Chapter 122

Peter’s sense of triumph didn’t last long, because he realized he’d stirred up a major problem.

Since that incident, his name had spread through the vampire community; everyone now knew there was a man called Spider-Man who wanted to fight all vampires alone.

Peter didn’t even know who had spread such a reputation for him—he’d only intended to take out a single small vampire outpost, and he’d already succeeded.

His next plan had been to destroy another, slightly larger outpost, but now it was as if he’d kicked over a rat’s nest—every time he appeared in New York as Spider-Man, a swarm of giant bats chased after him.

Peter swung between the buildings in Brooklyn, two or three bats trailing behind him, but his mind was crystal clear; he made a sharp turn mid-air, cutting around the corner of a building, causing the lead bat to crash into the wall’s edge.

Then he released his web and plummeted rapidly; the other bats followed him down, but just two meters above ground, Spider-Man fired another web line and swung upward again, while the bats behind him, unable to stop in time, crashed headfirst into the pavement.

Peter realized he’d changed a great deal—he now filled his mind with tactical plans, the entire topography of Brooklyn laid out in his head with every elevation and alley clearly visible: where to lose his pursuers, where to hide, everything laid bare.

He’d often wandered these streets before, but the layouts always slipped from his memory—yet now, when he needed them, they all surfaced again; this feeling fascinated Spider-Man, making him feel utterly in control.

After using similar tactics to shake off two more bats, Spider-Man landed on a rooftop—when suddenly, a cloud of black mist appeared behind him, a sharp claw lashing out; his spider-sense flared, Peter rolled aside, then knelt on one knee, staring fixedly at the black mist.

The mist solidified into a figure: a man with long white hair, dressed in medieval attire, standing before Spider-Man; like other vampires, his face was pale and grim, but he carried an air of greater arrogance: “Spider-Man, is it you who dares oppose the great Bloodline?”

“Bloodline? You’re nothing but a bunch of winged rats.”

Spider-Man rose slowly, noticing his voice had grown deeper than the other’s: “You don’t actually believe the leader of rats is nobler than the rest, do you?”

These words enraged the white-haired vampire; he instantly dissolved into black mist and reappeared before Spider-Man—Peter’s spider-sense flared again, he rolled away, fired a web line at a pile of boxes on the rooftop, sending the entire stack flying; the black mist had to reform into a human shape, raising its arms to block.

In that instant, Spider-Man vanished.

Swinging through the air, Spider-Man muttered to himself: “What did I just call him again? That was way too harsh.”

He touched his face: “Is that really me? Did I really just say that?”

Spider-Man was talkative, but he usually used trash talk to distract opponents—he rarely struck so deeply; Peter wasn’t good at insults, and even when he provoked, it was always with a joking tone.

But the high-ranking vampire had nearly been driven to rage by him; Peter found it unbelievable, yet strangely satisfying.

He thought that line had been perfect—so what if he had magic? He was still just a winged rat.

Back in Queens, Peter spotted flames flickering along a central street; he swung over quickly and saw it was a block near Midtown High—chaos reigned as police clashed with vampires.

Spider-Man cursed under his breath—he realized he’d been lured; no wonder those giant bats had been herding him toward Queens’ outskirts. He was lucky he’d kept his head and hadn’t lingered with the high-ranking vampire—if he had, they’d have succeeded.

Peter was about to drop down and help when he saw Gwen and her father George near the firefight—George shielded Gwen with his arm; as police fire weakened, the frontline crumbled under pressure from high-ranking vampires, and the spot where the father and daughter stood grew increasingly perilous.

Peter panicked and wanted to rush down immediately—but the high-ranking vampire he’d evaded earlier caught up.

This vampire differed from ordinary ones—he could teleport and summon claws from black mist.

Teleportation wasn’t much of a threat to Peter—he had spider-sense; whenever the vampire neared, his spider-sense warned him, and he could dodge.

But the claw ability emerging from black mist posed serious trouble.

Spider-Man moved through the air primarily via web lines; the high-ranking vampire wasn’t stupid—he saw this and targeted Peter’s webs directly; every time Peter tried to swing, the claw severed his web, forcing him to change direction instantly.

Under this interference, Peter couldn’t reach his girlfriend and her father in time; as the firefight pushed further back, the civilians on the ground were nearly trapped—with the school district directly behind them—Peter knew George’s nature: he’d never allow these monsters to breach the school.

Peter burned with anxiety and regret—he wished he’d strengthened his web strength; as several vampires surrounded George and Gwen, his fury and panic nearly overwhelmed him—and when his web line was severed once more, he felt something stirring in his arm.

By instinct, Peter fired another web—this time, it wasn’t white, but a black, viscous substance.

When the black web stuck to the wall, it reacted like a living thing; as soon as the magic claw sliced through a section, more viscous fluid surged forward, thickening the web until it became unbreakable—even the magic claw couldn’t cut it.

Peter shot across the battlefield, stuck a car with his black web, swung it hard, and flung the advancing vampires into the wall—every police officer and George and Gwen stared in shock.

Filled with rage, Spider-Man grabbed a lamppost; the vampires behind him, sensing danger, tried to turn into bats and flee—but Spider-Man swung the lamppost like a club, knocking each one down; after their initial shock, the police recovered and rushed forward to finish them off.

After venting his fury, Peter turned to see George and Gwen were safe—he longed to go to them, but after a moment’s hesitation, he fired a web and left.

Only when he calmed down did he realize, staring in surprise at his arm—there was nothing unusual there; Peter muttered to himself: “What just happened? What was that black web?”

He fiddled with his wrist, removed the mini-web-shooter from his suit, opened the compartment—and found the contents unchanged; he tried again—the web shot out as white as ever.

This sparked intense curiosity in Peter—had he unlocked some new ability? He began experimenting with different motions to fire webs.

To outsiders, it looked like a man in a tight suit performing absurd, ridiculous poses on rooftops—highly comical.

After much effort, Peter exhausted himself but still couldn’t fire another black web.

Peter thought maybe his posture was wrong; as he prepared to try an inverted stance, a voice finally snapped in his mind: “Stop it! Are you an idiot?”

Peter jumped in shock, looking left and right: “What?! Who are you?! Where are you talking from?!”

“I’m inside your head! Didn’t you notice?”

Peter’s eyes widened in disbelief: “Inside my head? Who are you? My alter ego? Am I suffering from dissociative identity disorder? Oh god! I need to see Dr. Shiler!”

“No no no! Don’t go! You don’t need a doctor—I’m not your personality! Oh damn it! Stop! Don’t run over there!!!”

Peter hesitated, stopped moving, and asked: “Then who are you?”

“I’m a Daomeidewaixinggongshengti , my name is Venom. As for the rest—your brain probably can’t comprehend it. You just need to know I’m here to help you.”

“An alien symbiote? You’re an alien? That’s so cool! But why are you inside my body?”

“Because you’re a weak, brain-dead idiot—if I hadn’t helped you just now, you’d be dead…”

“How can you talk to me like that? Even without you, I’d have figured something out!”

“You really think all those recent tricks were your own ideas?”

“Weren’t they?”

Peter suddenly realized—he’d been different lately. Whenever he acted, he now planned ahead; sometimes he didn’t just prepare one plan—he mentally drafted several backups. His reflexes and tactical decision-making under pressure had suddenly skyrocketed.

“So… was that you?” Peter asked. “Are there really aliens like this? Living inside me, helping me think… Wait, did you just sigh? Why did you sigh? I may not be as smart as you, but I’m not stupid either—why would you sigh?”

“Forget that nonsense—how are you going to deal with their pursuit?”

Peter hesitated, scratched his head: “They usually can’t catch me—I shake them off in a few rounds.”

“So you plan to play this game every single day?”

“Why not? I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“I DON’T HAVE TIME!!” Venom roared. “Finish them off now! Then we go eat heads!!”

“There are so many of them—how can I take them all out?… Wait, you just said you wanted to eat what?”

“You’re the dumbest human I’ve ever encountered. Period,” Venom said.

“Use that dim brain of yours to come up with a plan that barely passes—then wipe them all out. Then we get a vacation!”

“Do aliens even get vacations?” Peter asked. “Why are you in such a hurry? Do you have some kind of performance target?”

Venom grew agitated: “Why are you so lazy?! You’ve got all the time in the world to devise a flawless plan to crush every enemy—why are you still standing around?”

“Can you just move?! Find a room, think deeply, draft two hundred battle plans, then execute them immediately! Now! Go!!”

Peter’s head throbbed: “Can you lower your voice? You’re reminding me of my homeroom teacher.”

“Besides, I’m not taking a final exam—I just wanted to clear out two of their outposts. My goal’s already achieved. Tomorrow I’m supposed to go on a date with Gwen…”