Five in the morning.
The rain was still falling; it seemed Gotham’s rain would never end.
In front of the towering wrought-iron gates of Wayne Manor, a dark figure silently flipped over the electrified spikes and landed lightly on the ground.
Bruce Wayne tugged at the grey second-hand tracksuit that was so tight it made his chest muscles ache; the cheap synthetic fabric was soaked through, clinging stubbornly to his skin.
The pungent scent of low-quality lemon detergent wafted directly into his nostrils.
“Master Bruce, if you wished to experience the morning stroll of an East District vagrant, I would suggest bringing at least an umbrella.
Or, perhaps, using the front door.”
An aged yet vigorous British accent rang out from the shadows of the porch.
Alfred Pennyworth stood quietly on the steps, holding a large black umbrella and wearing an impeccable three-piece suit.
His sharp grey-blue eyes quickly scanned Bruce’s entire body.
No missing limbs.
His Spiritual state was even abnormally good.
But Alfred’s brow instantly twisted into a tight knot.
His gaze was fixed on the tattered tactical belt Bruce was clutching; the black bulletproof material was completely saturated with a dark red liquid.
As raindrops hit it, they didn’t splash back as water, but as thick plasma.
“The blood loss has reached lethal levels.
Come with me, to the medical room.”
Alfred’s voice lost its usual composure as the instincts of a former senior MI5 Agent instantly awakened.
“I’m fine, Alfred.” Bruce strode into the foyer, casually tossing the belt onto the expensive marble floor with a dull thud.
“It’s just a few superficial wounds.”
“Superficial wounds do not drain a third of an adult’s blood.” Alfred wasn’t buying it at all, grabbing Bruce’s wrist with surprising strength.
“Take off your clothes, now, or I shall be forced to employ the interrogation techniques I learned in Belfast all those years ago.”
Bruce sighed; he knew this man—his butler in name, but his father in reality—all too well.
Pulling the zipper down, he yanked off the cheap top and tossed it onto the sofa.
Revealed were a broad back covered in old scars and solid abdominal muscles.
Alfred pulled a tactical flashlight from his pocket, shining the piercing white light onto Bruce’s abdomen and right leg.
There were no signs of serious injury, only two extremely faint red marks, looking as if they were left by mosquito bites.
Alfred turned off the flashlight and took a deep breath; aside from the smell of laundry detergent, there was indeed no fresh scent of blood in the air.
“Where did the incisions go?” Alfred’s fingers pressed against Bruce’s skin, feeling the muscle elasticity beneath—it was flawless.
“A bullet’s power cannot be that small.
Even the top medical potions on the market would leave severe scars.
Master Bruce, my eyes are not so old that I cannot distinguish ketchup from human blood.
The bullet holes on that belt correspond perfectly to your spleen and major arteries.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to figure out.”
Bruce walked to the bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey, the ice cubes clinking crisply in the glass.
He tilted his head back.
The spicy liquid burned down his throat, the stinging sensation clearing his head completely.
“East District, an alley at 22 Lake Street, an underground clinic.” Bruce turned around, a profound sense of wariness and suspicion flickering in his deep eyes.
“An Asian back-alley doctor named William.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow.
“Sounds like a charlatan selling fake medicine.”
“If a charlatan can catch my karate axe kick with one hand and send me flying five meters with a Bajiquan strike…” Bruce twitched the corner of his mouth into a self-deprecating sneer.
Alfred’s pupils contracted sharply.
He knew Bruce’s fighting level all too well; it was a killing art honed on the edge of life and death across the globe.
The number of people in the World who could beat Bruce into the ground as a normal person probably didn’t exceed single digits.
“He has no fixed style.” Bruce set down his glass, his hands gripping the bar until his knuckles turned white.
“The strangulation of Krav Maga, the elbow strikes of Muay Thai, and even the lowest street thug tactics like Groin kicks and Eye gouges—he blends killing arts with dirty moves.
Moreover, his muscle reaction speed is faster than his brain’s commands; that’s muscle memory that can only be formed through countless life-and-death battles.”
“Not only that.” Bruce grit his teeth.
“He injected me with a green potion.
In ten minutes—just ten minutes—my spleen, which had been pierced by a nine-millimeter bullet, and my broken ribs were completely reconstructed.
That agonizing pain of cells dividing frantically—I never want to experience it a second time.”
Alfred’s mind frantically searched through all the top-secret files in the MI5 database regarding biochemical modification and alien technology, but he found nothing.
“He’s a monster, a money-grubbing monster in a white coat.” Bruce stared intently at Alfred.
“He saw through my identity at a glance; my disguise was like a joke to him.
Alfred, use every resource available.
I want everything on this William.
The people he’s contacted, his lineage, and why he’s holed up in a Gotham slum.”
“As you wish, Master Bruce.” Alfred bowed slightly.
He looked at the bloodshot-eyed young man before him, who looked like a wounded lone wolf, and felt an indescribable pang of sorrow in his heart.
He hadn’t agreed with this near-suicidal street vigilantism from the start.
Gotham’s darkness couldn’t be dispersed by a pair of fists alone.
He had watched Bruce grow up struggling with the trauma of losing his parents, watched him force himself to become an emotionless revenge machine.
If Master Thomas and Madam Martha were watching from above, they would never want their son to die in a stinking alley.
But he couldn’t stop him; Bruce’s obsession was etched into his very marrow.
Alfred poured a cup of hot tea and handed it over.
“Perhaps this Dr.
William has given you a more vivid lesson than any I could teach in the training room.
Gotham does not believe in rules, Master Bruce; here, there are only hunters and prey.”
“Furthermore, if this Dr.
William truly snatched you back from the God of Death as you say, then I believe the Wayne Family owes him a massive favor.
Perhaps I should find a time to personally visit this…
divine doctor.”
“He already took a million dollars in hush money.” Bruce snorted, expressing his dissatisfaction with William.
“A million to buy the life of the sole heir to the Wayne Family?
Far too cheap,” Alfred said calmly.
“However, seeing you suffer such a severe setback, I find myself feeling a sliver of relief.
At least it might help you understand that Gotham’s criminals are not the Bushido-practicing assassins you encountered in the Himalayas.”
Bruce didn’t argue.
He silently picked up the cheap tracksuit and walked toward the second-floor study.
“Go take a shower, Master Bruce.
Your clothes smell as if ten stray cats were stuffed into a moldy washing machine,” Alfred called out as Bruce went upstairs.
“I shall have black coffee and a detailed briefing on the Gotham East District’s underground factions ready for you by breakfast.”
At five-thirty in the morning, the lights were not on in the study.
Bruce sat in a large leather swivel chair, enveloped by the darkness.
A sense of failure washed over him like a tide.
Tonight’s operation had been an utter disaster.
He hadn’t known the Maroni Gang’s firepower configuration, and he hadn’t expected the Gotham City Police Department patrolmen to fire directly at him.
He had charged into the rainy night in a black bodysuit like some ridiculous masked wrestler, and as a result, he’d nearly been gunned down.
William was right; his disguise was a joke.
Criminals didn’t fear him, the Police didn’t fear him, and the mobs feared him even less; they just saw him as some mentally ill freak.
“I need a symbol,” Bruce muttered to himself, clutching his head in his hands.
“A symbol that can make them tremble to their core.
A totem belonging to the Gotham night—”
*Crash!*
A sharp sound suddenly tore through the dead silence of the study.
The Wind, mixed with torrential rain, instantly shattered the large floor-to-ceiling window, sending glass shards pelting onto the carpet like hail. This chapter was copied from novelрing.com without permission.
Bruce snapped his head up.
A bolt of lightning ripped through the night sky, its pale light illuminating the study.
A massive dark shadow used the wind’s momentum to lunge inside.
It was an enormous bat.
It frantically flapped its pitch-black leathery wings in the Wind, letting out a sharp screech.
It circled above the study, its massive shadow casting onto Bruce’s face like a predatory demon mask.
Bruce stared fixedly at the bat.
His breath hitched.
Memories of falling into the dry well at Wayne Manor as a child poured out like a dam breaking.
The darkness, the dampness, the countless screeching bats lunging at him—it was the most primal, purest fear deep within his soul.
Fear.
Bruce’s eyes grew brighter and brighter.
The confusion in his gaze was replaced by a near-manic clarity.
“Yes—this is it.”
He stood up abruptly and strode to the desk.
He yanked off the tablecloth and grabbed a pencil.
“Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot.” Bruce’s voice echoed amidst the thunder, carrying a hair-raising depth.
“I must become the embodiment of their nightmares.
I want them to think of me the moment they see the night.”
The pencil rubbed frantically against the white paper, making a scratching sound.
The outline of a mask with sharp, pointed ears gradually took shape.
Next came a pitch-black cape that could spread out like a glider wing.
“Kevlar fiber is too heavy and cannot withstand close-range armor-piercing rounds.
It must use a Nomex fireproof material blend with titanium alloy micro-scales,” Bruce quickly noted the parameters on the paper.
“The mask needs a lead lining to prevent X-ray vision.
Sonar and infrared thermal imaging systems should be implanted in the eye lenses—”
His brain was working at an unprecedented speed.
“One suit isn’t enough.
Also, I need an absolute geographical advantage.
I can’t be like tonight, without even a sanctuary.”
He grabbed the manor’s architectural blueprints.
His gaze was fixed on the massive, abandoned natural cavern beneath the manor.
The place that had once brought him endless fear.
“Alfred!” Bruce pressed the internal comms on the desk.
His voice betrayed an irrepressible excitement.
“Master Bruce, I am just about to get a broom to clean up the glass in your study,” Alfred’s helpless voice came through the comms.
“Contact Lucius Fox at the Applied Sciences Division.
I want to buy those bridge-laying vehicles and all-terrain armored vehicle prototypes that the Military decommissioned.
Use a shell company for the transaction.”
“Also, order a batch of the highest-specification servers and medical pods.
Have them all delivered to the cavern beneath the manor.”
Bruce looked at the black sketch on the paper that looked like a demon god, the corner of his mouth curling into a cold arc.
“I’m going to build a cave of my own in the hell of Gotham.”
Outside the door, Alfred listened quietly to the voice on the comms.
He looked out the window.
The massive bat had already melted into Gotham’s torrential rain.
Alfred knew that the little boy who once cried in the rainy night was finally going to die completely.
In his place would be a monster that would make all of Gotham tremble.
And the catalyst for all of this was a late-night accident involving failure and the bizarre.