People often use many words to describe a beautiful house.
For example: magnificent, resplendent.
They tend to reach for elegant vocabulary to capture a home's grandeur and luxury.
But deep down, what most people are really thinking is simple: This house is f*cking huge.
"This house is f*cking huge."
Walking into Wayne Manor, which looked more like a castle built in the eighteenth century, Jack couldn't help but mutter those words.
Stepping on the smooth floor made of who-knows-what, he looked around with awe.
Chandeliers glowed overhead with countless bulbs, illuminating expensive oil paintings hanging on pristine walls. Not a speck of dust was visible. He didn't even have to worry about getting his cloak dirty—because the floors were spotless.
A thin, dry-looking old man in a well-tailored black suit appeared out of nowhere. He was holding two cups of coffee and looked directly at Jack.
"Master Bruce, a guest has arrived."
Bruce didn't respond at first. He removed his mask, revealing a slightly haggard young face. He walked over and sank heavily into the sofa.
"Alfred, dig up the grave of my great-great-grandfather, Alan Wayne."
Alfred's hand trembled slightly as he held the coffee. His face reflected concern.
"Master Bruce, I don't understand."
The man who had watched Bruce grow up now feared he was losing his mind. Bruce wasn't just torturing himself anymore—he was now aiming to disturb the dead ancestors of the Wayne family.
"I need to confirm something," Bruce said coldly, glancing at Jack.
After driving away the Claw, Jack—still mysterious in many ways—had brought a load of startling information.
Apparently, the Court of Owls had long had their claws buried deep within buildings constructed by the Wayne Group.
That included his great-great-grandfather Alan Wayne, whose official cause of death was falling into an uncovered underground tunnel.
But Jack claimed it was murder—by the Claw.
Inside the Batcave.
Far above, bats hung upside down from the rocky dome, their tiny eyes shut.
Below, a pile of broken human bones lay under the watch of sophisticated instruments. Infrared beams scanned across them, and a cold mechanical voice echoed across the vast cave:
[Detecting...]
Bruce silently watched as Jack casually reached out and crushed a piece of alloy in his hand like it was paper.
"You should really consider upgrading your base's defenses," Jack said, nonchalant as ever.
Taking the coffee Alfred handed him, Jack nodded politely and asked if dinner could be arranged. He was quite polite for someone who could destroy metal with his fingers.
"I've done what you asked," Bruce said.
He placed a stack of printed documents on Jack's table.
"There's only one person who looks like you. A college student named Clark from Kansas."
"He just graduated and is now working as an intern reporter at a newspaper in Metropolis."
Bruce fixed his steely blue eyes on Jack.
"But you're younger than him. Much younger."
"Actually, he's my half-brother—from different parents," Jack replied, putting on a pitiful face.
The next moment, his entire appearance changed.
He turned into Bruce.
Same face. Same deep-set eyes. Same tired look. Jack met Bruce's gaze, mirroring him exactly.
"Including you, Bruce. You're also my brother."
Bruce didn't react outwardly. But internally, he was noting something crucial: Jack could change his appearance at will.
Was it magic?
Advanced disguise tech?
Or facial muscle manipulation?
Too little information to draw conclusions.
Jack soon returned to his original form. But it wasn't a transformation in the traditional sense. Instead, he used a biological force field—projecting whatever appearance he wanted others to see.
That explains why no one ever recognizes Clark Kent when he's wearing glasses.
Jack picked up the document again. A young, nerdy-looking man with glasses smiled back at the camera.
"Well, I got what I came for," Jack said, tossing the file aside and looking around the Batcave once more.
"Bruce, they're here."
Bruce's heart skipped.
"Impossible. Wayne Manor's defense systems are active. Thermal imaging hasn't detected anything."
"Sometimes, Bruce," Jack said, "ears are more reliable than machines."
"I heard the soft rustle of their clothing. I heard footsteps on the lawn."
Bruce's eyes narrowed.
"So you sent Alfred away?"
"Yes. Your butler is rather useful," Jack replied, casually leaping onto the second-floor iron railing.
"If you die, he's mine."
Bruce didn't respond. He grabbed his mask from the table and pulled it over his head.
There was a sense of calm in Jack's tone. Too calm. He wasn't surprised or even concerned—he was watching events unfold like an amused spectator.
"Batman," a hoarse voice echoed from the darkness.
"The Court of Owls sentences you to death!"
Dozens—no, hundreds—of scarlet eyes filled the Batcave's entrance.
Batman's grappling hook fired. He launched himself to the second floor just in time, kicking a Claw assassin that attempted to follow.
The battle erupted instantly.
No ceremony. No buildup. Just chaos.
The Claw Assassins weren't martial artists—they were killers, trained to kill with brutal efficiency. Meanwhile, Batman had to abide by his no-kill rule.
He was constantly on defense.
Blades flew. Armor tore. Blood spilled.
Yet Batman was still Batman.
Like Jackie Chan in a warehouse brawl, he improvised constantly—swinging from rafters, smashing gadgets, redirecting weapons.
At one point, he even lifted an old TV from the second floor and dropped it onto a wave of assassins climbing the ledge, knocking them down like bowling pins.
It was a chaotic, wild free-for-all.
Knives, swords, tables, chairs—everything flew.
Jack observed it all, arms folded, amused.
He had to admit—his respect for Batman had gone up a notch.
If it were him, he would've vaporized all these fools with heat vision five minutes ago.
BANG!
A stray shot hit Batman in the leg. He stumbled, kneeling in pain.
The Claw Assassins swarmed him immediately, pinning him to the ground.
"Batman, we love killing Waynes," one of them sneered, raising a throwing knife and pressing it under his chin.
"Don't worry. Once you're dead, everyone in this manor will be buried with you."
"Including him?"
Batman pointed toward Jack.
"That's my brother. Kill me, and he'll avenge me."
"The Court of Owls does not fear revenge."
The assassin threw several knives at Jack without warning.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The blades bounced off Jack's chest and neck, as if hitting steel.
Sparks flew in every direction, illuminating his calm, confused face.
"Wait, what the hell does this have to do with me?"
Jack looked down, genuinely surprised.
The Claw Assassins stared up at him with growing hostility, blades drawn again.
"Witnesses die."
Jack sighed.
"Alright. You asked for it."
He stepped forward, and suddenly—red light surged in his eyes, illuminating the entire second floor.
"Gentlemen," Jack said, voice suddenly cold, "what happens next is simple."
"Prepare to die."