Batman dragged the battered and chained occultists out into the street, called the police, and activated some of the explosive charges he had planted throughout the mansion before entering. The aging structure trembled under the damage and ultimately collapsed into ruins.
What Batman and his exterior surveillance cameras failed to detect was an anomaly in the now-destroyed ritual. As the shadow burned and disintegrated into ashes, the remnants accumulated within the pentagram of the ritual.
Surprisingly, a small dark flame appeared—a flame with a purplish hue. Though black as night, it emanated a sense of calm and joy that could be tangibly felt.
----------------------------------------
POV: The Dark One
The journey had been a nightmare. Endless tides of energy had disoriented him, leading him astray time and time again as he sought a universe truly in need of his help. At last, after what felt like an eternity, he found a place where his intervention was vital.
A dark flash revealed the nature of this universe: a growing, palpable darkness threatening to consume everything in its path. Guided by this signal, the Nameless One located a small opening—the incomplete ritual—and, without hesitation, plunged into this new world. Trusting the instincts implanted by his creator, he surrendered to the will of the universe, giving it full control of his being.
The universe, in turn, sensed the pure intentions of the Nameless One and experienced an unexpected relief. It teetered on the brink of falling into the hands of the Dark Multiverse, a calamity that would have been catastrophic. Yet this apparent salvation harbored a far more complex truth. The great powers of the multiverse had not sent the Nameless One out of benevolence. Instead, the distressed universe had been used as a bargaining chip—a sacrifice to appease the Dark Multiverse, demonstrating that measures were being taken to “restore balance.”
Though grateful for the arrival of the Nameless One, the universe was not naive. It understood it had been manipulated by higher entities willing to sacrifice it. But the universe was not prepared to accept destruction without a fight.
With intrinsic cunning, the universe allowed the Nameless One to synchronize with its essence. This act not only aided his growth but also masked any signals or disturbances caused by his arrival, concealing them from potential external threats. If the Nameless One succeeded in saving the universe, the higher entities could not question the world’s decision. If, in the worst-case scenario, he failed or his presence was discovered, the universe could feign ignorance, avoiding punishment.
For the universe, the Nameless One was both a savior and a shield against the forces lurking in the shadows of the multiverse.
The Nameless One materialized after a complex process of adaptation, emerging amidst the ruins of the altar, now reduced to rubble. His figure—a young adult—rose from the shadows with an unsettling presence impossible to ignore.
His appearance was chilling, almost spectral. His short, coarse black hair resembled the stiff bristles of a fox, standing on end as if charged by the very rigidity of the surrounding darkness. His face, while beautifully symmetrical, bore the mark of something unnatural, as if a life had been cruelly ripped from him too soon.
His body, devoid of muscularity, appeared more like a macabre work of art than a living form. His skin, thin and translucent like paper, carried the fragility of a freshly embalmed corpse, its pale tone reflecting light in a strange manner, as though his very flesh was incapable of sustaining life.
It was a beauty that unsettled, evoking terror even as it commanded attention.
The Nameless One was not merely beautiful; his presence was eerie, as though the concept of death itself had assumed human form to walk among the living.
Once conscious, the Nameless One looked around. A portion of his memories, drawn from what the locals referred to as isekaiers, told him that not only had he reached his destination, but the place also felt oddly familiar.
Activating his powers, an image materialized before him:
[You have unlocked the Character Profile.]
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CHARACTER PROFILE
* Name: [Nameless]
* DP: [0]
* Vitality (VIT): Base Value: 1 | Modifiers: 0 | Total: 1
* Endurance (END): Base Value: 1 | Modifiers: 0 | Total: 1
* Strength (STR): Base Value: 1 | Modifiers: 0 | Total: 1
* Dexterity (DEX): Base Value: 1 | Modifiers: 0 | Total: 1
* Perception (PER): Base Value: 1 | Modifiers: 0 | Total: 1
* Willpower (WIL): Base Value: 1 | Modifiers: 0 | Total: 1
* Mind (MIN): Base Value: 1 | Modifiers: 0 | Total: 1
* Intelligence (INT): Base Value: 1 | Modifiers: 0 | Total: 1
* Arcane (ARC): Base Value: 1 | Modifiers: 0 | Total: 1
----------------------------------------
The profile unfolded before the Nameless One’s eyes. Some concepts felt familiar thanks to the memories he had inherited, while others remained enigmatic. Despite this confusion, his instincts urged him to temporarily ignore the profile—there were more pressing matters to address.
The mansion, once imposing, was now sunken a floor below ground. What had been a grand ceremonial hall was almost entirely buried under a tangled mass of debris. The main exit was blocked by enormous fragments of stone and wood.
As he inspected the ground curiously, his eyes caught sight of something metallic—a blade. Upon closer examination, he saw it was a butterfly knife, its rusted surface weakly reflecting the faint light seeping through the wreckage. Likely dropped by one of the cultists during the struggle, the weapon seemed forgotten amidst the chaos.
When he picked it up, a peculiar sensation surged through his mind. The blade triggered flashes of memories—knights in gleaming armor, wielding swords against hordes of darkness. The vision was vivid yet disconnected from any personal experience. As he gripped the weapon, a notification appeared before him:
[You have found a piece of equipment (Rusty Butterfly Knife). Being of low quality, storing it does not require DP.]
The message lingered briefly before fading. While the notification seemed encouraging, the Nameless One paid it little heed. Instead, he continued exploring the hall with the knife in hand. His gaze scoured every corner, but the ruined chamber appeared stripped of anything else useful or interesting.
Finally, beneath a collapsed bench covered in dust, he discovered a hidden hatch. Its rusted hinges groaned as he opened it, revealing a dark void descending to another level of the mansion.
(A path forward), he thought, with a mix of relief and anticipation.
After a final glance to ensure he left nothing important behind, he peered into the trapdoor’s edge and, clutching the knife tightly, leapt into the darkness.
----------------------------------------
The fall, though brief—barely five meters—ended abruptly. The impact was softened by something strange and squishy that gave a weak crunch beneath his weight. The oppressive darkness, combined with his lack of perception, prevented him from identifying exactly what it was. A peculiar sensation rippled through him, but he chose to ignore it for now, attributing it to the hostile environment.
[You have entered the area: Putrid Passages. You gain 5 DP.]
He rose slowly, feeling the dampness of the floor seep into his clothes. As he stood, two truths became glaringly clear.
The first: His body was far weaker than he had anticipated. Every movement, no matter how simple, required disproportionate effort, as if his strength, agility, and endurance had all been drained.
The second: This place was steeped in an oppressive atmosphere.
As if the very atmosphere were laden with dark secrets that watched from the shadows.
(I’m weak), he thought bitterly as he struggled to steady himself on his feet. His body, though functional, felt absurdly fragile, as if gravity itself had become an unrelenting enemy. Every movement demanded more effort than it should have.
Above him, the remnants of the mansion barely allowed thin rays of light to filter through the debris and cracks in the collapsed ceiling. This faint illumination was already a challenge, but the corridor where he now stood was even darker.
The Nameless moved cautiously, noting that the darkness was not absolute thanks to the presence of several fungi scattered along the walls and floor. These strange bioluminescent growths emitted a faint blue-green glow, enough to outline his immediate surroundings but insufficient to completely dispel the shadows.
(Could the occultists have planted them?) he wondered. Though he lacked certainty, something in his mind whispered that these fungi were more than mere natural inhabitants of this underground. The way they were distributed seemed intentional, almost strategic, making him wonder if they served some purpose in the rituals that had taken place here.
The gloom, however, continued to oppress his senses. The interplay of light and shadow created an unsettling atmosphere, where every step echoed louder than it should, as if the place amplified sounds to mock his weakness.
He leaned against the wall, advancing with cautious movements along the narrow corridor. The echo of his breathing blended with a distant, strange sound—a high-pitched screech that bounced off the walls.
“Kieeeeee...”
The noise led him to a fork where the corridor split into more dark tunnels. There, at the intersection, his eyes caught sight of two figures. A large rat, the size of a medium dog, stood aggressively over a smaller one, which seemed to be defending something resembling food. The smaller rat let out a final screech before retreating in defeat, leaving the prize to the dominant one.
Watching the larger rat, now occupied with devouring its spoils, the Nameless recalled fragments of memories he carried: “Stealth attack. Surprise the enemy, double the damage.”
(This should be easy...) he thought, while clumsily lowering his posture and slowing his steps. With each movement, he tried to approach undetected, though his footsteps were far less silent than he had hoped.
When he was close enough, he lunged at the creature with the rusty knife in hand.
The initial attack worked: the blade sank slightly into the rat’s back, eliciting a shriek of pain and surprise.
“Oops!”
The creature, however, did not fall. It turned violently, its red eyes filled with fury, and its yellowed teeth glinting in the dim light. Before he could react, the Nameless found himself in a desperate struggle. He lunged at the rat, attempting to pin it with his arms, but the creature thrashed wildly, clawing and trying to bite him with its massive jaws.
(This isn’t working... I can’t hold it down!)
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The rat’s forelegs broke free, and its stance became completely unstable. Feeling overwhelmed, the Nameless changed tactics: he began stabbing rapidly, aiming for any vulnerable spot he could find.
The rusty knife, however, barely pierced the creature’s thick hide. Each thrust left superficial wounds, none deep enough to be fatal. Nevertheless, the rat began to bleed out, weakening bit by bit. Finally, after one last attempt to escape, the massive rodent collapsed, its body trembling as life drained from it.
A gasp escaped the Nameless’s lips. He rose to his feet with difficulty, his hands trembling from both exertion and adrenaline.
(Is this all I’m capable of? I barely managed to defeat a rat... I’m weaker than I thought.)
His gaze shifted to the “loot” the rat had been feasting on. As he looked closer, his stomach churned: among the bite marks and dried blood, he discerned the remains of a human skull, its surface splintered and hollow.
A shiver ran down his spine, accompanied by a single thought: (This place... is worse than I imagined.)
The air around him seemed to grow heavier as he looked away, trying not to dwell on the origin of those bones.
(This place is worse than I imagined...)
A message floated before his eyes:
[Drugged Rat Killed: +5 DP]
For a moment, the Nameless gave a faint smile at the notification. But the joy was short-lived. His thoughts returned to the fight he had just endured.
(I’m not ready to fight. Even with a surprise attack, the rat survived multiple stabs before going down. If I’m weaker than an average person, how am I supposed to save this world?)
Frustration and doubt crept into his mind. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the implanted memories fill the void. One rose to the surface with clarity: the story of a young Japanese boy, frail in body and broken in spirit. Dressed in a simple tracksuit, that boy had died countless times in his attempts to save a white-haired elf.
(Will I end up like him? Losing everything over and over... Am I even capable of enduring that?)
He shook his head violently, trying to dispel the dark thoughts. No. That’s not me.
He took a deep breath and looked down at the rat’s corpse in front of him, bloodied and twisted on the ground.
(It’s my first enemy, and I survived. That’s something... maybe I can learn from this.)
A flash of memory reminded him of ancient rituals, where hunters used their first kill to create something commemorative: a trophy symbolizing their triumph and connection to the hunt. He stared at the rat, its lifeless body still exuding a metallic smell of blood.
(A memento... Yes, that seems fitting.)
He knelt beside the corpse, inspecting it closely. The Nameless’s hands, though clumsy, moved with determination. With a few firm and deliberate strikes, he severed the head from the body, fresh blood dripping slowly onto the damp floor.
[You have obtained Steroid Rat Head.]
The notification flickered before his eyes. The Nameless lifted the grotesque head, a mix of pride and disgust crossing his face.
(This is a start. I may be weak now, but I won’t stay this way. I’ll find a way to grow stronger. I refuse to be another victim of this world.)
He straightened, holding the rat’s head like a small trophy. However, a persistent thought nagged at him as he stored it away: What exactly were these creatures feeding on?
The silence of the tunnel closed in again, broken only by the faint echo of his breathing. The Nameless pressed on through the tunnels, clutching the rusty blade tightly in his hand. Every step was a risk; the rats seemed to multiply in the passages as if defending their territory. Some were small and barely a threat, but others, as large as the first he had encountered, attacked him with ferocity—and not all fights were fair.
One by one, the rats leaped from the shadows or emerged from cracks in the walls, their shrill squeals reverberating through the damp underground maze. Although he managed to kill them, each encounter was a brutal reminder of his frailty.
(Damn rats, I’m not food. If I see another, I’ll gut it.)
Time became a blur as he fought his way forward, his clothes growing increasingly tattered and his body covered in small wounds. At last, the corridor opened into a larger chamber.
As he stepped inside, he noticed the immediate change: the air was more humid, and the echo more expansive.
In front of him stood an old, rusted grate about five meters tall, through which a beam of silvery light entered. The full moon dimly illuminated the room, revealing its decrepit state. Weeds sprouted from the cracks in the floor, and small pools of stagnant water—likely from nearby sewers—covered the deeper parts of the space.
Shelves, ledges, and heavy crates filled the drier areas of the room.
(Where am I? Looks like some kind of hidden storage.)
The Nameless froze as he noticed something else: deep holes were visible in the walls. The stench was unbearable, and as he shifted his foot, a crunch shattered the silence. He looked down to see the scattered remains of a skeletal cat, its skull crushed beneath his boot.
The sound seemed to have alerted the creatures to his presence.
A chill ran down his spine as the noise of scurrying paws began to echo through the room. Dozens of squeals filled the air as at least twenty rats emerged from the walls, their movements erratic as they leaped and swam across the shallow pools of stagnant water.
(Damn it.)
His heart raced as the Nameless retreated, frantically searching for a safe spot. To his right, a series of rusted metal shelves caught his eye—still appearing somewhat stable. Without hesitation, he scrambled clumsily onto one of them, just as the rats reached the dry ground of the chamber.
From his elevated position, he watched in horror as the rats surrounded the shelving unit. Some attempted to climb, their claws scraping against the metal, while others leaped from the edges of the pools, snapping their teeth in the air as they tried to reach him.
(There’s too many!)
Desperation set in, and he began hurling anything within reach: rotting crates, shards of wood, and small rusty tools. While a few rats were knocked down or temporarily scared off, the majority continued their assault, undeterred. The shelving unit shuddered with each strike from the larger rats, the metal groaning under their combined weight.
(Think! Think!)
Amidst his panic, his eyes darted to the adjacent shelves. Some were leaning precariously, their unstable angles hinting at an opportunity.
(If I can knock these down...)
Without wasting time, he leaped onto a nearby shelf, feeling the brittle structure groan beneath him. From there, he began pushing with all his strength against the nearest unstable unit. The rats, single-minded in their pursuit, didn’t register the danger.
With one final push, the shelving toppled. The crash was deafening as metal collided with the ground, crushing several rats beneath its weight. Not letting the moment go to waste, the Nameless slid to the edge of his perch, blade in hand, and began dispatching the trapped creatures one by one.
The rats’ squeals of desperation filled the room as he, driven by raw instinct and adrenaline, struck them relentlessly.
[Drugged Rat Killed: +5 DP]
[Drugged Rat Killed: +5 DP]
The notifications flashed in his mind, but he couldn’t pay them any attention. He was too engrossed in his frantic fight for survival.
When the last body stopped moving, he straightened, panting heavily. The remaining rats, bruised and terrified, began retreating through the holes in the walls, vanishing into the shadows.
Silence returned to the storage room, broken only by the soft echo of dripping water. The Nameless slumped down onto his elevated perch, exhausted but alive.
(I did it...)
His gaze drifted to the corpses of the rats scattered around him, and then upward to the faint moonlight filtering through the grate. Though victorious, the physical and mental toll weighed heavily on him.
(This is only the beginning. If something like this nearly killed me... what’s going to happen when I face real enemies?)
He descended carefully from the shelf, his legs trembling as he began to search the room for anything useful—supplies, tools, anything to aid his mission or simply to ensure he survived the next encounter.
After a few minutes of rest and exploration, he discovered an adjacent room with a locked metal gate blocking his path. Frustrated, he returned to the storage room and noticed a sunken spot near the pools of stagnant water. Peering closer, he realized it led somewhere.
Reluctantly, he considered his options.
(Great. Just when I thought I was done with these tunnels, I’m supposed to go through that filthy water?)
He grabbed a scrap of cloth and tied it around his face to block the stench.
(I hope this isn’t a mistake, or I’m going to be trudging through tunnels soaked and miserable.)
With a resigned sigh, he waded into the putrid water, ready to face whatever lay ahead.
The nameless one plunged into the stagnant water, his body moving instinctively as he felt along the submerged wall. Despite the oppressive humidity and darkness surrounding him, something about him seemed perfectly adapted to the environment. It was as if his being had been designed to survive in extreme conditions.
His hands finally found the jagged edge of a hole, the same one he had noticed earlier. Without hesitation, he began to swim into it, noticing how the space became narrower and more tortuous. Protruding rocks and accumulated debris made the passage difficult. With each meter he advanced, the twists forced him to turn, slip, and maneuver carefully.
(This is going to be more complicated than I thought.)
As he continued deeper, an unsettling thought crossed his mind:
(I hope I don't die from lack of oxygen...)
The nameless one suddenly stopped in the middle of the water. The irony of his thought hit him like a brick.
(Wait... that doesn't make sense.)
He looked around, though he could see little in the murky liquid. He felt his chest, noticing that his breath had been absent since entering the water. In fact, he realized that he had never felt the urge to take a breath since beginning his descent underground.
(I... I'm not alive. At least, not right now.)
The revelation left him motionless for a moment, surprised by the irony.
(That explains why I don’t need to breathe... why I don’t feel tired despite everything I’ve been through. But... what does this really mean?)
The introspection led him to review the steps since he had awakened. His fall into the underground, the constant fights, the survival instinct that had driven him... everything had happened in an uncontrollable frenzy.
(I've been reckless. I barely understand this world, and I'm already throwing myself into its darkness as if I were invincible. But I'm not. I couldn’t even deal with a rat properly. Why was I in such a hurry to leave anyway?)
As he slid deeper into the water passage, his mind couldn't stop wandering. His thoughts returned to the elements he'd ignored: the DP messages, his stats, even the powers he still didn't fully understand.
(What am I doing? I should have reviewed all this from the start. If I keep going like this, I’ll be destroyed before I can fulfill my mission... whatever it is.)
Finally, the nameless one stopped in a relatively wide part of the tunnel, where he could move without being pushed by obstacles. With a slight gesture of his hand, he brought up the stats he had ignored until now.
[Quick Stats]
• MIND: 1
• INTELLIGENCE: 1
His eyes scanned the values quickly, but something caught his attention.
(Is this normal? What does a “1” in these attributes mean? Is it comparable to the average person?)
The thought unsettled him. He realized that his lack of mental clarity was no coincidence; it was probably linked to these low values.
(I’m mentally weakened too!)
He slowed his pace, swimming with deliberate movements as he reflected on what he had learned. Now that he understood more about his condition, each action seemed more composed.
(Even if I’m weak, that doesn’t mean I’m doomed. I need to understand more, both about myself and this world. If I keep moving forward without thinking, I won’t survive.)
With renewed focus, the nameless one continued exploring the submerged area. The tunnel seemed endless, but his resolve grew with each turn he overcame. He knew he had no other choice: he had to find the way to the main sewers and, hopefully, learn something that would help him overcome his limitations.
(If I’m going to save this world... first, I need to understand how to save myself.)
Two messages appeared at that moment almost responsively:
[You survived bathing in the water of Gotham's sewers: +50 DP]
[You have mentally matured.]
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POV Doctor Strange
Kamar-Taj
Doctor Strange was sitting in his personal meditation room, a space carefully designed to enhance his connection to the mystical energies of the multiverse. As the Sorcerer Supreme and the current Ancient One, his responsibilities went far beyond earthly protection; he had to watch over the magical fabric that bound all realities together.
That day had been especially exhausting. Researching ancient grimoires and maintaining the magical shields of the temple had left him mentally drained. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to reach the inner silence that would allow him to dissipate the accumulated tension.
However, just as he was managing to delve into his mind, a magical jolt interrupted his concentration. The Eye of Agamotto, resting on his chest, emitted a sudden glow that made him open his eyes instantly.
Something had triggered one of the magical surveillance mechanisms that protected the balance of reality.
Strange reacted quickly, drawing an intricate glowing circle with his hands while murmuring words of power. He activated a prediction spell, a magic that allowed him to track disturbances in the mystical fabric without compromising the stability of time.
(The Master always insisted I use the Time Stone to reinforce these searches... but playing with destiny is never a good idea.)
As the spell began to unfold, a wave of memories flooded his mind. He thought of Gu Yi, his predecessor and mentor. She had been the undisputed Master of the mystical arts, but her approach and decisions often clashed with Strange's.
One of their most marked disagreements was their differing views on predictive magic. Strange preferred this safer, more practical approach, based on calculations and mystical patterns, similar to Eastern numerology. Although less powerful and more imprecise in distant events, this form of magic was not subject to the paradoxes of time or cosmic forces intervening.
(The Master trusted too much in tools that defied the rules... something I prefer to avoid.)
For a moment, his mind returned to an episode that had marked his path as a sorcerer. An accident, a test of the dangers that even the most experienced face.
Shaking that thought off, Strange focused on what the prediction spell was showing him. The lines of magical energy began to draw patterns in his mind, whispers from the multiverse that required all his attention to decipher.
(What have you seen, Agamotto? What threat is approaching?