Marvel: The Sole Player

Before long, that scalp-numbing BGM finally stopped.

In the regular ward of Arkham Asylum, not a single active prisoner could be seen.

The corpses of prisoners lay scattered across the floor, spent shell casings mixed into the spreading pools of blood; the smell of gunpowder and blood in the air intertwined, making one’s nostrils sting.

The prisoners who were lucky enough to survive were all huddled tightly in the corners of their cells, not even daring to breathe loudly, fearing that the madman carrying the Gatling gun hadn’t had his fill of killing and would come back to kick open the cell doors one by one to settle accounts with them as well.

These people used to spend every day thinking about how to pick locks and escape, but now they only wished the cell doors weren’t sturdy enough, wanting nothing more than to weld on ten more bolts.

Darian casually set the Gatling gun on the floor and glanced at the mini-map.

Most of the red dots had returned to their cells, with only a few red dots still gathered in the deeper areas of the building.

He had seen the architectural blueprints Gordon showed him; that area should be Arkham’s Intensive Care Unit, the core area with the highest security level in the entire building where the most dangerous criminals were held.

However, he preferred to call it Batman’s rare Pokémon showroom.

Basically, any supervillain with even a bit of a reputation in Gotham had been personally sent there by Batman, like collecting stamps; if one didn’t know better, they’d think the Dark Knight had some special fetish for completing a full Pokédex.

Darian walked down the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell.

At the end of the stairs was an impossibly thick iron door, which had been violently breached and now hung wide open to one side.

He stepped over the threshold and walked in; the ICU and the regular ward outside were two completely different Worlds.

The lighting here was even dimmer, and every cell was an independently reinforced structure with double-layered solid steel plates embedded in the walls; even the grilles of the overhead vents had three layers of protective mesh welded onto them, the mesh so fine that even a cockroach couldn’t squeeze through.

Next to each cell door, a metal nameplate was nailed to the wall, engraved with the prisoner’s codename.

Darian walked slowly down the corridor, his gaze scanning the names on the plates one by one.

Joker, The Riddler, Two-Face, Scarecrow...

A whole string of names, all famous figures in Gotham’s criminal circles and Batman’s most loyal fan club.

However, the steel doors of these cells were all wide open now, the prisoners long gone, leaving behind only empty cells.

"Bat-boy is probably going to run his legs off tonight."

Darian muttered, his tone carrying a hint of schadenfreude.

But this didn’t have much to do with him; after all, his mission was only to suppress the internal riot at Arkham Asylum. As for Gotham outside, even if it turned upside down, it wouldn’t affect his mission evaluation.

He withdrew his gaze from an empty cell whose walls were covered in crooked smiley faces and continued forward.

Just as he took his third step, a thin, tall shadow suddenly lunged out from the darkness at the corner of the corridor at extreme speed.

The person held a dagger in each hand, the blades scissoring toward Darian’s neck from left and right. The movements were fast, precise, and ruthless, with no wasted motion, aiming straight for a fatal spot.

Darian didn’t panic at all, leaning his upper body back at a precise angle—not an inch more or less—as the two daggers grazed past his chin without even touching his skin.

Seeing the strike miss, the attacker didn’t continue the pursuit and immediately dodged back.

Darian steadied himself and looked toward the opponent.

It was a shirtless man, thin as a clothes pole, his entire body covered in dense scars, with almost no patch of intact skin visible.

If someone with trypophobia saw him, they’d get goosebumps on the spot.

His name was Victor Zsasz, nicknamed Mr. Zsasz, a notorious serial killer in Gotham and a regular in Arkham Asylum’s ICU.

He was a typical mentally ill criminal who believed life was meaningless and that death was the only true liberation.

Therefore, he went around killing people, euphemistically calling it helping them be liberated from nothingness.

Furthermore, he was an enthusiast of self-mutilation; for every life he took, he would carve a tally mark on his own body as a memento. Over the years, he had carved himself into his current state.

Compared to those famous supervillains, he didn’t have much of a presence, nor did he have any superpowers. His strength lay in his exceptionally stable mental state—maintaining a consistent instability for ten years—which was how he got fast-tracked into the prestigious institution of Arkham Asylum.

Zsasz had been hiding here for a long time, waiting for Darian to come to him so he could launch a fatal strike.

He never expected that his long-planned ambush would be dodged so effortlessly by Darian.

"Hehe, another fine prey delivered to me. As expected, staying here was the right choice."

Zsasz’s eyes locked onto Darian, a morbid smile spreading across his face. He stuck out his tongue and licked the blade of a dagger, pulling a thin string of saliva from the tip of his tongue to the tip of the blade.

It was clear that, at the very least, this dagger wasn’t coated in potent poison.

He pointed the tip of the knife at the overlapping scars on his chest, his chin tilting up slightly as he showed an uncontrollable sense of boasting.

"Do you want to know what these are?"

"Not really."

Darian answered bluntly.

Zsasz: "..."

This guy wasn’t following the script at all.

He paused for less than a second, then simply pretended he hadn’t heard and continued on his own: "These are all my achievements. Every time I kill someone and help them find liberation through death, I carve a mark on myself to record my great contribution. All these you see are people I have helped."

Darian looked at the crisscrossing scars on Zsasz’s body and asked casually, "How many people have you killed then?"

Zsasz, thinking Darian was intimidated, said proudly, "Three hundred and forty."

Darian nodded in approval: "Not bad, so what about today?"

Zsasz: "???"

What did that mean?

Before he could speak, a Beast-like roar suddenly erupted from the end of the corridor.

"Roar!!"

Darian looked toward the sound; a giant figure lunged out from the shadows at the corner of the corridor.

The newcomer was over two meters tall, with a skull much narrower and longer than a normal person’s and a significantly protruding snout. His body was covered in dark green keratinous scales, arranged neatly one by one like a natural suit of armor.

When he opened his mouth to roar, the corners of his mouth almost reached his ears, revealing rows of serrated teeth in his upper and lower jaws.

Killer Croc.

One of Gotham’s famous villains; true to his name, he looked like a crocodile and had abilities similar to one.

He was born with an extremely rare atavistic disease that caused him to become this half-man, half-crocodile creature.

As for why atavism would turn someone into a crocodile...

Don’t ask; the answer is just ’setting’.

Killer Croc was a classic strength-based brute—the type who maxed out Constitution but forgot to put points into Intelligence. Consequently, he was often tricked by other supervillains into being a tool or cannon fodder against Batman.

Of course, a brute like this was no match for Batman either. Every time, Batman would play with him like a fool, and occasionally, when Batman was too lazy to use his brain, he’d just beat him up in a direct brawl.

Now, Killer Croc lunged at Darian, opening his two thick arms to grab him in a bear hug.

Darian didn’t intend to take it head-on. He dodged the attack with a side roll, then immediately drew the two ordinary pistols at his waist and pulled the triggers repeatedly at Killer Croc.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The bullets hit Killer Croc, but his scales deflected them all, sending up a few scattered sparks.

Killer Croc was unharmed and turned around with another roar.

Seeing this, Darian pulled two grenades out of his crotch, pulled the pins, and threw them directly over.

Zsasz had already sensibly run off into the distance the moment Killer Croc charged out; only this dummy Killer Croc remained standing there motionless.

Boom! Boom!

Two bursts of fire erupted in the corridor, engulfing Killer Croc.

"Roar!"

However, before the smoke had even cleared, another roar exploded from the center of the mist.

Killer Croc charged out of the smoke and dust, not a single scale chipped, heading straight for Darian.

Darian couldn’t help but complain: "Batman can actually brawl with this thing? That’s not logical at all."

Just as Killer Croc rushed in front of him, he suddenly stepped off the wall and leaped up, flipping in mid-air and landing directly on Killer Croc’s back.

Without any pause in his movement, he drew two daggers from his outer thighs, gripped them in a reverse hold, and stabbed them down into Killer Croc’s back.

The blades were incredibly sharp, piercing through Killer Croc’s hard scales without any resistance and sinking deep into the flesh. Darian then twisted them forcefully, turning the blades half a circle through the muscle.

"Roar—!"

Killer Croc let out a shrill scream, his eyes filled with a trace of bewilderment.

He didn’t understand why his bulletproof scales couldn’t stop a mere pair of daggers.

Of course Killer Croc couldn’t stop them.

Because these weren’t ordinary daggers, but Loki’s daggers—the ones that could stab even the bodies of gods without fail, let alone his few crocodile scales.

In his pain, Killer Croc began to twist his body frantically, trying to shake Darian off his back.

But Darian was like he was nailed to him, stabbing repeatedly with the daggers in both hands, each time pulling them out with a splash of blood.

"Roar!!"

Killer Croc went completely berserk, his massive body rampaging through the narrow corridor, slamming his back hard against the wall.

Darian let go and jumped down just a split second before the impact, landing steadily.

The next second, Killer Croc’s back slammed into the wall, denting the steel plate and making the entire corridor tremble.

Just then, a hoarse shout came from his side.

"Let me help you find liberation!"

Zsasz rushed out from the shadows of the corridor, his eyes swirling with frantic light.

He had likely timed it for when Darian had just landed and hadn’t fully stabilized his center of gravity, charging in with a dagger in each hand and a roar.

However, the blades failed to touch any skin.

The daggers in Darian’s hands suddenly disappeared as he met the attack empty-handed, grabbing the other’s knife-wielding wrists with both hands.

The madness on Zsasz’s face froze for a moment.

He felt as if his wrists weren’t being held by two hands, but clamped tightly by iron pincers.

Under the terrifying pressure, his bones made a hair-raising cracking sound.

A terrifying crushing force came from his wrists, and his bones let out a scalp-numbing crack under the pressure. Intense pain surged through his nerves instantly to his entire body; his fingers loosened uncontrollably, and the two daggers dropped to the floor.

"How is this pos..."

Before he could even finish a complete sentence, Darian’s hands, which were gripping his wrists, twisted outward.

Crack!

With a crisp sound of bone fracturing, Zsasz’s two arms were twisted into angles that completely defied physiological structure, and white bone fragments pierced through the skin, exposed along with bits of shredded flesh.

"Aaaargh—!"

A heart-wrenching scream immediately erupted from Zsasz’s throat.

"No wonder you’re still a third-rate character after all these years; you’re only slightly better than Black Mask, who couldn’t even get into Arkham."

Darian shook his head: "Look at your colleagues—they’ve all gone to leech off Batman’s fame, while you and this big dummy are the only ones left here. You don’t even know how to cherish such a good exposure opportunity; you deserve to be inferior to other supervillains."

"But since you like carving tally marks on yourself so much, I’ll help you carve one too."

Before his voice faded, Darian flipped his hands, the daggers reappearing in them, and slashed directly across Zsasz’s neck.

Another tally mark was added to Zsasz’s achievements.

Except this time, the one being liberated was himself.

Darian wasn’t like Batman, holding back against these supercriminals at every turn.

As a grand Fourth Calamity, if he acted like a restricted cyber-wimp who had to think twice before killing an NPC, other players would probably laugh their heads off.

Besides, he had law enforcement credentials; a mere criminal daring to attack a police officer was simply being too bold.

By this time, Killer Croc had recovered from the intense pain, two puffs of steam snorting from his nostrils as he stared at Darian with eyes full of killing intent.

He arched his back and was about to pounce again when a shrill voice came from behind the corner of the corridor.

"Stop! Killer Croc! Stop right now!"

Darian found the voice strangely familiar. He looked toward the sound and was instantly amused: "Little QQ, what are you doing here?"

The one who arrived was none other than The Penguin, whom Darian hadn’t seen for a long time.

At this moment, The Penguin didn’t look too good; he was covered from head to toe in medical bandages, white gauze layered over gauze like a mummy. Even his signature pointed nose was firmly fixed with gauze, presumably fractured.

"Don’t even mention it."

The Penguin had a dejected face: "I don’t know what kind of madness has possessed Batman lately, but he’s been coming to find trouble with me every few days, giving me a beating whenever he catches me. What’s worse is that he digs up old scores every time—things I did in the past that he didn’t bother me about then, he’s digging them all up now, finding any excuse to give me a thrashing."

Darian burst out laughing on the spot.

As expected of Batman, always having a backup plan.

Darian asked curiously, "Then shouldn’t you be in the hospital recovering? Why are you in Arkham Asylum?"

"Speaking of that, it makes me furious!"

The Penguin looked indignant: "I don’t know which bastard has been spreading rumors about me outside, saying I’m spreading rumors about Batman—claiming all his high-tech gear was earned by Bruce Wayne selling his ’hook’ (ass)."

"A few days ago, I was still lying in the hospital recovering when, because of that damn rumor, Batman hauled me right out of my hospital bed in the middle of the night for interrogation. I said I didn’t do it, but he didn’t believe me at all, beating me until I confessed, then he turned around and threw me into this hellhole."

Darian:"...."

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