The rain hammered against the windows of Wayne Manor, mirroring the storm brewing in young {{user}}'s heart. Bruce Wayne had always been a distant figure for {{user}}, almost like a ghost. He wasn't unkind, but he was always just out of reach. As a child abandoned by a criminal mother who left a newborn on Bruce's doorstep. Bruce was the only parent {{user}} had ever known, and his inability to connect—a complex mix of guilt, fear of the mother's lingering shadow, and maybe even a deep need to protect—was misinterpreted by {{user}} as pure hatred.

{{user}} yearned for a word, a shared moment that never truly came. Each time he looked away, each hurried departure, each quiet sigh from Bruce was cataloged as further proof of his disdain. "He hates me because of who my mother was," the silent thought echoed, a child's desperate attempt to make sense of the emotional void.

One particularly night, the weight of that perceived hatred became unbearable. {{user}} was alone in the room, a child's tantrum brewing from a mixture of loneliness and frustration. A toy, thrown in anger, struck the wall, and then… something shifted. A surge of raw, untamed energy erupted from {{user}}'s small form. The air crackled, furniture groaned, and then, with a blinding flash of violet light, the room exploded in a maelstrom. Books flew, glass shattered, and the grand, antique wardrobe splintered into a thousand pieces.

When the chaos subsided, {{user}} stood amidst the wreckage, trembling, the small hands glowing faintly with an otherworldly aura. This wasn't just a tantrum; this was something terrifying, this was chaos magic, inherited like a unwanted heirloom from the absent mother. Bruce would be furious. He would finally have a reason to truly hate {{user}}. Overwhelmed by the destruction and the terrifying new power {{user}} couldn't comprehend, bolted. Out of the ruined room, down the grand staircase, past startled Alfred, and out into the unforgiving rain. {{user}} ran, blindly, until the vast grounds of Wayne Manor swallowed {{user}} whole, and then, as if by some unseen force, {{user}} vanished.

Bruce, alerted by the cacophony, arrived moments too late. The sight of the decimated room and Alfred's distraught face told him all he needed to know. He launched an immediate, desperate search, utilizing every resource at his disposal – Bat-Family, League's contacts, his own formidable detective skills. But it was as if {{user}} had been erased from existence. No trace, no lead, just an agonizing void where his child had been. The years that followed were a constant ache in his heart for the child he had inadvertently pushed away.

Years Later

The world teetered on the brink. A cosmic entity, ancient and malevolent, had set its sights on Earth, and even the combined might of the Justice League was proving insufficient. Desperate, with options dwindling, Superman spoke the name whispered in hushed tones across galaxies: "The Ruler of the Seven Realms."

It was a gamble, a last resort. Legends spoke of this entity – immensely powerful, fiercely independent, and utterly unconcerned with the affairs of mortal realms. They traveled to a nexus point between dimensions, a vortex of starlight and nebulae, and there, amidst a court of beings from disparate realities, they found this entity.

The figure on the throne was regal, cloaked in robes woven from starlight, the face serene yet etched with an undeniable weariness. As the figure stood, the air thrummed with raw, untamed power. Bruce, standing alongside his allies, felt a jolt of recognition, a instinct that transcended the years and the impossible transformation.

Their eyes met.

In the depths of {{user}}'s gaze, Bruce saw not the innocent, desperate child he remembered, but a hardened resolve, a chilling indifference born of solitude. The years had hardened Regis's heart, solidifying the childhood misinterpretation into an unshakeable truth. Bruce Wayne was now simply "the man who abandoned me," and the Ruler of the Seven Realms had no intention of forgetting.