Chapter 62: This Is Very Batman

When the faint morning light broke, all the children had already gone home, or rather, returned to the alleys where they survived.

The porridge shelter, now covered in heavy snow, had cooled down; the red-hot charcoal had burned to a snow-white ash, the flames had dwindled, and only blue smoke remained inside the shelter, the large pot barely retaining a trace of residual warmth. The chirping of children's voices had vanished, leaving only a lone Santa Claus sitting by the pot with a large ladle, looking exceptionally desolate.

"Santa Claus" looked at the pale horizon, where a few stars could faintly be seen through the dark clouds; he casually adjusted the pale yellow shelter lamp to make it brighter.

"Huff, huff, huff"

Batman walked through the pitch-black alleyway, panting; at this moment, his black cape was tattered and torn, so he could no longer glide; his battle suit was riddled with cuts and punctures from blades and guns; even though a fast-acting hemostatic spray had suppressed the bleeding from his wounds, crimson liquid still flowed from his nose and lips; his fully equipped, bulging tactical belt had already been replaced three times; inside his body, the fractured bones throbbed with a dull pain, and every movement brought intense agony.

Even in this situation, his steps remained incredibly steady, without the slightest stumble; rather, this situation was within his expectations, even slightly better, because the hidden injuries inside his body had mostly healed, allowing him to perform even more excellently in today's battle.

At this moment, he was like a beast at low health, the time of his greatest combat power; he had countless times turned the tide and survived against all odds in this state. If anyone underestimated Batman at this moment, their ending would most likely be the same as all of Batman's previous enemies: defeated by the fully prepared Batman in "Challenge Mode," then either thrown into Blackgate Prison or sent to Arkham Asylum.

As he walked, he slowly emerged from the dark alley; far away, he could see a flicker of dim yellow light, illuminating a small rain shelter, radiating warmth amidst the deep darkness.

So he walked over, staggered into the rain shelter, and collapsed onto a wooden chair nearby.

A Santa Claus dressed entirely in red turned his head in surprise to look at him, then turned back, picked up a ladle, scooped two bowls of warm leftover porridge from the large pot, and handed one bowl over.

"These are the last two bowls; don't waste food—that's the behavior I hate most in my hometown."

Batman looked at the bowl of porridge, and finally accepted it.

"Why do you look so beaten up today? Looks like something big happened tonight?"

"Why did you come here to cook porridge?"

Very cool, no answer; this is very Batman.

"Because my car was stolen, so I chased after it, and when I looked, I found a few children were about to freeze and starve to death, so I set up a porridge shelter—I can't tell you why, but doing this is good for both me and the children."

The first part of the reason was somewhat reasonable, but the conclusion part was a bit too strange.

"Wayne Construction's speed is quite fast; they finished the porridge shelter in half a day, even helped me set up the pot and the stove; except for charging money, I basically have no complaints."

Batman still did not answer him, only watching Ma Ma Zhaodi drink the porridge from his bowl.

"Drink it; damn it, it's not poisoned."

Ma Ma Zhaodi casually extended a ladle, scooped a mouthful from Batman's bowl: "Don't be ungrateful; if you won't drink, give it back to me."

Batman finally moved; at this moment, his breathing gradually became even, and he straightened up to ask: "Your apple juice?"

"Can't say it, don't ask." Ma Ma Zhaodi shook his head: "Ask again and I'll smash my head against the wall."

The plan didn't work; the other party either truly had a hidden difficulty or had guessed his purpose, Batman thought.

The pain was real, the injuries were real; only the act of coming to the porridge shelter had a reason. Batman never did unnecessary things, nor did he show weakness without meaning; and when he deliberately displayed his battle-damaged appearance, it meant he wanted the other party to lower their guard.

Ma Ma Zhaodi had many secrets, quite a lot, but these secrets had not caused any negative impact on Gotham City; so even though strange items kept appearing on his person, even though he kept doing strange things, as long as he wasn't breaking the law or committing evil, Batman had never thought of taking action against him.

But whether to take action or not is one aspect; intelligence gathering is another. Batman's philosophy was simple: one might not have the intention to deal with a teammate, but one must have the method to deal with a teammate; don't ask if a teammate will do certain things, ask if you can stop a teammate from doing certain things.

Unfortunately, the strategy of showing weakness didn't work.

So amidst the last wisp of cooking smoke drifting out of the porridge shelter, two figures, one black and one red, sat silently opposite each other, drinking the warm porridge in the dim morning light.

It was very warm, with a rich and mellow texture; he thought silently, although the taste was different, this feeling was somewhat like the dinner prepared for him every night by that elegant and loyal elder—although he occasionally didn't eat it, often occasionally.

His body began to change; the wounds stopped bleeding rapidly and healed; the pain and fatigue in his body vanished completely; even the unhealed bones, the extremely sore muscles, and the slightly concussed internal organs returned to normal.

Looking at his body again, only the tears in the Bat-suit remained, but the flesh and blood injuries beneath the tears had vanished without a trace.

"Did you add apple juice to the porridge?"

"No, but the effect of the porridge is about the same as apple juice."

Batman immediately thought of the children who had drunk the porridge and couldn't help but glance at Ma Ma Zhaodi again; at this moment, he even doubted whether Santa Claus truly existed in the world.

And when Ma Ma Zhaodi turned back to stack the bowl on the high pile of bowls, and turned his head again, the black bat was nowhere to be seen.

"Well, this is very Batman."

"Young master, forgive my bluntness, but what magic did you use? Or is there really a Santa Claus in the East District?"

The old man looked at the man's examination results; the hidden injuries and ailments of the past had now vanished without a trace; bone fractures and cracks, muscle fatigue, and even the titanium alloy and iron nails driven into his body to fix the skeleton had disappeared into thin air; his physical condition was frighteningly healthy; looking at his smooth, clean muscles without scars, his face immediately showed an unmasked expression of joy.

"I think, from today on, perhaps I should also hang a stocking on your bedside every Christmas?"

"Or should I convert to a religion? Is there a Santa Claus sect? Hmm, maybe I can become a Christian..."

"No, there is no need."

Facing the old man who had suddenly become like an old child, the man sighed; the old man was always like this, genuinely happy for every good thing he encountered, and would still treat Batman as an ordinary junior.

"Give me the phone first; I have something to discuss with Lucius."

"What that Santa Claus is doing, Wayne Enterprises should not remain indifferent."

(End of Chapter)