Milk_Is_My_Drug
patreon
Chapter 40: What Remained of Us
🕑 Added 2025-05-22 05:21:09 +0000 UTCFor the first time in modern legal history—perhaps in the history of any civilized court—the verdict was to be delivered through a trial by combat. It was absurd, archaic, and borderline theatrical, yet in this situation… strangely fitting. Judging Batman, a symbol of justice who had stood shoulder to shoulder with gods, through the cold rigidity of law felt incomplete. The court, the people, the world—it all needed more than a verdict. It needed resolution.
Ashborn’s proposal had stripped the legend of its armor and reduced everything to a raw, human level: one man versus another. No titles. No masks of law or legacy. Just fists. It was a release valve, a chance for both sides to unleash their frustrations, their anger, their egos—cleanly, clearly.
But as the murmurs spread, so did the confidence of the crowd.
“Ashborn’s lucky streak ends today.”
“He’s smart, but that’s Batman.”
“He’s going to be eaten alive.”
For many, the outcome was obvious. This wasn’t just a fight. This was a lesson. Arrogance has a price—and Ashborn was about to pay it in bruises.
___________
Thirty Minutes Before the Duel
Inside a room reserved for preparation, Ashborn stood before a mirror. He wore a plain white tank top and black training pants. His body was lean but clearly toned. Near him stood Rex, clearly uneasy, wringing his hands.
“This is madness,” Rex muttered. “You’re going to fight Batman. What the hell were you thinking?”
Ashborn glanced at his reflection, adjusting the bandages on his hands. He smiled slightly. “Trust me a little, Uncle Rex. I don’t lose.”
A knock at the door interrupted their exchange.
“Come in,” Ashborn called.
The door creaked open and Supergirl stepped in. Her eyes scanned him, pausing briefly at his physique before she blinked and looked away. Ashborn cleared his throat, and she shook her head slightly, cheeks tinged pink.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, her voice tense. “That’s Batman. He’s going to crush you. And don’t forget—he already hates your guts.”
Ashborn tilted his head. “Aren’t you on his side?”
“I am,” she said plainly. “But that doesn’t mean I want to see you beaten like a dog.”
Ashborn laughed, a calm, amused sound. “Relax. I know what I’m doing.” He turned back to the mirror. “The truth is… Batman is outclassed. This won’t even be a fight.”
She stared at him, unconvinced. Rex mirrored her skepticism.
Supergirl folded her arms. “Just surrender early. There’s no shame in backing out before you get hurt. No one’s expecting a miracle.”
She left with a final glance over her shoulder, her cape trailing behind her like a red shadow.
Ashborn didn’t feel anger. Or frustration. Doubt from others was a natural reaction. No one had seen him fight. No one could understand. Even if Batman matched him in strength, speed, and precision—which he didn’t—Ashborn had something Bruce Wayne never did: the experience of centuries of brutal, soul-rending war. Gods. Rulers. Monarch. Itarim. He had survived them all.
___________
Thousands had gathered in the open courtyard behind the courthouse. It was cordoned off by temporary barriers and lined with spectators. Judges. Reporters. Civilians. Even Lex Luthor and Amanda Waller came to watch. Everyone wanted to witness the spectacle. Most of them wanted to see Ashborn humbled.
Ashborn walked out confidently, each step slow, deliberate. His calm demeanor stirred confusion among those watching.
“Is he faking confidence?”
“He doesn’t look scared…”
“Poor bastard has no clue.”
Across the courtyard stood Batman. Dressed in a sleek black tracksuit, only the bat mask remained—his symbol, his shield. Arms folded, he stood unmoving, every inch a predator assessing prey.
His sharp eyes followed Ashborn’s every step, but deep within him, a faint unease twisted.
This didn’t feel right.
Ashborn wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t agitated. He wasn’t pretending, either.
Batman’s instincts screamed trap.
He’d already asked Superman, Wonder Woman, and Martian Manhunter to keep their eyes wide open. “If he pulls anything,” he had said, “stop it immediately.”
Batman stepped forward, each movement calculated, precise. He stopped just a few paces from Ashborn, his posture rigid, the weight of suspicion heavy in his gaze.
“What are you playing at?” Batman asked, voice low but sharp. “What’s the point of all this?”
Ashborn’s smile never faltered. “You asked me a question, remember?” he said with unnerving calm. “And I gave you the answer. Even answered your portion of it. But you didn’t seem convinced…” The smile curled into something darker, predatory. “So here we are. I told you I’d play. This is the answer to your question.”
A chill crawled up Batman’s spine. His eyes narrowed, his instincts screaming.
He remembered it now, that moment. When he struck Ashborn in their earlier encounter, demanding answers. Everything that followed had been a path, deliberate and winding, leading here. No tricks. No gadgets. No advantages.
Just this moment.
Just him.
Batman couldn’t shake the feeling that he had walked into a trap, but one made from his own assumptions. And that smile… that damned smile on Ashborn’s face, it unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.
Batman moved first.
Fast. Sharp. Intent to end it before Ashborn had a chance to pull something unexpected. He launched a powerful punch straight at his opponent’s face—full force, no holding back.
But in a blur of motion, Ashborn caught his wrist mid-flight.
Then stepped forward.
And with a sudden pivot, he pulled Batman’s momentum past him and flipped him hard onto the ground.
Jujitsu.
Gasps echoed from the crowd. One second, Batman was attacking with the ferocity of a legend—then the next, he was flat on his back, staring up at the open sky.
Ashborn didn’t follow up. He simply stood, arms relaxed, watching his opponent with that same grin.
“Remember,” he said coolly, “your future as a hero is on the line. Stand up.”
Batman rose, fast but cautious. He hadn’t expected Ashborn to know jujitsu, hadn’t expected any of this. He was a master of over a dozen martial arts, but he’d let arrogance creep in earlier.
He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Ashborn didn’t wait. He advanced, fluid and quick, throwing a high kick.
Batman saw it, anticipated the motion. He moved to block and counter.
But Ashborn’s leg suddenly accelerated—a deceptive Brazilian kick—up then violently down. The strike crashed into Batman’s shoulder, spinning him to the ground once more.
The audience was silent. Again.
Two strikes. Two takedowns.
Ashborn stood still, hands behind his back, as if this were nothing. “I’m waiting for you, Batman.”
Batman rose again, slower this time. His legs were steady, but the pain was spreading, his vision briefly blurred.
Ashborn waited patiently, then said, “Want to attack again, or should I?”
Batman offered no reply—just took his stance again.
Ashborn chuckled and lunged forward at full speed. Batman braced, waiting for the opening—but Ashborn leapt at the last second, hands grasping Batman’s shoulders as his body flipped over him. For a brief instant, Ashborn’s weight rested atop Batman, balancing in a moment of aerial control, as if performing a handstand on the Bat’s shoulders.
Batman realized too late what was happening.
He raised his hands to guard his head—but Ashborn’s knee came crashing down, not at his skull, but squarely into his right shoulder.
CRACK.
A sickening sound, followed by a grunt of pain. Batman dropped to the ground, clutching his shattered shoulder.
Ashborn stood over him, a cold smile on his face. He spoke no words this time.
Instead, without warning, he raised a leg high—and brought it down with full force on Batman’s head.
The Dark Knight hit the ground hard. Blood pooled from a split in his brow, his breath ragged, fingers trembling.
But he rose again. Slowly. Painfully.
Face bloodied. Right arm useless. Legs shaking beneath the weight of his own defiance.
Ashborn’s smile widened.
Then the storm began.
Punches. Kicks. Blows from every direction.
Ashborn unleashed a relentless, brutal barrage—his fists and feet crashing against Batman’s ribs, stomach, legs, back. The crowd could hardly watch. Batman, the symbol of human will and mastery, reduced to a punching bag.
Ashborn spoke between strikes, his voice calm, almost amused. “This is more amusing than I expected”
Batman gave no answer.
Only more silence.
Only more resistance.
Around them, murmurs spread like wildfire.
“Is this really happening?”
“Someone stop this!”
Superman clenched his fists, ready to step forward, but Wonder Woman placed a hand on his chest.
“This is the honor of a warrior,” she said solemnly. “He chooses this.”
Batman swayed, barely conscious. Ashborn halted his assault, breathing steady. Then, with a laugh, he stepped back.
“I feel refreshed,” he said to no one in particular. “I surrender.”
The words hit like thunder.
Ashborn, the victor, surrendered, mocking the rules, owning the moment.
He looked at the broken man struggling to remain standing and spoke quietly, but clearly enough for the audience to hear:
“I told you this is what would happen. This is what remained of us. Now, you understand.”
And with that, Ashborn turned and walked away, leaving the legend of the Bat, battered and silent, in the dust.
