm as teeth sank into his flesh. The wolf's jaws clamped down, shaking him like a rag doll. He screamed, adrenaline flooding his veins. He grabbed a rock and slammed it into the wolf's skull.
Once.
Twice.
On the third hit, the wolf yelped and released him. Blood, dark and steaming, splattered the snow.
The other two attacked.
Bruce rolled, dodging one, but the other latched onto his leg. He could feel its teeth grinding against his bone.
This is it, he thought. I'm going to die.
Then something snapped inside him.
Rage.
He grabbed the wolf by the throat and squeezed. It thrashed, but he held on, ignoring the pain, the cold, the blood pouring down his arm. He squeezed harder, feeling the life drain from the beast.
Then it went still.
The last wolf backed away, growling. Bruce grabbed the bloodied rock and threw it. The wolf yelped and ran.
Silence returned to the mountain.
Bruce fell back into the snow, panting, his body covered in blood—his and the wolves'. His vision blurred again, but before he blacked out, he saw a shadow standing nearby.
Kyros.
Smiling.
Bruce woke up inside a small, dimly lit cave. His wounds were bandaged. A fire crackled nearby.
Kyros sat across from him, sharpening a blade.
"You passed," the old soldier said without looking up.
Bruce tried to sit up. Every muscle in his body screamed. His arm was wrapped in bloodied bandages, his leg stiff and throbbing.
Kyros met his eyes. "I know what you want now. You don't just want to survive. You want to be strong. You want to be something... more."
Bruce didn't respond. He didn't have to.
Kyros grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "Good. Then let's begin."
For the next six months, Kyros broke Bruce down.
The training was brutal. No weapons, no modern techniques—just survival, endurance, and raw brutality.
Bruce was forced to hunt with his bare hands. To kill with improvised weapons. To fight blindfolded in the snow. Kyros taught him how to move unseen, how to track a man across miles of wilderness, how to fight when every part of his body screamed for rest.
There was no mercy.
When Bruce failed, he was beaten. When he showed weakness, he was left in the cold.
And he suffered.
Frostbite gnawed at his fingers. His bones ached from the freezing temperatures. He bled, he starved, he nearly died more times than he could count.
But he survived.
He adapted.
He grew stronger.
Six months later, Bruce stood at the edge of the mountain, looking down at the endless world below. His body was lean, hardened, covered in scars. His eyes were sharper, colder.
Kyros stood beside him. "You're ready," he said. "But this is just the beginning."
Bruce nodded.
"I'll find the next teacher myself."
Kyros smirked. "I don't doubt it."
Without another word, Bruce turned and began his descent.
He had survived the mountain.
Now, he was ready for what came next.