The last thing Jason remembered was the crushing weight, the feeling of his bones splintering, the metallic tang of blood thick in the air. Then, nothing. A familiar nothingness that he'd hoped he'd left behind for good. But this… this was different. There was the jostling of rough wood, the biting wind against his face, and the low murmur of voices thick with fear and defiance.
He blinked, his head throbbing with a phantom pain that echoed his first demise. Around him, rough-looking men in coarsespun tunics and furs sat bound, their faces grim. One, a burly man with a neatly trimmed beard, caught his eye.
"You're awake," the man rumbled, his voice carrying a strange accent Jason couldn't quite place. "Walked right into that ambush, didn't you?"
Ambush? Jason frowned, confusion clouding the edges of his returning consciousness. He tried to speak, but his throat felt like sandpaper. He looked down at his hands – calloused, scarred, undeniably his, yet… different. They felt… heavier. He was wearing rough, unfamiliar clothing.
Panic began to prickle at the edges of his disorientation. Where was he? Was this some new kind of hell?
The cart lurched, and through the wooden slats, Jason saw a towering stone structure in the distance, wreathed in grey clouds.
"Helgen," another prisoner whispered, his voice laced with dread. "The chopping block awaits."
Chopping block? Jason's mind struggled to make sense of it all. This wasn't Arkham. This wasn't the Lazarus Pit. This felt… ancient.
Suddenly, the cart lurched to a halt. Harsh voices barked orders in that strange tongue. The prisoners were dragged out, Jason among them, his legs shaky and unfamiliar. He stumbled, and the burly man from the cart steadied him.
"Ralof," the man introduced himself quietly. "We're all in this together now."
Jason looked around. The scene was chaotic. Soldiers in heavy armor shoved prisoners towards a fortified gate. He saw a regal-looking man, bound and gagged, being led with a grim dignity. And then he saw them – figures in blue armor, their faces hard and unforgiving.
As they were herded forward, a list was being read, names called out, each followed by the grim pronouncement of their impending execution. Jason's mind raced. This wasn't Gotham. These weren't villains he recognized. This felt… real, in a way his chaotic life rarely was.
Then, a name was called that made his blood run cold, despite the unfamiliarity of it. "Ulfric Stormcloak."
The regal man. So this was some kind of rebellion? Some ancient conflict he'd stumbled into?
Before he could process it further, his own name was called. Or rather, a name that sounded similar, yet foreign. He didn't respond, his mind reeling. A soldier grabbed his arm roughly.
"You! Step forward!"
Fear, raw and primal, gripped Jason. He'd faced death before, multiple times. But this… this felt final in a way the others hadn't. There was no Bat-signal in the sky, no Lazarus Pit waiting. Just cold stone and the gleam of steel.
As he was dragged towards the executioner's block, the sky roared. A shadow fell over Helgen, vast and terrifying. People screamed. Jason looked up and saw it – a massive, black dragon, its scales like obsidian, its eyes burning with malevolent light.
Chaos erupted. Soldiers scattered, prisoners thrashed against their bonds. The world was engulfed in fire and shadow.
Jason, caught in the pandemonium, felt a surge of something he hadn't felt in a long time: a desperate will to survive. He was a ghost in a strange land, a man who had died twice, now facing a dragon in a world he didn't understand.
His second life had just begun, in the most brutal and unexpected way imaginable.