"There are blows that end wars and there are blows that end belief."
---
The night was alive with rain and fear. Gotham's docks. Ince a lifeline of trade had become a graveyard of metal and shadow.
Floodlights cut through the storm, glinting off the crates stacked like tombstones. Armed men in black moved between them, silent, methodical, cruel.
In the center stood Roman Sionis, the Black Mask, watching from beneath his namesake.
And at his feet…
Three children.
Each one trembling, each one wearing a vest laced with explosives.
He smirked beneath his mask, pressing the detonator in his gloved hand. "Come out, King. Let's see if your legend bleeds."
The wind shifted.
Somewhere beyond the docks, a single step echoed.
Thump.
The guards froze. A presence rolled over them like gravity itself tightening its grip. The air grew thick—heavy—like the atmosphere was holding its breath.
Another step.
Thump.
Then, through the haze of rain and smoke, he appeared.
King.
No mask, no armor. Just a man.
Yet every drop of rain seemed to bend away from him.
He walked through the floodlights, unhurried. Bullets fired and stopped, flattening harmlessly against his chest, dropping to the ground like dead insects.
Sionis laughed nervously. "You think your strength scare me? You think I'm bluffing?"
King didn't answer. His eyes flicked to the children then back to Sionis.
"Release them."
"Or what?" Sionis barked. "You kill me, they go with me. My thumb's on the—"
He never finished. King moved. Not fast, not flashy but with absolute certainty.
One second, he was ten feet away.
The next, he had the detonator in his hand, crushed into dust.
The thugs didn't even see it happen. They only saw the look in their boss's eyes. Pure shock and animalistic fear.
King turned, kneeling beside the smallest child. "You're safe now."
His voice was calm. Grounded.
The bomb's timer flickered, then went dark, the circuits shorting out with a faint hum as King's aura shimmered faintly around it. It wasn't magic, it wasn't technology. It was just intent made manifest.
All three children were freed in seconds. He ushered them behind a cargo crate. "Stay low. Don't look back."
Then he rose.
Thunder rolled. The King Engine began to beat.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Even the rain paused between the pulses.
Sionis backed away, gun shaking in his hand. "You— you don't scare me! You think Gotham runs on fear? Gotham runs on me! I own this city!"
King looked at him, and for the first time, the calm slipped into something colder.
"No, Roman. Gotham runs on suffering and tonight… it stops."
The Punch
Cameras from the nearby news drone zoomed in, broadcasting live. The entire city watched as the storm reached its peak. Lightning tearing across the skyline like veins of wrath.
King drew in a slow breath. The wind howled. The King Engine thundered once more.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
He clenched his fist.
And with a motion almost too quiet for what it caused, he punched.
A flash.
A ripple of energy tore through the air. Soundless, brilliant, absolute.
The shockwave hit like the wrath of heaven.
The docks erupted in light. Containers atomized. Steel bent, water evaporated. And where Black Mask stood… nothing remained.
No ashes. No trace. Only silence and light.
The clouds parted.
The storm was gone.
The moon hung over Gotham like a witness.
King stood at the center of a circular crater, steam rising around him. The rain dared not fall near him anymore.
From the rooftops, Nightwing, Batwoman and Robin watched in stunned silence.
"He… vaporized him." Kate whispered.
Nightwing swallowed hard. "With one punch."
Damian's voice was small. "Did… did he even try?"
None of them answered.
On a nearby monitor, Commissioner Gordon watched the live feed, hand gripping his radio. "He just ended the war… but at what cost?"
King looked up at the hovering drone camera.
His voice, calm and absolute, carried through the feed:
"Tell them… the war is over."
Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing against the waterlogged steel. Behind him, the waves slowly began to move again—as though the ocean itself had been waiting for his permission.
Days later, across Gotham, crime rates plummeted to record lows. Gangs went silent. The city breathed differently as though afraid to exhale too loudly.
In a small tattoo parlor lit by soft pink neon, Harley Quinn leaned over a client's arm. Her hands were steady, her focus pure.
The design bloomed under her needle. A cascade of intricate flowers, vines twining into a single line of script:
"We are what we choose to rise from."
She smiled faintly. "Ain't that the truth?"
Read 15 chapters ahead on P.A.T.R.E.O.N
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