A Lonely Ascent
The first time Peter lost a fight in Gotham, it wasn’t just a loss—it was a beating.
He had stopped a robbery in the Narrows, taking down two of the four goons before he even touched the ground. But the third guy had a knife, and the fourth had something worse—experience.
They fought differently than the criminals in New York. They didn’t hesitate, didn’t get distracted by quips or flashy moves. They fought to win, and when Peter hit the ground, they made sure he stayed down.
He woke up an hour later in an alleyway, bruised and humiliated, his mask barely hanging onto his face. The worst part? No one had come looking for him. Not Batman. Not anyone.
Limping back to the clock tower, he realized something cold and painful: he wasn’t good enough for this city. Not yet.
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The next day, Peter started training.
He didn’t have a fancy Batcave or high-tech equipment. He had what he could scrounge together—abandoned rooftops, fire escapes, and whatever makeshift weights he could find. He pushed his body harder than he ever had before. Every morning, before the sun rose, he ran through the city, scaling walls, leaping from building to building, testing his limits. He practiced his combat techniques, studying his own failures, replaying every hit he had taken in Gotham’s brutal streets.
His spider-sense helped, but it wasn’t enough. It warned him of danger, but it didn’t teach him how to react, how to counter an attack he couldn’t see coming. So he started studying. He lifted an old tablet from a pawn shop and scoured the internet for anything he could find—martial arts techniques, combat strategies, Gotham’s criminal underworld. Every night, after patrol, he reviewed what he learned, shadowboxing in the dim glow of a streetlight, forcing his muscles to memorize new movements.
And when he fought, he fought smarter. He didn’t just throw punches—he adapted. He learned how Gotham’s criminals moved, how they reacted, how they feared and thrived in this city’s darkness. He started using their own brutality against them.
But physical training wasn’t enough. Gotham was a city that thrived on information. Peter knew he had to learn more than just how to fight—he had to learn how to think like Gotham’s predators.
He started eavesdropping, following the flow of rumors through the city, piecing together an understanding of its power structures. Who controlled what? Which gangs were at war? Who were the untouchables? He built a mental map of the city’s crime web, identifying weak points he could exploit, pressure points he could push.
On the nights he wasn’t fighting, he was watching. He learned the schedules of certain gangs, the routes of patrols, the habits of criminals. He became a shadow in the city, blending in, listening, waiting. And slowly, piece by piece, he started winning.
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Weeks passed. The bruises stopped lasting as long. The fights became shorter. The criminals started to talk.
“There’s some new guy in town.”
“I met that fucker weeks ago, he was weak.”
"Nah, he beat up some guys I know, he isn't weak. He sure hits hard tho."
“He’s not one of the Bat’s people.”
Peter heard the whispers, felt the shift in how they looked at him. He wasn’t just some random masked hero anymore. He was something else. Something sharper.
But the training didn’t stop. It couldn’t. He was still alone, still lost in a world that didn’t know his name. He wasn’t fighting for glory. He was fighting to survive.
One night, as he stood atop a crumbling rooftop, sweat dripping from his brow, he looked down at his hands. Bruised knuckles, torn gloves, blood caked beneath his fingernails. He wasn’t the same Spider-Man who had fallen into this city.
He was something new.
And Gotham wasn’t ready for him.
Peter's training didn’t go unnoticed for long.
The first time he caught the attention of the Bat was after dismantling a weapons deal in the East End. He’d been tracking the gang for weeks, memorizing their routines, understanding their structure. When he finally struck, it was with precision and efficiency that surprised even him. Four men went down in under ninety seconds. Two more tried to escape; Peter caught them with webbing before they even reached their car.
As he stood over the unconscious bodies, catching his breath, a shadow shifted on the next rooftop.
Batman.
Peter's heart raced. The Dark Knight was watching him, eyes like pale embers in the night. They stared at each other for what felt like forever. Then Batman gave the slightest nod and disappeared into the shadows.
Peter didn't know what that meant. Approval? Warning? He didn't let himself dwell on it. He had a city to protect.
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The next few weeks tested Peter in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Gotham's underworld adapted quickly. The gangs started using decoys, baiting him into traps. The Penguin's men once lured him into an abandoned factory rigged with explosives. He escaped by the skin of his teeth, swinging out just as the building collapsed in a fiery roar.
Then came the assassins.
The first, a knife-wielding mercenary named Razorback, ambushed him in Crime Alley. Peter barely won, and only by breaking the guy's wrist and webbing him to a lamppost. The second was more sophisticated: a sniper who took a shot at him from nearly a mile away. The bullet missed by inches, sparking against the brick behind his head.
The message was clear: someone wanted him gone.
But Peter Parker didn’t run. Not from bullies. Not from assassins. Not from Gotham.