Starting With Batman

Dinner in Lakeside Village was deceptively simple. Three dishes sat on the table: eggplant stir-fry, stuffed tofu, and shredded potatoes. Ordinary home-cooked fare by any standard. But something was off.

The colors were slightly wrong—too dark, the textures too moist. A faint, odd smell wafted from the food, like something not quite spoiled but certainly not fresh. It made the back of Larry Wade's neck tingle. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what was wrong, but instinct told him that these dishes weren't quite as harmless as they appeared.

Earlier, Larry had caught a glimpse of the old man tossing a handful of something black and damp into the pot—something that looked disturbingly like wet, crumbled soil. The old man had deliberately shifted his body, blocking Larry's view, as if trying to hide the gesture.

Now, seated at the table, three dishes were laid out, but only one set of utensils: a single bowl of rice and chopsticks placed neatly in front of Larry. The old man and the old woman stood to the side, their faces cast in shadow, their eyes dull and flat. They weren't going to join him for dinner. That much was clear.

Larry didn't ask any questions. He just picked up the bowl, scooped up some rice, and began eating. His movements were casual, almost leisurely, as if he were completely unbothered by the strangeness of the situation. He made quick work of the food, devouring it all in a matter of minutes, leaving nothing but empty plates behind.

When he finished, he sat back, exhaled, and patted his stomach. "Not bad," he said with a grin. "Could've used a little more salt, though. But hey, thanks for the hospitality."

The couple didn't respond, but Larry noticed their expressions subtly shifting. At first, their faces were clouded with gloom, eyes dark and suspicious. But as Larry ate, their eyes grew wide, almost surprised, as though they couldn't believe what they were seeing. By the time he set the bowl down, they were exchanging nervous glances, communicating silently with each other.

The old woman's eyes flicked toward the old man, silently asking, Did you put it in?

The old man's eyes replied, Of course I did. Even an elephant should be knocked out by now. How is this guy still sitting here?

Larry, sensing their unspoken confusion, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned forward slightly, his smile growing. "By the way, old man," he began conversationally, "it's just the two of you here, right? No kids?"

The question hit like a thunderclap. The old man flinched, his shoulders tensing. The old woman's lips tightened, and her eyes darted nervously toward Larry. They exchanged another glance—this time one of realization. They were starting to understand that their guest tonight was not an ordinary traveler.

After a few moments of heavy silence, the old man finally spoke. His voice was low, hoarse, and unsteady, like the creaking of an old door. "I had a son once."

Larry nodded, watching the old man with curious intensity as he spoke.

"He went to university. Studied archeology," the old man continued, his gaze growing distant as if recalling a life from long ago. "Traveled all over. Sometimes, he'd send us strange artifacts, things he claimed were important discoveries. Weird things."

The old man's voice faltered, and his eyes shifted toward the dark corners of the room, where shadows gathered thick and deep.

"Then... one day, they told me there was a landslide. My son... brave lad... he saved his colleagues, but he couldn't make it out."

"I see," Larry said, his expression sympathetic, but with an odd undertone that made the words feel hollow. "I'm sorry for your loss."

The old man's head shook slowly, his eyes dull once more. "It doesn't matter now. He's coming back soon."

The cryptic words hung in the air like fog, and Larry's eyes narrowed.

The old man raised a shaking hand and pointed toward a shadowed corner of the room. Larry followed the gesture, his eyes landing on an ornate bronze mirror hanging above a rickety wooden cabinet. The mirror was engraved with intricate patterns that seemed to shimmer slightly, even in the dim light.

"He brought that mirror back from one of his expeditions," the old man explained. "Said it was ancient, older than anything we could imagine. It was made by someone long dead, a person who had passed centuries ago. He said the mirror held their dying wish—their desire to reunite with those they had lost. It's a symbol of reunion."

"That's right," the old woman chimed in, her voice sharp and rasping, like nails on a chalkboard. "After the landslide, we both dreamed of him. He came to us, told us not to grieve. Said we could be reunited. The mirror would make it happen. But..." Her voice faltered as her eyes grew wide with fear. "But it's old. Weak. It needs food. It needs more."

"Ah, I get it now," Larry said, nodding thoughtfully, his expression calm as ever. He glanced toward the door, where more shadowy figures were gathering. The villagers had come in silently, one by one, filling the room. Their faces were blank, their eyes hollow. Their skin was pale and stretched tight over their bones, like the dead walking among the living.

"So that explains why people keep going missing around here," Larry said with a casual shrug, as though discussing the weather.

The old man's eyes darkened, and his voice dropped to a sinister growl. "No one can stop us from reuniting with our son. Not you, not anyone."

The villagers took a step forward, moving in unison like puppets pulled by invisible strings. Their movements were slow and deliberate, but their intent was clear.

Then, suddenly, a loud, cheery ringtone shattered the tension.

"Are you ready, kids~ Aye, Aye, captain~ I can't hear you~ Aye, Aye, Captain~ OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH~ Who lives in a pineapple under the sea~"

The entire room froze. The villagers, their soulless eyes fixed on Larry, seemed momentarily stunned, as if their programming had glitched.

"Oh, sorry about that." Larry chuckled, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He held up a hand to the villagers. "Gimme a second. It's a work call."

He answered the phone, his expression shifting into mild irritation. "Yeah, it's me."

The villagers exchanged puzzled glances, as if trying to figure out what to do. Some of them blinked for the first time since entering the room, their expressions betraying confusion.

Larry, meanwhile, continued his phone conversation, glancing at the villagers occasionally and signaling them to wait. "Yeah, I'm in the middle of something here... Urgent mission? Okay, sure. Just gimme a minute to wrap this up."

He hung up the phone and pocketed it, offering an apologetic smile to the old couple and the gathered villagers. "Sorry about that. Work's never done, y'know?"

The villagers stared at him, uncertainty flickering in their lifeless eyes.

The silence stretched for a beat too long.

Then, like the crack of thunder, chaos erupted.

A villager, eyes blank and mouth agape, suddenly lunged at Larry with a rusted butcher's knife. His speed was unnatural, his limbs moving as though pulled by invisible forces. The blade glinted in the dim light, arcing down toward Larry's chest. But Larry moved even faster. His hand shot up, catching the villager's wrist mid-swing, the muscles in his arm flexing as he twisted the man's arm with a sickening crack.

The villager's scream gurgled in his throat as his wrist snapped backward at an impossible angle, the knife clattering to the floor. Larry didn't stop. He grabbed the man by the throat, lifted him effortlessly off the ground, and hurled him across the room. The villager's body collided with the wall, leaving a human-shaped dent in the plaster before he crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

But the others weren't deterred. They came at Larry all at once, a mob of villagers armed with whatever they could find. An old man swung a jagged sickle, its rusted edge catching the faint glow of the overhead light as it whistled through the air. A woman, her face gaunt and eyes wide, wielded a wooden rolling pin like a club, her bony hands white-knuckled around the handle. Another villager, hunched and frail, raised a pitchfork, the sharp tines aimed at Larry's chest.

Larry's movements were a blur of precision and power. He sidestepped the sickle, his hand lashing out to grab the villager's forearm. In one fluid motion, he twisted it behind the old man's back, the sickle now in Larry's grasp. He swung the blade upward, burying it deep into the man's shoulder. Blood sprayed from the wound, splattering across the floor in dark arcs.

Before the old man could even collapse, Larry had already moved on. The woman with the rolling pin swung at him with all her strength, her body trembling with the effort. Larry caught the rolling pin mid-swing, ripping it from her hands with such force that her knuckles cracked audibly. He shoved her backward, sending her crashing into the wooden table, which splintered under the impact.

Her dazed eyes flickered up at Larry as he calmly broke the rolling pin in half over his knee. Without a word, he jammed the jagged end of the broken wood into her shoulder, pinning her to the table. She shrieked, her hands scrabbling uselessly at the wood embedded in her flesh as blood pooled beneath her.

The pitchfork-wielding villager hesitated, but only for a second. His hesitation cost him dearly. Larry kicked the table, sending it skidding across the room and slamming into the man's knees. The force of the impact knocked him off balance, and he fell forward, his face landing directly on the jagged remains of a broken ceramic bowl. The sharp edges dug into his flesh, slicing his cheek open to the bone. He writhed on the floor, blood streaming from his face, mixing with the shattered pieces of the bowl.

Larry stepped over him without a second glance, his eyes scanning the room for the next threat.

One villager, a young man whose eyes were clouded with madness, rushed at Larry with a metal meat cleaver in hand. The blade was caked with rust and bits of old blood, the edge dull but still deadly. He swung wildly, the cleaver hacking through the air with reckless abandon. Larry dodged to the side, letting the cleaver swing past him before catching the young man's wrist and slamming his palm into the villager's elbow with brutal force. The joint snapped like a dry twig, the arm bending backward at a grotesque angle.

The cleaver dropped from the villager's hand, and Larry snatched it out of the air. He didn't hesitate. He swung the cleaver into the villager's chest with a vicious backhand, burying it deep into his torso. The young man let out a wet gurgle, his mouth filling with blood as he staggered backward, the cleaver still lodged in his chest. He collapsed to the floor, his body twitching as dark, arterial blood pooled around him.

Across the room, another villager—a middle-aged woman with stringy hair—lunged at Larry with a long-handled iron fire poker. Her eyes were wild, her face twisted into a grotesque mask of rage. She swung the poker like a spear, aiming for Larry's head. But he ducked, moving with unnatural speed. As she overextended, Larry grabbed the poker's handle and yanked it from her hands. He swung it back around, smashing it across her face. The force of the blow shattered her jaw with a sickening crunch, sending teeth and blood spraying across the room.

She fell to the floor, moaning weakly as blood poured from her mouth and nose.

Larry turned his attention to the last standing villager, an elderly man clutching a butcher's cleaver. The old man's hands shook as he raised the cleaver, his knuckles white with strain. His eyes were filled with terror, but something deeper—some dark compulsion—drove him forward.

Larry sighed, his expression one of detached boredom. "You really want to keep going?"

The old man's only response was a guttural growl as he charged at Larry, cleaver raised high. Larry sidestepped easily, grabbing a cast-iron frying pan from the stove as he moved. With one swift motion, he brought the pan down on the old man's head. The sound of bone cracking echoed through the room as the old man crumpled to the floor, the cleaver slipping from his lifeless fingers.

Larry stood amidst the carnage, his breathing steady, his clothes barely ruffled. Around him, the floor was littered with bodies—some moaning in pain, others eerily still. The once quiet, quaint home now resembled a butcher's shop, blood and shattered furniture scattered everywhere.

He dusted off his hands, his gaze falling on the bronze mirror hanging on the wall. There was something wrong about it, something that tugged at his senses. Slowly, he walked toward it, his eyes narrowing as he studied the intricate carvings along its edge.

"This is the source of the infection, isn't it?" Larry muttered to himself.

But as his fingers brushed the surface of the mirror, an unseen force exploded outward, sending Larry flying backward. He crashed through the doorway, tumbling into the street. Dust and debris flew into the air as he rolled to his feet, his eyes sharp, his body poised for the next attack.

From the mirror's surface, something dark and formless began to ooze. The black, tar-like substance dripped to the floor, pooling into a large, writhing mass. It slithered and coiled, growing larger by the second, its form shifting and warping. Soon, it had taken on the shape of a towering creature—its body made of interwoven vines, slick and black as oil. The air around it was heavy, suffocating, as though the very presence of the creature was toxic.

Larry stared up at the monstrosity, unimpressed. "So, this is what happens when you feed too much spirit energy into a Vector-type object, huh?"

The creature let out a low, rumbling growl as it lunged forward, its massive, shifting body hurtling toward Larry with deadly intent. But Larry didn't flinch. In one swift, fluid movement, his fists clenched, and a bright light crackled around his hands.

Then, with a sharp, crackling boom, a bolt of lightning erupted from his fists, shooting toward the creature. The air split with a deafening roar as the lightning struck the monster, cleaving it in two. The impact sent shockwaves rippling through the village, rattling the very earth beneath them.

The creature let out one final, ear-splitting shriek as its body dissolved into a thick, black mist. The remains of the mirror shattered into dust, leaving only silence in its wake.

---

The battle was over. The once-still village was now in ruins. The roof of the house was gone, blown apart in the struggle. Villagers lay scattered across the ground, some groaning in pain, others silent. Outside, a massive crater smoked, its edges blackened from the lightning strike.

Larry calmly packed his belongings, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. As he walked toward the village's edge, his phone rang again.

"Yeah, it's done," he said, answering the call as he stepped over the bodies. "Nope, no residue left behind. You know I'm thorough."

He was about to leave when something tugged at his ankle. Looking down, he saw the old man and woman crawling toward him, their hands shaking as they grasped at his pant leg.

"Please..." the old man rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "Kill us too... end this."

Larry stared at the two for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he smiled, a cold, detached smile.

"Thanks for the dinner," he said casually. "It was delicious."

He pulled his leg free and continued walking without a backward glance.

"But I'm sorry. You're not infected. I only kill infected people."

With that, Larry Wade disappeared into the mist, leaving the broken village behind him.

[TL Note - This man seems like a colder Spiderman in his way of speech, lol]

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Posted up to chapter 172

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