The Collapse of the Throne

Gotham's sky brightened.

The pale light of dawn struggled to pierce the heavy, stagnant clouds hanging over the city like slabs of lead, casting a cold, lifeless gleam across the glass facades of its skyscrapers. This was not the dawn of hope. It was more like the final curtain falling on a long and bloody drama.

Overnight, everything had changed.

Bane, the tyrant who had once ruled Gotham like a conqueror, saw his carefully built, seemingly impregnable criminal empire crumble into dust within mere hours, like a sandcastle swept away by a tidal wave.

His once-arrogant "generals"—Boris the Butcher, Marconi the Mouthpiece, Vulcan, Electrocutioner... these vicious figures whose names could silence crying children in the underworld—had either died in bizarre, unsettling, even darkly comical "accidents," leaving no bodies behind, or been utterly destroyed on a psychological level by that bat returned from hell, becoming new residents of Arkham Asylum who could do nothing but drool and mutter to themselves. Like the innocent people they had harmed, their names would soon be forgotten by this indifferent city.

Bane—the man who had once stood before media cameras around the world and broken Batman's spine with his own hands in the posture of a victor—had now become truly alone.

A king abandoned by the entire world.

He sat alone in the extravagantly luxurious executive office at the top of Wayne Tower, which had once belonged to Bruce Wayne. Beyond the massive bulletproof floor-to-ceiling windows lay the entirety of Gotham City. But now, the steel jungle he had sworn to conquer was filled with endless, biting irony in his eyes.

The enormous 8K display on the office wall was broadcasting the local morning news. Commissioner Gordon, the old cop Bane had always looked down upon, stood outside GCPD headquarters, surrounded by countless camera flashes and microphones. His wrinkled face bore the exhaustion of a sleepless night, yet his eyes shone with irrepressible exhilaration at having survived the disaster.

"...Yes, I can assure every citizen," Gordon said to the cameras, his voice hoarse but firm, "that through the heroic efforts of all GCPD officers, as well as the selfless assistance of certain... certain 'special consultants' whose names we cannot disclose, the citywide crisis caused by the criminal Bane has largely been resolved. Order in Gotham is returning at an unprecedented pace..."

Bane stared fixedly at Gordon's aged face on the screen. Veins bulged from arms thicker than an ordinary man's thighs, twisted like knotted tree roots.

Crack—!

The expensive crystal wineglass in his hand, along with the half glass of 1982 Lafite inside it, was crushed into countless tiny fragments. Sharp shards of glass buried themselves deep in his callused palm. Crimson blood slowly dripped through his fingers, spreading into a glaring, ominous flower across the million-dollar carpet handwoven by Persian artisans.

Yet he felt no pain at all.

Because a blaze called "humiliation," a thousand times more intense than physical pain, was roaring in his chest, nearly burning away what remained of his sanity.

This was not the ending he wanted! Absolutely not!

Bane had struggled to survive from birth in the darkest prison in the world. He had defeated countless opponents stronger and more cunning than himself, clawing his way out of that human hell step by step through his own intelligence and strength! He had not come to Gotham to play some childish game of house!

What he wanted was conquest! Absolute, indisputable victory! He wanted Batman, that totem hailed as Gotham's guardian, kneeling at his feet like a dog with a broken spine and personally admitting defeat! He wanted this proud, fallen city to worship him as its new sovereign in the grip of ultimate terror and shout his name!

Not this!

He had not even caught a glimpse of Batman!

His opponent was like a god high above him, casually moving pieces across the board in ways Bane could neither comprehend nor resist. Like the most brilliant system administrator, he had silently erased Bane and his entire empire from Gotham City's vast "map," pixel by pixel... completely.

Such utter disregard! Such overwhelming, dimensional suppression that did not even deign to confront him directly!

It was the ultimate humiliation, deeper and more bone-chilling than any defeat in a direct battle!

"Aaaaaargh—!!!"

His rage erupted like a volcano, finally smashing through the iron-hard dam of his reason.

Bane spun around and charged toward the building's emergency broadcast control console in the corner of the office like an enraged bull. He shoved aside the broadcaster, who had gone pale and collapsed to the floor, then snatched the microphone from his hand.

He brought his mouth close to the microphone, turning every ounce of rage, unwillingness, humiliation, and madness in his chest into a deafening roar.

His beastlike howl, twisted by boundless fury, was amplified hundreds of times through the dozens of massive loudspeakers atop Wayne Tower, rolling through every corner of Gotham City like thunder! From the bustling financial district to the ruined Crime Alley, everyone heard this final battle cry of the defeated!

"Bat—man—!!! I know you can hear me!!!"

"I'm sick of your dirty little tricks! Sick of those bootlicking mongrels of yours, hiding in the gutters and wagging their tails!!"

"Now! Right—here! At the top of Wayne Tower! I—am—waiting—for—you!!"

"No schemes! No lackeys! No ridiculous riddles or disgusting gas!"

"Only—you! And—me!"

"Come on!!! Step out like a real man! Let us prove, in the most primal, purest way possible, to this city and to the entire world! Who is its true master!!!"

This was his final roar. It was also his final declaration of war, staking every last shred of dignity he possessed as a warrior and a conqueror. He would reclaim his glory—already collapsed and shattered across the ground—with the purest kind of violent confrontation, fist against flesh.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, deep underground.

The Batcave was silent. Only the drip of cold groundwater striking stone and the faint hum of the supercomputer's fans could be heard.

Bruce sat calmly before the main console. On the enormous holographic display, Bane's one-man performance atop Wayne Tower, like a trapped beast making its final struggle, was playing in real time.

As he watched the man on the screen, his face twisted by extreme rage, Bruce's eyes did not waver in the slightest. Beneath his ghostly blue electronic lenses lay an abyssal darkness deeper than the cave itself.

To him, this was merely the final act of a script that had long been written. An ending that had already been decided. The helpless fury of a loser in his final moments.

Tap, tap, tap...

Steady footsteps sounded behind him.

Alfred, the ever-loyal old butler, approached at an unhurried pace, carrying the Arkham Knight mask, sharp with technological menace and cold killing intent. A faint, almost imperceptible concern belonging to an elder rested on his face.

"He is already a beast driven into a corner by the hunter, with nowhere left to run, Master Bruce," Alfred said softly. His voice carried a slight echo through the vast cavern.

Bruce slowly rose from his chair, turned, and took the cold mask from the old butler's hands.

The hard alloy, the powerful lines, the familiar metallic feel... all of it made him feel incomparably secure and calm.

"A beast only bares its sharpest fangs when it is cornered, Alfred."

Slowly, he placed the mask representing rebirth and vengeance over his head.

Click—

The electronic components inside the mask locked precisely into the connectors at the neck of his suit. The crisp sound was like a prelude to the coming slaughter.

The two ghostly blue electronic lenses on the mask lit up sharply.

Filtered through the mask's built-in voice modulator, his voice became deep and hoarse, filled with an inhuman metallic quality and utterly devoid of human emotion.

"But that is the moment hunters like best."