บท 68: You Can't See Me
Charlie's guess was spot on—the figure lurking by the lake was indeed an infected individual, someone whose infection had warped their abilities far beyond the norm.
The infected man maintained a cautious distance, gripping a butcher's ax that shimmered with a faint, almost imperceptible gleam as it, too, remained cloaked in invisibility. He was patient, calculating, waiting for the perfect moment to strike—a flaw in Batman's defense that would allow him to deliver a fatal blow.
As the infected man prepared to creep closer, intent on exploiting any lapse in Batman's vigilance, he suddenly saw Batman drop a smoke bomb at his feet. The thick cloud of smoke billowed out rapidly, swirling around Batman and concealing him entirely from view.
The infected man hesitated, his mind racing. Why would Batman resort to such a tactic? The smoke seemed designed not just to obscure vision but also to interfere with his attack. After all, even if his body was invisible, the smoke would react to his movements—swirling, shifting, giving away his position. Batman could then use those subtle disturbances to pinpoint where the attack might come from.
At least, that's what Batman must have thought.
A sly grin spread across the infected man's face, hidden by the shroud of his invisibility.
His ability wasn't mere optical camouflage, like that of a chameleon. No, his power was far more insidious—"cognitive disruption." He could manipulate the perception of those around him, implanting the belief that "I don't exist" directly into their minds. It was a mental hijacking, one that convinced his enemies that he was simply not there, erasing him from their awareness entirely.
That's why Batman's detective mode had failed to detect him. It wasn't a matter of hiding from sight; he was still there, moving through the environment, but his opponents couldn't process his presence. Their minds were fooled into believing he wasn't part of the picture.
So the smoke wouldn't help Batman track his movements. The infected man was certain of this.
But then, he felt a sudden, icy chill run down his spine—an instinctual warning that something was very wrong. He spun around, and to his shock, he saw a dark red figure closing in on him with eerie silence, like a specter emerging from the shadows.
It was Daredevil.
The infected man didn't recognize the red-clad figure, but the suddenness of his appearance was enough to startle him. He had only a split second to react, raising his arm in a defensive motion, but Daredevil's alloy baton was faster, slamming into his arm with brutal force and sending him reeling backward.
The infected man's thoughts raced, his mind struggling to make sense of what had just happened.
Who was this guy? Was he Batman's ally?
But more importantly, how could he see him?
Invisibility was the infected man's ace in the hole, his trump card in any encounter. His ability didn't just hide him from sight; it made him undetectable by any conventional means, even the most advanced technology. His steps were silent, his movements ghostly—he could slip through the tightest security nets without leaving a trace.
He had perfected his technique, becoming more than just a shadow—he was a phantom, slipping in and out of the world unnoticed. The thought that someone could actually see him, track him, was unthinkable.
The infected man quickly retreated, putting distance between himself and Daredevil. He stopped moving, trying to become as still as possible, like a statue carved from the night itself.
Daredevil mirrored his stillness, standing motionless as if frozen in place.
Was it just a coincidence? Had Daredevil simply lashed out at a perceived threat, unaware of what he had actually struck?
The infected man decided to test this theory. He cautiously took two slow steps to the side, his movements so delicate that they barely disturbed the air around him.
Daredevil didn't react. He remained perfectly still, showing no signs of having detected the infected man's movement.
Emboldened, the infected man circled behind Daredevil. He moved with the grace and silence of a predator stalking its prey, his eyes fixed on the red-clad figure's back. Daredevil remained unmoving, seemingly unaware of the danger closing in on him.
The infected man saw his chance. He crept forward, his steps light as a feather, and raised his ax high, the blade gleaming in the faint moonlight filtering through the trees. The ax hovered above Daredevil's head, poised for a killing blow.
With a sudden, ferocious burst of speed, the infected man brought the ax down with all his might, aiming to cleave Daredevil's skull in two.
But in that crucial instant, Daredevil twisted to the side, the ax slicing through empty air where his head had been a fraction of a second before. The infected man's eyes widened in disbelief as his deadly strike missed its mark.
Before he could recover, Daredevil's baton was in motion again, the alloy rod striking with pinpoint precision, smashing into the infected man's face. The force of the blow rattled his brain, sending shockwaves through his skull. His thoughts became a jumbled mess as he staggered back, desperate to regain his footing.
How could this be happening? How could Daredevil possibly know where he was?
The infected man's mind was reeling. His invisibility was flawless—he had tested it under every condition, against every conceivable threat. No visual sensors, no matter how advanced, had ever been able to detect him. He was certain of his ability, certain that no one could see him when he didn't want to be seen.
Yet Daredevil had dodged his attack with the kind of precision that suggested he could see everything.
But that didn't make sense. Just moments before, Daredevil had his back turned, yet he had reacted as if he had eyes in the back of his head.
The infected man quickly formulated a new theory. It wasn't sight that Daredevil was using—it had to be sound.
Yes, that was it. This red-clad figure must have incredibly sharp hearing, so acute that he could pinpoint the infected man's location by the slightest noise.
But sound was something the infected man could manage.
As an expert in stealth, the infected man had mastered the art of moving without sound. His infected state had given him not only the ability to hide but also the power to eliminate noise altogether. By moving slowly enough, he could become nearly silent, his steps as quiet as a whisper on the wind.
Moreover, he could control his body in ways that ordinary humans couldn't. He could stop his breathing entirely, and even more astonishingly, he could control his heartbeat to the point of stopping it completely. This level of control was impossible for a normal person, but for someone whose infection level exceeded 100%, the boundaries of life and death had become blurred. His body was no longer bound by the same rules.
Daredevil remained stationary, his stance unchanged.
The infected man began his approach once more, but this time he moved with the utmost caution. His steps were slow, deliberate, and so light that they seemed to blend with the gentle breeze coming off the lake. He moved like a ghost, his presence barely more than a ripple in the air.
He circled behind Daredevil again, taking care to avoid making the slightest sound. This time, he raised the ax with painstaking care, his movements so gradual that the weapon seemed to float above Daredevil's head.
But as soon as he committed to the strike, accelerating the ax to deliver the killing blow, Daredevil moved. With a fluid motion, Daredevil sidestepped the strike, the ax grazing his shoulder but failing to connect.
The infected man's mind reeled in shock. How could this be happening?
He had taken every precaution. He had eliminated every sound, stilled his breath, stopped his heartbeat—yet Daredevil had evaded the attack as if he could see it coming.
Daredevil's response was swift and brutal. His baton flashed in the moonlight as it came down hard on the infected man's shoulder blade, shattering bone and rendering his left arm useless. But there was no time to register pain—his survival instincts kicked in, and he swung the ax wildly with his right hand, desperate to land a hit.
But Daredevil was quicker, nimbly dodging the wild swing. With a quick, precise strike, he drove his baton into the infected man's wrist, the blow nearly shattering the bones and forcing him to drop the ax. The weapon clattered to the ground with a heavy thud.
The infected man's panic escalated as he stared at Daredevil, his thoughts a frantic jumble.
No, it wasn't just hearing.
If Daredevil could only hear his general position, there was no way he could dodge the ax with such precision, let alone strike with such accuracy, targeting joints and bones with pinpoint precision.
This guy... could actually see him!
The realization hit him like a ton of bricks.
For the infected man, this revelation was far more terrifying than any other superpower Daredevil might have displayed. His ability to remain unseen, undetected—it was supposed to be foolproof. And yet, here was someone who could see through it all.
Charlie, who was controlling Daredevil, had no idea what was going through the infected man's mind. But if he did, he would have probably burst out laughing.
The idea that Daredevil could see was absurd.
In reality, Daredevil couldn't see anything—not the infected man, not even his own surroundings. His world was one of darkness, a consequence of the chemicals that had blinded him.
But... But, despite losing his sight, Daredevil's other senses had evolved to extraordinary levels. The chemicals that robbed him of his vision had simultaneously heightened his remaining senses to superhuman levels. Over the years, Daredevil had honed these abilities through rigorous training, pushing his body and mind to their absolute limits. His hearing was so acute that he could detect the faintest whisper from across a room, his sense of smell so sharp that he could identify people by their scent alone, and his touch so sensitive that he could read the pages of a book by feeling the ink on the paper.
But these enhanced senses were just the beginning. Daredevil's true power lay in his ability to "see" the world through a kind of radar sense. This unique ability allowed him to perceive his surroundings in a way that was far more detailed and precise than ordinary vision. By emitting and interpreting subtle echoes of sound, Daredevil could construct a detailed 3D map of everything around him. This radar sense was so finely tuned that it could detect the minutest of details, from the flutter of a moth's wings to the pattern of a person's heartbeat.
Unlike Batman's detective mode, which relied on advanced technology to analyze and interpret sensory data, Daredevil's radar sense was entirely natural—a result of his brain adapting to his blindness in a way that transcended human limitations. This sense gave him a complete awareness of his environment, allowing him to detect anything and everything within its range. It wasn't just about hearing; it was about perceiving the world in a way that no one else could, making invisibility and stealth utterly meaningless against him.
But here's the twist—while Daredevil could perceive everything around him with incredible clarity, the one person who could truly "see" was Charlie, the one controlling him.
As Daredevil's radar sense picked up the presence of the infected man, it was translated into vivid 3D models on Charlie's screen. The entire environment, including the invisible figure, was rendered in sharp detail, allowing Charlie to track the infected man's every move as if he were out in the open. Charlie could see the infected man's movements, his attempts at stealth, and his increasingly desperate efforts to outmaneuver Daredevil. Every nuance of the infected man's behavior was laid bare before Charlie, who could then direct Daredevil to react with surgical precision.
The infected man, now weaponless and battered, began to retreat, his panic rising with every step. He realized with growing dread that Daredevil had been able to see him the entire time—he was never truly hidden. And worse, Daredevil had used his own confidence against him, pretending not to notice, luring him into a false sense of security before striking with devastating force.
This realization was like a knife to the infected man's gut. The entire time he thought he had the upper hand, that he was the predator stalking his prey, but in reality, he had been the one hunted. The thought that Daredevil had been able to see through his abilities, through his best-laid plans, was more terrifying than any physical attack.
Seeing the infected man's retreat, Daredevil didn't hesitate. He pursued relentlessly, his movements fluid and unstoppable. There was no mercy in his approach—this was a fight, and he intended to end it.
The infected man's mind raced, his thoughts a chaotic blur. He had been so sure of his victory, so confident in his abilities. Now, that confidence was shattered. He tried to think of a way out, some strategy that might turn the tide in his favor, but nothing came. He was outmatched, outclassed, and he knew it.
As Daredevil closed in, the infected man made a final, desperate attempt to escape. He gathered what little strength he had left and lunged towards the treeline, hoping to lose Daredevil in the dense foliage.
But Daredevil was faster. He moved with the grace and speed of a predator, his radar sense locking onto the infected man's every move. As the infected man reached the edge of the trees, Daredevil struck. He swung his baton with lethal precision, the blow connecting with the infected man's knee. The impact shattered the joint, sending the man crashing to the ground with a cry of pain.
The infected man hit the ground hard, his body wracked with pain. He tried to crawl away, but his body wouldn't respond. His strength was gone, his will broken. He had nothing left.
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