"Finally… it's over."
This time, it wasn't an illusion.
Batman, through sheer willpower that bordered on supernatural, forcefully suppressed the psychic infection that had been causing hallucinations—pushing through with mental fortitude alone to land the final counterstrike.
With the victory secured, the screen in front of Beatrix instantly faded to black, returning him to the hero selection interface.
Batman's character was now grayed out—temporarily unavailable.
Only one playable hero remained: Huntress, who had appeared during his last ten-roll draw.
Beatrix hovered the cursor over Batman's portrait. After three seconds, a status box appeared below:
"Currently recovering. Progress: 0%. Estimated time remaining: 24 hours."
Unlike traditional games where heroes respawn fully healed moments after defeat, this system enforced a cooldown-based resurrection mechanic. Batman, who had burned through nearly all his resources, would need a full day to recover before he could rejoin combat at full strength.
Beatrix shifted his gaze to the lone available character—Huntress.
Previously, he had thought this kind of secondary character—who mirrored Batman's role and skills—was redundant. But now, with Batman on cooldown, Huntress was all he had.
She was the backup—the benchwarmer waiting for a moment to shine.
Like the office worker in charge of the water dispenser in a big team: barely noticed, but sorely missed if absent.
Having been in a high-alert, full-focus state for the entire battle, Beatrix only now realized that he was soaked in sweat.
His clothes clung to his skin, and sweat streamed down his forehead.
They say "practice makes perfect," but no matter how many times he played, each battle left him more drained than the last.
His arms and legs felt like jelly.
When he tried to stand from his chair, he nearly collapsed.
Even his eyelids felt as heavy as lead.
Dizzy and disoriented, he stumbled toward his bed like a drunk man, using the wall for support.
He collapsed onto the mattress without changing or even removing his shoes.
The soft warmth of the bed embraced him like a lover, and within seconds—
He was out cold.
---
While Beatrix was off in dreamland, others were wide awake.
Division Nine's special forces quickly arrived on scene to lock down and secure the area.
Everyone—whether clearly infected or only suspected—was rounded up for quarantine and interrogation.
Agent Cid, the only member who had been present throughout the entire incident, was immediately subjected to a full-body examination.
Every inch of him was scanned and inspected.
Once cleared, he was brought back to headquarters.
By the time he stepped into the conference room, the upper echelons of the organization—and a council of experts—were already waiting.
Prior to his arrival, the experts had spent hours in heated debate, analyzing the appearance of the monstrous entity.
A normal person, upon seeing a creature with countless eyeballs and writhing tentacles, might scream "Cthulhu!" or wonder if it was a rejected mascot from a magical girl anime.
But scientists are different.
They weren't focused on the monster's appearance—they wanted to know how it worked.
"What principles is this thing based on?"
"Can we replicate it in a lab?"
"Could I reverse-engineer a prototype?"
The truth was, psychic infection incidents hadn't existed that long.
They were first discovered just over two years ago.
Division Nine itself was a recently established unit, and even now, most researchers only had a shallow understanding of the infection's mechanisms.
But this event was unprecedented.
Never before had so many psychic hosts fused together to form a massive, city-wide kaiju.
Division Nine had no playbook for this.
Some of the higher-ups were still in bed when the news broke—woken up in the middle of the night, dazed and in pajamas, trying to make sense of a monster that made Godzilla look like a plush toy.
Previously, most infected could be explained away:
"Oh, he was mentally unstable."
"She was drunk."
"It was a one-time revenge incident."
"Nothing to worry about."
Even if something more serious happened, they'd cover it up.
Just say it was a stunt, or a malfunction, or chalk it up to urban legends.
They had the ultimate defense:
"Control the media.
Silence the truth.
Invoke Article 404."
But this incident?
Too big. Too public. Too impossible to ignore.
The monster had influenced hundreds of civilians in real time—people saw it with their own eyes.
And let's be honest—not everyone's a genius-level conspiracy theorist. Most folks aren't trained to ignore the obvious.
You can't just go on TV and say:
"Oh, that eldritch horror? Don't worry, it was just a squid caught in a traffic jam."
Sure, they might cover it up this time.
But what about the next?
What if another monster appears tomorrow?
They needed answers.
The body of the man called Mike had already been retrieved and was undergoing safety tests.
Once deemed safe, it would be dissected for biological and spiritual analysis.
They had to understand how this outbreak occurred—and why it had escalated to such terrifying proportions.
Besides the monster itself, one figure had drawn more attention than anything else:
The mysterious Bat-like figure who had appeared from nowhere.
This was the one topic everyone wanted to question Cid about.
Cid began his report with a summary of his infiltration into the Anchors gang's casino.
Most people in the room weren't interested in the petty gang stuff, so he kept it brief.
But when he got to the part about the Bat-like vigilante—
Everyone leaned in.
Fortunately, Cid had activated a recording device before the mission.
Though the video quality was grainy and the angle shaky, it was still live footage—
First-person perspective.
Exactly like what Nick Fury would review at S.H.I.E.L.D.
The early part of the footage focused on the vigilante's combat skills and high-tech gadgets.
At one point, the man silently disabled half a room of gangsters—without anyone noticing.
Even Cid had missed it in real time.
And those gadgets?
Smoke bombs, grappling hooks, weird tools no one could even identify.
This guy wasn't just skilled—he was loaded.
Judging by the sheer number of gadgets he burned through in minutes, he could probably kill someone just by throwing stacks of cash.
They didn't even bother speculating on the tech levels of his gear.
The money alone made him an enigma.
The footage then cut to the monster's appearance—
And the Batplane hovering mid-air.
The crowd collectively gasped.
He didn't even use a ladder—he just grappled up directly into a jet.
Leaving behind a majestic silhouette… like something out of a movie.
"That plane… the one hovering and spewing smoke," said a calm voice at the end of the table.
It belonged to a quiet man—serious, composed, and respected.
Æ. Asher, Chairman of Division Nine.
He turned to a white-coated researcher beside him.
"Dr. Shians, do we have anything like that?"
Dr. Shians adjusted his glasses, calm and professional.
"Theoretically, yes.
We have experimental prototypes with similar functions.
But nothing close to that level.
The tech on that jet clearly surpasses our current capabilities."
He paused.
"That's cutting-edge technology.
Not something money alone can buy."
"But we're getting close.
Within a year, I believe we'll have something comparable for military field use."
But before he could finish his thought, the footage continued.
The Batplane began to move.
What happened next shattered his worldview.
It moved like a living creature—pivoting, drifting, hovering in place, doing impossible turns mid-air.
It even performed a full Armstrong-style 360-degree backflip spin.
Shians watched, mouth agape.
"What the… What kind of aircraft even does that?"
His scientific mind broke a little more with each maneuver.
And then—
The Gatling Gun.
As the Batplane delivered a divine rain of destruction, Dr. Shians slumped in his chair.
Everything he'd spent his life researching?
Obsolete.
"What the hell…
Is that thing even a plane?"