Chapter 41: Batman Infiltrates Vought, Looked Down Upon by Me Sitting on the Sofa
Batman's finger had just rested on the trigger of the launcher.
That cold, mocking voice that felt like blowing on the back of his neck—"What are you looking for, little bat?"—instantly froze his blood completely.
The sound of rain beating against the tin of the water tower seemed to be blocked out.
Bruce's knuckles stiffened. His breathing stalled.
He turned his head abruptly. The Kevlar armor at his neck made a slight frictional sound.
Five hundred meters away. In front of that floor-to-ceiling window of Vought Tower, it was already empty.
And now, the man who should have been drinking tea behind the window was standing right in the accumulated water on the rooftop behind him.
There was no sonic boom tearing through the air. There was no gale-force wind kicked up by high-speed movement.
Shen Che's black leather shoes stepped into the muddy water without even stirring up a single ripple.
It was as if he had been standing there all along, and the World had just developed him into visibility.
Bruce's brain frantically sounded the alarm.
Tactical thinking took over his body in a thousandth of a second.
He didn't try to shoot. A pneumatic launcher meant for five hundred meters was just a useless piece of junk in close combat.
His left hand loosened. The launcher dropped into a puddle, splashing up a patch of muddy water.
His body smoothly half-turned. His right hand brushed across his belt.
Three Batarangs were wedged between his fingers.
A flick of the hand. A shake of the wrist.
The movement was smooth and flowing. Three black afterimages in a triangle formation headed straight for Shen Che's face and throat.
These were no ordinary darts.
The blade edges were coated with high-explosive micro-explosives. The fuses were activated the moment they left his hand, and red lights flashed frantically in the rainy night.
As long as they made contact with any solid object, they could instantly blast down a reinforced concrete wall.
At the same time he threw the darts, Bruce flipped his left wrist.
The grapnel gun aimed at the rusted crane cable on the edge of the rooftop.
"Bang."
The high-strength carbon fiber rope with a steel claw shot into the rain curtain.
He had to put some distance between them. Facing a monster whose physical attributes were unknown, close-quarters combat was tantamount to suicide.
But all tactics were merely a comical pantomime in front of absolute strength statistics.
Shen Che didn't even blink his eyelids.
He raised his right hand, casually waving it in front of him.
The movement was unhurried, like shooing away an annoying fly.
"Snap."
There was no flash of explosion. There was no deafening roar.
The three high-explosive Batarangs didn't even have time to react to detonation; they were directly swatted into dust mid-air.
The black metal powder mixed with gunpowder, washed away by the rain, fell into the puddle.
Bruce's grapnel had just bitten into the cable.
The recovery motor had just emitted its first buzz.
Shen Che's hand had already reached out.
Ignoring the defense of the heavy Kevlar. Ignoring the carbon fiber armor at the neck.
Five fingers, like hydraulic pliers, gripped Bruce's neck tightly in a death lock.
The grapnel gun slipped from Bruce's hand, clattering heavily onto the concrete ground.
A sense of suffocation instantly rushed to his brain.
Bruce's feet left the ground. Two hundred pounds of weight plus the armor was lifted into mid-air by Shen Chewith one hand.
The neck armor made a teeth-set-on-edge cracking sound. The titanium alloy dented inward under Shen Che's fingertips, pressing hard against his trachea.
Bruce grabbed Shen Che's wrist with both hands, trying to pry open those fingers.
Immovable.
Shen Che's arm was like a solid steel pillar cast deep in the center of the Earth.
"Let's go. Come sit at my place."
Shen Che's voice was very calm.
He didn't crush this Gotham vigilante's neck on the rooftop.
The next second.
The rain lines in front of Bruce suddenly stretched into horizontal white light.
The air was brutally shattered on impact.
Bruce felt his internal organs squeezed up to his throat by the violent inertia. His eardrums were almost torn apart by the pressure difference.
A distance of five hundred meters.
No flight trajectory needed. No passage of time.
The weightless feeling vanished instantly.
The gale behind them stopped abruptly. They were already standing inside the top-floor office of Vought Tower.
Shen Che let go of his hand.
"Boom!"
Bruce heavily slammed onto the Persian rug.
The massive impact penetrated the rug, directly smashing the solid wood floor underneath.
Wood chips flew everywhere. The floor indented into a shallow pit half a meter wide.
Bruce rolled twice on the ground like a broken sandbag, stopping only when he crashed into the obsidian table leg.
"Cough..."
A large mouthful of warm blood spurted from his mouth, splashing on the inside of his mask.
The smell of blood rushed straight into his nasal cavity.
Three ribs on the right side were broken. The jagged edges of the broken bones stabbed fiercely into the edge of his lung lobes with every breath.
Bruce lay prone on the rug, panting heavily.
His palms braced against the ground, trying to push up the heavy armor. His arms trembled like branches in the wind.
The sound of leather shoes stepping on the long-pile rug rang out.
One step. Another step. Very leisurely.
Shen Che unhurriedly stepped past Bruce on the ground.
Walked over to that large leather sofa. Turned around. Sat down.
Crossed his legs. Leaned back into the soft sofa cushion.
On the coffee table sat a recently opened bottle of Bordeaux red wine.
Shen Che reached out and took a goblet, pouring himself half a glass.
The crimson wine sloshed in the crystal glass, clinging to the rim like a thin layer of blood.
He held the wine glass.
Looking down condescendingly at this Dark Knight of Gotham.
"Just now, you used some crappy mirror to scan me from five hundred meters away."
Shen Che took a sip of the red wine. His voice had no fluctuation.
"Were you looking for the location of my blood vessels? Or trying to analyze my bone density?"
Bruce gritted his teeth. Sweat mixed with blood flowed into his eyes, stinging with pain.
His left hand tightly covered his broken ribs. His right leg slowly bent up.
The data on the tactical eyepiece was in complete chaos. Warning red lights flashed non-stop.
"You've crossed the line."
Bruce's voice was hoarse, like two pieces of rough sandpaper rubbing together.
"Earth is not your toy."
"Crossed the line?"
Shen Che chuckled lowly, his chest vibrating.
He placed the wine glass on his knee, his fingers tapping on the rim.
"Lines are set for people like you."
Shen Che pointed at the night view of Manhattan outside the floor-to-ceiling window.
"You think that wearing a set of black clothes like a Halloween prop and beating up a few madmen in a rainy night means you represent justice?"
Bruce took a deep breath. The stabbing pain in his lungs turned his face pale.
"Justice isn't for sale," he retorted coldly.
"That's why justice is so cheap," Shen Che interrupted him.
"You take Earth too seriously. And you take yourselves too seriously."
Shen Che finished the wine in his glass and tossed the empty cup onto the coffee table.
The glass clinked against the wood, making a crisp sound.
"I changed the rules around here. I tore off the fig leaf of the goody-two-shoes."
Shen Che leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"In my territory, there is only one rule. Pay money, live. Don't pay, die."
Dark, heavy eyes stared at Bruce's white-lensed eyepiece.
"Can't stand it?"
"If you can't stand it, you need to have the ability to make me shut up. Just by relying on those ridiculous darts from just now? Or those pieces of junk in your belt?"
Bruce didn't answer.
He would not admit defeat. The words submission did not exist in Batman's dictionary.
Even when facing an unreasonable higher-dimensional monster.
Physical impact was ineffective. Reaction speed surpassed cognition. The upper limit of strength was completely a mystery.
All Plan Bs and Plan Cs were declared bankrupt.
He had to reshuffle the deck and regain the initiative.
He finally knelt on one knee on the ground. The black cape on his back was stained with dust and wood chips.
The excruciating pain of the broken ribs surged through his entire body like high-voltage current.
He gritted his teeth. His gums grew sore from exerting too much force.
His left hand still pressed tightly against the fracture site of his ribs to prevent the bone spurs from further puncturing his internal organs.
Yet his right hand, under the cover of his body, silently slid toward his tactical belt.
The metal buckle sprang open silently.
Three fingers precisely pinched a silvery-gray cylindrical metal canister.
This was the highest-frequency electromagnetic pulse smoke grenade.
Not only could it instantly paralyze all electronic equipment in the building, but it could also release high-density white smoke sufficient to block all heat sources and infrared vision.
He needed a blind spot in vision. Even if it was only three seconds of breathing room.
Bruce endured the excruciating pain of his broken ribs and slowly crawled up from the rug.
His body was hunched over. The armor made a dull frictional sound.
He raised his head, looking at the man arrogantly looking down at him on the leather sofa.
He knew conventional strength was useless.
His fingers exerted sudden force, pulling out the safety pin of the metal canister.
His arm swung in a semicircle.
Directly pulling out that highest-frequency electromagnetic pulse smoke grenade from his belt.
Smashed it fiercely onto the ground.
Chapter 42: Your tactics are perfect, but they don't even count as scraping to me
The silvery-gray metal canister smashed onto the carpet.
A high-frequency electromagnetic pulse smoke grenade detonated with a roar inside the CEO's office.
There was no deafening explosion or flash of fire.
There was only a dull buzz.
This buzz directly pierced through the physical soundproofing layer.
The blinding white light instantly filled every space on the one hundred and twelfth floor.
The light was bright enough to burn retinas.
Immediately after, thick white smoke gushed out from the metal canister like a high-pressure water column.
The white smoke billowed.
Directly swallowing Shen Che's figure on the sofa.
The fluorescent light tubes overhead emitted a series of popping sounds.
Glass fragments fell down, mixed in the smoke.
The electronic wall clock on the wall went dark.
Under the baptism of the strong electromagnetic pulse, the electronic equipment of the entire office completely paralyzed.
Bruce closed his eyes.
The anti-glare lenses of the tactical mask automatically lowered.
Blocking the damage before the white light could blind his eyes.
He coughed violently twice.
The fractured ribs rubbed against the lung lobes inside his chest cavity.
A sweet, rusty taste immediately welled up in his mouth.
He didn't wipe the blood from the corner of his mouth.
His movements were as smooth as flowing water.
Completely relying on muscle memory.
The thumb of his right hand pressed the buckle on the left side of his belt.
The armor's infrared vision forcefully activated.
This system had undergone anti-electromagnetic shielding treatment.
Inside the eyepiece.
The vast expanse of white smoke turned dark red.
At the location of the sofa, there was a blurry, high-brightness heat source.
Bruce's left hand reached toward the back of his tactical belt.
He still maintained terrifying precision amidst the severe pain.
His fingers pinched out a black polyhedron ball.
This was an ultrasonic jammer.
A special weapon developed specifically targeting the sensitive hearing of superhumans.
This thing could instantly shatter a mutant's semicircular canals.
Bruce clenched his back molars.
His wrist exerted force abruptly.
The black sphere was thrown into the center of the dense smoke.
The sphere landed.
There was no sound.
But a circle of transparent ripples visible to the naked eye rippled through the air.
The leaves of the potted plant in the corner shattered directly into green powder the moment they touched the ripples.
The high-frequency sound waves echoed wildly in the enclosed office.
Under the protection of the heavy-duty armor, Bruce's eardrums still ached faintly.
He didn't look at the battle result of this strike.
His left hand touched his belt again.
Two silvery-white cylindrical bombs were drawn out.
Liquid nitrogen freezing bombs.
He pulled the pin.
And threw it hard toward the heat source on the sofa.
"Click, click."
The two bombs disintegrated in mid-air.
The minus two hundred degrees Celsius liquid nitrogen vaporized instantly.
The temperature in the office plummeted abruptly.
A layer of white frost formed on the Persian carpet at a speed visible to the naked eye.
The ice-blue cold air and white smoke mixed together.
The mahogany veneer of the walls emitted a tart freezing sound.
The moisture in the air turned into tiny ice crystals.
Falling down in a rustle.
This combo attack wasn't over yet.
To deal with a monster of this level, firepower must completely overflow.
Bruce's right hand drew the grapple gun.
His thumb flicked the dial on the side of the gun handle.
The magazine switched.
A barbed stun dart jammed into the chamber.
He raised the gun.
The gun stock pressed against his fractured ribs.
The pain caused his vision to black out for a fraction of a second.
He bit through his lower lip.
Forcing himself to stay awake.
Aim.
Pull the trigger.
"Bang."
Dragging a black insulated cable, the stun dart shot into the center of the ice-blue smoke.
The cable instantly went taut.
Bruce's thumb pressed the red high-voltage button on the gun handle.
Ten thousand volts of high-voltage electricity.
Dazzling blue arcs of electricity surged wildly along the cable.
A thick, pungent smell of ozone permeated the air.
The electric light illuminated the dense smoke, making it flicker on and off.
The crackling sound of current was unusually piercing in the dead silent floor.
The combo attack finished.
Exhausted, Bruce knelt on one knee on the carpet.
He panted heavily, taking huge gasps of air.
With every breath, his lungs felt like they were stuffed with broken glass.
Sweat streamed down his forehead.
Flowing into the mask and stinging his eyes.
He didn't care.
He stared fixedly at the center where the smoke was dissipating.
He had rehearsed this set of tactical moves hundreds of times.
Sound waves destroyed the balance system, liquid nitrogen froze cellular activity, and high-voltage electricity directly pierced the myocardium.
This combo was enough to beat any superhuman on Earthinto losing combat effectiveness.
Even the most troublesome monster in Gotham would have to kneel on the ground and vomit blood under this combination.
Bruce's chest heaved.
Waiting for the sound of a heavy object falling to the ground.
Waiting for the opponent's painful screams.
The smoke was blown away bit by bit by the cold wind from outside the shattered floor-to-ceiling windows.
The aftershocks of the electromagnetic pulse were still fermenting.
Several broken wires hung down from the ceiling.
Bursting out a cluster of yellow sparks from time to time.
Bruce's breathing gradually slowed down.
The infrared vision on the eyepiece was severely interfered with due to the ultra-low temperature.
The whole screen was full of blue-green color blocks, making it impossible to see a human shape clearly.
He simply turned off infrared vision.
Looking forward with the naked eye.
The smoke completely dispersed.
The scene in the office became clear again.
The carpet around the sofa was frozen like an iron plate.
The plush of the carpet was covered with charred electric shock marks.
The surface of that genuine leather sofa was covered with a thick layer of white frost.
Shen Che was sitting on the sofa.
He was still in the same elegant posture as before.
His legs crossed.
His back rested against the sofa cushion.
On the black haute couture suit, there wasn't even a single extra wrinkle.
The ultra-low temperature of liquid nitrogen didn't leave a shred of ice slag on the fabric.
That barbed stun dart didn't pierce into his flesh at all.
The dart fell near the gap of the sofa cushion.
The needle made of special steel had already rolled its edge.
The ten-thousand-volt current was still jumping between the dart and Shen Che's leather shoes.
The blue electric arc struck the polished surface of the leather shoes.
Like a bit of static spark generated when taking off a sweater in winter.
It snapped twice.
And went out.
Shen Che put down the goblet he was holding.
The cup unexpectedly didn't shatter under the previous electromagnetic pulse.
He extended his right hand.
Patting the non-existent dust on the lapel of his suit.
His movements were leisurely and unhurried.
Exuding an infuriating calmness.
"This set of movements."
Shen Che raised his eyelids.
Looking at Batman kneeling on one knee.
"How long have you practiced it?"
His voice was calm.
No anger, no surprise after being attacked.
Only a condescending scrutiny.
Bruce did not answer.
His left hand pressed on his knee suddenly tightened.
The anti-slip particles of the Kevlar gloves tore the fabric of the tactical pant legs.
His teeth bit hard into the soft flesh of his inner cheek.
The muscles of his jaw trembled violently from exertion.
His proud tactics.
The perfect combo he pulled off at the cost of broken ribs.
Didn't even mess up a single hair of the opponent.
"When throwing the sonic ball, your right shoulder was lower by two inches."
Shen Che leaned against the sofa.
Changing into a more comfortable sitting posture.
"Is it because your ribs are broken, affecting your muscle power?"
He even had the leisure to critique Bruce's movements.
"The connection in throwing the liquid nitrogen bombs is okay. Firing the stun gun was also decisive enough."
Shen Che rested his elbows on the sofa armrest.
"Textbook-like tactical literacy."
Shen Che's tone was full of undisguised mockery.
"Timing, environment, prop coordination. Impeccable."
He looked at those bloodshot eyes under Bruce's mask.
"But hitting me."
Shen Che pointed at the smoking stun dart on the carpet.
"It doesn't even count as exfoliating scrapings."
"Do you vigilantes of Gotham usually rely on this kind of juggling to tickle villains?"
Bruce's chest heaved violently.
This time it wasn't because of injury.
It was because his tactical confidence developed a crack for the first time.
He was a mortal.
What a mortal relies on to fight gods are the contingency plans in his mind and the technology in his hands.
But now, the laws of physics completely failed in front of this man.
The minus two hundred degrees Celsius low temperature couldn't freeze his clothes.
Ten thousand volts of high-voltage electricity couldn't pierce his skin.
This exceeded the scope of what science could explain.
Bruce swallowed a mouthful of bloody saliva.
Physical means were completely ineffective.
Continuing to stay here would just be a one-sided beating.
He had to leave.
Put the data he brought back into the Batcomputer to re-analyze.
He must find the real weakness.
Bruce's right hand silently slid toward his left arm.
His thumb pressed a hidden button on the tactical vambrace.
The button was pressed heavily.
That was the emergency summoning signal for the fighter jet.
The radio module inside the armor began to transmit an encrypted frequency band.
Preparing to let the Batwing parked a few blocks away forcibly smash through the window to retreat.
Chapter 43 Cracking Batman's Spine, Crawl Back to Your Gotham
His thumb heavily pressed the hidden button on his tactical bracer.
"Click."
A faint mechanical clicking sound echoed. The encrypted signal pierced through the remaining electromagnetic interference, shooting out into the rainy night of Manhattan.
Bruce did not hesitate.
His right hand instinctively grabbed for the grapple gun at his waist.
As long as the muzzle was aimed at the night sky outside the floor-to-ceiling window, as long as he pulled the trigger.
He would be able to use the high-strength carbon fiber rope to swing out of this suffocating office.
Lifting his right arm pulled on his fractured ribs.
A piercing, excruciating pain shot along his nerves straight into his brain, and Bruce bit the tip of his tongue.
The taste of blood filled his mouth, and he forcibly swallowed the bloody fluid.
The muzzle was already raised.
At that very moment, the frosted leather sofa ahead was empty.
There was no sonic boom, no afterimage.
It didn't even stir up the slightest breeze.
Bruce didn't even hear the sound of leather shoes stepping on the Persian rug.
Shen Che's tall figure seemed to grow directly out of thin air.
He blocked Bruce's path without any warning.
The distance between the two was less than half a meter.
Bruce's heart suddenly skipped a beat.
His hand holding the grapple gun froze in mid-air, unable to pull the trigger no matter what.
Too fast.
This wasn't just speed; this was absolute suppression in terms of space.
Shen Che lowered his head.
His gaze pierced through the goggles of the Batman cowl, looking straight into Bruce's bloodshot eyes.
He raised his right hand.
The movement seemed slow, yet it carried an inescapable sense of oppression.
Bruce wanted to retreat, but the moment his legs exerted force—
Shen Che's hand had already gripped the neck of the Batsuit.
His five fingers closed in.
The titanium-alloy neck armor felt like a brittle wafer cookie in Shen Che's hand.
"Creak—"
A harsh sound of metal fatigue exploded across the office.
A stream of fine yellow sparks burst across the surface of the armor.
Shen Che slightly raised his wrist.
Bruce's weight of over two hundred pounds, coupled with that heavy armored suit—
Was lifted into mid-air with a single hand by Shen Che, just like picking up a newly hatched chick.
Bruce's feet left the ground.
His tactical boots kicked wildly in mid-air, striking Shen Che's suit trousers without leaving even a trace of dust.
The titanium-alloy neck armor indented inward, ruthlessly compressing his trachea and carotid artery.
The lack of blood supply caused Bruce's vision to darken.
He dropped the grapple gun and grabbed Shen Che's arm with both hands.
His Kevlar-gloved hands locked tightly onto that arm.
Bruce used all his strength to pry outward, the joints of his ten fingers straining until they turned white.
It was useless.
That arm was as hard as a solid steel pillar cast deep within the Earth's crust, unmoving.
"What are you proud of?"
Shen Che tilted his head back, watching Batmanstruggling in mid-air.
His voice was icy cold, exuding a scalp-tingling cruelty.
"Over a hundred contingency plans? All kinds of fancy technological gadgets?"
Shen Che sneered.
"Do you think that with your pitiful brain capacity, plus a few piles of scrap metal—"
"You can bridge the gap between dimensions?"
Shen Che's fingers tightened another fraction.
The armor deformed completely, and metal shards pierced into Bruce's neck.
Fresh blood flowed down the gaps of the armor, dripping onto the rug.
Bruce opened his mouth.
Air couldn't enter his lungs, only emitting a wheezing sound like an old bellows.
"Human wisdom," Shen Che shook his head.
"In front of absolute high-dimensional power, it's not even a joke."
He looked into Bruce's bloodshot eyes.
"Don't you like talking about rules? Like being the Dark Knight of Gotham?"
"Today, I'll leave a mark on you."
"An unforgettable lesson for life."
As soon as those words fell—
Shen Che released his hand.
Losing support, Bruce's massive body crashed heavily toward the ground like a piece of scrap iron.
"Boom."
Dust from the rug was kicked up into the air.
Bruce lay prone on the ground.
His fractured ribs suffered severe impact once again, causing his entire body to spasm in pain.
He propped himself up on the rug with both hands, trying to turn over.
Tactical instinct urged him that he must immediately stand up and defend himself.
But he didn't have the chance.
The moment Bruce hit the ground, Shen Che raised his right foot.
That foot wearing a high-end custom leather shoe.
There was no extra wind-up action. He simply stepped down unassumingly.
The sole of the shoe landed precisely on the vertebrae of Bruce's lower back.
The suit had the thickest carbon fiber cushioning layer in this area.
But beneath Shen Che's leather shoe, this layer of protection was as fragile as paper.
The heel pressed down heavily.
"Crack—!"
A teeth-gritting sound of bone shattering rang out abruptly in the empty office.
The sound was so loud it even drowned out the wind and rain outside the window.
It sounded like a thick dry piece of wood being cleaved in two by a giant axe.
Shen Che's toe crushed the carbon fiber. The sole directly snapped Bruce's third and fourth lumbar vertebrae.
Bone fragments plunged deeply into the spinal nerve plexus.
"Ah—!!!"
Bruce let out a scream of the utmost wretchedness.
This wasn't a pain that could be endured by gritting one's teeth.
This was the devastating agony of the human central nervous system being violently severed.
The scream tore his throat, and his vocal cords seeped blood from extreme exertion.
His black-gloved hands clawed frantically at the Persian rug.
He forcefully ripped two large bald patches out of the expensive rug.
Sweat poured from his forehead like a waterfall, blurring his vision.
Following the excruciating pain was an even more despairing silence.
Bruce stopped struggling.
He lay face down on the ground, spitting out bloody saliva in large gasps.
His brain frantically issued commands to his legs to stand up.
Neural signals rushed out of the cerebral cortex, traveling all the way down along the spinal cord.
Then, at the crushed spot in his lower back, they broke.
No response.
Not a single shred of response.
His lower body, from the waist down, seemed to have been completely swallowed by an invisible black hole.
No sensation. Unable to move.
Even the feeling of pain had vanished, leaving only a hollow numbness.
"My... legs..."
Bruce's voice was hoarse, carrying a thick sense of dread.
His pride-inducing physical conditioning. The combat skills he honed day after day.
Completely ruined.
He had become a cripple who couldn't even turn over.
Shen Che stood by his side.
Watching with cold eyes as this vigilante of Gothamwriggled on the ground like a dead caterpillar.
He didn't plan to kill him.
Death was too cheap for someone who loved to lecture from the moral high ground.
Living to feel utterly powerless was the best torture.
A low roar of an engine came from outside the window.
The wind and rain raged heavily.
An entirely pitch-black Batwing broke through the clouds.
It had received the emergency signal Bruce transmitted earlier.
The aircraft hovered outside the shattered floor-to-ceiling window of Vought Tower.
The powerful airflow blew the documents in the office flying everywhere.
The vertical takeoff and landing engines beneath the fuselage spewed blue flames.
The transparent bulletproof cockpit canopy slowly slid open upward.
Revealing the black leather pilot seat inside.
The aircraft was waiting for its Master.
Shen Che turned his head, looking at that exaggeratedly-shaped aircraft.
Then he looked at Bruce beneath his feet.
He flicked his toe upward.
The leather shoe wedged against the ribs of Bruce's suit.
Just like kicking away a dead dog blocking the road.
Without using much strength.
Bruce's heavy body slid directly across the rug.
Crashing through the window frame littered with broken glass.
Flying out past the edge of Vought Tower.
He traced an arc through the torrential rain.
Landing with absolute precision into the open cockpit of the Batwing.
"Bang."
Bruce slammed flat on his back onto the pilot seat.
His suit knocked against the dashboard, smashing several display screens.
He slumped in the chair.
Rainwater poured in along the open canopy, beating against his face and washing away the bloodstains on his suit.
The aircraft's artificial intelligence detected that the pilot's vital signs were extremely weak.
"Warning. The pilot's spine is severely damaged."
A mechanical female voice resounded in the cockpit.
"Initiating emergency medical mode. Automatic return procedure activated."
The bulletproof canopy began to slowly close.
Shen Che walked to the hole in the floor-to-ceiling window.
The high-altitude cold wind ruffled his short hair, and the hem of his black suit fluttered violently in the wind.
With his hands tucked into his trouser pockets.
Across a few meters of rain curtain, he looked at Batmaninside the cockpit.
"Crawl back to your Gotham."
Shen Che twitched the corner of his mouth, revealing a cold sneer.
"Find a better wheelchair."
The canopy closed completely.
Locking that mockery outside the cockpit.
The tail of the Batwing spewed two dazzling bursts of fire.
The fuselage abruptly veered in the rainy night, fleeing in panic toward the direction of Gotham.
Like a black stray dog with its wings broken.
Inside the aircraft, dim red warning lights flashed continuously.
Bruce Wayne lay prone on the pilot seat.
He tried to turn his neck, but a sharp pain shot through it.
He gave up struggling.
The wound on his lower back was bleeding, and medical gel automatically sprayed onto the damaged suit.
Bringing a fake sense of coolness.
But he couldn't feel his legs.
He kept his eyes open, watching the rainwater constantly sliding down the transparent canopy of the aircraft.
The crisp sound of bone fracture echoed in his mind.
It was over.
Decades of painstaking effort. The vow to protect Gotham.
Beneath that man's leather shoe sole, shattered until not even dust remained.
Bruce's breathing grew weaker and weaker.
He stared fixedly at the dashboard.
Those eyes that usually always exuded careful deliberation and absolute confidence.
At this moment held nothing but utter dead silence.
The numbness in his lower body spread toward his heart like poison.
Bruce's right hand hung powerlessly at the edge of the leather seat.
His fingertips were still trembling slightly with the turbulence of the aircraft.
He wanted to raise his hand to press the manual control button on the dashboard.
Even if it was just to confirm on the radar whether Shen Che was pursuing them.
But he couldn't do it. The shock from blood loss and severed nerves was stripping away his remaining lucidity.
The oxygen concentration inside the cabin automatically increased.
The medical system injected a dose of high-concentration adrenaline into his jugular vein.
His heart violently beat twice.
Pulling Bruce back forcefully from the brink of unconsciousness.
He didn't need lucidity. Right now, he would rather have passed out completely.
Being lucid meant he had to face this cruel reality head-on.
He felt the seat beneath him.
The tactile sensation on his back remained sharp. The suit, through the leather cushion, felt somewhat abrasive.
Chapter 44: Gotham Trembles, Who is that Unmatched Deity?
The Batwing's engine let out a sonic-breaking wail.
The tail of the craft dragged a long trail of black smoke. The exhaust flame flickered on and off, as if it could die out at any second.
The fuselage stumbled through the waterfall in the suburbs of Gotham City. Splashes of water slammed against the bulletproof glass, washing away streaks of white marks.
"Boom!"
The aircraft failed to land smoothly. Before the landing gear was fully deployed, the belly of the plane heavily scraped against the steel grating runway of the Batcave.
Sparks splashed out over a dozen meters like pouring water.
The nose of the plane collided with the buffer airbag at the end of the runway, emitting a muffled thud.
The aircraft was completely totaled. The engine emitted a pungent, charred smell.
"Young Master!"
The elderly butler Alfred dropped the tray in his hand. The red teacup on the silver tray shattered into pieces.
He scrambled toward the aircraft, his shoe soles slipping on the water-logged steel grating.
The pressure valves hissed. The deformed cockpit canopy jammed.
Alfred picked up a large wrench from the ground and struck the canopy latch again and again.
The crisp sound of metal colliding echoed through the empty Batcave.
The canopy finally sprang open.
A strong stench of blood mixed with the chemical odor of medical gel rushed toward his face.
Alfred's hands shook like a sieve.
He leaned half his body in.
Bruce was slumped over the pilot seat. The titanium alloy armor was shattered in multiple places, and the carbon-fiber armor on his lower back was completely caved in.
The fractured bone spurs pierced through the lining. Fresh blood soaked the leather of the seat.
"Medical bed! Hurry!"
Alfred yelled at the top of his lungs, his vocal cords nearly splitting.
He labored to lift Bruce out of the cockpit. The two-hundred-pound weight caused the old butler's knees to buckle straight down.
Bruce's head hung limply. His eyes were half-open.
There was no focus in his pupils, leaving only dead silence.
"Legs..." Bruce's lips moved.
Blood foam dripped down his chin onto Alfred's tuxedo.
"Can't feel them anymore..."
Alfred gritted his teeth, tears swirling in his eye sockets.
He placed Bruce onto the wheeled medical bed and cut open the tattered armor.
The startling wounds were exposed under the shadowless lamp.
The third and fourth lumbar vertebrae were completely shattered. The spinal cord nerves were like crushed cables.
"Young Master. Hang in there."
Alfred pressed the oxygen mask onto Bruce's face and turned to push the anesthesia machine.
The ECG monitor in the Batcave emitted a harsh beeping sound.
The rain in Gotham City had not stopped yet.
This city's nerves were always exceptionally sensitive.
The news of the Batwing dragging black smoke and crashing into the suburbs was posted on the dark web by some telescope enthusiast.
In less than half an hour.
The dark web forums of the underground Worldcompletely exploded.
"Batman has crashed down! The belly of the craft is completely destroyed!"
"Someone saw an ambulance driving toward Wayne Manor near Arkham!"
Rumors spread like a plague through Gotham's sewers, abandoned warehouses, and gang hideouts.
The Iceberg Lounge.
Penguin Cobblepot sat in a spacious executive chair.
He held a diamond-encrusted long-handled umbrella in his hand, its tip poking the carpet over and over.
Several gang bosses stood in front of him.
"Is the news accurate?" Penguin asked in a shrill voice.
"Mr. Cobblepot, my informants saw the fighter crash with their own eyes. The firelight lit up half the mountainside."
One boss licked his lips, rubbing his hands together in excitement.
"That old bat is probably already a roasted bat."
Penguin abruptly stood up.
His obese body made the chair creak loudly.
He raised his umbrella and pointed at the gloomy sky of Gotham outside the window.
"Hahahaha! The era belonging to us has arrived!"
Saliva flew from his mouth as he spoke, his monocle dangling on his face.
"Notify the brothers under us. Take out all the gear. Tonight we are taking over all the freight yards at the docks!"
On the other side. The abandoned courthouse building.
Two-Face Harvey Dent tossed the coin in his hand.
The coin flipped in mid-air, tracing a silver streak.
"Snap."
He slapped his hand down onto the coin and removed it.
The scratched side was facing up.
"Even the heavens say he is dead." Harvey's half-charred, ruined face pulled into a grim smile.
"Go surround the banks in downtown. Tonight Gotham has no Police, only revelry!"
Inside the sewers of Gotham City. The asylum escapees.
The remnants of the Joker gang. Black Mask's thugs.
Thousands of people. Thousands of guns.
Gathering in the rainy night.
Preparing to tear this city, oppressed for far too long, into pieces.
Eight o'clock in the evening.
Times Square in downtown Gotham, as well as the large LED screens at the intersections of various neighborhoods.
Were originally playing harsh cosmetic advertisements and the mayor's campaign speech.
Suddenly.
All the screens flickered simultaneously, turning into static snow.
Then, a high-definition live broadcast signal was forcibly cut in.
Penguin was walking down the street with dozens of armed thugs.
He looked up and glanced at the huge screen overhead.
Inside the screen was an unfamiliar man.
Wearing a black high-end custom suit without a tie.
Standing in front of a podium.
This was a playback of Shen Che's press conference on the first floor of Vought Tower in New York.
This video was bought by Vought's PR department for a hefty sum during prime time on all outdoor big screens across the U.S.
"Who is this pretty boy?"
A thug spat on the ground.
"Screw him, boss, let's go smash that jewelry store first..."
"Shut up." Penguin raised his umbrella and struck the thug's steel helmet with a clang.
He stared at the screen.
Shen Che in the screen tapped the microphone.
"Starting today, all superheroes under Vought Companywill no longer provide free rescue."
The New York reporters below were screaming and cursing madly.
The scene shifted.
Cutting to the hostage tragedy at the Fifth Avenue bank.
High-pressure water cannons in the plaza knocked the kneeling and kowtowing civilians head over heels.
Bloody water, shredded cardboard, and that sentence broadcasted across the U.S. through loudspeakers.
"Pay money, live. Don't pay, die."
Shen Che on the screen.
There was not a shred of humanity in his eyes, nor any mercy for life.
That was the gaze of looking at bugs.
Penguin's hand holding the umbrella paused in mid-air.
His knuckles turned white from excessive force.
He had been in the underworld for so many years; what ruthless characters hadn't he seen?
But he had never seen a madman who dared to put a price tag on human lives in front of the whole World, writing dictatorship on his face.
Madmen are not scary. What's scary is that this madman holds the capital and power to crush everything.
Following that, the screen footage switched again.
It was a rough long-distance aerial footage.
Seventh Avenue in New York.
Two scarlet laser beams descended from the sky.
Like a red-hot paper cutter, directly slicing open half a city block.
Skyscrapers collapsed like they were made of paper. A sea of flames instantly swallowed several streets.
No reason. No early warning. Just pure destruction.
The screen went dark, finally freezing on the insurance hotline for "Vought Supreme VIP Insurance".
Times Square was dead silent.
Only the pattering sound of rainwater hitting the umbrella surfaces.
The gang thugs who were just clamoring to seize territory.
At this moment were like they had their vocal cords collectively removed.
The automatic rifles in their hands unconsciously drooped toward the ground.
Penguin swallowed hard, his Adam's apple rolling.
He swallowed a mouthful of saliva, feeling his throat as dry as smoking.
That was New York. A mega-city with tens of millions of people.
Just because a few people didn't listen, an entire street was gone?
"Boss..." The nearby boss's voice trembled. "Are we... still going to the docks?"
Penguin turned around.
And slapped the back of the boss's head.
"Go fuck your mother's docks!"
He roared in a low voice, spitting saliva all over the boss's face.
"If you want to die, don't drag me down with you!"
He pointed at the darkened screen.
"That is a lunatic! That is a tyrant without any bottom line!"
"When the old bat was around, he'd at most break our legs. Sending us to Arkham still came with meals."
All the fat on Penguin's body was shaking.
"If we cause trouble now and lure that ancestor over to Gotham."
He pointed at the sewer manhole cover on the ground.
"He will burn the entire Gotham City along with its ground into a glass marble! Not even a single mouse will survive!"
"Get back! Make everyone get back inside their dens and stay there! Whoever dares to fire a single shot on the street, I'll skin him alive myself!"
At the entrance of the abandoned courthouse.
Two-Face Harvey's coin dropped into a puddle.
He didn't bother to pick it up.
That half of his intact face was as pale as paper.
He turned around and waved at his subordinates.
"Retreat. Lock the doors tight."
Harvey's voice was hoarse.
Without Batman's bottom line protection, this group of madmen, in front of that absolute violence-wielding plutocrat.
Were worth less than a fart.
This night, which should have been the most jubilant night of riots for Gotham City's underworld.
Turned into the most peaceful night since the founding of Gotham, because of Shen Che's video.
No robberies. No gunshots.
Even street punks hid at home and dared not go out.
Fear.
Pure, indescribable fear, like an invisible giant net, tightly shrouded this city of sin.
Deep inside the Batcave.
The shadowless lamps in the medical area were blindingly white.
Bruce lay on the operating bed, his back stuck full of life-support pipelines.
The anesthesia dose was sufficient, but relying on his formidable willpower, he forcibly maintained a state of semi-consciousness.
His neck couldn't move; he could only tilt his head and look at the surveillance screen hanging on the wall.
The screen was rebroadcasting Shen Che's speech in New York, as well as the towering flames of Seventh Avenue.
Alfred was organizing blood-stained gauze nearby, his hands still trembling.
"Young Master. Informants outside report that Penguin and Two-Face have both retreated."
Alfred's voice was very soft, fearing to disturb Bruce's wounds.
"There isn't even a single robber on the street. Gotham... is frighteningly quiet."
Bruce watched the screen.
His pupils reflected Shen Che's unbridled face.
He clenched his back teeth tightly, his gums oozing blood again.
The bottom line he had guarded his entire life. For the no-killing principle, he had played a cat-and-mouse game with this group of madmen for decades.
He thought that as long as he held that line, Gothamwould have hope.
But today.
A tyrant, using only a single video.
Using the pure fear of destroying a street with a wave of his hand.
Pressed down the evil of all of Gotham so much that it didn't even dare to raise its head.
His justice appeared so pale and ridiculous in the face of absolute violence.
Bruce closed his eyes. There was a hint of moisture at the corners of his eyes.
But he did not let the tears flow down.
Batman will not admit defeat.
He rolled his eyeballs, his vision shifting to the quantum computer on the workbench.
On the secondary screen, the top-secret folder decrypted a few hours ago was still glowing.
That was something dug out from LexCorp's underlying servers.
The name of the folder was strikingly obvious:
"LexCorp: Alien Meteorite Project".
Chapter 45: Lex Luthor's Jealousy, I Will Build Anti-Shen Che Armor
Bruce's gaze was glued tightly to the screen.
That top-secret folder titled "LexCorp: Alien Meteorite Project" looked somewhat pale under the reflection of the shadowless lamp.
Two hundred kilometers away. Metropolis.
LexCorp. Top-floor laboratory.
The air conditioning was turned up high. A thin layer of condensation hung over the air vent.
Lex Luthor stood in front of the curved screen that occupied the entire wall. The crystal cup in his hand had grown somewhat warm.
There were no data reports on the screen. Only repeatedly played news footage.
Shen Che wore a black suit, standing at the podium on the first floor of Vought Tower.
"Pay money, live. Don't pay, die."
The cold voice echoed through the high-end speakers in the laboratory.
The screen cut.
New York, Seventh Avenue. Two crimson lasers descended from the sky.
The reinforced concrete building was sliced open like cardboard. The glass curtain wall melted into orange-red droplets dripping downward.
The soaring flames lit up half of Manhattan's night sky.
The ratings numbers in the upper right corner of the screen were still skyrocketing.
Luthor applied force with his fingers.
The crystal cup emitted a slight creaking sound.
He suddenly raised his hand and fiercely smashed the wine glass toward the big screen.
"Bang."
The cup collided with the explosion-proof glass, shattering into dozens of fragments.
A few drops of amber wine splashed onto the screen, slowly sliding down along Shen Che's arrogant face.
Luthor's chest heaved violently.
He gasped heavily. A dense layer of oily sweat oozed out from his bald forehead.
Jealousy.
Like a slimy venomous snake, it crawled all the way up his spine into his brain, taking a bite out of his rational nerves.
He was the smartest person on Earth.
Half of Metropolis's council members signed in his checkbook. Wall Street's funds fluctuated with the twitch of his brow.
With his brain, he played those super-humans who only had brute strength in the palm of his hand.
The plutocrat's throne. The steering wheel dominating humanity's trajectory.
That should have belonged to him, and could only belong to him.
On what grounds.
An alien bastard who didn't know where he popped out from.
A monster that didn't even obey Earth's gravity.
Directly kicked open the chessboard with one foot, sitting at the highest position overlooking all living beings.
Shen Che snatched away the spotlight that should have belonged to him, Luthor.
What made Luthor even more unbearable was Shen Che's arrogance of treating human lives as numbers.
That kind of arrogance had always been the exclusive privilege of him, Lex Luthor.
A pseudo-god relying on genetic mutation, how dare he set the rules in front of him?
Luthor grabbed the collar of his custom-made shirt and gave it a forceful tug.
The tie went crooked. Two pearl buttons snapped off and bounced onto the floor.
He turned and strode toward the curved console in the center of the laboratory.
Both hands slammed onto the mechanical keyboard.
His ten fingers turned into a blur. The keyboard emitted a torrential rain-like clattering sound.
The news footage on the screen was cut off.
Replaced by waterfall-like rolling green underlying code.
"Initiate the Olympus Protocol."
Luthor ordered the air. His voice was as hoarse as sandpaper.
The laboratory lights instantly switched to the highest-level tactical cool white light.
The metal shields on the ceiling slid open to both sides. Four huge yellow industrial robotic arms descended.
"Retrieve all aerospace-grade titanium alloy plates of the corporation."
"Cut off the power of the Aerospace Department's deep space exploration project. Dismantle that miniature nuclear reactor for me."
The artificial intelligence's synthetic voice sounded overhead.
"Mr. Luthor. Interrupting the aerospace project will lead to—"
"Shut up! Execute the order!"
Luthor slammed his fist onto the metal countertop. His knuckles broke skin, and blood oozed out.
The hurried sound of high heels came from outside the door.
The laboratory's electronic door slid open halfway.
The female assistant stood at the doorway holding a stack of documents with a panicked expression.
"Mr. Luthor, the Legal Department says Vought Companyis maliciously acquiring our real estate—"
"Let them go to hell!"
Luthor didn't even turn his head, grabbing the metal stapler on the desk and smashing it over.
The stapler smashed against the door frame, and staples scattered all over the floor.
The assistant shrank her neck in fright. The door closed quickly and locked tightly.
Luthor didn't need useless people to help.
He was going to use humanity's highest wisdom to build a suit of iron armor that could trample that pseudo-god into the mud.
He stared at the thermal energy waveform chart of Shen Che releasing Heat Vision on the screen.
"There is no absolute invincibility in physical laws. As long as it is energy, there is a time when it will be exhausted."
He picked up the electronic stylus on the console.
Quickly modifying parameters on the 3D modeling drawings.
"High temperature resistance? I'll add a tungsten-titanium alloy coating for you."
The first day passed.
The laboratory floor was covered with discarded blueprints and metal waste.
Sparks flew from the four robotic arms.
The skeleton of two thick mechanical legs had already formed. Hydraulic pipelines wound around the metal skeleton like blue blood vessels.
Luthor's eyes were bloodshot.
The bags under his eyes were bluish-green. His white shirt was stained with patches of black machine oil prints.
He picked up the black coffee beside him that had long since gone cold, tilting his head back and gulping down a large mouthful.
The bitter liquid stimulated his exhausted nerves.
He walked over to the mechanical legs, holding a portable welding torch in his hand.
Sparks sprayed, illuminating his paranoid face.
"The servo motor's response time. Zero point zero two seconds. Too slow."
He clenched his back teeth, threw away the welding torch, picked up the tablet computer, and rewrote the driver program.
"Compress it to zero point zero one seconds for me. I need to keep up with his speed."
The second day.
The casting of the heavy chest armor was completed.
The composite titanium alloy armor plate, eight centimeters thick, sandwiched a high-density liquid cooling layer in the middle.
Luthor stood in front of the workbench.
Holding a precision wrench in his hand, he tightened the last fixing bolt.
The slide rail overhead delivered a silver-gray metal box.
The box opened. Inside was a fist-sized miniature nuclear reactor.
A dim blue light flickered in the laboratory, emitting deadly high-energy radiation.
He put on heavy lead anti-radiation gloves.
Cautiously cradling the reactor.
Snapping it into the groove right in the center of the heavy chest armor.
"Click."
The latch interlocked seamlessly.
Several thick energy transmission pipelines lit up with blue light. The surging power instantly coursed through the metal skeleton of the entire mecha.
Luthor took two steps back, looking at the semi-finished product in front of him.
A neurotic smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"Alien. Let's see how many plasma cannon shots your physical body can withstand."
The third day.
The mounting of the weapon system.
A high-frequency electromagnetic railgun was installed on the outside of the right arm, capable of accelerating depleted uranium armor-piercing projectiles to five times the speed of sound.
The left arm was a giant hydraulic pincer with crushing functions, its pincer edges inlaid with diamond coating.
Luthor hadn't closed his eyes for three days and three nights.
He took four high-concentration refreshing pills. His stomach was cramping.
But he couldn't feel tired.
His mind was in a state of extreme excitement and madness.
He wanted to prove to the whole World that he, Luthor, was the only ruler of Earth.
The exhaust fan hummed, extracting the thick ozone smell in the laboratory.
A heavy anti-Shen Che armor gleaming with cold metallic luster stood quietly in the center of the laboratory.
Up to two point five meters tall.
The shoulders were as wide as a city wall. The dark gray matte coating exuded a murderous aura under the cool white light.
Every inch of the armor's seams was flawless.
This was the current ultimate crystallization of human technology.
Luthor threw his oil-stained gloves onto the ground.
Walking directly in front of the armor.
Spreading his arms.
"Open the cockpit," he ordered.
Accompanied by a dull hydraulic deflation sound.
The heavy chest armor smoothly opened to both sides, revealing the pilot seat inside covered with neuron sensing patches.
Luthor stepped inside.
Turning around. Standing still.
The cabin door slowly closed in front of him, and his vision fell into brief darkness.
Then.
Holographic screens lit up one by one inside the mask.
Hundreds of green data boxes jumped at the edge of his retina.
The machine synthetic voice rang in the helmet.
"Power core online. Micro nuclear reactor output stable. Load ten percent."
The neuron sensing patches pierced into his combat suit, sticking to his spine and muscles.
A weak current flowed through his whole body.
Man-machine integration.
Luthor could no longer feel tired.
The surging power of the nuclear reactor, following those metal pipelines, filled his greed for power.
He now felt that he could smash a mountain with one punch.
The armor's right arm lifted slightly.
A trace of blue light lit up on the charging coil of the electromagnetic railgun.
The huge metal body took a step forward.
"Boom."
The two-ton armor stepped on the compression-resistant floor, and the laboratory shook along with it.
Luthor looked at the crosshairs on the visor screen.
The jealousy and arrogance in his heart expanded to the peak.
Pseudo-god?
Today I will smash you into a pool of mud.
He connected to the internal channel of the corporation's aerospace department.
Processed by the armor's loudspeaker, his voice became deep and full of metallic texture.
Carrying an unrivaled arrogance.
"Have my private plane ready on the top floor helipad."
"Take off immediately. Fly directly to New York Vought Tower."