Die.
Chu Cheng didn't know how many times that blood-red word had flashed in the center of the screen. His raised fist hovered over the keyboard, trembling with frustration, only to freeze midair as the price tag of his beloved mechanical keyboard flashed through his mind.
He clenched his teeth and slowly, painfully lowered his hand.
Poverty is a kind of self-control.
At this point, he was increasingly convinced that this game was out of its mind. He'd cleared more hardcore games than he could count—even notorious titles branded "inhuman" by the gaming community—and had achieved no-damage clears through sheer reflex and precision.
But dying—again and again—in a novice tutorial? That was unprecedented.
This game was too real. Every mechanic was nuanced to the point of obsession. It was like someone had taken Arkham Knight, Splinter Cell, and Metal Gear Solid, melted them down, and forged a nightmare simulator in Bruce Wayne's name.
Take his first few deaths, for example. Chu Cheng realized it wasn't that the enemies had eagle vision or infrared goggles. No, it was that they had ears—ridiculously good ears. If Batman dropped from a high ledge and deployed his glider to break his fall, the wind-rushing whoosh sound would echo, alerting the goons.
Even walking wasn't safe. Batman might've trained under ninjas, but step on a creaky floorboard or a loose steel panel, and it was over.
Wood amplified noise. Metal groaned. Glass shattered. Every step could betray him.
So Chu Cheng adapted. Like any real Arkham player, he embraced the crouch. The Batman he now controlled didn't walk anymore—he slithered across the floor like some shadow-draped beast. As soon as his boots hit the ground, it was straight to crouch mode, hugging shadows like a Gotham alley rat dodging spotlight.
And it worked.
He approached the first armed thug from behind. Silent. Invisible. Click—right mouse. Batman lunged like a predator, covering the man's mouth and nose, dragging him into the dark folds of his cape. A quick chokehold, a muffled struggle, unconscious. Clean.
The second enemy followed.
But the third… the third broke the rhythm.
Batman crept forward—faster this time, confident. But the thug suddenly turned around.
Frozen. Eye contact.
"Batman?!" the thug gasped.
Panic. Chu Cheng mashed the keys. Batman lunged and landed a textbook right hook, flooring him. But the damage was done.
The rest of the goons gathered like sharks to blood.
Chug-chug-chug.
Gunfire rained. Batman took a few hits and fled into the rafters, cape fluttering. But he was wounded. Worse, the enemies were now in search mode, eyes sharp, guns drawn. The difficulty spiked instantly.
He died again.
Chu Cheng had hoped he could learn the enemy's patrol patterns like in Hitman or Dishonored. But nope—procedural AI. No fixed paths. The thugs wandered randomly, stopped to chat, smoked, or complained about Gotham's weather. Worse, they looked up at the worst times.
No joke, one thug stopped mid-yawn, tilted his head all the way up, and spotted Batman perched on a gargoyle.
And their head-turning pattern? Pure chaos. No logic. No rhythm. Batman could sneak behind them—only to be busted because someone randomly spun around like they had Spider-Sense.
Another time, he used the grapnel gun from a vantage point. The soft whip-crack of the line deploying echoed. It shouldn't have been audible—but one minion heard it anyway, squinted upward and screamed—
"Batman!"
More chug-chug-chug.
Death again.
Every time that red word blinked on screen, Chu Cheng felt like a clown getting KO'd by background characters in a bad parody. He wasn't playing as Gotham's Dark Knight—he was playing as Hello Kitty wearing a cape.
This couldn't go on.
As a top-tier solo game player, he had to reclaim his pride.
Eventually, Chu Cheng realized his deaths weren't skill issues—they were adaptation failures. The mechanics were just too different from other games.
So he took a breath.
Reset his mind.
Got serious.
After all, Chu Cheng had gamer DNA. Fundamentals strong. Reflexes honed. Once he adjusted to this new style, he started making progress.
Rule 1: Scout from above. Always. Observe enemy position, terrain, movement.
Rule 2: Stay in the shadows. The game respected light physics. Stay lit, get bit.
Rule 3: Don't grapnel if someone's nearby. Even silent tools made sound. Gotham's thugs apparently all trained under Daredevil.
Rule 4: No exposure time longer than 2 seconds behind enemies. They could spin any moment.
He even logged all of this—took actual notes in a battered notebook. Before each sim, he flipped through it like a soldier reviewing a battle plan.
And it paid off.
Bit by bit, enemy by enemy, he took down the goons. Stealth takedown. Ground slam. Inverted choke. Gargoyle drop. He used every move Bruce ever taught him in the Arkham series. Silent justice.
Finally, the last thug dropped.
Chu Cheng sighed in relief.
Then—
BOOM.
The warehouse doors exploded inward. A hulking brute barreled in, fists up. The game prompted: "Combat Tutorial: Engage."
Chu Cheng's lips twitched.
Let's go.
This part was more familiar. Classic Arkham mechanics. Left-click for attack, right-click for counter. Batman flowed like water, switching styles mid-combo. Muay Thai elbow. Wing Chun parry. Judo trip. Boxing hook. The game choreographed everything based on player timing.
Blue icon? Counter.
Red icon? Evade.
Simple.
It felt good. Natural. Like Chu Cheng had finally taken the training wheels off.
He dismantled the brute in under 30 seconds. No damage.
He exhaled.
But the game wasn't done.
Next came a group of ninjas—silent, fast, blades drawn. Batman now had to juggle gadget use with combat: Batarangs, smoke pellets, explosive gel, shock gloves. Chu Cheng started sweating.
Time blurred.
One hour. Two. Three. He didn't even realize he'd skipped lunch.
By the time the tutorial ended, the sun was setting outside. Chu Cheng had spent an entire day in what the game labeled as a novice tutorial.
He leaned back in his chair, numb and awed.
"Mission complete. All simulations ended."
The warehouse screen dissolved into the Batcave's deep shadows. Calm. Silent.
Chu Cheng slowly exhaled.
Finally. Now, the real game could begin.