In the heart of the fortress, Ra's al Ghul sat in his private study, a rare expression of satisfaction on his ancient face. Spread before him were detailed reports on two promising young men: Bruce Wayne and Oliver Queen.
Exceptional talents, he thought, tapping a long finger on Bruce's file. Given time, they will become my most capable commanders.
Of course, their true value extended far beyond their physical and mental prowess. Bruce was the sole heir to the multi-billion-dollar Wayne Enterprises, a corporate empire with its roots dug deep into the heart of Gotham. Oliver, while not the only heir, was a key figure in the Queen Consolidated dynasty, a behemoth that held Star City in its financial grip.
With the support of these two fortunes, the League's grand ambitions for the world would proceed unimpeded. In fact, if the currents of fate flowed as he foresaw, his own daughters were destined to be entwined with these men, securing the bloodline and the legacy.
Peeep-peep-peep.
A sudden, obnoxious whistle shattered his reverie. Ra's looked up to see Alan leaning against the window frame, a disturbingly cheerful expression on his face.
"What is it?" Ra's asked, his good mood evaporating like mist in the morning sun. The man's mental state had not improved in the slightest. What, exactly, had Nyssa been doing all this time?
"Boss, I've discovered a secret," Alan announced, then proceeded to clamber through the open window, his movements clumsy and unnecessary.
Ra's al Ghul took a slow, deep breath, wrestling down the explosive anger that threatened to surface. "You could have used the door," he reminded him, his voice dangerously calm. The door was mere steps away. Only a complete lunatic would choose the window.
"In our line of work, we never take the easy path," Alan replied, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world.
Ra wisely chose not to argue. Debating with a madman would only make him appear to be one as well. "What secret?"
Alan's expression turned deadly serious. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Boss… we have a spy among us."
A spy?
Ra's al Ghul's eyes flashed with a cold light. He stared at Alan, his face a grim mask, waiting for the details.
But the word "spy" had triggered a bizarre connection in the tangled circuits of Alan's brain. His serious demeanor melted away, replaced by a knowing, almost sleazy grin.
"A spy, you say? I didn't realize you were a man of culture as well, boss," Alan said, wiggling his eyebrows. "So you're also a fan of those special Japanese films, eh? The ones with the… spies. Turns out we have something in common."
Listen to yourself, Ra's thought, his hands clenching into fists inside his sleeves. What are you even saying? He was beginning to suspect that his centuries of life had finally made him senile.
"To be honest," Alan continued, now fully in his element like a veteran driver with no brakes, "among the older generation of artists, I highly recommend Tanaka and Okita. For the newer stars, you can't go wrong with Fukada and Nagisa. Such a shame they haven't released more of their uncensored work."
"Get out," Ra's said, his voice flat and heavy with murderous intent. "I have work to do."
"Okey-dokey."
Alan obediently turned and climbed back out the window, steadfastly refusing to use the door.
Ra covered his face with his hands, unable to watch. He made a decision then and there. He would leave the base, travel to the outside world, and personally recruit his two prized prospects. He needed to get away to soothe his frayed nerves. A few more encounters with this madman, and he was certain the toxic side effects of the Lazarus Pit would be triggered by sheer, unadulterated rage.
As Alan disappeared from view, his voice drifted back. "You know, Hatano's work isn't bad either, but she's getting a bit old…"
"ROLL!" Ra's al Ghul roared, the sound echoing through his chambers.
That night, the Demon's Head left the snow mountain base.
Back in his room, Alan was applying his healing ointment when he suddenly slapped his thigh. "Oh, right! I forgot to tell the boss about the Hydra spy. Seriously, we're all men here. Why does he have to be so serious? It's not like he's never seen an adult movie before."
By the time he woke up the next morning, he had completely forgotten the incident.
[CHARACTER STATUS]
[NAME]: ALAN
[PROFESSION]: THIEF (LV. 30)
[SKILLS]:
[WEAPON MASTERY] LV. 5: Hit +5, Strength +5
[SHADOW BLADE] LV. 1: Increases attack speed and damage by 10%.
[SHADOW STEALTH]: Enter an invisible state.
[SHADOW WILL]: Attacks from stealth deal double damage.
[ROPE CLAW]: Allows climbing surfaces up to 20 meters high.
[TIMELINE]: LEAGUE OF ASSASSINS (1981)
[OBJECTIVE]: Reach LV. 120 to return to the original timeline.
In the ten days that followed Ra's al Ghul's departure, the snow mountain base descended into absolute turmoil.
With his level now at 30, Alan's power had grown exponentially. It was doubtful that even Nyssa and Talia working together could defeat him. And the things an unrestrained psychopath could do were simply terrifying.
Warriors eating in the mess hall would suddenly start foaming at the mouth, only for Alan to proudly announce that he had thoughtfully prepared their meal with a generous helping of mint-flavored toothpaste.
Others would find their drying undergarments laced with chili powder, a prank Alan claimed was designed to "train everyone's vigilance."
Bang!
"ALAN! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"
A warrior, his face contorted with rage, stormed through the base brandishing a sword, looking for Alan.
"I know you're angry, but please, calm down!" Nyssa shouted from a safe distance, the overwhelming stench keeping her from getting any closer. Many warriors cast the poor man sympathetic glances, thanking their lucky stars it wasn't them. The madman had designed a firecracker trap in the dry latrine, and this unfortunate soul had triggered it.
"You tell me to calm down? You're not the one covered in… this!" the warrior roared, his voice cracking with despair. "Today, either he dies or I do!"
Listening to her subordinate's complete breakdown, Nyssa felt a wave of helplessness. She truly, deeply regretted finding Alan in the snow. She hadn't rescued a man; she had adopted a demon.
"What's going on? Why's everyone so lively?"
Alan rounded a corner, his cheeks puffed out as he stuffed his mouth full of banana, as if someone were about to steal it from him.
"I'M GOING TO END YOU!" the warrior shrieked, lunging forward.
"Calm down! Don't come any closer!" the other assassins shouted, drawing their own weapons in alarm. They weren't protecting Alan; they just didn't want to get caught in the… crossfire.
Alan continued to chew his banana, completely unconcerned. He swallowed the massive mouthful with a great gulp, his face turning pale for a moment as he choked. A single thought crossed everyone's mind: Why didn't he choke to death?
"Oh, by the way," Alan said casually, "I think I set two of those firecracker traps."
Bang!
"AHHH… ALAN, YOU WILL DIE!"
As if on cue, a second explosion echoed from the latrines, followed by another scream of pure agony.
The sound of hurried footsteps approached, and Talia appeared, her face a mask of cold fury. Her eyes locked onto Alan. "Everyone, listen to me," she commanded. "Kill Alan."
"YES!" came the unified, enthusiastic roar. They had been waiting for this order for a long time.
Their eyes fixed on Alan, burning with a desire to tear him limb from limb.
"Hidden weapon!" Alan declared, casually flicking his banana peel at the feet of the charging warrior. The man slipped and fell with a crash. Alan turned and fled, a joyous, bell-like laugh echoing behind him. "Hee hee hee… come and catch me if you can!"
"GET HIM!"
"STAB HIM!"
"DROWN HIM IN THE TOILET!"
In the infirmary, Chelsea was grinding herbs, listening to the commotion outside. He sighed contentedly. "It hasn't been this lively in years. Alan is quite an interesting little fellow." The base was usually so lifeless, ruled by strict, silent discipline. This new energy was a welcome change.
Bang!
Just as Chelsea was fondly reminiscing, a body flew through his window, crashing directly onto the table of freshly processed medicinal herbs.
Seeing a day's worth of painstaking work utterly ruined, Chelsea's kindly expression vanished. His face filled with a terrible rage. He raised the heavy pestle he used for grinding. "Mental illness is mental illness," he growled through gritted teeth. "Psychological guidance is useless. What's needed here is physical therapy."
And with that, the seventy-year-old master herbalist resolutely joined the hunt.
***********
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