The investigation into what had happened two years ago was destined to bear no fruit; none of the existing clues could piece together an answer.
Batman didn't waste too much time on the matter. Instead, the following afternoon, he brought the Ebony Blade and the shattered stone slab from Metropolis to the abandoned shipyard.
Dane Whitman had been waiting there early. But the moment he caught sight of Batman, he couldn't help but let out a scream:
"Oh my god!"
Then he turned and ran.
After running just a few steps, Dane Whitman crashed headfirst into the bat emblem on Batman's chest.
Batman stood rooted to the spot, completely unfazed. Dane Whitman, on the other hand, fell flat on his backside, clutching his head and wincing in pain.
"Don't be afraid. I am the person Peter Parker spoke of, the one who is just like you," Batman said, his voice deep and gravelly.
Dane Whitman had a miserable look on his face. He had spent the entire night wondering what kind of person Mr. Parker would arrange for him to meet—perhaps a business elite, or maybe some martial arts tournament champion.
But Dane Whitman had never expected that the person coming would be Batman.
Having lived on the streets of New York, he naturally knew that over the past two months, the most terrifying entity wasn't some dinosaur invasion or Garrett planting bombs, but the guy who called himself Batman.
After all, no matter how formidable Garrett was, he couldn't blow up the entirety of Manhattan. But Batman... he truly could appear anywhere in New York at any given moment.
No normal person wanted to see Batman, because his appearance always meant someone was going to prison.
Dane Whitman was no exception. He instinctively felt an urge to confess everything—stealing someone's hamburger during his homeless days, swiping a wrench from a maintenance worker, and the like.
But upon hearing Batman's words, Dane forced himself to swallow those confessions down, straining to keep his voice from trembling too much:
"So, what do you want with me..."
Batman reached behind his back and drew the Ebony Blade left behind by the Black Knight, Nathan Garrett.
Only then did Dane Whitman remember that his family had left him a broadsword. He had completely forgotten about it moments ago, but seeing the Ebony Blade now, it clicked:
"Oh right, this sword."
He was just about to reach out and take it when Batman pulled the sword back behind his posture.
"Are you aware that this sword carries a curse?"
Dane Whitman looked bewildered once again.
"A curse?"
"Yes. When Nathan Garrett Whitman operated as the Black Knight, he never used this sword. He was always wary of the curse it carries," Batman said.
"Can I ask what the curse actually is?" Dane Whitman swallowed hard as he stared at the blade of the Ebony Blade, where a particle-like flow seemed to shimmer across its surface.
Batman stared into Dane Whitman's eyes without saying a word.
Dane instinctively shrank back, realizing he had just asked a stupid question.
Whatever curse the Whitman family's heirloom, the Ebony Blade, carried, he—as a member of the Whitman family—should be the one who knew, rather than asking an outsider like Batman.
"I don't know what its curse is," Dane Whitman admitted.
"Before he died, Nathan Garrett said something: he hoped you would take up this sword, become the Black Knight of the Whitman family, and restore the family's glory," Batman said.
Dane Whitman stared intently at the Ebony Blade.
"I do not believe you are ready to take this sword and face the curse." Batman did not mention that the shattered stone slab might be able to lift the curse.
After all, that was merely Nathan Garrett's speculation, not concrete fact.
"You have two choices now. First, after today, forget you ever met me, contact Peter Parker, find a job, marry, and have children. He will arrange the rest of your life for you."
Batman observed the expression on Dane Whitman's face.
"Second, take up this sword, face the curse of the Ebony Blade, find a way to overcome it, become the family's Black Knight, become a hero, and let the world hear the battle cry of the Black Knight once more."
"If I were you, I would choose the first path."
Having said his piece, Batman fell silent, watching the internal struggle play out across Dane Whitman's face.
Six years of living on the streets had long stripped Dane Whitman of any sense of belonging to the so-called Whitman family, let alone the fact that he didn't even know what the Ebony Blade's curse entailed.
On one side lay a smooth, secure highway; on the other, a narrow path choked with thorns. It all depended on what Dane Whitman chose.
Dane Whitman also fell into silence, sitting on the ground with his head bowed in deep thought for a long time.
It wasn't until the sun gradually sank toward the west, a full two hours later, that Dane Whitman finally stood up from the ground.
"You know what, Batman? I've been homeless for six years. I've seen too many cold stares, taken too many punches and kicks, and endured countless insults and spit."
"That fire burned away my relatively affluent life and left me with absolutely nothing. Every single day on the streets, I knew I was no different from a stray dog."
"I once swore that one day, I would grasp my destiny firmly in my own hands. But it wasn't until this very day arrived that I realized how naive my past thoughts truly were."
Dane Whitman looked at Batman, his gaze gradually hardening with resolve:
"I need to take up that sword. Not for Nathan Garrett, and not to restore the family's glory, but solely to take control of my own destiny."
As the words left his mouth, Dane Whitman dropped to one knee, looking up at Batman.
Batman remained expressionless. With a swift movement, he brought the Ebony Blade out from behind his back into his palm, lightly tapping the flat of the blade against Dane Whitman's left and right shoulders.
This was the accolade—the medieval knighting ceremony. Though a genuine ceremony was far more complex than this, Batman and Dane Whitman kept everything strictly simple.
"In the name of Batman, I dub thee the Black Knight," Batman said in his low, gravelly voice.
"A group of international mercenaries arrived in Africa a week ago. Agent Hill, I need..."
Somewhere in uncharted waters, inside the combat command center of the Helicarrier, Nick Fury sat in his chair barking out orders. However, Agent Hill, who was usually at his beck and call, failed to respond promptly this time.
"Agent Hill?" Nick Fury called out again, but there was still no answer.
Whoosh!
With lightning speed, Nick Fury rolled out of his chair and dropped prone to the floor, drawing a pistol from his coat with a sharp clack as he chambered a round.
He crept cautiously toward the command center's exit, taking cover behind a metal wall before pressing the door release button.
With a faint hiss of hydraulic dampers, the command center door slid open. Nick Fury glanced outside, raising his pistol as he ventured out step by step.
He saw Agent Hill lying unconscious on the ground, her hands bound behind her back and her mouth sealed with tape. Beside her lay a corpse, its temple scorched entirely black.
"Agent Hill, wake up!" Nick Fury crouched down and patted Agent Hill's face. Seeing no signs of her waking, he stood back up.
This time, Nick Fury flipped up his eyepatch, removing the bomb disguised as a prosthetic eye from his socket and gripping it tightly in the palm of his hand.
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