Chapter 53: Every Family Has Its Own Troubles

"Is this one bullets again?" the old man's voice asked.

"7.62 and 5.56. Nothing new." the low voice replied.

The black tight-fitting suit and cape lay aside; the man, bare-chested, displayed beautiful, thick, powerful muscle groups. From front to back, his entire body was covered in dense scars, with almost no patch of good flesh visible.

The old man looked at the scars on his body and suddenly fell silent.

There were knife wounds, gunshot wounds, burns, cat scratches, large beast scratches, umbrella stabs, blunt-force bruises, bow and crossbow arrow holes; some old, some new, some overlapping, and the dozen or so fresh wounds that still bled non-stop.

These were only external injuries, yet this body's interior could also be described as riddled with holes.

How many more scars must he add before he is willing to rest? How many more wounds must this city add for it to receive redemption?

"Please allow me to remind you: your armor's protective layer is bulletproof, not bullet-immune. Moreover, your invigorating flower tea is nearly finished; we cannot cultivate or replicate its key substances—you need normal rest."

"I will resume the micro-sleep method: sleeping five minutes at intervals."

The old man was speechless.

In that moment of silence, a red alarm location suddenly appeared on the computer beside the two men.

"A large-scale shootout has occurred at No. 176, Old Street, East District! Everyone, head to support immediately! Repeat, everyone, head to support at No. 176, Old Street, East District immediately!"

Watching the man stand up and reach for the bat-suit beside him, the old man opened his mouth, but with a thousand tangled thoughts, could only turn it into a brief admonition.

"Please return early, Young Master."

"The Holiday Killer who roams Gotham has struck again recently; the Irish Gang is completely wiped out!"

"Who is the Holiday Killer? Will Gotham welcome yet another serial killer?"

Ma Ma Zhaodi sat on a small stool, opening a small pumpkin lantern to read the newspaper in his hand. Today he had nothing to do; in fact, it should be said that today there was temporarily nothing he could do.

"Aaaaaah—!"

A figure leaped down, screaming as he fell from the floor's window to the ground, nearly making intimate contact with him.

"Swish—"

A swift shadow swept across the half-sky, violently pulling that person up, then spreading black bat wings, gliding and circling for a moment before placing him back on the ground.

Only the action was a bit rough.

A crisp crack sound rang out; Ma Ma Zhaodi had already heard it to the point of numbness. Yes, on that night in the restaurant, he had heard this sound dozens of times, perhaps hundreds; every time Batman broke a bone, this sound would ring out.

Even when he slept that night, a crack of a bone fracture would occasionally dart into his dreams, startling him into a shiver now and then.

Perhaps that stimulation was a bit too intense; now Ma Ma Zhaodi had become somewhat desensitized. He sighed and turned another page of the newspaper.

"Ah! My leg is broken! My leg!"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes... stop making noise, will you?" Ma Ma Zhaodi sighed, putting down the newspaper in his hand: "Act like a man, okay? You chose to start a war in this building yourselves; now you should be grateful you aren't eating bullets. Can you properly thank God, or Batman?"

"Bang! Bang!"

"Bang!"

Upstairs, thick gray smoke and gunshots continued to drill out the window endlessly; down below, Ma Ma Zhaodi could even see yellow tongues of flame rising.

Clearly, Ma Ma Zhaodi's indifferent attitude deeply stung this burly gangster. Perhaps he was used to the feeling of ordinary people fearing and avoiding him; at this moment, he felt especially slighted.

"You damn dog! Call an ambulance right now! Or I'll shoot—Laozi will shoot—"

"Crack"

"Ah—my hand! My hand!"

Batman dove from the night sky and stomped directly on the hand holding the gun, breaking it.

"Don't let there be a second time." He coldly delivered only this sentence, then used his grappling gun to fly back upstairs.

"There can be a second time anyway." Ma Ma Zhaodi absentmindedly picked up Batman's thread, continuing to flip the newspaper: "There's nothing left to fear. If you ask why..."

"Someone call the fire department! It's burning! This building is burning!"

"Is anyone there? Is anyone calling?"

"Called it, called it, stop shouting." Ma Ma Zhaodi replied impatiently, casually turning off the small pumpkin lantern.

This newspaper was completely unreadable now.

"How long has it been since you called the police?"

"Fifteen minutes. If the fire trucks move a bit faster, maybe they can still save the electric toilet I just bought home yesterday." He replied: "Even if they come slower, it's fine anyway; I don't like that toilet that much; it's mainly about the money..."

A passerby sympathetically patted Ma Ma Zhaodi's shoulder. Clearly, judging by the burning speed of this residence, once this fire ended, there would likely be nothing left of his home.

"You don't look very sad?"

Hearing the passerby's question, Ma Ma Zhaodi watched the flames rising illuminate the night sky; hearing the sounds of firefights and gun battles coming from the building, he couldn't help but laugh.

Laughing from anger.

"Here's the thing," he said: "Imagine you are a worker. Your boss went to jail last month, so you worked hard for a month, got groped by an old woman, got confronted by cops, got dragged into some inexplicable firefight, then got scolded by your supervisor, and ended up with not a single cent at the end of the month."

"Fortunately, after your boss went to the hospital, he introduced you to another job. Tomorrow is your rare day off; you planned to sleep until noon. But while you were sleeping soundly, a bunch of stupid gangsters started a shootout in a shabby residential building, waking you up. One bullet pierced the wall and hit your fridge; one bullet hit your TV; one bullet pierced your wife who just arrived today. So the only thing left in your house worth four figures is an automatic toilet."

"You are furious, then discover those stupid guys aren't just shooting; they're setting fires. Your room has already started burning. At this moment, you dare not stay a single second longer, grabbing everything you can get your hands on, and braving the hail of bullets to get downstairs first."

"Now, a superhero in a tight suit runs over to join the fun, breaking the bones of the bad guys in the building one by one and throwing them outside the building; the whole scene is as lively as five hundred ducks running out of a farm. At this moment, you have nothing on your whole body except a newspaper, a mobile phone, and a small pumpkin lantern."

"Is this the reason you're only wearing a pair of underwear?"

"Shut up."

Ma Ma Zhaodi cut him off, his expression normal, silently wrapping the newspaper around himself, and continued: "Then you called the fire department, even though you clearly know the fire trucks' arrival time in the East District is always after the shootout ends."

"Guess what? At this moment, you look at your phone—the time is exactly twelve o'clock."

"Dong—Dong—Dong—"

At this moment, the bell of the tall clock tower in the distance rang at the right moment, as if to verify Ma Ma Zhaodi's words.

"Now, look into my eyes. I will repeat the question just now." Ma Ma Zhaodi asked, word by word, expressionless: "Are you, sad, or not?"

"Y-yes, sorry."

(End of this chapter)