Chapter 115: The Dawn Knight

In a spacious, dimly lit room, damp droplets condensed on stone walls, hundreds of candles fixed at varying heights along the walls cast interwoven shadows on the floor beneath massive silk ribbons hanging from the towering ceiling supports.

A vast conference table stood at the center of the room, where several masked figures sat on either side, watching a screen.

This was the Chamber of the Owl Court.

The Owl Court is a mysterious organization from DC Comics, active in Gotham since its earliest days; in some comic versions, it is described as an institution maintained by Gotham’s founders or their descendants, the Dark King of Gotham.

Of course, other comic versions add further conspiracies—such as Gotham’s Owl Court actually answering to a global Owl Council, which in turn serves under the Dark God Babalon.

But regardless, this organization has existed in Gotham for a long time, secretly manipulating the city.

Members of the Owl Court gather only for conspiracies concerning Gotham, and this meeting was no exception.

Yet their original purpose had changed—indeed, the moment they saw a massive black monster leap from the surveillance feed on the Claw’s belt, the entire nature of the story shifted completely.

And the speed and impact of this change surpassed everyone’s expectations.

During Gotham’s transformation, the Owl Court had not been entirely oblivious—but the problem was that any council-style organization requires a series of discussions and member votes to decide anything, and the Owl Court was no different; they needed to investigate, gather evidence, analyze, then vote on Gotham’s recent changes.

Yes, this damned evil organization was also damned meticulous, and its operational efficiency far surpassed Gotham’s Police Department.

After a period of reaction, the Owl Court eventually traced the source of Gotham’s transformation from subtle clues.

The Owl Court was not concerned about Gotham’s change, for the city had not improved in any meaningful way—no one sought to save it at its root—and instead, the change brought immense benefits, which aligned with the Owl Court’s own interests.

What they could not accept was someone operating from an even darker place, manipulating and influencing the city with greater precision than they could; should such a person emerge, the Owl Court must eliminate them.

Thus, the Claw targeted his objective: the unassuming university professor, Shiler Rodriguez.

Everything had proceeded smoothly—until the black monster appeared, and everything changed.

It was not surprising that the Owl Court had installed surveillance on the Claw—they were, after all, a conspiracy organization that monitored the entire city—but they never imagined the spectacle that followed would shatter everyone’s worldview and fundamentally alter the purpose of this meeting.

At this moment, Shiler, still entangled with Venom Bat, found himself in a difficult position; combat between symbiotes was nothing like the giant monster brawls he’d seen in movies.

As a factor-based lifeform, symbiote combat occurred primarily at the microscopic level—mutual consumption of symbiotic factors—transforming a one-on-one duel into a full-scale army war.

Shiler was not unskilled in such battles, but his opponent was a deranged Dark Bat; Venom Bat cared nothing for losing symbiotic factors, attacking recklessly, desperate to tear more from Grey Mist.

There was no room for tactics against such a mad foe; defense only increased losses, so Shiler was forced into reckless offense, and the two symbiotes began devouring each other without fear.

This battle produced no light or sound, enveloped in a mysterious, silent atmosphere; tangible forms gradually dissolved into the intangible through their frenzied mutual consumption—the pulling of slime and mist made it resemble a battle of light and shadow, while beneath its silent surface raged screams, chaos, and a madness too terrible to behold.

The Owl Court were not ordinary people—they possessed certain dark powers beyond normal human capacity.

Thus, facing this silent yet deafening battle, the Owl Court, unfamiliar with symbiotes, could only interpret it within their own worldview as a higher form of occult manifestation.

This battle occurring on an invisible plane led them more readily to associate it with the origins of dark forces; unlike ordinary people, the Owl Court understood that the world was not as simple or peaceful as it appeared—they knew greater, darker powers were watching from beyond the cosmos.

The forms of Venom Bat and Grey Mist Shiler were too easily reminiscent of transcendent demonic deities.

The colossal black bat radiated terrifying dark power—even through the screen, one could perceive the immense black tide surging from Batman’s shadowed side; merely glancing at it induced suffocation and dread, as if one’s throat were being crushed.

And Shiler—the great sun rising from grey mist—appeared like a black hole devouring everything; the strange, bizarre patterns in the mist added an eerie, solemn, almost religious gravity, making it impossible not to contemplate.

The infinite potential of this unique symbiote race made their transformations seem anything but impulsive.

In fact, the Owl Court’s judgment was correct—the symbiote race itself originated from a cosmic demon, and these two combatants were both elite among symbiotes.

If permitted, let Shiler formally introduce to the Owl Court a particularly enthusiastic netizen—

The Oldest of the Seventh Universe, the Cosmic Satan, Lord of the Abyss, the Black-Clad Emperor, Master of the Black Death Blade, Executioner of the Celestial Assembly, Adoptive Father of the God-Slayer Gorr, Thor’s spiritual companion, the headache generator of Thanos, the ultimate nightmare of three cosmic empires—the Symbiote God, Knull.

Well, though Knull’s earlier story sounded somewhat pitiful, in truth, this demon who forged the All-Black Necrosword still held a high rank among Marvel’s cosmic deities, with a formidable record; his special offspring, though not independent cosmic deities, were at least direct bloodline relatives.

In this era, most named villains had not yet fully emerged, let alone cosmic deities beyond Earth’s plane—but this battle had suddenly leapt over countless power tiers, elevating the conflict from street brawls to a cosmic event.

Could the Owl Court possibly remain unmoved?

Thus, the meeting’s agenda shifted from whether to interfere with Gotham to whether to evacuate Gotham.

After all, they were utterly unaware of this transformation, did not understand why Batman had suddenly changed, and did not know what the outcome of this battle would be—would Gotham be destroyed? Would Earth be destroyed?

But at least they had confirmed one thing: until they understood why Batman and this professor had suddenly risen from ordinary ground-dwellers to cosmic-level demons, it was best to take no drastic action.

Sixiangke

Worse still, they were deeply troubled by how sudden these changes were—there had been no warning, and the Owl Court detected no sign of mystical invasion into the city.

If these demons were organized, they would have already infected many in Gotham—who knew how many more such individuals lurked within the city?

If they sent out the Claws and triggered one explosion after another, soon Gotham would be filled with cosmic demons—what would the Owl Court even do then?

If every Gotham citizen possessed this level of power, the Owl Court wouldn’t even have time to run home and sob into Babalon’s lap.

Originally, Shiler had brought Venom to DC because he’d seen in the comics how Venom repaired his host Eddie’s aging bones and nervous system—he thought perhaps Venom could use the same method to cure Mr. Freeze’s wife—but before he could act, Venom had foolishly attached itself to Batman.

Batman isn’t some vessel anyone can infest—you’re some Marvel outsider, thinking you can come to Gotham and beg for scraps?

As he thought this, Shiler noticed the opposing assault had weakened; grey mist curled around a building, and Shiler retracted his form, standing at the edge of the tallest rooftop, looking down.

The black bat formed of slime suddenly began flying erratically, as if fighting itself, pulled by invisible forces.

Within the black bat’s mind, another battle intensified.

Wave after wave of black tide surged like a flood, Bruce’s own consciousness like a solitary boat in a storm, trembling on the verge of collapse.

Even Bruce himself had never imagined his shadow side could be so terrifying.

His only ally in this struggle was the pitiful consciousness of Venom, who still couldn’t understand how he’d once again stirred up a hornet’s nest.

After barely resisting another wave of black tide, Bruce said to Venom: “You claim to be an alien lifeform!?! Why is your alien will so weak?!!!”

Venom was nearly enraged: “Is it my will that’s weak?!?! Why do humans generate so many storms in your minds?!”

Is this the limit of consciousness survival?!?!

Venom was truly aggrieved—he’d first bonded with Deadpool.

Deadpool’s mind was like a blender spinning at thousands of RPMs—his entire body could grow anything, except his brain.

Venom had to swim through it like a butterfly in a cesspool; Deadpool’s mind wasn’t dangerous, just nauseating—extremely nauseating.

Venom had nearly gone mad from it; after barely escaping to a normal human host, he couldn’t resist temptation and fled to Stark.

Stark’s mind wasn’t chaotic, but that damn bastard averaged three thousand thunderstorms a day—tornadoes, dust storms, so violent even his mother wouldn’t recognize him—nearly blew Venom’s skull off.

When he was violently ejected from Stark’s body, Venom felt like he’d escaped death.

Then he was locked in a jar, starved for a long time, until he finally escaped—happy, because upon entering Bruce’s body, he realized this seemed to be a smart, wealthy heir whose mind wasn’t as fast as Stark’s, filled instead with irrelevant data like hospital beds and prison cells.

Venom, full of hope for a peaceful life, thought he’d slipped into a perfect egg—just as he drooled over the yolk, ready to swallow it whole, the egg cracked open and a Tyrannosaurus rex emerged—Venom nearly lost his head.

From his genetic memory, Venom knew the universe was vast, and humans weren’t the only race—why was he so unlucky? Why had he landed on Earth?!

How could humans be so absurd? If one day he could compile the symbiote gene library, he’d warn all his kin: Avoid humans—safety first. Improper host selection? Symbiotes weep.

But grievance aside, complaints aside, the fight must go on; Venom said to Bruce: “I can stimulate your emotions—you must now summon an extreme emotion to suppress this darkness.”

Thanks to Stark, Venom’s logic system came from this cursed genius—he now thought with startling clarity, even clearer than Bruce, for Bruce was too close to the situation, while Venom knew clearly: to defeat this darkness from the shadow, Bruce must ignite sufficient positive emotion.

“Then why are you standing there? Start!” Bruce said.

“The problem is—I can’t find your positive emotions!!!!!!”

Venom roared: “Where did you hide them?! Dig them up!!! They’re our lifeline!!!”

Another wave of black tide knocked Venom over; he nearly broke down: “What’s there to hide?! You stupid humans!!!”

Bruce opened his mouth—he didn’t know how to answer. It sounded absurd, yet even an alien entity capable of reading minds couldn’t find his positive emotions.

“You must hurry!” Venom’s tone now resembled Stark’s—clearly, the genius had left a deep imprint.

“Your darkness carries other forces—if fully unleashed, your home—this very city—will be utterly destroyed. Nothing will remain.”

Bruce clenched his lips, evading another attack from the dark consciousness.

Destroy Gotham? It sounded insane—but also logical. This mad city deserved destruction. What was there to cling to?

Alfred’s face surfaced in his mind—he recalled the old butler’s expression beside the hospital bed, and later, alone in the dark parlor, wiping the old telephone while humming cheerful tunes.

It didn’t surprise Bruce—if there was one person he cherished in this city, it was his butler Alfred; if there was one place he longed for, it was Wayne Manor with Alfred in it.

Soon, his memories blurred, as if returning to Wayne Manor. He pushed open a door, as he did every ordinary morning.

But to his surprise, behind the door lay Gotham’s dark rain alley—the first time Detective Gordon called him “the guy in the suit,” they worked cases together, tracked suspects, and on the rooftop of Gotham PD, the trench-coated detective and the cloaked bat discussed justice and the city’s future.

When night deepened, Batman turned away; returning to the manor, flickering candlelight revealed an old friend waiting—Batman and Harvey sat on the sofa, talking endlessly, like mentor and disciple, their words flowing gently; Bruce no longer clearly remembered the lessons Harvey taught, but the unspoken understanding between them remained vivid.

Soon, he darted through Gotham’s towering lights, embracing Catwoman in a passionate kiss, sinking into a dream of romance.

The fluttering veils, overturned glasses, spilled wine—each tender yet mad night, each kiss that warmed the bat’s cold body, each lover so passionate he was utterly enchanted, telling him stories of jewels and castles Batman never cared about; in memory, he listened with rapt attention, yet in his eyes, Catwoman’s gaze shone brighter than any gem she described.

The scratch of pen on paper echoed—Bruce felt as if back in an exam hall, watching classmates scratch their heads in frustration, perhaps amazed, perhaps resigned.

Then, with them, he painted murals, watching black paint flow down walls, forming intricate, never-before-seen patterns—like a door to a time machine.

He passed through the door; time surged forward, then reversed in his dreamlike memory, all people and objects rewinding like a film in reverse, until returning to the place where a black sun rose—he heard a familiar voice say: “Welcome to Gotham.”

Venom watched the consciousness space tremble, bright light seeping through shattered fissures; he cursed, swiftly threading through Bruce’s emotions, trying to weave these fragmented positive feelings together.

Gradually, a faint glow rose, coalescing into a brighter orb.

The black tide surged back violently, like ink flooding the entire world; a black ocean spread through the consciousness space, waves crashing like a deluge.

Bruce, detached from the memory space, floated above the black tide; through layers of black waves, he saw at its deepest core a curled-up boy—himself, Bruce Wayne.

Soon, Shiler saw the massive slime-formed bat crash to the ground; the slime slowly retracted, all of it flowing back into Bruce’s body.

Shiler leapt from the rooftop, standing before Bruce; Bruce rose from the ground—or rather, Venom now controlled his body.

“How did you get out?”

“You’ll have to ask the woman who broke into your house and stole that jar.”

The woman who stole the jar? Shiler thought—there was only one female thief in Gotham with that skill. Could it be Catwoman?

“I shouldn’t have believed Stark’s nonsense,” Shiler said. “He told me his symbiote needed a mansion worthy of a billionaire, so he built a diamond jar with his weird gadgets, swore it was both beautiful and practical.”

“Then I should thank him.”

In an instant, black slime erupted again—but this time, Venom reverted to its original form: a gaping mouth full of fangs and a crimson tongue.

“So how did you end up on Batman?”

“Don’t you think human speech is too slow? Don’t waste my time,” Venom said.

“Your tone reminds me of someone I really dislike.”

Venom sent out a tendril of slime, and the gray mist also released a wisp of vapor; the instant the symbiotic factors touched, both exchanged countless pieces of information.

The gray mist said to Shiler in his mind: “...a woman with cat ears... just like that car... the necessary process of human reproduction... not allowed to watch... he doesn’t understand it either...”

“Alright, I get it...” Shiler covered his forehead. He now understood what had happened. “Don’t tell me the details. Bruce has it coming.”

Then Venom grinned with its wide mouth and said: “You’ll never catch me again! Hahahahahaha! I’m free!! I’m going to eat the brains of everyone here!! I...”

“I already told you—before you think about eating, you might have other troubles to deal with...”

As Venom was about to reply, its consciousness was instantly suppressed again. It roared in frustration: “No! Damn human! Filth!!”

But in the end, the slime retreated back into his body. Bruce shook his head and asked: “Did it work? What the hell just happened?”

“You should ask the glutton inside you.”

“I don’t mean that. He’s already told me who he is and what he wants. I mean...” Bruce gripped his head in pain. “Why did I lose control? Where did those terrible negative emotions come from? Why... where did that darkness originate?”

“It seems you’ve realized it,” Shiler said. “The darkness hidden within you is terrifying. Though it has never broken free before, once it does, you could destroy everything.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s Batman. Don’t you know that?”

“Batman? Then who am I? No... no, that’s impossible!” Bruce covered his eyes and crouched down, kneeling on the ground, wracked with pain. “Impossible... I am Batman... I am Batman...”

“You thought you had become another version of yourself, but in truth, that’s merely an illusion.”

Shiler’s thoughts drifted away as he began to recall the Batman from the comics he had read. His voice grew increasingly ethereal. “Batman? You’re different from him. Indeed, he never pursued darkness for its own sake.”

“He is the ultimate of darkness and the ultimate of light. He wields the ultimate of darkness to govern this irredeemable city, then uses light to prevent the destruction that such ultimate darkness might bring.”

This sounded more like Shiler’s reflection. Bruce’s voice was exhausted. “I thought I didn’t need any of that. I was the avenger of the night. I didn’t need any useless emotions that might shake my convictions. I wasn’t that ridiculous Bruce—the powerless, helpless little Bruce who couldn’t save or change anything...”

For the first time, Shiler heard such unmistakable trembling in his tone. Bruce’s voice trembled so badly he could barely finish the last word—or perhaps he simply refused to say it.

It was the first time he had spoken of what he had always avoided: that night, the two gunshots, the two bodies lying in pools of blood, and the helpless little boy named Bruce Wayne.

He had believed that little Bruce had been buried forever that night.

So when he realized he still harbored, like that little boy, unwarranted fantasies about the world, about the joyful memories of that night’s movie, it felt as if all these years of hatred and the efforts driven by it were nothing but self-deception.

Facing that little boy who had lost his parents stirred stronger emotions in Shiler than facing Batman ever had. For the first time, he didn’t offer advice as an outsider—he spoke like a true counsel: “...even Gotham has daylight.”

Bruce’s Adam’s apple moved. He took a deep breath, as if suddenly infused with new life. He stood up, trembling. The cold night wind of Gotham blew against his bat armor, producing a vibration no one could hear.

He limped slightly as he slowly walked to the edge of the rooftop.

There, he saw a glimmer on Gotham’s skyline—a thin golden line, like the first stroke of creation, cleaving through thick darkness.

Bruce had never seen Gotham’s sunrise.

He suddenly realized that even in this dark, gloomy city, at the moment the sun rose, the light that shattered the darkness was still dazzlingly brilliant—something he had never seen before.

The darker the night, the more awe-inspiring the light.

Bruce closed his eyes and slowly curled his fingers, as if grasping the light that had cut through the darkness.

Soon, Bruce took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and the sun’s radiance filled his gaze. The arc of light on the horizon left a brilliant golden streak within his pupils.

No one knew that in his mind-space, he had briefly seen the little boy lying beneath the black tide. Only when he saw him did Bruce understand: he had always treated those joyful memories as rewards earned through suffering, and so whenever he felt a moment of happiness, he felt compelled to repay it with tenfold pain.

He fled these joyful memories as urgently as he avoided pain.

To become Batman, he had to accept not only this pain and darkness—but also that he had always been that little boy, always waiting for that movie, always yearning for that light.

Just as on that long-ago night: without hope for light, there could never be a longing to merge with darkness.

“Who am I?”

He whispered: “Who am I?”

The dawn’s light gave him no answer, but his heart already held one. He said: “I am Bruce Wayne...”

“I am Batman...”

His voice grew softer: “...I am, Batman.”

A silent, heavy vow settled in his heart, like a massive stone stele, standing firm against the surging black tide.

From today on, this dark city would have only one Batman: Bruce Wayne, and Batman.

From today on, he would bear the dark authority of Gotham, this mad city, and wield a blade as bright as dawn.

He would stand above this living hell. Cold winds could not pierce his armor. Flames could not melt his heart.

He would heed no rule, fear no guilt. With dawn as his boundary, with sunrise as his call, he would dwell in darkness, yet his heart would turn toward light—eternally toward light.

Bruce thought: he would be Gotham’s dawn.

He would be—Batman.