Godfather Owl: Guardian of Batman

At this moment, Ares found himself hesitating.

Strictly speaking, Diana's current predicament was entirely within his expectations.

In fact, it had been orchestrated by him.

But who would've guessed Bruce's thought process was so unique?

Faced with a bit of trouble, the boy had shown up at Ares' door, acting as if it were perfectly natural to demand his help.

Are we even that close?

Yet, driving them away seemed unnecessary.

He was genuinely curious—what would Diana say to him next?

"Come in," he finally said.

Ares made a decision he had thought himself incapable of, allowing Bruce and Diana into Morgan Manor.

Bruce exchanged a glance with Kathoom.

This tactic was even more effective than expected.

---

In the sitting room,

Sir Patrick Morgan's butler served tea and pastries. Diana and Bruce sat side by side, as relaxed as if they were in their own home.

Ares, leaning on his cane, sat across from them. His expression was far from pleasant.

"Speak. What are you here for?"

Ares asked coldly, his voice sharp. "Do you not understand even the most basic rules?"

"What rules?"

Bruce shook his head, his voice weak. "Does a sister need a reason to visit her brother?"

"You…"

Ares was momentarily at a loss for words.

"Cut the act," he said, switching topics. "I can tell you're not injured at all."

"Our wounds are internal," Bruce replied, shaking his head. "Yesterday, the powers you forced onto Diana caused quite the mess. You need to help us."

"I won't help."

Ares replied flatly. "This is all part of my plan."

The dream Diana had—the one leading to all this chaos—had everything to do with him.

Why would he contradict himself the next day?

But Bruce had anticipated this response.

Without hesitation, he pulled Diana closer, turning her face toward Ares.

"Look at Diana's face and say that again!"

"I won't…"

Ares began to retort but froze upon seeing Diana's expression.

How to describe it?

Her hatred for him was still evident, her gaze filled with a murderous intent so sharp it could almost become tangible.

And yet, behind that hatred was a trace of helplessness and humiliation, her jaw clenched as Bruce prodded her into seeking his help.

That mix of fury, grievance, and indignation caused a strange pang in Ares' chest.

"I…"

He faltered, unable to muster his previous resolve.

Internally, he cursed Bruce a thousand times over. Where did this brat learn such a devious move?

Sensing Ares' defenses cracking, Bruce spoke at just the right moment:

"Actually, Ares, if you don't want to help, we won't force you."

Bruce shifted his tone. "What we need now is the strength of Sir Patrick Morgan. As a gentleman willing to lend a hand, surely this small favor isn't too much?"

"Besides, we've just left Themyscira and know nothing about this world. Even if you defeat us now, would that really satisfy you?"

"Why not lend us your aid? If we still fail in the end, doesn't that prove you were right all along?"

Ares fell silent for a long time.

"Just this once," he finally relented. "Tell me—what is it you want?"

"We need intelligence."

Bruce laid out their goal. "Which nations made wishes? What kind of extraordinary abilities did they gain? And how can we undo those wishes?"

"That's what we need you to tell us."

Ares understood.

The young Bat seemed intent on helping Diana eliminate all those brought into this world by the yellow crystal.

Is that even possible?

Even for Ares, such a task would be daunting!

"You truly don't know fear."

Ares saw now that Bruce aimed to accomplish something utterly impossible.

"I do know who has arrived in this world," Ares admitted. "But some of them are stronger than I am. The idea of defeating them all is pure fantasy!"

"How will we know unless we try?"

Bruce said with quiet determination. "If we give it everything we have and still fail, so be it."

That unwavering confidence caught Ares off guard.

"Very well, give it a shot," he said at last. "I'm curious to see how far you can get.

"As for the intelligence you want, I don't mind sharing it.

"In the dream, six nations made wishes to Diana…"

…

Buckingham Palace, England

King George V hurled a stack of papers into the air, his face red with anger.

"Fools, the lot of them!" he bellowed.

He had just concluded a meeting with representatives from Ireland and Northern Ireland—a meeting that had dissolved into endless, heated arguments.

The news of France's alliance with Atlantis had placed immense pressure on those regions.

While Britain and France were allies now, centuries of enmity made it hard for the representatives to believe France didn't harbor ulterior motives.

They demanded the king demonstrate resolve and acquire a force equal to that of Atlantis.

"I practically bared my soul to them!"

George V complained to his guards. "How could they not understand my subtle hints?"

As an Englishman, he couldn't be too direct.

George V had repeatedly emphasized that Atlantis was no real threat, but the representatives just couldn't grasp it.

"So what if they're a nation of the sea?"

The king thought to himself. After all, his ally was far stronger than any single nation.

His gaze shifted to the palace gardens, where countless plants were growing at an accelerated rate.

What was once a garden had turned into a veritable forest.

"At the end of the day, Atlanteans are still human," George V mused. "But my ally is the boundless flora of this Earth!"

The Green.

And its champion—the Swamp Thing.

This was Britain's ace in the hole. Why fear mere Atlanteans?

---

Italy

King Victor Emmanuel III crouched on the ground, intently watching ants scurry about.

It wasn't a peculiar hobby—just a strategy to build rapport.

Beside him squatted a massive, humanoid creature.

Standing nearly three meters tall, its muscular form radiated immense strength.

Its gray, mottled skin was tough as stone, and its eyes were pure and unclouded, devoid of earthly knowledge.

This was a massive zombie, known as Solomon Grundy, the champion of the Gray.

"An ant just passed by," Victor Emmanuel III remarked.

"I saw it," Solomon replied with a vacant grin.

Feeling he had bridged the gap between them, the king cautiously ventured, "War is about to begin. Do you think we'll win?"

"Yes," Solomon answered absently.

Victor Emmanuel III felt a brief surge of joy, but something felt off.

He rephrased the question. "Will our enemies win?"

"Yes," Solomon nodded.

Completely at a loss, the king stared at him. How is this simpleton a champion of a goddess?

"Then who will win in the end?" he asked impatiently.

"In the end?"

Solomon pretended to ponder before responding. "Italy will win."

---

Berlin Palace, Germany

Kaiser Wilhelm II read the telegram in his hands and scoffed.

Moments earlier, Tsar Nicholas II of Russia had sent it, condemning Austria-Hungary for waging an unjust war against a weaker nation.

The Tsar had implored Wilhelm to restrain his ally before things spiraled out of control.

"Nicholas is even more naïve than I thought," Wilhelm sneered.

"The bowstring is taut—how can we stop now?"

He cast the telegram aside and instructed his attendant, "Send Franz a telegram in my name, expressing full support for Austria-Hungary's hardline stance against Serbia!"

Satisfied, Wilhelm II adjusted his attire.

Germany was on the rise, but its ceiling had been reached. He needed war to shatter the old order.

"Germany must grow strong," he thought. "And it will!"

Unfazed, Germany had its own trump card.

Wilhelm walked to a mansion prepared for his ally.

Inside, a bald man in black battle armor, a lightning emblem on his chest, was engaged in some arcane ritual.

Wilhelm waited patiently until the man finished.

"Black Adam!" Wilhelm spread his arms, embracing him.

"Is your ritual complete?"

"Yes," Black Adam's eyes sparkled with electricity.

"The strength you desire—I will deliver!"

---

Austria-Hungary

Eighty-four-year-old Emperor Franz Joseph I blinked awake, his vision clearing slowly.

"Did I doze off again?"

He spoke with a hint of weariness, addressing the figure standing beside him.

"You were merely deep in thought," the figure replied in a tone laced with flattery and sycophancy. It was a tone Franz had heard countless times throughout his life.

"There's no need to flatter me."

Franz shook his head. "Your suggestions, however bold, will not gain my approval."

His aging eyes fell on the man before him.

The figure wore a grotesque pig-faced mask and was dressed like a professor.

But the proposals he made were chilling to the core.

"I only need a portion of the rabble to participate in this experiment!"

The Pig-Faced Professor thumped his chest with confidence. "I will turn them into the strongest army, one that will never disappoint you!"

Austria-Hungary had not gained any formidable superhuman allies.

When the emperor had made his wish, it was for harmony among the empire's divided ethnic groups.

What he received, however, was a madman obsessed with human experimentation.

Harmony? Indeed—through physical stitching. Sewing people together into grotesque amalgamations of flesh, ensuring they would forever remain "close."

"Your grafting experiments hold no interest for me."

The emperor dismissed him. "Consider my wish undone. The empire's might alone will suffice to win this war!"

"Now leave me!"

The Pig-Faced Professor had no choice but to exit the imperial court.

Yet he felt no disappointment.

As he stepped through the palace doors, a richly dressed young man approached.

"Professor."

"Crown Prince Karl." The professor bowed his head.

The young man before him, Karl, had been designated as the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne after the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. His full name was far too long to recite here.

"The emperor rejected your proposal, didn't he?" Karl asked.

"Yes," the professor confirmed. "His Majesty is wise and farsighted, capable of seeing beyond the immediate crisis."

Karl shook his head.

"What we need now isn't a distant vision but a victory in this war," he said firmly. "And for that, no method should be off the table."

"You are truly wise, Your Highness!" the professor replied with a sly grin.

---

Russia, The Kremlin

Tsar Nicholas II paced anxiously in his reception room, his nerves frayed.

His thick beard quivered, mirroring his inner turmoil.

On the other side of the room stood his uncle, Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolaevich, the current Supreme Commander of the Russian Army.

"Is there truly no way to avoid war?"

The Tsar asked for what seemed like the hundredth time. "Send another telegram to the Kaiser. Make it clear that our troop movements are solely directed at Austria-Hungary and pose no threat to Germany!"

"They won't believe it."

The Grand Duke replied grimly. "War is inevitable. Germany is simply waiting for an excuse."

"But—"

The Tsar hesitated, his words trailing off. Eventually, he dismissed the Grand Duke.

Nicholas II was a mediocre ruler at best. While external threats loomed, internal revolutionaries caused him far greater distress.

"If I send all the troops out…"

He murmured, his voice trembling at the thought of what might happen.

"The war must be swift and decisive!"

Resolving himself, Nicholas II retreated to his chambers and entered a small side room.

Inside, a figure clad entirely in armor sat cross-legged on a mat, meditating with eyes closed.

"You're here?"

The armored figure's eyes snapped open, meeting the Tsar's gaze.

"I've come to ask you something." Nicholas II carefully chose his words. "If you were to join the war, how quickly could it end?"

"Very quickly."

The armored man stood, his presence imposing.

"War only makes me stronger," he said. "The moment I step onto the battlefield, the scales will tip irreversibly."

No one could defeat him.

He was Batman.

He was the God of War.

He was the Merciless.

---

Ares had shared all the information he possessed.

The six individuals brought into this era were as follows:

The Queen of the Sea

The Swamp Thing

Solomon Grundy

Black Adam

The Pig-Faced Professor

The Merciless

"Wow…"

Bruce let out an incredulous sigh. "That lineup is…"

It was wildly uneven.

Some, like the Merciless, were immensely powerful. Others, like the Pig-Faced Professor, were laughably weak.

"I've told you everything I know."

Ares waved them off impatiently. "So now, please leave. And don't bother me again."

But Diana suddenly spoke up.

"Are you sure there are only six?"

"There are only six nations," Ares replied. "I only kept track of national leaders. If you granted wishes to ordinary individuals, I wouldn't know about it."

"But…"

The more Diana thought about it, the less sense it made.

In the dream, seven people had made wishes to her for power.

Now Ares was saying only six were national leaders.

Who, then, was the seventh?

"What's wrong, Diana?" Bruce asked, concerned.

"I can't explain it…"

Diana's sharp mind began to piece together a possibility.

The seventh individual might indeed be an ordinary person right now.

But in the near future, they could rise to found a nation or even shape an era.

If that were the case, their presence among the leaders would no longer seem strange.

---

T/N: lmao what is this DC fate war

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