"What's this about you leaving?" Zatanna demanded as she burst into Bruce's room. She floundered a moment, her irritation gone, when she saw Bruce wasn't wearing a shirt and beheld the numerous scars and burns across his chest, back, and arms. "What happened to you?"

"Training," Bruce answered simply.

"You let someone do that to you?" she asked, completely horrified.

"Only some of them," Bruce admitted. "I did the others."

"Why?" she questioned in disbelief.

"Injuries are common in a fight," Bruce explained. "If you're unprepared for the pain of them, they can also be debilitating. By experiencing burns, welts, broken bones, gunshots, as well as lacerations from knives, I'm able to not be as hampered by them when I get them in an actual fight."

"That's insane," Zatanna said.

"It's been a training technique in many different ancient cultures," Bruce defended. "It's not insanity, merely very strong determination. If you want something bad enough, how far would you go to get it?"

"I understand," Zatanna said as she compared Bruce's determination to her own. "You want to learn defense techniques as much as I want to learn the magical abilities of my family. I know what it's like to reach for something you desperately want."

"I'm sorry I can't stay longer," Bruce apologized after a momentary pause. He did regret leaving, but his training required it. His eyes pleaded with her for understanding in regard to what had become a personal obsession.

"It's alright," Zatanna accepted. "I don't like it, but I'll live. At least allow me a parting gift."

Bruce had no idea what she was talking about. Zatanna didn't wait for his response. She placed both hands against his muscular chest and began whispering. Her hands glowed with violet energy, and the mist of purple spread out from them to envelop Bruce in a cocoon of ghostly light. The scars and burns marking his skin from years of violent training faded away until all of them were gone. Her work completed, Zatanna lowered her hands and dispelled the magic around them with a flick of her wrists.

"Impressive," Bruce marveled.

"My dad taught me," Zatanna told him. "After what we went through, and your advice to me about discipline, Dad has agreed to start training me in a few things I can use for defense and healing."

"That's great," Bruce said. "You'll make an excellent magician."

"In time," Zatanna countered. The realization Bruce had given her about the dangers of her own powers still lingered in Zatanna's mind, and it tempered her eagerness with caution. She wouldn't rush into training or go further than her father was willing to teach. "I hope you find what you're looking for out there in the world."

"Thanks," Bruce accepted. "I'll miss you and your family."

Zatanna suddenly stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a hug. "If you ever need any more repairs, or just need a friend, look us up."

"I will," Bruce promised, returning the hug.

                                                                                               ***

Bruce exited the car and looked at the hotel where he and Alfred would be staying until such a time as they managed to find a suitable instructor for Bruce's continued training.

The sun was shining brightly overhead, and an easy wind drifted among the trees, gently rustling the canopy. The sound reminded Bruce of flowing water, calm and soothing. Being located away from the major cities, the hotel was surrounded by lush vegetation, and only a gravel road led up to the front entrance.

The distance from the city allowed the hotel to maintain its decidedly unique architecture whereas the more modern hotels in the city were steel, glass, and concrete skyscrapers. The sides of the hotel were done in a light tan of natural wood covered over in layers of clear, protective lacquer. The second floor had a balcony, trimmed with a railing of vivid red. The triangular and sharply pointed roof above the second floor was a slate gray, and a secondary roof, identical to the one above in design and color, extended out from underneath the balcony. The form of the square hotel had the appearance of two buildings stacked perfectly one on top of the other.

Bruce had selected the hotel himself as he wanted to avoid any publicity and attention the arrival of the last surviving member of the Wayne family might cause if he were to stay somewhere more public. They'd arrived by private plane and used a rental car to drive miles away from almost everywhere. The remoteness of the hotel made Bruce wonder how it stayed in business.

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a hotel further from civilization?" Alfred inquired sarcastically as he exited the rental car and came around to join Bruce near the entrance.

"This one's fine, Alfred," Bruce confirmed. "The dojo where I wish to be trained is a few miles away, and we need someplace to stay before my meeting to see if I'm worthy to join."

"A mere formality, Master Bruce," Alfred dismissed.

"Formality is a big deal in Japan," Bruce reminded. "This dojo isn't for just anybody. They have a small number of students, and each one is carefully picked. If I don't meet their standards, I don't get in."

"Don't worry, Master Bruce," Alfred said. "You'll be fine."

"I hope so," Bruce responded. "Let's check in before I leave for my interview at the dojo."

                                                                                             ***

Bruce knelt on the bamboo mats, his legs folded underneath him while he rested on his heels. He kept his face neutral, a benefit of his extensive discipline training, but his heart was pounding in his ears. He had studied the information about many different places where he could learn the best techniques, and he had decided on this dojo, but it remained to be seen if they would allow him to enter, or if this room would be as far as he would be able to go.

The room was simple yet artistic. Shoji screens composed the doors and some of the walls. Made of translucent paper covered over by horizontal and vertical slats at evenly divided intervals, the screens were composed of perfectly square sections where the exterior sunlight could shine through even when closed. The brightness of the light streaming through the paper appeared greater because of the chocolate color of the dark wood framework.

Identical colors and patterns were used throughout the room. The pillars supporting the roof along the edges of the room were dark brown wood, dividing the walls into large squares. A similar pattern replayed on the ceiling where narrow slats of the same dark brown wood created a grid of smaller squares. Three box lanterns hung down from the ceiling. They were constructed from the same wood and translucent white paper as the shoji screens, making the cube shaped lanterns integrate perfectly with the style and form of the room in which they had been hung.

Kneeling on the opposite side of a low table, an older man occasionally glanced at Bruce but kept his gaze mostly focused on the papers on the table. A beard and mustache of pure white completely hid his mouth from view. He had bushy eyebrows above a perceptive gaze. The hair remaining on his otherwise bald scalp encompassed the back and sides in a wide strip.

The man wore a white uwagi, the upper part of a keikogi. A keikogi was the standard attire for most practitioners of martial arts, and it usually included the shitabaki, a set of matching pants. Unlike those who were in training, the man kneeling opposite him wore striped hakama. The stiff material of the wide trousers was tied at the waist and colored in alternating stripes of black and navy blue. Seven deep pleats marked the garment, three on the right, two on the left, and the remaining two in back. Bruce had read online the pleats were said to represent the seven virtues of bushido, the code of the samurai.

The older man kneeling in front of Bruce was the sensei, the instructor of the dojo. If Bruce was to train here, it was strictly the decision of the sensei. For ten minutes, Bruce and the sensei had neither moved nor spoke, and the sensei only occasionally looked up, as if checking to be sure Bruce hadn't given up and left. Bruce understood he was being tested for patience as well as his willingness to wait on his instructor. Since he'd learned such disciplines years earlier, Bruce focused on his breathing and waited.

"Why do you wish to train here?" the sensei questioned in accented English.  He didn't look up at Bruce, merely asking his question casually while still examining the papers in front of him.

"Western society has only learned some of the martial sciences," Bruce explained. "Most of what they teach was created here. Why learn from students when you can learn from the originators?"

"It does not answer my question," the sensei said in an even tone, his voice betraying no emotion. "Why have you come here? For what purpose will you use this knowledge?"

"Defense," Bruce answered simply.

"It has been said the best defense is a good offense," the sensei reminded. "What one learns to defend could easily be adapted for aggression. For what reason do you need to learn such knowledge?"

Bruce swallowed hard as the painful memories returned to his mind.

"My parents were murdered in front of me," Bruce said, working hard not to flinch as he heard in his mind the gunshots responsible for killing his parents being replayed. "The murderer nearly killed me too, but ran away when witnesses approached. Since then, I've been training. A recent mugging nearly cost me my life, and it made it clear I needed more training. It is for this reason alone I have come here."

The sensei set down the papers and looked Bruce up and down, evaluating him.

"Anata ga Nihon o rikai shite imasu ka?" the sensei inquired in his native language.

Bruce had taken a few online courses, so he knew enough to understand he'd been asked if he understood Japanese. He answered that he understood only a little. "Sukoshidake."

"Very well," the sensei replied in English. "It seems you have much to learn while you train here. You may call me Yuro Sensei; I will be your instructor."

"Domo arigato, Sensei." Bruce expressed his thanks in Japanese as a way to show the full measure of his gratitude while honoring the man who'd welcomed him, bowing low in respect as he said the words.

                                                                                         ***

Yuro Sensei led Bruce into a larger version of the previous room they'd been in. Waiting in two rows, the current class of a dozen students knelt on the bamboo mats of the floor while waiting silently for their sensei's return. They were attired in the white keikogi robes standard for trainees in martial sciences.

"This is Bruce Wayne," Yuro Sensei introduced. "He will be joining the class."

"Rich boy," one of the students grumbled loud enough to be heard.

Bruce was slightly surprised his name would be known even in the distant reaches of Japan. He did well hiding his reaction.

Yuro Sensei took a step toward the students and rested his steely gaze upon each of them in turn. When he spoke, his voice was calm and measured, betraying no emotion. "If any of you think Wayne-san has joined the dojo because of his money, you declare this dojo to be up for sale. At best, we are mercenaries, and at worst, we are harlots, selling our services for money. If that is what you think of this dojo and of me, you may leave."

No one tried to depart, but the student who had made the snide remark bowed low and offered an apology in Japanese for his careless words.

"Wayne-san has earned his place here as much as any of you, and I will hear no words against him any more than I would hear words against you," Yuro Sensei told the class.

Bruce felt truly honored to be a part of this respected dojo and to study under the instruction of Yuro Sensei. The defense of his inclusion also filled Bruce with a strong determination not to fail Yuro Sensei. Bruce would do everything he could to make certain his new instructor did not regret his generosity toward him. He took his place among the kneeling students, mentally preparing for the most intensive training he had yet to experience.