Batman 5 - Batman Begins by Dennis O'Neil

have purged your fear. You are ready to lead these men. You are ready to become a member of the League of Shadows.”
    Rā’s again struck his palms together, not in applause but command. Two ninjas dragged the portly, frightened prisoner from a doorway and shoved him down next to the brazier. Bruce recognized him immediately: the farmer, the murderer who had been caged.
    Rā’s pointed a thin, straight finger at the prisoner and spoke. Ducard translated: “First you must demonstrate your commitment to justice.”
    Ducard handed Bruce a sword. Bruce looked at the prisoner, whose eyes were pleading pools of terror.
    “No,” Bruce said, addressing Rā’s. “I am not an executioner.”
    Ducard said, “Your compassion is a weakness your enemies will not share.”
    “That’s why it’s so important. It separates me from them.”
    “You want to fight criminals. This man is a murderer.”
    “This man should be tried.”
    “By whom?” Ducard demanded. “Corrupt bureaucrats? Criminals mock society’s laws. You know this better than most.”
    Rā’s al Ghūl stepped forward and in thickly accented English said, “You cannot lead men unless you are prepared to do what is necessary to defeat evil.”
    “Where would I be leading these men?” Bruce asked him.
    “Gotham City. As Gotham City’s favorite son you will be ideally placed to strike at the heart of criminality.”
    “How?”
    “Gotham City’s time has come. Like Constantinople or Rome before it—grounds for suffering and injustice—it is beyond saving and must be allowed to die . . . This is the most important function of the League of Shadows. It is one we have performed for centuries. Gotham City must be destroyed.”
    Bruce turned to Ducard. “You can’t believe this.”
    “Rā’s al Ghūl has rescued us from the darkest corners of our own hearts,” Ducard replied. “What he asks in return is the courage to do what is necessary.”
    Bruce said, “I’ll go back to Gotham. And I’ll fight men like this. But I won’t be an executioner.”
    Ducard’s reply was whispered, almost a plea: “Wayne, for your own sake . . . there is no turning back . . .”
    Bruce raised his sword. The prisoner raised his gaze to Bruce and his lips moved soundlessly.
    Bruce struck downward, his blade missing the prisoner’s neck by inches and hitting the white-hot branding iron, flipping it off the brazier. It arced high into the air and spun into the door of the room where explosives were stored. The door instantly smoldered and tiny tongues of flame appeared where the iron had struck.
    “What are you doing?” Ducard shouted.
    “What’s necessary,” Bruce said and hit Ducard’s head with the flat of his sword.
    Rā’s al Ghūl had a Chinese sword in his hands almost instantly. He thrust at Bruce and Bruce deflected the blade with his own. Bruce returned the attack, driving Rā’s backward and off the platform.
    An explosion shook the hall and flaming debris spouted from the explosives room.
    Rā’s ignored the fire and noise and renewed his assault. Bruce’s eyes stung and he coughed; he could barely see Rā’s through the smoke. He was aware of men running past him, scrambling toward the doors. But he dared not join them: the moment he turned his back, he knew, Rā’s would kill him.
    For an instant, fear intruded into Bruce’s consciousness: This is Rā’s al Ghūl! This is the master! I cannot possibly defeat him!
    But even as this thought flitted across his mind, Bruce knew it was wrong. The man before him was formidable, true, but only highly skilled, not superhuman. Bruce had fought tougher opponents, Ducard among them. Perhaps Rā’s had erected a reputation and was hiding behind it. Perhaps it was more illusion than reality.
    Then Bruce stopped thinking and again became one with the moment.
    He blinked and saw Rā’s again charging at him. A second explosion shook the hall and suddenly a slab of roof, fully ablaze, fell onto Rā’s, burying