"Mission completed."
Chu Cheng had to admit that seeing those two words appear on the screen gave him a real sense of relief.
The sense of immersion in this game was truly something else—far beyond any game he had ever played. It wasn't just the photorealistic rendering, the cinematic lighting, or even the near-unlimited freedom in mission execution. It was something harder to define. The way the background music swelled during tense combat, the seamless integration of slow-motion during takedowns, the crunch of broken tiles under Batman's boots—it all made him feel as if he were really there in Gotham.
No, it was more than that. There was something deeper. Something psychological. Something... almost spiritual. A kind of presence, an emotional tether to the character. It wasn't like controlling Batman—it felt like being Batman.
But for now, the level was done. The dark, oppressive screen of the Arkham-like boardroom faded into a cool-toned results interface. Stats popped up in clean, tactical font: number of hostiles neutralized, combo fluidity, stealth execution efficiency, mission duration.
Chu Cheng finally felt his tensed shoulders loosen. Only now did he realize just how keyed up he had been. The adrenaline rush lingered in his bloodstream. Somehow, the game had pulled him into Bruce Wayne's haunted psyche—so much so that even now, he half-expected to hear the flutter of a cape in the shadows of his room.
Looking back, the level had been... exhilarating. Batman's combat style had clearly evolved—there were no repetitive move sets. The animations were smoother than ever, like watching choreographed violence from The Dark Knight trilogy. Even the gadgets had expanded: he'd used the grapnel boost to zip above enemies, deployed EMP mines, and even crashed through a skylight in slow motion just like that iconic Arkham Knight scene.
Manga-based games used to be notorious for being low-effort cash grabs. In the industry, the joke was always "Ten adaptations, nine disasters." They were often shallow, relying on emotional nostalgia to justify pixelated graphics, poor voice acting, and clunky design—as if slapping a popular IP onto a half-baked product made it acceptable.
There's an old saying: "People need food, not feelings." But many manga games were little more than reheated leftovers dressed up as 'sentimentality' and force-fed to players with a smug, "Take it or leave it."
But now, with polished titles like Spider-Man (PS4) from Marvel and this stunning Batman experience from DC, the reputation of comic-based games was being rehabilitated. Companies were finally realizing that IP was not a substitute for quality—it was a responsibility to do justice to the mythos.
And yet, Chu Cheng had to admit, this game was beyond anything he had experienced—not just among manga or comic adaptations, but across all genres. It wasn't just AAA. It was a breakthrough.
Still, the main plot was puzzling. Even after clearing the first level, he didn't quite understand where Batman had infiltrated, why the board of directors had gathered, or what had driven them to madness. It felt more like an atmospheric prologue—a disorienting but gripping descent into mystery.
He could guess, of course. It might be setting the stage for a multiversal convergence. Maybe something like a crisis event that forces cross-company legends—the Justice League and the Avengers—to share a battlefield. A cosmic-level threat, perhaps rooted in the madness of a secret cabal or a mystical artifact.
He was intrigued. Truly. But a glance at his phone yanked him out of Gotham. It was nearly midnight.
Tomorrow was Monday. Class at 8:20 a.m. No Bat-gadgets could save him from the wrath of the linear algebra professor—a man who treated attendance like a religion. Chu Cheng could already hear the metaphorical Bat-Signal shrieking above campus rooftops: "Roll call or perish."
He was a sophomore now—not a fresh-faced first-year, nor a seasoned senior with tenure in the dorm. He existed in that liminal space where rules still mattered, but rebellion occasionally whispered temptations.
Skipping any other class might be fine. But not linear algebra. That teacher was infamous. If you missed roll call, he'd act as if you'd betrayed the city.
The game was different from what Chu Cheng had expected, but it still bore the marks of a game—no surreal meta-interactions, no fourth-wall-shattering elements. Just an incredibly well-made, emotionally potent game.
He sighed, shook off the lingering excitement, and exited to the desktop. The screen dimmed. The shadows faded.
He turned off the computer, returned to bed, and sank into the soft cocoon of his pillow. A peculiar exhaustion wrapped around him. Playing the Dark Knight, it turned out, was a draining experience. As his eyelids closed, he imagined a cape brushing past his shoulder.
And then—he slept.
---
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city...
A towering skyscraper was sealed off by a military cordon. Yellow lines glowed under floodlights. Soldiers patrolled the perimeter, rifles ready.
A black armored vehicle stopped just outside the restricted zone. A woman stepped out, her heels striking the asphalt like a metronome. The guards saluted as she passed.
She was striking—elegant yet lethal. Her face was beautiful, like a high-ranking executive in a luxury boardroom. But her attire spoke another story: a long black trench coat, dark tactical gear underneath, thigh-high boots over black nylons, and a concealed sidearm at her waist.
She was a weapon with a heartbeat.
She strode through the lobby and entered a private elevator. It rose silently, floor by floor, until it opened into a horrific scene.
The conference room was a war zone. Corpses lay strewn like discarded mannequins. Blood had pooled and dried in jagged rivers. There were signs of panic—chairs overturned, fingernail scratches on the floor. And there, at the entrance, a pool of vomit—the cleaner's response upon discovering this corporate massacre.
"All members of the board were inside when it happened," said a bald man, approaching with a cigarette. "None survived."
"But they weren't killed?" the woman asked, brow furrowed.
"No. Attacked—but not fatally. According to the forensic scans, the infection overwhelmed their minds and... they imploded. Neurological collapse. It was as if their psyches couldn't contain whatever got inside."
Her eyes darted to the far wall—where a stone pedestal had exploded inward, scattering debris. Among the rubble, fragments of what looked like obsidian.
"The forensics team suspects it was a statue," the man added. "Could've been the source of the psychic contamination. Whoever broke it must've known."
"In other words," she said coolly, "someone beat us to it."
"Yep. Clean sweep."
"Any leads?"
The man inhaled and shook his head. "Security system was disabled. No visuals. No biometric logs. We questioned employees, but only one... possibly saw something."
"I want to talk to him," she said.
Minutes later, they stood before a dazed security guard—ice pack on his head, eyes still glassy from shock.
"I was on patrol," he blurted, before anyone could ask. "Then—bang—something flew at me. Fast. Too fast. Knocked me out cold. Woke up in the corridor... Xiao Li found me... he's from the night shift…"
The woman cut in. "You said 'something.' Not someone?"
The guard shivered.
"No. It wasn't human. I swear. Big, black wings... pointy ears... claws. Fangs like a vampire. It moved like a shadow. Two meters tall—minimum. It didn't walk. It... glided. Like—like a bat."
He gulped. "I've never seen anything like it. It wasn't wearing armor. It was armor."
The woman's expression darkened.
Back in the corridor, the bald man leaned on the wall, puffing a new cigarette.
"What do you think?" he asked.
The woman stared into the shadows, her voice low.
"…I don't know."
But in her mind, an image was forming. A monster in the shape of a man. A man forged by trauma and shadow.
And across the city, in a high place where no light reached, something watched.
Something with wings.
Something with a purpose.
Something very old…
…and very angry.