Forged in Darkness: The Training of Xero Mou

The training began almost immediately after Deathstroke took Xero into his care. From the tender age of five, Deathstroke subjected Xero to grueling physical and mental exercises, pushing the limits of his endurance and testing the depths of his resolve.

Each day began with a series of intense workouts designed to strengthen Xero's body and hone his combat skills. Under Deathstroke's watchful eye, Xero endured hours of rigorous training, his muscles straining and his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion and beyond.

But it was not just physical strength that Deathstroke sought to cultivate in his young charge. He also instilled in Xero a ruthless determination, a willingness to do whatever it took to achieve his goals. Through a series of brutal sparring matches and combat simulations, Deathstroke taught Xero the art of war, instilling in him the skills and instincts of a seasoned warrior.

And yet, despite the harshness of his training, Xero showed a remarkable aptitude for combat, his movements fluid and precise, his reflexes lightning-fast. It was as if he had been born for this life, his body and mind perfectly suited to the demands of battle.

But as the years passed and Xero grew older, Deathstroke's training regimen only grew more intense. He pushed Xero harder and harder, driving him to the very limits of his endurance in a relentless pursuit of perfection.

Yet, amidst the chaos and brutality of their training sessions, there were moments of clarity and insight, fleeting glimpses of the man Xero was destined to become. For in those rare moments of stillness, Deathstroke would impart upon Xero the wisdom of a lifetime of experience, sharing with him the secrets of combat and strategy that had served him well throughout his long and storied career.

But for all his skill and prowess, there was one lesson that Deathstroke drilled into Xero above all others—the importance of control. For it was control that separated the true warriors from the mere soldiers, control over one's emotions, one's actions, and one's destiny.

And so, Deathstroke taught Xero to harness the power of his invulnerability, to use it to his advantage in combat and to protect himself from harm. But he also warned Xero of the dangers of complacency, of relying too heavily on his powers and neglecting the skills and instincts that had brought him this far.

But perhaps the most crucial lesson that Deathstroke imparted upon Xero was the importance of his Achilles heel—the soft flesh of his armpit that remained vulnerable even in the face of his invulnerability. For it was here that Deathstroke implanted a micro taser, a device capable of delivering a debilitating shock with the flick of a switch.

And so, as Xero grew stronger and more skilled with each passing day, he also grew more aware of the fragile balance of power that existed between himself and his mentor. For though Deathstroke was a formidable warrior in his own right, he was also a man driven by his own desires and ambitions, a man who would stop at nothing to achieve his goals.

As Xero's training with Deathstroke continued, so too did his descent into darkness. No longer a mere child, but a weapon honed to a deadly edge, Xero embarked on a series of missions that showcased his newfound skills and ruthless efficiency.

At the tender age of eight, Xero was already a seasoned operative, his youthful appearance belying the cold determination that burned within him. Under Deathstroke's guidance, he undertook missions of espionage, sabotage, and assassination, each one executed with ruthless precision.

One such mission took him deep into the heart of enemy territory, where he was tasked with infiltrating a heavily fortified compound and eliminating a high-value target. With Deathstroke's training echoing in his ears, Xero moved with the stealth and grace of a shadow, slipping past guards and security measures with ease.

When he finally reached his target, there was no hesitation, no mercy. With a swift and decisive blow, Xero dispatched his enemy with ruthless efficiency, leaving no trace of his presence behind.

But it was not just his physical prowess that set Xero apart—it was his ability to think on his feet, to adapt to any situation with cunning and guile. In another mission, he found himself trapped in a tight spot, surrounded by enemy forces with no way out.

But instead of succumbing to panic, Xero remained calm and focused, his mind racing as he plotted his escape. With Deathstroke's training as his guide, he improvised a plan on the fly, using the environment to his advantage and turning the tables on his would-be captors with a series of cunning maneuvers.

As the years passed, Xero's reputation as a ruthless operative grew, his name whispered in hushed tones among those who knew of his exploits. But amidst the chaos and bloodshed, there was a darkness growing within him—a darkness that threatened to consume him whole.

For with each life he took, each mission he completed, Xero felt a piece of his humanity slipping away, replaced by something cold and hollow. It was a feeling he couldn't shake, a sense of emptiness that gnawed at the edges of his soul.

But he pushed those thoughts aside, burying them deep beneath a mask of indifference and ruthlessness. And so, as he stood on the precipice of his destiny, Xero knew that there would be many more missions to come, many more lives to take in the name of vengeance and justice. But deep down, beneath the facade of the hardened warrior, there was a flicker of doubt—a spark of humanity that refused to be extinguished.

Little did he know that his encounter with Catwoman would be the catalyst that would change everything, setting into motion a chain of events that would shake the very foundations of his world and force him to confront the darkness that lurked within him.

Xero's Point of view.

Gotham.

And so, as he stood on the precipice of his destiny, Xero felt a sense of anticipation stirring within him, a burning desire to prove himself worthy of the power that coursed through his veins. For he was Xero Mou, son of Athena, bearer of powers and memories beyond his understanding. And though the road ahead would be long and treacherous, he was ready to embrace his destiny and carve out his own path in this indifferent world.

The storm outside was like a raging beast, roaring with fury and wrath as if the very heavens were crying out in anguish. The rain poured down in torrents, soaking through my clothes and chilling me to the bone, but I barely felt it amidst the chaos swirling within me.

With Deathstroke at my side, we prowled the rooftops of Gotham City, the shadows our only refuge from the relentless onslaught of the storm. We were hunting Catwoman, a thief with a rap sheet longer than my arm, but as we cornered her in a desolate alleyway, something stirred deep within me.

It was like a memory, a distant echo from a life long forgotten. I knew those eyes, wide and terrified, staring back at me with a haunting familiarity. They were the eyes of someone I had once known, someone from a past life buried beneath layers of time and pain.

As Deathstroke gave me the nod to take her out, a surge of darkness welled up inside me, threatening to consume me whole. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't bring myself to snuff out the life of someone who felt so achingly familiar, even if it meant defying my mentor's orders.

Instead, I cracked a joke, a feeble attempt to mask the turmoil raging within me.

"Kill her boy. This is your final test."

As we stood in the alley, the scent of fear and desperation hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid tang of blood and sweat. Catwoman cowered before us, her eyes wide with terror as she pleaded for mercy.But there would be no mercy, not from Deathstroke.

"Please you don't understand...." I struck her in the jaw. She was just digging her grave.

'What to do...'

I turned toward him and he understood my message. She's leaving we're failing this mission.

Deathstroke's fist came crashing down upon me, striking me with a force that sent shock waves of pain coursing through my body. But instead of striking me in the usual places, his blow landed squarely in my armpit, the spot where my vulnerability lay.

The pain was like nothing I had ever felt before, a searing agony that threatened to consume me whole. I cried out in anguish, my body convulsing with the force of the blow as Deathstroke's laughter echoed in my ears.

"You think you're tough, kid?" he sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "You think you can take whatever I dish out? Well, let's see how tough you really are."

And with that, Deathstroke raised his hand once more, preparing to strike me again. But even as the darkness closed in around me, I refused to give in. I would endure this pain, I vowed, no matter what it took. For I was Xero Mou, son of Athena, and I would not be broken so easily.

I braced myself as Deathstroke loomed over me, his menacing presence casting a shadow over the dark alleyway. Despite the pain coursing through my body, I knew that I could withstand his blows—I was invulnerable, save for one small spot in my armpit, a weakness I had learned to guard with my life.

"Come on, Anakin," Deathstroke growled, his voice dripping with contempt. "Is that the best you've got? I expected more from the son of Athena."

I gritted my teeth, pushing myself up from the ground and meeting his gaze with a defiant glare. "You want more?" I snarled, my voice laced with a simmering rage. "You got it, you son of a—"

But before I could finish my sentence, Deathstroke launched himself at me with a ferocious speed, his fists flying in a blur of motion. I dodged and weaved, deflecting his blows with ease as I sought an opening in his defenses.

"Why are you doing this?" I demanded, my voice strained with effort as I parried his attacks. "Why are you training me to hate Zeus and the Olympians?"

Deathstroke's eyes narrowed, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features for the briefest of moments. "Because I was once like you," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "I was a pawn in their game, a tool to be used and discarded at their whim. But now, I have the chance to make a difference, to fight back against the tyranny of the gods."

I frowned, taken aback by his words. "But why me?" I asked, my voice tinged with confusion. "Why choose me to be your instrument of vengeance?"

Deathstroke's lips curled into a twisted smirk. "Because you have potential, Anakin," he said, his voice dripping with malice. "Potential to be the greatest weapon this world has ever seen. With my training, you could bring the Olympians to their knees, make them pay for the suffering they have inflicted upon us."

I shook my head, my mind reeling with disbelief. "I don't want to be a weapon," I protested, my voice barely more than a whisper. "I just want to be free, to live my own life on my own terms."

But Deathstroke's laughter cut through my protests like a knife, his eyes burning with a fierce determination. "You don't have a choice, Anakin," he said, his voice a low growl. "You're either with me or against me, and believe me when I say that it's better to be on my side."

With that, Deathstroke launched himself at me once more, his blows raining down upon me with a relentless fury. I fought back with everything I had.

The surge of electricity from Deathstroke's taser sent a searing pain through my body, my muscles convulsing involuntarily as I crumpled to the ground. My mind raced with confusion and frustration, but amidst the agony, one thought burned brighter than the rest—the mystery of Selina Kyle.

As I struggled to regain control of my trembling limbs, Deathstroke loomed over me, his presence a menacing shadow against the backdrop of the alleyway. His voice cut through the haze of pain, sharp and unforgiving.

"You're a disgrace, Anakin," he growled, his words laced with contempt. "A worthless excuse for a warrior."

But I couldn't focus on his words, couldn't bring myself to care about his insults. All I could think about was Selina.

As he towered over me, I felt a surge of defiance rising within me, a determination to prove him wrong. But deep down, beneath the bravado and bluster, lurked a nagging sense of curiosity—a burning desire to unravel the mystery of Selina Kyle, no matter the cost.

I convulsed uncontrollably, my muscles spasming as the electric current surged through my veins. Darkness threatened to consume me as I teetered on the edge of unconsciousness, my vision blurring and fading into nothingness.

And then, with one final jolt, everything went black.

Meanwhile on Olympus

In the quiet solitude of her chamber, Athena paced back and forth, her mind consumed by thoughts of her son's training. She had entrusted Xero to Deathstroke's care, believing that he would mold him into the perfect weapon—a tool to be wielded in her relentless quest for vengeance against Zeus and the other gods who had wronged her.

But as she watched from afar, she couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at the edges of her consciousness. Xero's progress had been slow, his training marred by moments of weakness and hesitation. It was clear that Deathstroke's methods were not yielding the desired results, and Athena found herself growing increasingly frustrated with each passing day.

As she pondered her next course of action, the door to her chamber swung open, revealing the figure of Hestia, goddess of the hearth, standing in the doorway. Her expression was one of concern, her eyes filled with a gentle warmth that belied the seriousness of her words.

"Athena," she said, her voice soft but firm. "We need to talk."

Athena's brow furrowed in annoyance, but she knew that there was no avoiding the confrontation that was about to take place. With a resigned sigh, she motioned for Hestia to enter, her gaze fixed upon the flickering flames of her hearth as she prepared herself for what was to come.

"I have watched as you have placed your trust in Deathstroke, believing that he will train Xero to hate Zeus as you do," Hestia began, her tone gentle but reproachful. "But I fear that your methods are misguided, that your thirst for vengeance blinds you to the consequences of your actions."

Athena's eyes flashed with anger, her temper flaring at Hestia's words. "And what would you have me do?" she snapped, her voice sharp with frustration. "Sit idly by and watch as Zeus continues to oppress and torment us? I will not stand for it, Hestia, not while there is still hope for change."

Hestia's expression softened, her eyes filled with a sadness that cut deep into Athena's heart. "I understand your pain, Athena, I truly do," she said, her voice tinged with sorrow. "But there are other ways to achieve justice, other paths that do not lead to destruction and despair."

But Athena would hear none of it. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed Hestia's words, her resolve unyielding in the face of opposition. "I have made my decision, Hestia," she said, her voice cold and unwavering. "And I will see it through to the end, no matter the cost."

And with that, Athena vanished in a flash of light, leaving Hestia alone in the quiet solitude of her chamber. She sighed, her heart heavy with sadness. For she knew that her niece's thirst for vengeance would only lead to further pain and suffering—a truth that Athena herself was unwilling to accept.