On the edge of Gotham’s skyline, where fog clung like desperate fingers to the darkened glass, Batman moved unseen. He was a wraith in the night, silent as a secret whispered on the wind. Below him, the city seethed—an entity of its own, one that fed off shadows and broken dreams, where the villainous thrived and the desperate struggled.

But tonight was different. Tonight, something new had appeared in Gotham.

Batman felt it the way a predator senses when the hunt has turned. A chill in the air, a subtle shift in the way his shadow stretched over the ground. He wasn’t alone. He hadn’t been since dusk fell, and he could feel the itch of watchful eyes on the back of his neck.

“Ah, the great Detective,” a voice purred from nowhere and everywhere. A soft, eerie sound, like metal scraping metal, echoing from the alleyways below. “I was beginning to wonder if the stories were true.”

“Show yourself,” Batman growled, his voice low and lethal, the night amplifying his menace.

A shape appeared, sliding into the light as if stepping from some other reality. It was a man cloaked in deep, shimmering robes, the fabric woven from threads that seemed to pull the light itself inward. His face was concealed by a mask that shimmered like starlight, and his eyes glowed a haunting blue.

The stranger tilted his head, amusement gleaming in those azure eyes. “Ah, the Night Crusader speaks. I expected more questions.”

Batman narrowed his gaze, every muscle coiled. “You don’t belong here. What are you?”

“I?” The man’s lips quirked in a knowing smile. “I am The Chronicler. I come from a world far from yours. A world where men wield powers beyond your imagining, where kingdoms rise and fall on the whisper of oaths and honor.”

Batman felt the familiar twinge of skepticism, but he stayed silent. Years of dealing with the supernatural, with the arcane and the absurd, had taught him to listen. For now.

“I have come to your world, drawn by the… potency of its shadows,” The Chronicler continued. “Here, I find mysteries that even I do not yet understand.”

Batman tightened his grip on his utility belt. “If you’re here to cause harm, I’ll stop you.”

The Chronicler laughed, a hollow sound that resonated in Batman’s bones. “Bold words for a man without any of the Investiture I wield.” He raised a hand, and a luminous thread appeared, twisting in the air between them. It glimmered, a glowing line of light and energy. “Do you see this? This is your story. Threads of fate woven into the tapestry of reality. I could alter it with a touch, reshape your very existence.”

The Chronicler leaned closer. “But I don’t think that’s necessary, not yet. You see, Batman, I am here because you are... fascinating. A man without powers who still commands the night. I wonder: how much of that power is the man and how much is the mask?”

“You’re testing your limits,” Batman replied, his voice a dangerous murmur. “But you won’t find anything but steel here.”

The Chronicler’s gaze grew sharper, a strange admiration glinting in his eyes. “Good. Then perhaps you’ll understand the game better than I thought.”

Without warning, he disappeared, vanishing into mist and light. But as he went, he left behind a single word that hung in the air like an oath:

“Challenge.”

The city fell silent. Batman’s senses tingled, his mind already cataloging the encounter. He didn’t know what The Chronicler was, not yet. But Gotham had faced gods, monsters, and legends, and it still stood.

And so would he.