Injustice: The Path To Hell (DC Comics)

Thursday, October 23rd, 20:30.

New Jersey,

Gotham City,

East End.

The ring was a mess of violence and carnage, a battlefield where only the strongest endured. As the latest fighter was dragged out, unconscious and barely breathing, the stains of his defeat lingered—splotches of crimson splattered across the mat, streaks of smeared blood creating grotesque patterns, and a few stray teeth glistening under the overhead lights. The scent of sweat, blood, and the raw, animalistic energy of the crowd clung to the air, thick and suffocating.

The announcer, dressed in an obnoxiously flamboyant suit, stepped into the ring, his voice booming through the speakers as he raised his arms wide, feeding off the electric anticipation of the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" He called out, drawing a chorus of cheers, whistles, and pounding feet against the metal stands. "What a night it's been! You've seen blood, you've seen bones break, and you've seen warriors fall!" His dramatic pause stretched just long enough for the noise to swell. "But we are not done yet! No, no, no! We have one final bout—the moment you've all been waiting for! But first…we take a short break!"

A wave of groans and boos rumbled through the arena, though there was still excitement in the air, the tension growing by the second as everyone eagerly awaited the final match.

Seated comfortably in his lavish, oversized chair, John let out a satisfied chuckle, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before turning to Esau. His greedy, fox-like eyes gleamed with amusement as he leaned back. "Well, my boy," he said, voice dripping with self-satisfaction, "looks like that's another point for you. That makes it five for five. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you had eyes just like mine."

Esau smirked, leaning forward slightly as he poured himself another glass of whiskey from the exorbitantly expensive bottle sitting on the table between them. Now empty, he set it down next to the other two empty bottles on the table. He let the silence linger for a moment before taking a slow sip, the burn of alcohol doing little to faze him.

"Not that I expected anything less," John continued, watching him carefully.

Esau set his glass down and exhaled through his nose, considering the fights he'd just witnessed. The fighters here weren't just brawlers or street thugs; they were trained, honed, and disciplined. There was a brutal efficiency to them, an almost mechanical precision in how they fought—no wasted movements, no unnecessary theatrics, just fast, vicious takedowns.

"They're good," Esau admitted finally, rolling his shoulders. "Really good. If I were still champion back when I first held the title, I probably would've struggled immensely against some of them."

John arched a brow, his ever-present smirk deepening. "Oh? Knowing you that's almost an admission of defeat. Is that what you believe would happen?"

Esau let out a small scoff, shaking his head. "I've always been stubborn," he said. "I wouldn't have gone down easily. And when fights drag on, which I would've made damn sure it did, an opening always presents itself."

John chuckled, swirling his drink as he nodded. "That's what I always liked about you, my boy. You never knew when to quit. Even as a kid, you took your beatings, stood back up, and kept coming. But I've raised some real killers in these rings since then—some literal, some figurative. The fighters here now?" He motioned toward the bloodied ring below. "They don't play around. They know better than to let a fight drag out like you used to. They finish things quickly—short, brutal, and bloody, just how the crowd likes it."

Esau's eyes flickered toward the ring, watching as the ring crew mopped up the blood-stained canvas, preparing it for the final match. He could still hear the lingering echoes of pain, the ghosts of past fights whispering in the back of his mind.

Internally, he acknowledged the truth of John's words. These fighters were better than the ones he had faced during his reign. The raw talent, the refined execution, the sheer lethality of their techniques—there was no denying their skill. Though he didn't want to admit, the version of him that had started out as Black Hood would have been outmatched.

But could they have beaten the version of himself that had slaughtered Killer Croc in cold blood?

Could they have stood a chance against him when he had stormed Arkham Asylum, tearing through guards and inmates alike?

They would have given him a fight, but Esau doubted he would have lost.

However, the version of himself that had been forged under Deathstroke's ruthless tutelage?

They wouldn't have stood a chance in hell.

Still, John had made a bold claim earlier—that his current champion was good enough to challenge Batman. That alone made Esau skeptical. There was a difference between being a killer and being a warrior, between a champion in an underground fighting ring and a force capable of going toe-to-toe with Gotham's Dark Knight.

If this "champion" truly was that formidable, then the skill gap from these fighters to him had to be astronomical. If it wasn't then John was just blowing smoke, trying to add mystique to someone who wasn't worth the hype.

Either way, Esau would know soon enough.

John let out another chuckle, watching Esau carefully, as if trying to read his thoughts. "So, what do you think?" He asked, his tone filled with amusement. "Have I piqued your interest yet, my boy?"

Esau lifted his glass and took another sip, his scarlet eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the ring below, waiting for the moment of truth. "We'll see."

John let out a satisfied sigh, stretching in his seat before dusting off his tailored suit as if simply sitting in it had somehow tainted its pristine condition. He then turned to Esau, his ever-present smirk still plastered across his face.

"Ah, my boy, as much as I'd love to sit here and reminisce some more, I have some important rounds to make. VIPs, you know how it is—gotta keep the big spenders happy." He winked, making a show of brushing off his shoulders. "Can't afford to get lost in memory lane for too long, no matter how much I might enjoy it."

Esau leaned back in his chair, swirling the last remnants of whiskey in his glass. His azure gaze flicked toward the nearly empty bottle, then back up to John. "Well, as long as I get another bottle, I promise I won't go anywhere anytime soon." He lifted the glass slightly in emphasis.

John chuckled heartily, shaking his head in amusement. With a snap of his fingers, he beckoned over a nearby waitress—a half-naked woman, barely wearing anything that could be classified as clothing. She moved with a practiced sway, her exposed skin gleaming under the dim lighting of the VIP box, her eyes locked on John like a loyal pet awaiting a command.

"Another bottle of our finest," John ordered smoothly, then turned back to Esau, his smirk growing. "I have to say, you sure can drink, my boy. Two bottles by yourself, and yet, not even a hint of a buzz."

Esau simply laughed, tapping his temple with two fingers. "Built different."

"Damn right you are." John gave him one last lingering look before standing. "Enjoy yourself, Esau. I'll be back in time for the championship bout—don't get too cozy without me."

Esau tilted his glass in mock salute but said nothing. As John made his way out of the private box, his presence was replaced by a noticeable shift in the air, like the absence of an overbearing weight. The moment the door shut behind him, Esau's fake, forced smile dropped immediately, replaced by a deep frown of annoyance. His amusement was gone, and his hidden frustrations bubbled to the surface.

He exhaled sharply, leaning forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees as he stared down at the ring below. Despite everything, despite knowing better, he couldn't deny it.

He missed this place.

The raw, unfiltered violence.

The deafening roar of the crowd.

The unmistakable scent of sweat, blood, and the lingering traces of alcohol hanging in the air.

There was a part of him—a deep, primal part—that still felt drawn to it.

Yet, he hated it just as much.

This place had been a cage once, an endless cycle of pain, suffering, and survival, with men like John standing above it all, pulling the strings, profiting off the blood spilled in the pit below. Seeing it thrive, seeing it expanded into something so luxurious and openly operated, made his stomach turn.

Gotham would never changed.

Just as he was about to reach for his glass again, his phone buzzed against the table, the small vibration barely audible over the noise of the arena. He picked it up and checked the screen only for a smile—a real one this time—to tug at the corner of his lips.

It was Barbara.

Unlocking his phone, he opened her message thread, eyes scanning over the texts she had just sent.

Barbara: Hey, how are u?

Barbara: The team's sad u left. Even Wally, though he'll never admit it.

Barbara: M'gann was asking if we'll see you again soon.

Barbara: Are you staying at Jason's?

Barbara: Want to come over tomorrow after school?

Barbara: Where are you?

Barbara: Are you okay?

Barbara: Sorry M'gann and Artemis were the ones asking those last questions.

Esau chuckled under his breath, shaking his head at the last message. He could practically picture Barbara glaring at them while typing that out, trying to preserve some level of privacy from her nosy teammates.

Just as he was about to type out a response, the waitress returned with his requested bottle of whiskey. But rather than simply placing it on the table and leaving, she leaned in far closer than necessary, her bare skin brushing against the back of his chair, her hand ghosting flirtatiously across his shoulders.

She smiled down at him, her lips painted with a deep crimson shade, her eyes half-lidded and inviting.

Esau didn't react.

Didn't even spare her a glance.

He just took the bottle, set it on the table, and resumed typing.

If the rejection annoyed her, she didn't show it. Instead, she simply let her fingers trail down his arm before sauntering away, her hips swaying deliberately.

Barbara's texts were far more interesting.

Esau: I'm good.

Esau: Tell the team not to get too emotional. I'll be around gotta make sure Connor doesn't get too big headed.

Esau: And yeah, I'm staying at Jason's.

Esau: Yeah, I'll come pick you up after school.

Esau: Tell them I'm fine, just having a drink.

Reaching for the expensive bottle of whiskey, he angled his phone and snapped a picture of it before attaching it to the message.

Seconds later, Barbara responded.

Barbara: Where did you get that bottle??

Barbara: Wait. Where are you?

Even though Esau couldn't see or hear her, he knew exactly what she was thinking.

She was suspicious.

After all, that wasn't the kind of whiskey you just found in a random liquor store.

Esau smirked, already knowing how to sidestep the truth.

Esau: Jason's got a nice collection. You'd be surprised.

Barbara's reply came almost instantly.

Barbara: Oh, okay. Well, don't get too drunk. You're an idiot when you drink too much.

Esau grinned, shaking his head as he typed back.

Esau: You wound me. Besides, I don't get drunk easily anymore. This is pretty much my third bottle and I'm still fine. So no chance of that happening.

A pause.

Then another message.

Barbara: Are you sure about picking me up after school tomorrow? You don't have to we can just meet at my place.

Esau arched a brow, taking another sip of whiskey as he typed.

Esau: I said I would, so I will.

Barbara didn't argue further, simply replying:

Barbara: Okay. See you tomorrow then.

Just as he was about to respond, the door to the VIP box swung open once more as John had returned. Esau took one last glance at his phone before sending a final message.

Esau: Good night, Red.

And with that, he locked his phone, his amusement fading as his focus returned to the arena.

John clapped his hands together, grinning as he settled back into his chair. "Miss me, my boy?" he asked, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Esau merely lifted his glass, taking another slow sip. "Like a hole in the head."

John settled back into his chair, his posture relaxed, but the glint in his eyes betrayed his excitement. He reached for his glass of whiskey, swirling the golden liquid before taking a slow sip, savoring the moment.

"Well, my boy," he mused, his voice slick with confidence. "I think it's about time we see if your luck holds out. Let's see if your eyes are as sharp as you think they are."

Esau barely acknowledged him, his attention already drifting toward the ring as the announcer stepped back into the center of the blood-streaked canvas. The man held the microphone with the flair of a seasoned showman, raising it high as he basked in the thunderous cheers of the crowd, his expression alight with theatrical excitement.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" He bellowed, his voice booming over the speakers, reverberating off the walls. "You've been an amazing crowd tonight, and I know you're all hungry for the main event!"

The crowd roared in approval, stamping their feet against the floor, rattling glasses on tables, and filling the underground arena with a rumbling energy.

Esau leaned forward slightly as the first fighter was introduced. "Introducing our brave contender, a man who has fought his way through blood, sweat, and broken bones to stand before you all tonight—your challenger, fighting for glory, fighting for honor—give it up for THE RIPPER!"

A man pushed through the entrance of the ring, bare-chested, his muscled frame scarred from old wounds, an indication of his experience in the pit. His shaved head gleamed under the dim lights, and his knuckles were wrapped tightly with tape, already stained with remnants of previous fights.

Esau's disappointment was immediate. His blue eyes narrowed as he took in the fighter's stance, his movements, the way his muscles tensed with barely contained adrenaline. The Ripper was good—great even—but he was nothing special.

John, watching Esau closely, let out a knowing chuckle. "Something wrong?" he asked, feigning concern. "Not impressed?"

Esau exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "I thought we were building up to something big, but this guy is no different from the others. He's tough, sure, but nothing I haven't seen before."

John merely smirked, leaning in slightly. "Oh, don't you worry, my boy. You're about to see something special. Just wait."

The announcer lifted his microphone once more, drawing the moment out, letting the anticipation build like a coiled spring. Then, his voice boomed across the arena, dripping with dramatic fervor. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the moment you've all been waiting for!"

The crowd exploded, deafening cheers shaking the very walls of the building.

The announcer grinned, his energy contagious, feeding the crowd's excitement. "He is undefeated! He is unrelenting! A man whose name has become LEGEND within these walls! The master of the ring! The butcher of champions! The KING of the underground! The one! The only! BRONZE TIGER!!!"

A figure emerged from the shadows.

Esau's entire body tensed instinctively.

From the moment he laid eyes on the man, he knew that he was different.

The sheer presence of Bronze Tiger was overwhelming.

A towering, muscular frame, built like a living weapon, yet moving with the predatory grace of a jungle beast. His skin was a deep, rich brown, his body littered with faint scars, remnants of battles hard-fought and won. A black and orange tiger-stripe pattern was painted across his chest, matching the fierce, primal aura that radiated off him. Around his neck hung a necklace of sharp, white fangs, resting just above his collarbone, a silent declaration of his status as an apex predator.

But it was his face—his eyes—that sent a deep chill through Esau's spine.

They glowed with a dangerous, unyielding intensity, the eyes of a killer, of a warrior who had long since mastered the art of combat. His brow was scarred and hardened, his jaw set with an unwavering confidence that came only from men who knew exactly how deadly they were.

His hands were wrapped in fingerless combat gloves, reinforced with metal studs across the knuckles. Each movement was calculated, every step deliberate, controlled, as if he was a caged tiger that could unleash his full fury at any second.

Esau's stomach tightened.

This man wasn't just strong.

He was dangerous.

The announcer exited the ring, calling out the rules as he went. "No weapons! However, if the referee fails to detect a weapon before the fight starts, then it is considered fair game. Other than that—anything goes!"

The crowd roared in approval, eager for the violence that was about to unfold.

The bell rang and Bronze Tiger moved first.

In the blink of an eye, he closed the distance between himself and The Ripper, his speed unnatural for a man of his size. Before The Ripper could react, Bronze Tiger ducked under his opening punch, his body moving with a fluidity that defied logic.

Then, with a single lightning-fast strike, he snapped his opponent's arm like a twig. The sickening crack echoed through the arena, silencing the crowd for a moment before a wave of cheers erupted.

The Ripper screamed, stumbling back, but Bronze Tiger didn't let him. He pounced with brutal precision, driving a kick into The Ripper's knee, folding it inward at an unnatural angle. Another snap rang followed by agonised wail.

The challenger collapsed, crippled, eyes wide with sheer agony but Bronze Tiger didn't even hesitate.

He grabbed the back to The Ripper's head in one hand, his grip like an iron vice, and with a single devastating punch, he caved the man's head into the canvas.

The Ripper went limp instantly.

Unconscious.

Defeated.

Broken.

The fight had lasted less than fifteen seconds.

The crowd exploded, their cheers shaking the very foundation of the building. The announcer practically screeched into his microphone, declaring Bronze Tiger as the undisputed victor.

But the man himself?

He didn't even acknowledge it.

Bronze Tiger simply turned and walked out of the ring, ignoring the crowd, ignoring the cheers, ignoring everything. His expression never changed. No victory pose. No showboating. Just unshaken, unwavering and terrifying confidence.

Esau sat completely still, his fingers gripping his whiskey glass far too tightly.

His mind was racing, processing what he had just seen.

John leaned in, that damned smirk widening.

"So…still disappointed?"

Esau didn't answer.

He couldn't.