Belrand, Lower City.

A thin veil of mist drifted in from the Guraine River, shrouding this ancient and silent district. The overcast sky cast no light at all, and the entire area seemed like a reflection of hell itself.

This was the source of Belrand’s darkness, the shadow cast upon the earth by the flourishing branches of the city above.

Chaos was the eternal theme here.

Even with all roads out of the city sealed, the Upper City garrisoned by knight orders, and a curfew enforced, the flashes of steel, fire, and blood still spread through the corners of this district.

"Stop!"

Shouts and shrieks tore through the stillness of an alley. Excited thugs swung blades and swords, the glow of fire at their backs as they chased a thin, frail figure in the distance.

"No... don’t come any closer. Let me go, please let me go."

The gaunt man stumbled in a pitiful escape. His body was covered in wounds, as if he had already endured much inhuman torment.

Whssht—

A sharp whistle of wind—suddenly the man pitched forward, falling to the ground. A crossbow bolt had been loosed and drove straight through his calf.

Blood poured freely.

"Let me go, I beg you, please let me go! I didn’t betray the Rat King! I just washed my hands of it, that’s all—I never betrayed him!"

Blood and tears covered his face as he pleaded for mercy from the approaching thugs.

"Let you go?"

They drew nearer, faces twisted in malice.

"Did you forget the Rat Society’s rules? Back when we were making money, you were more eager than anyone. Now, just because there’s a bit of bad wind, you want to walk away?"

"No, I didn’t, I didn’t! I just don’t want to do it anymore, that’s all! I don’t want to kill anymore. I just want to be a good man."

He dragged himself forward to kneel before them, knocking his forehead to the ground in desperate supplication.

"We used to be colleagues, Swick—we’d often drink together. Let me go, I beg you, let me go! I’ve really just washed my hands of it. I never betrayed anyone!"

"Let you go? If I let you go, then who will let me go?"

The one called Swick lowered his cold gaze, slowly raising the crossbow in his hands and leveling it at the man’s forehead.

"If you want to be a good man in your next life, start early—don’t wait until your hands are already drenched in blood before you start spouting nonsense like this."

"No! I want to see the Rat King! I want to see him! I’ve done so much for him—he can’t treat me like this!"

The man’s terrified roar meant nothing. In his look of despair, the bowstring grew taut... and released.

He shut his eyes instinctively, waiting for death.

Ding.

A crisp sound echoed. The expected end never came.

His eyes flew open in shock. In front of him stood a pure black, old-fashioned cane, upright and unmoving. A faint mark showed where the arrow had grazed it.

Who?

Who could block a point-blank crossbow bolt with just a cane?

Everyone stared in astonishment at the figure who had appeared without warning.

He wore a pure black, gold-trimmed tailcoat. While the attire spoke of refined nobility, the jagged cut of the tails faintly hinted at something violent and predatory.

He was a full head taller than most men, exuding a palpable pressure. Beneath the wide brim of his hat, a Northern Slavic face of cold sharpness curved into a strange smile.

"Good evening, everyone."

He tipped his hat politely in greeting.

"Just now... did I hear someone say they wanted to be a good man?"

"Who are you?"

Swick immediately swung his crossbow toward the stranger.

His men also raised their weapons, moving in with vicious expressions.

"Now, now—no need to be tense, gentlemen. I’m just an ordinary passerby."

The tall man in the tailcoat tapped the cane against the ground, gesturing like a gentleman at ease.

"You can call me... hmm, let me think... call me... Bruce Wayne."

The smile at the corner of his lips deepened, as though he had just thought of some amusing idea.

"Yes—an ordinary citizen named Bruce, without superpowers. That suits me perfectly."

"What exactly are you trying to do?"

Swick’s finger tightened on the trigger, voice harsh.

"Don’t tell me you’re with this coward?"

"No, no. Didn’t I just say? I’m only passing through."

The man calling himself Bruce—Muen—seemed not to notice the cocked crossbow aimed at him. Surrounded by thugs, he showed no intent to retreat. Instead, he brushed aside a raised machete, slung an arm around a thug’s shoulder, and smiled as if greeting an old friend.

"But I do have one small question for this kind gentleman here."

"A question?"

Swick frowned.

Normally, anyone who dared interrupt the Rat Society’s business would be killed on the spot and tossed into the sewers. But he couldn’t read this man, so he held onto a sliver of caution. If things could be settled without violence, all the better.

"What question?"

"I’d like to know—your boss, Rat King Sam, right now—"

Whssht—

A bolt of wind cut him off.

Muen tilted his head slightly, pressing down his hat brim. His eyes flicked to the bolt now quivering in the wall behind him, and he sighed regretfully.

"Why won’t anyone just let a man finish his sentence?"

"Kill him!"

Swick’s eyes widened as he shouted, "Boss said anyone asking about his whereabouts these days—kill them all!"

"No wonder they say Rat King Sam has over a dozen safehouses, sometimes changing sleeping spots three times in a [N O V E L I G H T] night. That vigilance... truly admirable."

Muen patted the thug’s shoulder beside him in a friendly way and asked softly,

"Don’t you agree?"

"Go to hell, you bastard!"

But the thug clearly didn’t feel any warmth from him. Gripping his machete, he swung for Muen’s neck.

"Which is why... I’ve always hated violence."

Muen sighed again.

"But you people insist on forcing me to use it."

A flick of his fingers—

Thunder.

Before their horrified eyes, the thug closest to Muen lost half an arm in an explosion of red mist.

And within that haze, the so-called ordinary citizen Bruce whistled softly, stooping to pick up the fallen machete.

He weighed it in his hand.

"Sigh... once you get used to Elizabeth, every other weapon just feels like trash."

He shook his head in discontent, then with a smooth turn of the wrist drove the blade into the neck of a thug attempting to sneak up behind him—moving as casually as if strolling through a garden.

"But this will do for now."

"Kill him! Kill him! All of you, together!"

Swick roared, eyes bloodshot, crossbow reloaded and aimed.

Stay calm.

Stay calm.

He’s just one man—no way he can take out over a dozen of us in a blink. If I can keep him occupied, the magic crossbow’s power will turn him into a pincushion.

"Ah, right—mind answering me one more question?"

At that moment, the so-called ordinary citizen pulled the blade from his victim’s neck, sidestepped the spray of blood with elegance, and fixed his gaze back on Swick.

"Ten seconds divided by ten equals what?"

Ten seconds divided by ten?

Was he mocking a child?

"Of course it’s one," Swick answered without thinking.

"Is it?"

Upon hearing the answer, Mr. Bruce Wayne stood still, pressing his hat down. Without glancing at the thugs lunging from behind, he murmured softly, as if counting down:

"Then... one it is."

In that instant, as the words fell, Swick watched in shock as the man vanished into a blur.

And almost at the same time, a chorus of screams erupted. Clouds of blood blossomed in the darkness like a magnificent otherworldly flower, slowly unfurling in the endless night.