Saiyan of Gotham

The morning sun warmed the eastern wing of Wayne Manor, casting long streaks of gold across the tall windows. Through one of them, Thomas and Martha Wayne stood silently, observing the two boys outside in the garden. Their posture was relaxed, but their eyes were focused with parental gravity.

Bruce and Ojaga, now both around four years old, moved across the lawn barefoot, dressed in soft training outfits designed by Wayne Medical Research — breathable, flexible, and lightly armored. Bruce's sleeves were rolled up; his tiny fists mirrored Ojaga's exact movements like a shadow.

Ojaga led the motions naturally, without words, only subtle gestures. His tail, hidden beneath a cloth belt, swayed slightly to balance him as he shifted weight from one foot to the other. His breathing was deep and rhythmic, almost animalistic in its flow. Bruce wasn't as precise, but his intent was sharp, mimicking his older brother with growing confidence.

The two circled one another slowly, then exchanged short, soft punches. Their eyes were filled not with hostility, but with an unspoken challenge. Sweat dotted Bruce's forehead, and Ojaga's golden irises glowed faintly in the sunlight.

Near them, a wide black display screen had been set up on a reinforced metal stand. Beneath it, a high-performance CPU and GPU rig whirred quietly. It was powered by a fusion of WayneTech's latest advancements and adaptive components reverse-engineered from Ojaga's crashed Saiyan pod over the past four years.

Suddenly, the screen came to life.

"Good morning, young masters," spoke a crisp, intelligent voice.

It was Jarvis, the custom AI assistant developed exclusively for the Wayne household. While it was modeled after classic digital butlers, it was enhanced by legacy battle simulations and neurophysiological training systems derived from ancient martial records. The AI had been built using not just modern computing power, but enriched historical data from multiple global warrior traditions—Himalayan breathing rituals, Greco-Roman footwork, Shaolin motion theory, and ancient Saiyan metabolic patterns.

Bruce grinned and pointed to the screen. "Jarvis, activate Ancient Warriors mode."

"Confirmed," the AI responded.

The screen shifted to a beautifully animated training simulation. A bronze-skinned warrior stood under a waterfall, demonstrating a low, grounded stance. The figure moved slowly but with exact muscle coordination. Text appeared: "Earth Root Position. Stability. Spine Aligned."

Ojaga stepped forward and copied the stance precisely, arms out, tail low, breathing slow. Bruce followed him, wobbling at first, then adjusting his posture. The boys practiced for twenty minutes as the screen cycled through ancient breathing techniques, pressure point recovery, and balance dynamics.

Every movement they made was logged by the AI for biomechanical feedback. The system would later review footage and provide Thomas with developmental metrics for both boys, privately ranked and adjusted based on Saiyan and human physiology respectively.

After training, the screen dimmed, and the program entered meditation mode.

Both boys sat cross-legged, eyes closed. Their hands rested on their knees. A soft hum played in the background — a frequency known to stimulate focus and calm in Saiyan brainwaves, according to WayneTech's medical lab.

Ojaga's tail coiled around his own ankle as he sat, motionless. His breathing had no gaps. Bruce fidgeted at first, then slowly settled. The two looked oddly peaceful, yet adorable. Their stillness was that of warriors in miniature, with a softness only children could carry.

Inside the house, Martha smiled at the sight and turned to Jarvis through her smart pendant. "Switch to Education Mode."

Outside, the screen shifted. The warrior disappeared, replaced by floating geometry problems, holographic images of human anatomy, and basic logic puzzles. A soft chime sounded.

Both boys groaned lightly, almost synchronized. They knew what came next.

From a garden bench, Alfred brought out two study kits, complete with writing tablets, styluses, and old-fashioned paper registers — by Thomas's insistence. Despite all tech, the Waynes believed in writing by hand for deeper memory.

Ojaga opened his book with quiet discipline. He didn't particularly enjoy reading, but he respected the structure. Bruce huffed dramatically, but sat down beside him.

From Ojaga's perspective, the world was mostly quiet. He didn't understand all the words yet, but his mind saw shapes, patterns, and energy. He didn't think about alphabets — he memorized them like battle sequences.

Bruce, however, enjoyed asking questions. Why was gravity different in water? What made a heart beat faster when you run? Who named the moon?

Ojaga didn't answer. He just wrote carefully, flipping through the pages of anatomy and muscle motion. He had no memory of being taught these things, yet they felt familiar.

Thomas, watching from the window, made a silent note.

The brothers were alike in discipline, but their paths were slowly diverging. One was born of Gotham. The other, born of stars.

But here, in this moment, they were simply brothers learning under the sun.

And the garden held its peace.