The Summoner of Legends

Gotham City was full of secrets. From an ancient order of assassins led by the city's elite to the daughter of a cop who had become a masked vigilante protecting the streets at night.

These, and countless other mysteries, dwelled in the shadows of the city. Some were darker than others, but at the end of the day, Gotham was always surrounded by enigmas.

However, there was one man in particular who seemed to be at the center of them all. Who was behind the mask? Where was his secret base? Where did he get the money to fund all his tools and resources? These questions, and many more, always surfaced whenever anyone spoke about him: Batman.

The Dark Knight, who had once decided to take on Gotham's injustices, had faced the city's innumerable dangers. From petty criminals to lunatics with unhinged schemes, and even gods from other worlds bent on destroying life as they knew it. In his years of service as a vigilante, Batman had seen the worst this world—and others—had to offer. He had fought chaos-driven maniacs, mob bosses pulling the city's strings from the shadows, and even an intergalactic collector of civilizations who, fortunately, had been defeated.

But despite having seen and faced so much, tonight, what lay before him filled him with an unfamiliar sensation. It wasn't fear, but it was something that chilled him to the bone: uncertainty.

Human limbs scattered like trash, heads severed from their bodies and carelessly tossed to the ground like discarded toys. Blood spattered the walls, the floors, even the ceiling. Everything was a brutal, crimson chaos.

Batman was no stranger to violence. He knew Gotham could be ruthless. But even here, this kind of scene was uncommon. The city's criminal organizations usually conducted their "business" discreetly, avoiding unnecessary attention—especially something this brutal. Even the city's supervillains, with all their extravagance, rarely left behind crime scenes that were this eerily silent and horrifying.

Something didn't add up, and he didn't like it. No. This was something different. Something worse.

He moved through the remains of the scene with calm deliberation, his movements precise yet predatory. His eyes, hidden beneath the mask, scanned every detail. Over the years, he had learned that crime scenes always held secrets, details that—if you knew where to look—could tell the entire story.

The first thing he noticed was that the people at the scene didn't belong to the same group. Their clothing and accessories revealed they were from two different gangs, likely attempting a transaction. Near the bodies was an open briefcase filled with cash, alongside several empty boxes that had probably once held drugs—likely cocaine.

But something had gone wrong.

The signs of struggle were clear: bullet holes marked the floors, the walls, even the ceiling. Both sides had fired their weapons, but it didn't seem like they had been fighting each other. This was different. Everything indicated they had been defending themselves against a common enemy.

"Something—or someone—interrupted this deal," he thought, crouching to examine a bullet casing. It was fresh, just like the rest of the scene.

What worried him most was the precision with which everyone had been killed. None of the bodies showed signs of slow or torturous deaths. The cuts were clean, precise, executed with a level of skill that suggested a sharp weapon wielded by an expert. Perhaps a sword… but who, and why?

He scanned the area again. The bodies, the bullet trajectories, even the footprints in the dust on the ground. It was clear the attacker had launched the assault from one corner of the warehouse. But something didn't fit: there were no signs of how the attacker had gotten there.

There were no traces of forced entry. No sound that might have alerted the victims. If the attacker had dropped from the ceiling, the impact would have made noise. And if they had approached from outside, someone would have seen them. The only explanation that made sense was that the attacker had already been there, hiding. Or… that they had abilities beyond the ordinary.

That last possibility unsettled him. "A meta-human? Or something else?"

Batman continued inspecting the cuts on the bodies. Each wound reinforced his theory: a sharp weapon, likely a sword, and an attacker who knew exactly how to use it. The precision was surgical, each strike designed to be lethal.

And then, the inevitable questions arose. Who was it? Why did they do this?

There were many people in the world with the skills necessary to cause this massacre. But almost none would have a reason to do it in a place like this. These men were low-level thugs. None of them important enough to justify hiring an expert to take them out.

The drugs weren't special either. The boxes contained cocaine—nothing rare or particularly valuable. If this had been a robbery, the money and the drugs would have been taken. But both were still there. This wasn't a crime motivated by money. There was another reason. Something he couldn't yet see.

"I'm missing a piece," he thought, his brow furrowed as he straightened up. "Something else happened here."

Suddenly, something caught his attention: a trail of blood extending farther than the others. It was a thin, irregular line, snaking toward a corner of the warehouse. Without hesitation, he decided to follow it. His body tensed instinctively, preparing for any potential confrontation.

The trail led him to the back of a stack of boxes. There, he found the source of the blood. A mutilated body, its legs severed and its head impaled by what appeared to be the same weapon that had caused the rest of the massacre.

Batman stopped, studying the corpse intently. His mask's sensors analyzed every detail as his mind processed the scene.

"This wasn't just a murder. This was an execution," he thought, and the weight of that conclusion filled him with a sense of urgency.

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Next to the mutilated body were footprints, blurred by the spilled blood. Someone's shoes had soaked up the blood unknowingly, leaving an irregular trail leading toward the exit. Batman crouched to examine the marks more closely, following the footprints as they gradually faded toward the emergency door.

"This isn't the killer's trail," he noted as he analyzed the direction of the prints. "It's too linear… like whoever left them was fleeing."

The possibility that the owner of these footprints was a survivor made him press his lips into a thin line beneath the mask. He followed the trail, hoping to find something—anything—that could shed light on what had happened.

At the end of the trail, he found what he feared: another lifeless body.

The man lay sprawled on the ground, his head severed from his torso like the other victims. Blood had pooled around him, now dry along the edges. His eyes, wide open, were frozen in an expression of pure terror.

Batman stopped for a moment, feeling the familiar burn of rage ignite within him. He clenched his teeth, his jaw tightening beneath the mask. "Fear and desperation," he thought as he studied the dead man's expression. That look was unmistakable. The man had run with everything he had, clinging to the hope of escape, but he hadn't made it.

None of this made sense. It was clear the man had tried to flee from something, but the trail offered no further answers. There were no clear signs of who or what had been chasing him. And for the first time in a long while, Batman felt something he despised with every fiber of his being: frustration.

—"Alfred, I need you to access all security camera footage in the area. I'll need it when I return to the Batcave,"—he ordered firmly, activating the communicator in his ear.

A flash of blue light illuminated him from above. He looked up to see the Batjet descending slowly, positioning itself a few meters off the ground. The aircraft hovered in the air with a low, steady hum, like a mechanical predator waiting for its master to board. Batman pulled the grappling hook from his utility belt and fired it at one of the jet's hatches. In one fluid motion, he was lifted into the vehicle's interior.

—"I'm gathering the data, sir, but I'm afraid I have bad news,"—Alfred's voice sounded in his ear, as polite as always but tinged with a faint note of concern.

—"What kind of bad news?"—Batman asked, securing himself in the cockpit.

—"It's best you see for yourself,"—Alfred replied, evasive.

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Inside the Batcave, surrounded by the glow of monitors and the familiar echo of water dripping from stalactites, Batman reviewed the reports Alfred had prepared.

—"Regarding the videos you requested, sir, I'm afraid the nearby cameras have been out of service for months,"—Alfred said, his sigh audible even through the comms. He continued:—"I wasn't able to find anything that could help us understand what happened."

Batman frowned, his fingers tapping lightly on the keyboard in front of him as he processed the information.

—"Did you check the cameras from other nearby establishments?"—he asked.

—"Yes, sir. But there was nothing useful there either. Not even the cameras from nearby businesses caught anything. The only footage I could find showed black cars heading toward the warehouse."

—"No other vehicles? No suspicious figures?"

—"None. And that's not all. That warehouse appears to have been a regular spot for dealings between various gangs, but this time, the only thing recorded was the arrival of those cars. No one leaving, no unusual movements before the attack."

Batman leaned back in the chair in front of his computer, his cape falling to the sides of the seat. "There's nothing," he muttered to himself, the echo of his words fading into the cavernous space. The footprints, the crime scene, even the sparse footage—all of it led to a dead end.

But he couldn't afford to give up. There was more to this story, something he wasn't seeing yet. And until he found it, he couldn't let anyone else get involved. It was his responsibility, his city. This killer, whoever they were, was unlike anything he'd faced before. Gotham wasn't ready for this. Not yet.

—"Keep looking, Alfred. I'll do the same from here."

—"As you wish, sir. But I'd strongly recommend you take a moment to rest. Even Batman can't work nonstop without a break."

Batman didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed on the screen, the data scrolling in front of him as his mind sifted through the few clues he had, again and again.

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A week had passed since that night. A week since he'd seen the first crime scene in the warehouse, hoping it would be the last.

But Gotham didn't grant him that luxury.

He had hoped the killer—whoever or whatever it was—had simply passed through the city. That they had done their work and moved on.

But that wasn't the case.

Everything pointed to one chilling truth: they were here to stay.

Every night for the past week, more than ten people had been murdered. Ten victims per night, without fail. All of them killed in the same brutal fashion: dismembered with precision, their wounds clean, and their faces frozen in expressions of absolute terror.

Each murder was a haunting reminder of the scene Batman had witnessed in the warehouse.

The bodies kept piling up, and with each one, Gotham sank further into despair. The police didn't know where to start, and rumors began spreading like wildfire through the streets.

Some said it was the work of a professional assassin. Others spoke of a new meta-human threat. And the more superstitious among them whispered stories of demons lurking in the shadows.

And all the while, Batman kept searching for answers.

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Some victims were found alone, left in dark alleys or abandoned warehouses, while others were massacred in groups, as if the killer had no preference for when or how to act. By now, Batman had only two certainties: this monster enjoyed torturing its victims, and it did not belong to any criminal faction.

It didn't seem interested in power or territory. Its targets were indiscriminate, and its actions had no apparent logic beyond a desire to kill. Its victims had simply been unlucky enough to cross its path.

And that frustrated him.

Since the first massacre, Batman had tried to build a profile of his enemy. At first, he thought it might be an incredibly skilled assassin hired by one of Gotham's criminal factions to eliminate rival gangs. But that theory quickly fell apart.

No matter how skilled the killer was, there was no way a human could emerge unscathed from so many encounters. Hundreds of bullets. Dozens of armed men. Not a single injury. Batman ruled out the possibility of a rookie, but even with his vast experience, it was unlikely that an expert could achieve something like this without leaving a trace.

And there was one detail he couldn't ignore. Members of practically every gang in Gotham had been attacked—even the Joker's henchmen. And everyone knew that no one in their right mind would dare to touch anyone associated with the clown, for fear of the inevitable retribution. No one.

"So, who is doing this?"

The question pounded in his head like a hammer. Every analysis, every theory, every guess led him to the same place: a dead end.

There was no blood from the attacker. No trace of their identity. No solid evidence. All he had were corpses with expressions of sheer terror and the same precise, clean, and lethal wounds.

And then, an unsettling thought began to take shape in his mind:

"What if this isn't the work of a human?"

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The fourth day marked a turning point. He decided to install cameras in every area where murders had been reported. There was a pattern to the locations, and he reinforced the entire area with state-of-the-art surveillance equipment, hoping to catch the culprit.

But on the fifth day, everything changed.

More bodies appeared, this time in a completely different part of Gotham. The murders seemed to mock his efforts, as if the killer were anticipating his every move.

"It's like they can read me," he thought, his determination hardening. This was no longer just another case. It had become personal.

The next day, he doubled down. He launched a more ambitious plan: deploying cameras throughout the entire city. There would be no blind spots. He presented the initiative to the public as a "citizen safety project" spearheaded by philanthropist Bruce Wayne.

The response was almost unanimous. No one opposed it. Even the criminals accepted it without complaint. Fear had accomplished the unthinkable: it had united Gotham, if only for a fleeting moment.

The city's mafias, paralyzed by terror, temporarily halted their operations. Even their most loyal enforcers refused to step outside. Drug deals, extortion schemes, and robberies came to a grinding halt. No one was willing to take the risk.

At first, the citizens were relieved. But the illusion of safety didn't last long.

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During the first few days, the victims had all been criminals: mobsters, traffickers, abusers, and killers. But on the sixth day, everything changed.

Civilians started dying.

Police officers, everyday workers, even children… the killer no longer discriminated. Gotham—a city accustomed to chaos—descended into a new level of paranoia.

"This isn't something I can ignore," Batman thought as he read through the reports of the new murders. Each case was a reminder of his failure to stop the culprit.

Rumors spread like wildfire. Some spoke of a new meta-human who took pleasure in slaughter. Others, more superstitious, whispered tales of a demon that had come to claim the city.

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By the seventh day, the killings spared no one: mobsters, civilians, and law enforcement alike. The chaos was absolute.

Batman decided it was time to address the city. As Bruce Wayne, he held a press conference, announcing the installation of even more surveillance cameras across Gotham. The promise of constant vigilance offered a faint glimmer of hope, though he knew it would only pacify the population temporarily.

"This has to work," he thought, as he reviewed the data being collected.

Meanwhile, the city's criminal organizations declared a truce. They armed themselves to the teeth and barricaded themselves in their strongholds, betting on strength in numbers to protect themselves. But even that plan was doomed to fail.

This enemy wasn't human, and not even hundreds of bullets could stop it.

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The night of the eighth day arrived, bringing with it a tense silence that blanketed Gotham.

Batman suited up, his suit fitting perfectly, every tool in his belt double-checked. On the Batcomputer, Alfred monitored the thousands of cameras scattered across the city, watching for any unusual movement.

The streets were still alive, but something felt different. Most people were still out, their responsibilities keeping them away from the safety of their homes. But there was no laughter, no lively conversations. Only tense faces and nervous glances.

It was as if the entire city was holding its breath, waiting for something.

And Batman knew he had to be ready when that "something" arrived.

He was at his limit too. He couldn't allow this wave of murders to continue in his city. Only the Joker had ever caused a comparable level of disruption in the past, and that was only when he managed to escape from Arkham. But this situation had lasted more than a day. It was different.

He could feel it, even if he couldn't explain it. This wasn't like when the Joker was on the loose. It was worse. A dark, relentless, and unknown shadow loomed over Gotham, and though he hated to admit it, there was something about this situation that sent chills down his spine.

This wasn't a human enemy.

—"Sir, I've detected movement a few blocks from your location," Alfred said urgently through the communicator.

—"I'm on my way. Anything I should know?" Batman asked, quickening his pace as he leapt between the rooftops.

—"Yes, sir. The location appears to be an Italian mob base. There are reports of gunfire and screams. The police have already received multiple calls about the situation."

—"Understood," Batman responded, his voice steady as he picked up speed.

The aerial route he followed, leaping between buildings, allowed him to move faster than any vehicle navigating Gotham's congested streets. He couldn't risk letting the killer escape again.

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When Batman landed silently on the rooftop of the building, the first thing he heard was a bloodcurdling scream coming from inside:

—"No, no! Stay back, monster, demon—!"

The voice was abruptly cut off, snuffed out like a candle in the wind.

Batman didn't hesitate. He sprinted to the nearest window and dove through it with a perfectly calculated leap, the glass shattering around him with a sharp crack. His cape flared out behind him, slowing his descent as he landed on the floor.

The first thing he saw as he stood upright was a head rolling to a stop just a few feet from his boots. Ahead of him, the decapitated body of a man collapsed heavily to the ground, lying in a pool of still-warm blood.

And there it was.

The killer.

Like a living shadow, the creature seemed to meld with the darkness of the hallway, save for the faint metallic glint of the blades protruding from its forearms. Fresh blood dripped from them, landing on the floor with hollow splashes.

Batman stood still for a moment, his mind rapidly analyzing his opponent. He had seen it all: deformed mutants, androids, clones, even gods with unimaginable powers. But this…

This was different.

It was physically less imposing than many of his past enemies, but there was something about its presence—its movements—that exuded an aura of pure, unrelenting danger.

Then he noticed: the killer had no legs. From the waist down, there was only swirling black smoke, writhing as if alive, rising from the ground and seeming to devour the light around it.

"This is not human," Batman thought, confirming what he had begun to suspect days ago.

—"A prey that comes willingly to the slaughterhouse," the creature said, its voice deep and distorted, as though it emanated from the depths of an abyss. Its words echoed through the hallway, dripping with mockery and hunger.

—"This will be quite fun," it added, raising its blades, still slick with blood, as it floated a step closer to him.

Before Batman could react, the creature moved.

A lightning-fast attack, nearly imperceptible. The blades slashed toward him, but his instincts and years of training saved him. He moved reflexively, barely dodging by a fraction of an inch. The blade sliced so close that he could feel the air it displaced brushing against his arm.

A second slower, and he would have lost the limb.

Batman quickly retreated, raising his arms into a defensive stance, his mind racing to analyze his enemy's movements.

—"Oh, this is interesting," the creature said, its tone laced with a dark and twisted delight. It paused for a moment, observing him more intently, its glowing white eyes gleaming beneath the helmet that obscured its face.

—"It's always better when they fight back," it continued, tilting its head slightly to one side as if studying him.

—"The fear at the end… tastes so much sweeter."

Without warning, the creature lunged again, moving like a predator in the dead of night. Its speed was terrifying, each strike of its blades targeting the most vulnerable gaps in Batman's defenses.

"This is going to be harder than I thought," Batman realized as he dodged the next attack, his movements precise and calculated.

The fight had only just begun, but he already knew he was facing something far beyond anything he had ever encountered before.