After orchestrating a classic hero rescue—swift, decisive, and cloaked in mystery—Chu Cheng watched his Batman avatar vanish into the night like a gust of wind. He pretended to act reluctant, as if the hero's path was forced upon him. Yet deep down, he felt undeniably cool. That wave? Peak handsomeness. If there were Oscars for hero landings, he'd be polishing his trophy right now.
Back in his original world, Chu Cheng had always loved open-world superhero games. The most iconic ones were DC's Batman: Arkham series and Marvel's Spider-Man. These weren't just games—they were immersive playgrounds where players could freely roam cities, follow storylines, or patrol the streets to stop random crimes. Fires? You'd put them out. Robberies? Foiled mid-act. People in danger? Saved by a button press. A simulator for the superhero lifestyle.
But no matter how realistic those games were, they couldn't hold a candle to this new world. This wasn't a simulation. This was the superhero life.
In his previous life, Chu Cheng had witnessed countless injustices online. He'd been filled with righteous anger like everyone else, but just like them, he knew it ended with a swipe to the next video. He'd never acted. If something wrong happened right in front of him, he'd probably have lowered his head and walked away.
Like most people, the dream of becoming a hero stayed confined to the bottom of the heart—never quite surfacing. Keyboard crusading? Maybe. But standing up for what was right in the real world? Rare.
Now, everything was different.
Now, he had power.
As the internet saying goes: "Obedient in reality, valiant online." With a press of a button, a click of the mouse, and a quick combo string, he could now deliver justice through the screen.
And, as everyone knows, the effect of the same action differs wildly depending on who does it.
A simple "don't" can be the pitiful "gege don't want" or the intense moment in a card game when the last move decides everything.
So too with justice. It's an art, and it demands specialization.
If it were just Chu Cheng himself—armed with fists and a surge of courage—trying to beat up a street thug, he might get tossed around like a plastic bag in a storm. The thug might even ask, "What's your ID number? I'll come for you later."
But Batman? He's an entirely different beast.
A towering figure in pitch-black armor, 1.88 meters tall, cloaked in shadows, fangs of intimidation bared—he's the nightmare of Gotham's underworld. He punches, dives, interrogates, smashes skylights, disables bombs, dismantles tanks with gadgets, and can disappear mid-conversation. Batman doesn't kill, but he makes villains wish he did.
And the most brilliant part? Chu Cheng could do all this while sipping Coke behind a screen.
"Batman did it," he could shrug. "What's that got to do with me, Chu Cheng?"
Plus, there were perks. After the last stealth brawl, he earned 12 Hero Points: seven for taking down a group of thugs, and five bonus points for doing it unseen—not even Batman noticed Batman.
He laughed. All he had done was drop a smoke bomb and spam the left mouse button. The enemy never even got a counterattack in. A full Arkham-style takedown sequence: strike, evade, counter, finish. Clean. Flawless.
Of course, Batman was still labeled by DC as a "regular human." But anyone who's seen him bench-press 1,000 lbs, dodge Darkseid's omega beams, or take on the entire Justice League knows that label is a joke. He'd punched Superman, outsmarted Lex Luthor, and made the Joker afraid.
No ordinary thug could touch that.
Chu Cheng now understood the game's mechanism: take control of legendary heroes, stop crimes, earn points, unlock stronger characters or draw powerful gear.
But there was a problem—efficiency.
If he had to patrol the streets like this every night, slowly grinding justice points like an anime vigilante, it would take forever to level up.
Real-life cities weren't Gotham.
In Gotham, crime ran on a schedule.
Monday, Wednesday, Friday: Joker tries to gas City Hall.
Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday: Scarecrow poisons the water supply or Two-Face flips a coin to nuke the suburbs.
Sunday? Justice League field trip—battle aliens, parademons, or a sentient starfish from space—and return in time for Monday's chaos.
That's why Batman leveled up so fast. Gotham was cursed. He didn't live in a city. He lived in an RPG dungeon with infinite respawns.
But here? This wasn't Gotham. Would he farm points by helping old ladies cross the street? Rescue kittens from trees?
No, that sounded more like Superman's job.
Yet unexpectedly, Chu Cheng discovered that this world wasn't as peaceful as he thought. One night of controlling Batman uncovered a slew of crimes: masked robbers targeting a jewelry store under cover of darkness, creepy stalkers tailing girls in school uniforms, battery thieves fleeing the scene mid-chase.
Crime here... simmered just beneath the surface.
It wasn't just the city's aesthetics—dark alleys, flickering streetlamps, broken pavement. It was the people. Tempers were short, disputes escalated instantly, fists flew before words even formed. And Batman thrived in that chaos.
Only around 1:00 AM did exhaustion overwhelm Chu Cheng. He logged off, collapsed into bed still in his clothes, and passed out the moment his head hit the pillow.
Strangely, after each gaming session, he felt like his body had been drained. He wasn't just tired. He was spent. As if he had been the one leaping across rooftops and dislocating elbows in dark alleys.
The next morning, he stirred under bright sunlight, groggily stretching and fumbling for his phone.
"Damn," he muttered. "11:30?"
He'd missed all his morning classes.
The class group chat had exploded. People were still buzzing about the "incident" from yesterday. Wei Futong had sent him several messages asking if he was okay. Chu Cheng replied quickly, assuring him he was safe, then rolled out of bed.
But the moment his feet touched the floor, his entire body screamed in protest.
Every muscle ached. It felt like he'd gone one-on-one with Bane in a prison yard. Or taken on Killer Croc with nothing but his fists.
And yet—strangely—beneath the soreness was a vitality he hadn't felt in years. His stamina was higher. His back straighter. Even his waist felt... stronger.
That's when the realization hit him.
Could it be... when he manipulates Batman, some of that physical strain gets transferred to him?
Or better yet—could it be that while he plays, he's being trained?
Of course, it wasn't a one-to-one conversion. If he really experienced Batman's nightly intensity, his otaku body would've flatlined. He'd be a dry husk on the keyboard.
So this feedback system had both drawbacks and benefits.
The drawback? He couldn't play endlessly. Playing too long might literally burn him out.
The upside? His physical fitness was improving—fast. Faster than any real workout. All while sitting at his desk.
He could use this. He could use this to condition himself, prepare his body, and unlock even stronger heroes without leaving his room.
Rubbing his sore shoulders, he shuffled to the bathroom. Just as he squirted toothpaste onto the brush, the doorbell rang.
A soft melodic chime echoed through the room.
He blinked, startled, then cautiously padded over and peeked through the peephole.
Whoa.
Long legs. No—full curves. Wait—this didn't feel like a normal visitor.
He opened the door.
There stood Secret Service agent Chen Meiyue, the same sharp-eyed woman he'd met just yesterday.
She smiled, raised a hand in greeting. "Hey, little brother," she said cheerfully. "We meet again."