DC & Marvel: This Guy Is Crazy

Chapter 153 – Is Damian Our Child?

After so many years apart, Ra's al Ghul had forgotten that the guy wasn't all there in the head. You couldn't speak in half-sentences around Allen—he just wouldn't get it.

Ra's said bluntly, "It's the Redemption Blade."

"You scared the hell out of me. Thought you were asking for steak," Allen sighed in relief, then immediately rejected him. "I got that gear in a dungeon. Why would I give it to you?"

To Allen, Silent Hill was just a game instance—one where he could grind for experience.

In other timelines, he could level up in the open world, but it seriously bugged him that equipment didn't drop there.

"In that case, the League of Assassins will hunt you down," Ra's warned him coldly.

The Redemption Blade and the Lazarus Pit were the League's two core relics—both indispensable.

In the past few decades, lacking the blade's support, they had largely stopped taking high-risk missions. Some assassins who were resurrected had even been placed in stasis, waiting for the holy relic to be found again one day.

But the problem was, Allen had jumped timelines. During those two to three decades of vacuum, Ra's couldn't find him, and eventually shelved the whole matter.

"Damian, did you bring this old bastard here?" Allen asked, turning to the drowsy-eyed boy beside him.

They were grandfather and grandson by blood, so his first assumption was that Damian had asked his grandpa for help.

"Who?"

Damian blinked hard, then spotted Ra's standing across from him. His eyes lit up. "Grandpa, you're here!"

Well, that complicated things.

That meant the only likely culprit was the Court of Owls.

Realizing he was facing an enemy, Allen dropped the courtesy. "Old bastard, Gotham's a mess. You can't handle it. I don't mind adding you to the list."

"Excellent. It's been too long since the world felt the League of Assassins' power. Gotham shall be our new battlefield."

As the words fell, music began to play, and couples filled the dance floor.

In a blink, Ra's al Ghul had vanished.

"As expected of the Demon's Head. That stealth is on another level," Allen praised.

Then he walked straight up to a masked man nearby, kicked him over, and said with a smirk, "Idiot. Think I wouldn't recognize you? Demon's Head? Heh heh heh…"

The man on the ground looked up, aggrieved. "Who the hell are you? Why'd you kick me?!"

People around them began throwing odd looks.

Allen yanked off the man's mask—only to realize he'd got the wrong guy.

Annoyed, he muttered, "Why the hell are you wearing a cape then? Think it makes you look cool, dumbass."

He looked around at the crowd staring at the commotion and sneered. "What're you looking at? Never seen a handsome guy throw hands?"

"Is this guy nuts?" a rich lady in the crowd muttered, frowning.

"You're nuts for staring. I should've slapped you already," Allen replied, raising his hand dramatically.

That was enough for the rich folks to start shouting for security.

"Time to bounce."

And with that, Allen vanished into stealth.

The bloodsucker issue wasn't even resolved yet, and now the League of Assassins was piling on. He had no choice—he'd have to personally step in.

Elsewhere, Ra's al Ghul pulled out his phone and made a call, issuing a new command.

That very night, assassins from the League infiltrated Gotham through various means.

Inside a temporary meeting room, the Court of Owls convened an emergency summit.

Both Dracula and Ra's were in attendance.

The First Talon sat high upon the central throne, flanked by a row of Talon warriors, looking down at the two guests.

"Lord Dracula, the ritual is nearly complete. We trust you'll hold up your end and keep the target occupied."

"As for you, Demon's Head," he continued, turning, "our condition is simple: kill the Comedic Bat. Bring his head as proof. Then you will be paid accordingly."

Gotham had descended into utter chaos.

The three factions were now tangled in open conflict.

The Court had deployed their Talon army against the Pureblood nobles.

But then Midnight Bruisers showed up like a wrench in the gears—attacking indiscriminately and throwing everything into disarray.

"There's already a Pureblood Prince in Gotham," Dracula warned. "I'm concerned this might attract Lilith, the progenitor."

Dracula might be able to hold his own against a prince, but if the Blood Progenitor showed up, that was another story.

Pureblood or hybrid—it didn't matter. Before a progenitor, they all faced absolute bloodline suppression. There would be no resisting.

That was why he urgently needed to obtain the Blood God's power—to sever the chains of bloodline subjugation.

"Don't worry. We've got agents monitoring every move the vampires make. If anything happens, we'll move the ritual site immediately," the First Talon reassured him.

After their previous failure, they'd overhauled the entire operation to prepare for any contingency.

Satisfied, Dracula nodded.

"I have one condition," Ra's suddenly said, his voice grave. "No harm must come to Damian. He's my grandson—and the heir to the League of Assassins. If anything happens to him, I'll turn on you."

"Rest assured, we've accounted for that," said the First Talon.

After all, they only needed Bruce.

Naturally, the Court wasn't obligated to reveal their entire plan. That would only attract attention from other factions.

Once the portal to the Dark Multiverse opened, they would take their rightful place in the world—openly and without restraint.

"Good," said Ra's, closing his eyes in satisfaction.

His original choice had been Bruce. But that fool followed some so-called sense of justice and became Batman instead.

Damn it. Even lost his daughter to it.

Thankfully, he'd gotten Damian out of it—an excellent successor, both in talent and bloodline. He would one day lead the League to glory.

…

Meanwhile, Allen was on his motorcycle, heading back to Arkham Asylum.

But not long after setting off, he was ambushed.

An arrow whistled through the air—Allen swerved to dodge with one hand while holding a steak in the other.

He slammed the brakes and stared up at the rooftops.

There they were—figures in black leather watching him silently.

Allen greeted them cheerily. "Hey there, I'm one of you guys! Trained back in '81. That makes me your senior, right?"

"Allen, we're here to kill you. Traitors must die," said the masked leader coldly.

Allen squinted at her, blinking.

"Nyssa?"

"I'm Talia," she said, pulling off her mask.

Her long hair fell loose—nearly fifty, but still strikingly beautiful. Her skintight battle suit only accentuated her allure.

"It's been so long. I've missed you," Allen said warmly, then grew solemn. "I have a question. Please answer truthfully."

"Fine. Ask away. Then I'll send you to hell," Talia replied coldly.

"Is Damian my child?"

The assassins murmured in shock.

"No way… wasn't Damian Bruce's kid? Is Bruce raising another man's son?"

"The ages don't line up. This guy looks mid-twenties. Maybe he just looks young, but he's really thirty or forty?"

"Could be. But if Talia's forty-eight, and Damian's, what, fourteen? Then this guy would've had to knock her up when he was fifteen and she was thirty-five?"

"Damn. Respect."

"Jealous... real jealous…"