Godfather Owl: Guardian of Batman

Bruce's idyllic life unfolded scene by scene before Kathoom's eyes.

The transitions were rapid, like watching a dull family drama. Ten years in the dream flew by in the blink of an eye, though to Kathoom, it felt like barely twenty minutes.

An eighteen-year-old Bruce Wayne, with both parents alive, had taken a completely different path.

Or perhaps, not so different.

Bruce Wayne still looked every bit the wealthy heir, only now without the core identity of Batman.

His daily routine consisted of driving luxury cars, drinking fine wine, flaunting his wealth, and partying with supermodels.

Kathoom was bored to tears.

Gotham City had effectively become Bruce Wayne's playground.

He drove past the poor on the streets, their lives so far removed from his own, they might as well have been from another world.

Gotham remained the same—a city plagued by crime. Bruce couldn't understand why people resorted to robbery, smuggling, murder, and arson.

Why not just enjoy life like he did?

Kathoom began to think that perhaps this was Bruce's destiny.

Protected by his parents, he had grown into the son of Wayne Enterprises, not the son of Gotham.

---

Screech—

In the early morning, the sound of tires screeched to a halt outside Wayne Manor. Bruce stepped out of the car, tossing the keys to Alfred.

"Park it in the garage for me, Alfred."

Alfred caught the keys without complaint. He wasn't worried about Bruce's hedonistic lifestyle—he was more afraid of Bruce suddenly wanting to prove something.

That would be far more troublesome than the current situation.

"Mother, I'm home!"

Bruce's voice echoed through the manor as he tossed his coat to a maid and bounded up the stairs.

Once in his room, he collapsed face-first onto the bed, exhausted and nursing a faint ache in his lower back, and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

When he woke up, it was already dusk.

The massive room was eerily silent, with Bruce lying alone in the dim light streaming through the curtains. The stillness contrasted sharply with the golden glow of the setting sun.

A sudden wave of profound loneliness swept over him.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, unwilling to move.

What was the point of getting up?

It would just be the same mechanical cycle of indulgence and endless emptiness.

And his back still hurt.

His eyes fell on a stack of newspapers on the bedside table. It was something his father, Thomas, had arranged for him to read to stay informed about current events—but Bruce had never touched them.

This time, though, almost on a whim, he reached for one and began flipping through it.

The news about a few colorful vigilantes recently appearing in Gotham caught his attention.

Bruce read the articles like they were short stories, amused by their absurdity.

"That's so stupid!"

He scoffed at a report about a vigilante losing track of a criminal who had blended into a crowd.

A solution sprang to mind instantly.

"Just round up everyone there and interrogate them one by one."

Another story detailed a vigilante being sued for excessive force, leaving a criminal with life-threatening injuries and incurring massive medical bills.

"Another idiot," Bruce muttered. "Wear a mask and keep your identity a secret—who can sue you then?"

He even read about a vigilante mocked by criminals for wearing a ridiculous, garishly colored uniform.

"Black! You have to wear black!"

Glaring at the red-and-green outfit in the photo, Bruce dismissed it as performance art.

"You need something intimidating, something unforgettable—not something that makes people laugh!"

As he read, he couldn't stop himself from criticizing aloud. By the end, he had flung the newspapers to the floor in frustration.

Were these people vigilantes or circus clowns?

How could their actions be so laughable?

If it were me—

Bruce froze.

If it were me?

Why was he entertaining such an absurd thought?

Though he wouldn't admit it aloud, the idea of becoming a vigilante had planted itself in his mind like a seed.

One day, perhaps, that seed would bloom.

---

The turning point Kathoom had been waiting for arrived on an otherwise unremarkable evening.

Bruce eventually chose the path of becoming a vigilante—a superhero.

He began prowling the streets at night, taking on visible crimes.

After a few successful encounters, his actions started gaining attention, fueling his determination to continue his mission.

The Wayne couple soon noticed a change in their son. The once self-indulgent Bruce had become disciplined, rigorous, and eager to learn new skills.

Initially, Bruce's outfit was a simple black mask and clothing—he looked more like a robber than a hero.

Eventually, he realized this wasn't the right image and decided to design a proper uniform.

For inspiration, Bruce chose the owl.

He believed that on that fateful night when he was eight years old, it was seeing the owl that allowed him and his parents to safely leave the alley.

Kathoom kept a watchful eye on him all the while.

Even without external pressure, Bruce had chosen the path of a hero, proving himself worthy of Kathoom's trust.

Because deep down, Bruce was inherently just and kind.

"It's about time to wake him up," Kathoom muttered. "Otherwise—"

The owl sighed. "Something big will happen."

---

Over time, Bruce—now the neighborhood Owlman—began to notice troubling patterns.

Gotham's crime seemed endless, constantly growing and never ceasing.

The harder he fought, the deeper he sank into the city's mire.

And the dangers kept closing in on him. Bruce grew increasingly fearful.

He realized that as he delved deeper into Gotham's underworld, he was amassing more enemies.

The pressure became unbearable.

"No!!"

Bruce jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat.

He had just had a nightmare.

In his dream, his identity was exposed, leading to his parents' brutal murder.

Without a second thought, Bruce leapt out of bed and opened a hidden compartment in his wardrobe.

He pulled out his black uniform and, in a frenzy, tore it to shreds.

"I have a great life. I have people I love. I can't lose it all!"

Panting heavily, he spoke to himself, each word deliberate and firm.

"I won't be a hero anymore! I'll just be Bruce Wayne! To hell with Gotham—it has nothing to do with me!"

As the words left his mouth, Bruce felt a strange shift.

It was as if the entire world paused for a moment, then resumed its flow.

And with it came his worst fear.

Outside the manor, flames erupted, accompanied by the crack of gunfire—a declaration of their arrival.

Bruce rushed to the window and looked down. A group of black-clad intruders had breached the manor grounds. Alfred lay at their feet, bleeding.

"No!!"

Bruce screamed in anguish.

But this was only the beginning. The intruders weren't there to stop at Alfred.

Father… Mother…

Realization dawned on Bruce, and he bolted out of the room, desperate to stop what was unfolding.

But it was too late.

Blood—two pools of crimson blood spread across the grand hall.

Thomas and Martha lay lifeless on the ground, a shadowy figure standing over their bodies, back turned to Bruce.

"No!!!"

Bruce's eyes burned red with rage as he lost all reason.

He charged at the figure, driven by a primal need for vengeance.

But with a mere gesture, the figure sent Bruce flying across the room.

He got up again and again, only to be struck down each time, until he could no longer stand.

"Damn it! Damn it all!"

Bruce roared in helpless fury. "Body, I command you to stand up and avenge my parents!!!"

His voice was a mix of anger, despair, and… a plea.

But he couldn't rise.

A pampered eighteen-year-old, even with some training, was no match for a true adversary.

"Does it hurt?"

The figure finally spoke.

Bruce froze. That voice—it was disturbingly familiar.

The figure stepped out of the shadows, revealing his face.

Bruce was stunned.

The figure was his exact double.

"I once felt the same pain as you," the other Bruce said coldly.

"But that pain became my greatest source of strength."

The double's icy gaze bore into him.

"Bruce, you should never have said Gotham has nothing to do with you!"

Bruce's pupils shrank in shock.

Those were his own words—how could this figure know?

Flap flap flap—

The sound of wings broke the tension as Kathoom landed beside Bruce.

"Ah, I'm still too late."

His gaze toward Bruce was tinged with guilt. "I'm sorry for making you witness this again."

"Kathoom?"

Suddenly, Bruce recognized the owl.

His real memories surged back, and he reverted to his twelve-year-old self.

In that instant, the entire manor dissolved into nothingness. The corpses of Thomas and Martha vanished, leaving only Bruce and Kathoom.

"Who… was that?"

Bruce asked, still shaken. Even knowing it was a dream, seeing his parents die again was unbearable.

"That was you," Kathoom replied. "Or rather, your subconscious."

Bruce didn't understand.

The owl elaborated, "Bruce, you still don't fully understand yourself or the importance of Gotham to you.

"In the dream, you could have your parents, live a life of comfort, and even forgo being a hero. But you cannot abandon your home.

"This dream offered you falsehoods, leading your heart astray and tempting you to forsake Gotham.

"When that happened, your subconscious stepped in to correct you."

Kathoom's gaze was tinged with sorrow, as though he had glimpsed Bruce's future.

"You would rather destroy the version of yourself that could have been happy than abandon Gotham.

"Bruce, ask yourself.

"What does Gotham truly mean to you?"

Bruce stood, his strength restored by the realization it was all a dream.

Placing a hand over his heart, tears streamed down his face.

What did Gotham mean to Bruce?

"Nothing," he whispered.

Then, louder: "Nothing."

And yet, everything.

---

Oh, hey there, Trave-

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