"Same as before, just a little shorter?"
Aunt Li clicked on the electric hair clipper with a practiced motion, the hum filling the modest barbershop.
"Yeah," Chu Cheng nodded, eyes half-lidded. "Just trim it. Not too much."
Aunt Li chuckled as she began, the buzzing clipper grazing his scalp. "A nice, clean cut. Honest-looking. Girls love that kind of style now."
"Actually..." Chu Cheng hesitated, then muttered, "I was thinking of trying something new this time."
"Oh? That's what I like to hear!" Aunt Li brightened. "A college man should have his own personality! Girls go crazy for that sharp, mysterious look. Why not try something a little more... dark and brooding?"
Chu Cheng didn't respond, but in his mind, he mused: If a haircut could define me, then Gotham wouldn't need a Batman. Looks, in the end, had little to do with charisma. Though he supposed the same logic applied to both genders. Appearance, not hairstyle, was the true edge in modern society.
People talked about having a 'type'—from domineering Yujie to innocent Loli—but in reality, aesthetics transcended archetypes. Like Gotham's elite who claimed virtue yet chased chaos behind closed doors, people want beauty, no matter what mask it wears.
Chu Cheng had long accepted his looks: just enough to draw attention, often from the kind of admirers he didn't ask for. He swore he had the kind of face middle-aged women adored—Zhang Shao meets faded idol—like a wholesome boy from an older era. He'd only lived in this community for a year, but somehow, every aunt within ten blocks knew his name.
Another aunt sitting nearby couldn't resist chiming in. "Stop trying to pawn your niece off, Li! Xiao Chu is a serious student. He's not desperate for your matchmaking."
Aunt Li bristled. "What's wrong with my Juanjuan? She's bright, polite—and maybe one day she'll get into a good university too."
Soon the two older women were arguing, voices escalating, heat rising in the cramped room like a dirty alley in summer Gotham.
Granny Wang, ever opportunistic, leaned in through the noise, sliding over a photo on her phone. "Xiao Chu, remember that girl I mentioned last week? Look, isn't she lovely? How about adding her on WeChat?"
Chu Cheng gave the screen a casual glance. Big eyes, porcelain skin, V-sign by her cheek—like every online profile carefully curated for affection.
But what caught his eye wasn't the girl.
It was the reflection in the mirrored glass behind her.
Bent metal railings, warped like someone had gripped them inhumanly hard—bent by pressure no ordinary person could apply.
Or maybe a signal. A riddle. A warning.
He pointed. "Who's that in the mirror, Granny?"
The old woman squinted at the warped image. In the reflection, the girl didn't weigh 100 pounds—she looked twice that. Something was off. Granny Wang frowned, visibly confused.
"..."
Chu Cheng finished his haircut amidst farewells and playful protests from the aunt squad. He left the shop with the vague feeling he was being watched—not by someone, but by something. A gaze without eyes. The kind of sensation Bruce Wayne had described in interviews as always feeling the city breathe down your neck.
Back at his apartment, the world returned to silence.
His uncle had left him the place when college started—conveniently close to campus, rent-free, no roommates. His classmates envied him, picturing wild parties, endless nights with girls sprawled across leather sofas.
They were wrong.
For Chu Cheng, distraction was the enemy. Women, parties, nightlife—they all pulled you away from the mission.
A great man once said: "Criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot." That man wore a cowl and hunted in alleys. Chu Cheng didn't wear a cape, but he too had a purpose. His missions didn't involve fists or fear—but pixels and frame-perfect clearances.
In the world of solo gaming, he was already a legend. A ghost in the machine. Fans on Station G knew him as the 'grandma gamer'—an ironic tag he wore with pride. Zero-damage clears, perfectly edited walkthroughs. No gimmicks. No whining. Only results.
He placed his loyalty in precision and perseverance.
Ding!
A familiar chime echoed across the apartment—sharp, clean, and oddly mechanical. It made his heart jolt. Could it be?
Had the long-awaited cheat system finally arrived?
Chu Cheng wasn't born on Earth Pole Star. He was a drifter from another dimension. The D-Ball Earth—where everything was the same but different. He'd been here a month, occupying a version of himself whose life ran eerily parallel to his own.
But Earth Pole Star wasn't D-Ball Earth. Here, humans ruled—but without national borders. Civilization had evolved along another line, free of flags and nations, governed by regions and mega-cities. Like Gotham: broken, sprawling, and oddly unified.
Everything else was similar enough to lull him into comfort.
Until now.
He'd seen enough webnovels to know: when you hear a "ding" inside your mind, it's never just a notification. It's destiny calling collect.
But just as he was about to cry out "System Dad!" in joy, he realized the sound wasn't internal. It had come from the dusty desktop on his bedroom desk—the same PC he'd left running overnight.
Like a bat signal that turned out to be just a spotlight.
Maybe it was malware? Or worse, one of those suspicious files he downloaded while... researching certain video formats.
He moved the mouse. The screen blinked to life.
And then he saw it: a new icon had appeared on the desktop.
"Avengers vs Justice League: A New Age."
Chu Cheng: !
He recognized that title instantly. It was the last game he bought on Earth before that unfortunate meeting with a garbage truck. It had been preloaded, downloading in the background, when life abruptly hit "Game Over."
Now it sat here. Installed. On a machine from a world that had never heard of Marvel. Or DC.
This Earth Pole Star had no Batman, no Superman, no Arkham, no Wayne Enterprises. Which meant this game shouldn't exist.
So how did it get here?
Was this some higher form of customer service? Had Steam tracked him across dimensions to fulfill his purchase?
Was G Fat secretly Lucius Fox?
Heart pounding, Chu Cheng double-clicked.
In fiction, travelers often brought strange artifacts with them—items that defied logic and tipped fate. A game like this, from a world that didn't know heroes, could only mean one thing:
It was a tool. A mask. A utility belt.
And like Bruce Wayne opening the Batcave for the first time, Chu Cheng was about to step into something larger than himself.
But first, he had to press "Start."