Ethan found some things.
First of all, he had a bank account.
Not a lot, but it wasn't empty either. A few thousand dollars. Whoever he was before—if he was anyone,the god said he didn't exist before so...—had managed to secure some level of survival. The house he woke up in? That place also had a few thousand dollars hidden under the floorboards, a stash only a paranoid or prepared man would make. He didn't question how he found it. He just… did. Instinct, maybe. A faint memory.
Probably The God of Fictions doing.
With that money, he did what any man would do when all he owned was a ragged white t-shirt and some plain pants that looked like they'd been stolen from a hospital ward.
He bought clothes.
Nothing flashy. A dark-blue jacket that clung comfortably to his broad shoulders. Black jeans with reinforced stitching. Boots heavy enough to crush bones. And gloves. Thin, tight, fingerless gloves that felt like second skin.
Then he bought food. Not gourmet. Just things that lasted. Bread. Eggs. Canned soup. Water. An energy drink here and there. Enough to keep moving. To stay alive. He ate fast. Almost too fast. He didn't realize how hungry he was until the first loaf of bread was gone in two bites.
Then… came the testing.
Power Limitations — So Far
Max lifting capacity: close to 1 ton. He tested it by stacking some of the broken steel beams he found lying around.
Attack capacity: 14,000 psi. He tested it on a nearby brick wall. He made a big hole in it.
Max speed: 60-70 mph. Not quite speedster level, but fast enough to blur past normal eyes. Fast enough to dodge bullets before they fire if he focused and maybe even dodge after they fire using his special sense.
Superhuman Healing: Still vague. He hadn't tried losing an arm yet—and he wasn't exactly in a hurry to experiment. But deep cuts stitched themselves in minutes. Bruised bones healed overnight. He figured that if he ever lost something… important… it might grow back. Eventually. Time was the only question.
Special Sense: Unexplored.
Weapon Summon: He'd only summoned two so far. But it was more than enough. He could summon his armour and his sword and they seemed to be military grade.
The sword appeared at his side like smoke coalescing into steel. It stood nearly as tall as him, and far too thick to be wielded by an ordinary man. Fifty pounds of black, gleaming metal. Heavy, brutal, elegant. It wasn't beautiful—but it was honest.
He spun it with ease, rotating the hilt around his fingers like it was a toy baton.
"It's heavier than what I made," he muttered, brows furrowed. The design… it wasn't entirely his. He'd imagined it, sure. But the blade felt refined beyond his imagination. Like someone—or something—was upgrading his thoughts.
He approached a steel beam. As he walked, the black armor formed around him in segments, beginning with his feet and crawling up his limbs piece by piece like paper. Each plate clicked into place, glowing faintly with red pulses. It felt like a second skin. Like power made manifest.
By the time he reached the steel beam, his transformation was complete.
He raised the sword.
Brought it down.
BOOM.
The sound echoed like a gunshot. The steel beam fell in half, a clean slice from top to bottom. Not melted. Not shattered. Just… severed.
"Woah," he exhaled, eyes wide with childlike wonder.
He tried to summon another weapon. Something else from his "Dead Knight" design—maybe the gauntlets. Or the scythe. Or even the spear.
"Figures," he muttered and let the armor melt away, returning to the blue jacket and white tee beneath.
He wandered around the warehouse, tossing an old, rusted can into the air. When it reached hjgh above, he jumped, twisted, and bicycle-kicked it with casual grace.
The can blasted through the warehouse wall, leaving yet another hole in the already broken structure.
"Goal," he said with a grin.
He walked out, munching on a half-loaf of bread, crumbs falling from his lips. The sun was setting, painting Gotham in amber and crimson.
The city was alive. Too alive. Gotham didn't sleep—it prowled.
He passed through the crowds, unseen, unnoticed. Just another face in the crowd. The people here didn't make eye contact unless they wanted something. Which suited him just fine. His apartment wasn't far. He made it home, threw himself onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
"Crazy day… crazier night," he mumbled, already halfway asleep.
Night-
Gotham transformed when the sun dipped below the horizon. The lights didn't just turn on—they bled through the darkness like wounds.
This was the time when predators came out.
When Batman moved.
When the city whispered its darkest secrets.
Ethan rose, silent and swift. His body didn't ache anymore. Not even a little. He headed to the roof. There, with a breath, the armor formed around him again—this time quicker, smoother, more natural. It almost welcomed him.
Dead Knight was ready.
He moved.
Bounding from rooftop to rooftop, his body barely made a sound. His enhanced agility let him traverse the city like a phantom. He didn't just run—he flowed.
Then he heard it.
A scream. High-pitched. Female. A child's sob followed.
Ethan dropped to a fire escape, then to the alleyway below in seconds.
A man—blood-stained knife in hand—was shouting. The child and woman huddled behind a bruised man leaning against a wall, clearly trying to protect them. The mugger yelled again, demanding their valuables, waving the knife with erratic desperation.
Then he froze.
A hand had landed on his shoulder.
An armored hand.
The mugger turned—and screamed.
Standing behind him was Dead Knight, red eyes glowing like embers, armor humming faintly.
"What is your name?" Ethan asked, voice modulated by the armor's built-in synthesizer. Cold. Mechanical. Inhuman.
"F-fucking freak!!" the man shouted and turned to run.
Ethan let him.
For two steps.
Then he leapt, landing a crushing heel on the man's back. The mugger collapsed, howling in pain.
"You should still be able to walk. Go to the nearest hospital. NOW." Dead Knight ordered.
The man groaned and limped away, sobbing.
The family was stunned. The woman tried to speak—to thank him—but he was already gone.
He made another lap around the block. Beat up two more thugs trying to rob a bar. Broke a car window to rescue a girl being dragged inside and vanished before the cops came.
He wasn't just playing hero.
He was a hero now.
The rooftops gave him a view of Gotham most would never see. The city was both beautiful and tragic. Towers of shining glass beside collapsing brick.
'The difference an inequality is crazy.' he commented in his mind.
That's when he felt it.
A tingle at the base of his neck. A strange pull.
Then—the scent of gunpowder.
CRACK!
A bullet screamed past his face, grazing his cheekplate.
He turned.
A teenager. Shaking. Holding a pistol with both hands. Wide eyes. Terrified.
Ethan walked forward. Slow. Purposeful. The boy froze.
Ethan reached out. Took the gun.
And crushed it.
Metal snapped like dry twigs.
"This…" he said, pointing a finger at the boy's gun. "Does holding it make you feel powerful, boy?"
The teen didn't answer. His lip trembled.
"So much power in your hands. You feel like you rule the world, right? Like nothing can touch you."
"P-please… I didn't have a choice! My boss—he made me do it! He heard thay someone bruised up his goon and...and...if I shot you he would pay of my loans!"
"Name."
"Matthew… Matthew Stafford!"
Ethan nodded.
"Good," he said. Then he knocked the kid out with a precise chop to the neck.
The boy crumpled.
Ethan lifted him gently and placed him beside a dumpster—hidden, but safe.
Then he stood.
The armor pulsed brighter.
"Time for cleanup," he said, voice like thunder in the quiet alley.
The first hunt had just begun.