Fourteen months had passed since James Carter arrived in Gotham.
He stood in his factory laboratory at four in the morning, staring at a vial of pale blue liquid that had taken eight months to create.
The compound inside represented hundreds of hours of research, dozens of failed experiments, and more stolen data than he cared to count.
His reflection in the laboratory glass showed how much he'd changed. Lean muscle covered his frame now. His movements carried an unconscious grace that came from thousands of hours of combat training.
Scars marked his knuckles and forearms. His eyes held a sharpness that hadn't been there before.
The Neural Interface stood in the corner, version 3.0 now. He'd upgraded it twice more over the past months. The learning rate had peaked at about nine times normal human speed.
Beyond that, diminishing returns set in. The human body could only absorb so much so fast.
But nine times faster had been enough.
James had mastered thirty-seven martial arts over the past year. Not surface-level knowledge.
True mastery. Karate, Judo, Aikido, Boxing, Muay Thai, Taekwondo, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Sambo, Krav Maga, Systema, Silat, Eskrima, Savate, Capoeira, Wrestling, Catch Wrestling, Jeet Kune Do, Wing Chun, Kung Fu variations, Ninjutsu, Hapkido, Kyokushin, Shotokan, and more.
Thirty-seven arts. Each one trained to the level where he could teach it. Where he could fight using its principles against masters of other styles and win.
Batman had mastered over one hundred and twenty martial arts according to the lore James remembered. One hundred and twenty different fighting systems internalized so completely that Bruce Wayne could flow between them seamlessly.
James had achieved roughly thirty percent of that. Thirty-seven out of one hundred and twenty.
It wasn't enough to match Batman. But it was enough to be legitimately dangerous. Enough to fight at elite levels. Enough that most trained fighters couldn't touch him.
His underground fighting record proved it.
Forty-seven wins. Eight losses. All eight losses were deliberate, thrown fights to avoid attracting too much attention. His real record was fifty-five and zero.
He'd fought former special forces operators. Professional MMA fighters. Street legends. Gang enforcers with decades of experience. Martial arts masters who'd trained since childhood.
He beat them all.
The Neural Interface had given him the technique. The underground circuit had given him the experience. Thousands of rounds against skilled opponents. Learning to read people. To adapt. To win when tired or hurt or overwhelmed.
James wasn't just technically proficient anymore. He was a genuine fighter.
But fighting was only part of it.
His detective skills had evolved through case work. He'd solved forty-three cold cases over the past year, all anonymously. Murders, kidnappings, thefts that Gotham PD couldn't crack.
James worked them in his spare time, using his enhanced intellect and growing investigative skills. He never turned in his solutions, just used them as training exercises.
His technical abilities had grown through constant project work. The factory was full of custom equipment now. Grappling guns. Throwing weapons. Expandable batons. Smoke grenades. Flashbangs. All designed and built by hand.
His hacking skills were elite now. He could access any network in Gotham except Wayne Enterprises, and even that was just a matter of time and effort.
Most importantly, his wealth had grown substantially. Strategic investments had turned his initial eight hundred thousand into over five million dollars. He'd diversified carefully. Tech stocks. Pharmaceutical companies. Real estate. Each investment researched thoroughly, timed perfectly using his memories of the future.
Five point three million dollars sat in various accounts. Enough to fund anything he needed. Enough to live comfortably forever if he chose to stop.
But stopping wasn't an option.
James picked up the vial of blue liquid and held it to the light. Compound Alpha. His masterpiece. The culmination of eight months of biochemistry research.
The formula combined elements from three different enhancement sources.
First, the Blockbuster formula. James had infiltrated a Bludhaven pharmaceutical lab six months ago and stolen their complete research database. The company was developing a strength enhancement drug that would eventually turn Roland Desmond into the villain Blockbuster. Their early versions were unstable, caused mutations and mental degradation.
James had refined it. Isolated the compounds responsible for muscle enhancement. Removed the mutagenic elements. Stabilized the base structure.
Second, Miraclo derivatives. He'd never actually contacted Rex Tyler, keeping that research private.
Instead, he'd analyzed Miraclo's publicly available information and reverse-engineered his own version. The temporal acceleration aspect was too dangerous, but the underlying enhancement mechanisms were sound.
James had extracted the cellular fortification properties. The rapid healing factors. The metabolic efficiency improvements. Left behind the addictive compounds and temporal instability.
Third, his own genetic modifications. Using CRISPR techniques that wouldn't be mainstream for another decade, James had designed targeted gene therapies.
Myostatin inhibitors to allow greater muscle growth. Enhanced mitochondrial function for better energy production. Improved protein synthesis for faster recovery.
All three elements combined into Compound Alpha.
Projected results based on animal testing: four to five times human strength. Three times human speed and reflexes. Enhanced healing that could close minor wounds in hours instead of days. Increased bone density. Improved cardiovascular efficiency. Better oxygen utilization.
All with complete stability. No mental side effects. No addiction. No visible mutations.
The testing had been thorough. Rats first, then rabbits, then a dog he'd acquired from a shelter. All showed dramatic enhancement with zero side effects over a six-month observation period.
Time for human trials.
Read more on Patreon marvelstark