To be honest, even though it was just a game, Chu Cheng was genuinely startled by the scene in front of him.
Wait a second—wasn't this game marketed as PG-13?
The term "PG-13" generally implies mild peril and action, maybe some stylized violence—but nothing intense or scarring. A game meant for teens shouldn't open like a psychological horror film. And yet, staring at the screen now, Chu Cheng couldn't help but suspect the development team had a very loose interpretation of parental guidance.
Right there, in the conference room below, a man—no, a headless man—was standing upright, holding his own severed head in his hands. It was grotesque. Viscera dripped from the neck stump like syrup from a shattered jar. Blood trailed behind the man as he walked calmly forward, as if this were just another Monday at the office.
Chu Cheng imagined a kid launching this game on a weekend, excited to be Gotham's dark guardian. And then—boom!—a walking corpse in the tutorial. If this was foreshadowing some heroic path, it had better end with love, light, and a therapist.
What the hell kind of twisted morality play was this?
And it only got worse. The man—identified in earlier dialogue as Aiqi—strode forward unfazed, cradling his own head like an offering. His footfalls echoed through the sterile conference room while his decapitated form moved with disturbing precision. Not one person in the room screamed or even flinched. It was as if this sort of nightmare was part of the day's agenda.
A crew-cut man stepped aside, revealing a cabinet along the wall. With a hiss and a mechanical shuffle, the cabinet split open, revealing a hidden chamber. From within emerged a statue—black, bone-white, and wrong.
It wasn't simply monstrous; it was impossible. Limbs sprouted from its torso like gnarled tree branches, each arm bent in twisted, unnatural directions, forming some horrific parody of a religious idol. Chu Cheng stared, unease tightening his chest. The more he looked, the harder it became to look away. It felt ancient. Hungry.
Aiqi approached the statue reverently, lifting his severed head as if preparing a sacrifice. The head's expression was the worst part—serene, even ecstatic. The lips curled into a peaceful smile, like a monk achieving nirvana.
Then it happened.
Flesh dissolved. The head crumbled into a mist of red and bone, drawn toward the statue like iron filings to a magnet. It vanished, sucked into the grotesque figure's core. Aiqi's body followed next, collapsing in a lifeless heap as if the strings of a marionette had just been cut.
The statue's eyes—if they could be called that—flashed with a sudden scarlet light.
Everyone in the conference room knelt at once, bowing in worship.
That's when a high-pitched whistle split the silence.
Thunk!
A pitch-black projectile—a bat-shaped dart—pierced the statue's chest. Its embedded red LED blinked ominously.
BOOM!!
A controlled explosion tore the statue apart, sending shards of corrupted stone and bone across the room in a kaleidoscope of destruction. The worshippers recoiled in shock, and the flat-topped man shouted, "WHO!?"
Before anyone could react, the lights in the room—and the corridor outside—flickered and died.
A pulse had gone out. Not a random blackout—an EMP. A classic Batman tactic. He always cut the power first. Darkness was his native element, and with one small burst of electromagnetic disruption, every light, camera, and security system had just gone dead. The Dark Knight was making his entrance.
The sudden pitch-black silence was more terrifying than the explosion.
Then came a soft clink. Something small rolled across the floor.
A marble?
No. A tactical flashbang.
BOOM!
Blinding light erupted, searing white against the pupils of the room's occupants—perfectly timed. Their retinas were still adjusting to the blackout when the world erupted in daylight again.
And into that chaos dropped a shadow.
From the ventilation duct above, Batman emerged. Cloak swirling, cowl down, his boots slammed onto the ground with precision force.
This was no stealth op. He wasn't here to eavesdrop—he was here to end it.
Chu Cheng gripped the mouse and keyboard with both hands, moving like a storm. His fingers danced across the keys as Batman blurred into motion—like watching a storm of fists wearing Kevlar.
One—down.
Two—fractured ribs.
Three—disarmed. Literally.
But something was off. Something wrong.
One of the heavier men—a bald, round brute—had his arm twisted back in a textbook dislocation maneuver. Any normal human would be on the ground, screaming in pain.
Not this guy.
He simply roared and charged, his broken arm flopping uselessly behind him like dead meat. No pain. No hesitation. Just madness.
Even more absurd was the flat-headed man. Chu Cheng activated a skill combo—"Quick-Fire Bat Darts." He double-tapped the number one key. Batman spun mid-combat, launching a dart over his shoulder.
Thunk!
Perfect shot. It pinned the man's left hand to the wall.
But did he scream? Panic? Freeze?
No.
He calmly pulled a knife with his right hand and—without a hint of emotion—sliced off his own pinned hand at the wrist.
Blood sprayed, but he didn't flinch. He just stepped forward, now wielding the knife in his remaining hand, stump spurting crimson, eyes blank.
These weren't humans. They were thralls.
Another attacker took a direct kick from Batman that dislocated his kneecap, twisting the leg backward. And yet—he stood. He hopped toward Batman on one leg, snorting through the blood in his nose like a beast.
The entire room descended into madness.
It wasn't just violence—it was the absence of pain. The absence of fear. These weren't enemies. They were test subjects.
Brain matter splattered on carpet. Crimson painted the fluorescent tiles. Chu Cheng could almost smell the sickness leaking from the screen, like sulfur and rot.
What kind of "superhero game" was this?
It felt like he'd opened the wrong disc. Not Gotham's knight—but Arkham's true heir. Was this a Cthulhu cult reskin? Why did Batman feel less like a caped crusader and more like a noir investigator trying to survive a Lovecraftian nightmare?
Still—this was Batman. And madmen? He'd dealt with those all his life.
This was his element.
Within minutes, the entire room was strewn with broken bodies—limbs twisted, jaws slack, blood pooling. All down.
Except one.
The flat-headed man.
He clung to the wall, breathing raggedly. His left hand—gone. Right arm—shattered. Left leg—dislocated. Three limbs down. By now he resembled a broken scarecrow, barely clinging to life.
And yet… he stood.
Chu Cheng watched in stunned awe as the man hopped forward on one foot, blood bubbling from his stump like a fountain.
Still, Chu Cheng didn't lower his guard.
This thing had survived way too much.
He was about to input another combo—but then, the man froze.
Boom.
No dramatic scream. No curse.
Just—splatter.
His head exploded like a popped balloon. A mist of red, a hollow crunch, and the final enemy collapsed.
And finally, the room was quiet.
Game over.
But the nightmare? It was just beginning.