If before it had been a matter of “throw a punch, then figure out the next,” now it was more like “the moment a punch goes out, the trajectories of the next three are already calculated.”
The system panel flashed one last time:
[Advanced Martial Arts Capability Fusion Complete.]
[Note: Capabilities at this stage are primarily tailored for the effective suppression of human and humanoid opponents.
Pressure Point Striking is suitable for precise incapacitation or restricting movement.
Klurkor Kryptonian Martial Arts is suitable for dealing with superhuman levels of physical confrontation.
Current status: Ready for practical application.]
The trial version had originally included Batman’s self-created hybrid combat system, which integrated 127 fighting styles from around the world without locking into a single discipline—blending Bartitsu, Wing Chun grappling, Jeet Kune Do, Systema, Krav Maga, Pencak Silat, Judo, Sambo, and Ninjutsu.
The current advanced martial arts, however, were blatantly superior—they were capable of taking on Kryptonians.
Of course, the definition of “capable of taking on” was broad.
Leo Vance closed the panel and stood in the dark for a moment.
He felt his breathing was deeper than before.
It wasn’t the depth of his chest expanding, but a sense of stability that came after a subtle adjustment in his center of gravity while standing on the ground.
The next afternoon, Peter came over as expected.
He wore his backpack and carried a plastic folder containing a circuit board with a broken solder joint.
Leo Vance took the circuit board and examined it for a few seconds.
“The pad isn’t damaged.
Just needs a touch-up.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Yes.”
Peter sat in the living room waiting.
His gaze swept around the room before landing on the amusement park photo on the bookshelf.
“Are those your parents?”
“Yeah.”
“Do they not live here anymore?”
“They passed away.”
Peter went silent for a few seconds.
“…My parents are gone too.
“Uncle Ben said you knew how to fix things, and he was right.”
Leo Vance didn’t turn around, busy applying heat and solder to the circuit board.
“This kind of solder joint failure is caused by thermal expansion and contraction from temperature changes.
Next time you finish soldering, let it cool naturally.
Don’t blow on it with your mouth.”
“I blew on it,” Peter whispered.
“I can tell.”
Once the joint was repaired, Leo Vance handed the circuit board back.
Peter took it, flipped it over to inspect it twice, then stood up, said thanks, and ran off, his shoelaces still untied.
Leo Vance stood at the doorway watching his back as he crossed the street and ran home, then closed the door.
At eleven o’clock that night, he put on his suit again and went out.
This time he didn’t go far, heading straight for the industrial park from the night before—he wanted to confirm the next destination for that batch of cargo.
He squatted atop the cab of an abandoned crane for about twenty minutes before spotting a vehicle.
A dark SUV pulled up next to the container, and a man stepped out.
The man didn’t open the container door.
He simply walked around it to check if the padlock was intact, snapped a photo, got back into the car, and drove off.
Leo Vance noted down the SUV’s license plate.
He retreated silently into the night, returning to Queens along the elevated tracks.
One of Batman’s core operational principles was not to rush progress, but to complete the information puzzle first.
Back home, he wrote the SUV’s license plate in his notebook.
The direction of Hell’s Kitchen lay further to the west, but he had already snagged the first thread leading there.
He shut the notebook, turned off the light, and lay down.
Outside the window, an orange-red glow permeated the skyline toward Manhattan—and beneath that glow lay Hell’s Kitchen.
It wasn’t time to go there yet.
It wasn’t until the third night after receiving the advanced martial arts package that Leo Vance used it for the first time in actual combat.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to try it out; he just hadn’t found a suitable opportunity.
The night patrols over the previous two days had been purely for reconnaissance—riding the Batcycle along the main streets of Queens, memorizing camera blind spots, gang activity times, and police patrol schedules.
On his notebook, he drew a crude grid map, dividing Forest Hills and several surrounding blocks into various zones, marking them with different symbols.
Red circles were high-priority areas—warehouses with suspicious vehicles coming and going at night, convenience store entrances where unidentified crowds gathered long-term, and two unlit back alleys. Read this novel at novelping.com for the best experience.
Blue circles were safe areas—blocks near schools, twenty-four-hour convenience store fronts, and fixed police patrol routes.
This information was automatically categorized and arranged under Batman’s mode of thought, like a stack of neatly organized files.
He knew which areas needed immediate attention and which could wait.
On the third night, he chose a target on the edge of a blue circle.
It wasn’t the most dangerous place in the red circles; it was just right for practice.
The target was a second-hand electronics shop on the east side of Forest Hills, roughly a kilometer and a half from Ingram Street.
By day, it sold used TVs and microwaves; by night, suspicious vans came and went through the backyard.
Leo Vance had noticed the place during his earlier reconnaissance—the storefront was small, but the backyard was stacked with cardboard boxes and plastic packaging.
Through the gaps, he could see items that shouldn’t appear in a second-hand shop: brand-new flat-screen TVs, unopened game consoles, and several boxes of neatly packaged power tools.
He judged it to be a small-scale fencing hub for stolen goods.
Small in scale, likely few guards, isolated location, and no twenty-four-hour convenience stores nearby—which meant virtually no pedestrians at night.
Perfect for practice.
Before leaving, he stood by his second-floor bedroom window and checked the Parker home across the street, as was his habit.
Ben’s car was parked in the driveway, the living room lights were off, but the white light of a desk lamp still shone through Peter’s bedroom window—the kid was probably tinkering with his circuit board again.
Ever since Leo Vance had helped him touch up the solder joint, he would occasionally notice that second-floor window at night: the light sometimes stayed on quite late, and every now and then, he could see the silhouette of Peter standing up and walking around.
He pulled the curtains closed and retrieved the suit from the system space.
The feeling of the black fibers adhering to his skin had become familiar—cool, snug, like a second skin.
The gauntlet cuffs tightened, the Batarangs snapped into position on his belt, and the grapnel gun mounted against the outside of his thigh.
He made a final adjustment to the cape’s attachment points between his shoulder blades, confirming every piece of equipment was in its proper place.
Then, he flipped out through the second-floor window.
Stepping on the sill, grabbing the drainpipe, reaching the roof—three seconds.
The movements were smoother than before.
It wasn’t the result of deliberate practice, but rather his body adapting to the gear and this mode of operation.
He paused on the roof for a moment.
The night breeze blew in from the east, carrying the distinct scents of Queens—manicured lawns, car exhaust, and the sweet aroma of late-night baking from a distant bakery.
Across the street, the Parker house was quiet and peaceful.
The mailbox on the corner cast a long, slanted shadow under the streetlamp.
Then, keeping his footsteps virtually silent, he moved east along the roofline.