Norman Osborn wanted to live like Spider-Man.
Whether he survived in one piece—or how many others were broken along the way—was never his concern.
The Spider-Slayer did not continue firing miniature missiles.
Missiles were for range.
Now, he wanted to kill up close.
The narrow blades extending from the outer sides of his forearms hummed softly as they locked into position, sharp enough to slice steel. His plan was simple—cut Spider-Man apart and turn him into nothing more than a bloodied stick on the ground.
As for the four talons hidden beneath his armpits, those were insurance. Any sneak attack would be met with instant dismemberment.
He raised his arm.
And slashed.
The moment the blade cut down, the Spider-Slayer knew something was wrong.
The resistance was wrong.
Too light.
Before he could pull back—
Boom!
"Spider-Man" exploded.
The gel-filled suit detonated at close range, sending the Spider-Slayer flying backward like a broken machine, smashing into the dirt with a heavy crash.
Zzz—
Before he could even push himself up, a hand slammed onto his shoulder from behind, locking him in place.
At the same time, something cold pressed against his back.
Then—
Electricity surged.
The discharge device activated silently, violent currents racing across the Spider-Slayer's armor. Sparks burst from the seams as his internal systems shrieked in protest.
The previous discharge device had shattered after being used on Squid Man.
So Batman had built a new one.
Against fully armored enemies, Batman had countless ways to subdue them—shock force, electricity, irritant gas, kinetic overload. He didn't even need to count them.
The gel bomb's explosion wasn't meant to kill.
It was meant to stagger.
And the electric shock that followed immediately sent the armor's internal systems into partial failure.
Plan C: successful.
Batman didn't linger.
A Batarang flew.
He vaulted into the trees just as the Spider-Slayer convulsed, blue-purple electricity crawling across the silver-gray armor like living veins.
Batman watched from the shadows.
"Osborn hasn't perfected the Super Soldier Serum," he thought calmly. "That means there's still just an ordinary man inside that shell."
The documents had shown extreme confidence in the Spider-Slayer—confidence that this armor could perfectly counter Spider-Man.
"That electric feedback just now…" Batman narrowed his eyes. "Designed to disrupt Spider-Man's healing and nervous system."
He moved silently from tree to tree, like a predator stalking wounded prey.
"The enemy knows Spider-Man heals quickly," Batman analyzed. "Which means almost every weapon he carries is lethal—possibly poisoned."
"I absolutely cannot let those blades touch me."
"A broken rib is acceptable. A cut is not."
Without the protection of the Batsuit, close combat was dangerous—but not impossible.
Only if Plan A was executed perfectly.
Batman's hands moved swiftly.
He attached an expander device to a canister filled with liquid gel compound, then flicked his wrist.
The canister arced through the air.
The Spider-Slayer had just forced himself upright when the device activated midair.
The container expanded violently, bursting open and splashing the liquid gel across his armor.
The substance reacted instantly.
It expanded, hardened, and solidified, locking joints and plating together in seconds.
This gel wasn't explosive.
It was structural.
Like industrial putty—except it dried almost instantly on contact with air.
"This is only supposed to buy me three seconds," Batman calculated.
"Three seconds is enough."
First second.
Batman pulled on Spider-Man's goggles and hurled a second canister—quicklime mixed with water.
The container shattered.
The chemical reaction was immediate.
White irritant gas exploded outward, boiling violently and enveloping the Spider-Slayer in a choking cloud.
Second and third seconds.
Batman held his breath and struck.
His fists descended like meteor rain.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Every blow was precisely measured—strong enough to transmit force through the armor, but controlled enough not to waste momentum.
Batman unleashed combat techniques learned across the world, fists hammering relentlessly at joints, seams, and load-bearing points.
This wasn't a brawl.
It was disassembly.
He absorbed a few counterblows in return—one punch slammed into his face, another grazing his eye—but Batman didn't flinch.
Pain didn't slow him.
Finding weaknesses did.
And then—
He found it.
The lower back.
Just like the Batsuit's true weakness wasn't the exposed jaw but the waist, the Spider-Slayer's armor had a flaw hidden beneath overlapping plates.
Batman exploited it without mercy.
Zzz!
A pre-hidden discharge device snapped back into his hand via spider-web.
Batman slammed it into the exposed section.
Electricity surged directly into the armor's core systems.
One minute later—
The Spider-Slayer collapsed.
Not from injury.
From total shutdown.
The sun dipped lower in the sky.
Evening approached.
The armored monster lying helpless on the ground was no longer the Spider-Slayer.
With the armor stripped away and the glider gone, only a man remained.
Spencer Smythe.
"Spider-Man…" he hissed, face twisted with rage and humiliation.
Spencer Smythe had been a robotics expert at Osborn Enterprise. When the Super Soldier project expanded, his work had shifted toward powered armor and aerial combat systems.
When Osborn approved the Spider-Slayer program, Spencer trusted his own creation so much that he chose to wear it himself.
He never imagined his first battle would end like this.
Total defeat.
Then his eyes caught the shredded red-and-blue suit lying nearby—burst open from the inside.
"No…" Spencer muttered. "That's not Spider-Man."
His gaze fell on the throwing dart in Batman's hand.
The shape.
The edges.
Recognition struck like lightning.
"…A bat."
The fighting style made sense now.
Too many tools.
Too many methods.
Too ruthless.
Electric shocks.
Smoke.
Gas.
Ambush tactics.
"This isn't a spider," Spencer realized in horror. "It's a bat."
Fear crept in.
"If I failed…" he trembled. "Mr. Osborn will fire me."
A searchlight suddenly snapped on overhead.
Police sirens wailed.
New York Police officers rushed in from all directions.
"Don't move!"
"We received reports of an armed individual attempting to destroy Central Park!"
"Cuff him!"
Spencer closed his eyes.
---
That same evening, in Forest Hills, Queens, the door of a townhouse was knocked.
Batman didn't understand why Aunt May had sounded so serious on the phone, insisting he return immediately.
But to preserve Peter Parker's identity, he obeyed.
The door opened.
A short, wrinkled old woman with white hair stepped forward and pulled him into a tight embrace.
"Peter," she said softly. "You're finally home."
She looked up at him with gentle eyes.
"Today is your birthday."
"I know you must've forgotten," she added with a smile.
"But this old lady hasn't."
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