Chapter 95: For Whom the Bell Tolls

"In Gotham, this is the only path that lets ordinary people have a chance to become big shots. Sooner or later, we won't be nobodies anymore; we will make our names known to the world—Irish Gang, Mickey, Jimmy, Kevin, Willie, Tang Ni."

"Died by gunshot."

"My father loved me very much, but he wouldn't let me touch the world he lived in. I was always a thousand miles away from him—Alberto Falcone."

"Died by gunshot."

"My grandmother was eighty years old. Between the two of us, we couldn't afford the property tax. The house was taken away, and she died. So I joined the Maroni Family. I must earn a lot of money—Pawin Quick."

"Died by gunshot."

Hearing familiar names, someone in the crowd finally couldn't hold back.

"You bastard, how do you know Quick—"

However, a companion beside him reached out and stopped him.

"Carlo, don't be impulsive." That companion gently shook his head at him: "Do not interrupt him."

"When I started this line of work, I didn't think too much either. I just wanted my wife and daughter to eat more. I didn't dare show them I was hungry—Tony Brown."

"Died by gunshot."

"My mother is already forty. She has two jobs, yet she is still selling blood. I don't want her to pay off her student loans like this—Mary Smith."

"Died in gang warfare."

"I used to be a decent person too. Graduated from a prestigious school, with a bright future ahead. If I hadn't fallen ill and gone to the hospital, and if the insurance company hadn't gone back on its word, I wouldn't have ended up joining a gang in Gotham to pay off debts—Langdon Du Ke."

"Died in gang warfare."

"Many times I had only one meal a day. Suddenly one day, a friend told me that joining the Maroni Gang meant I could eat my fill. He didn't lie to me. I ate the best pizza I've ever had in my life, and could even eat three times a day—Beckham Wilson."

"Died by gunshot."

"I don't know what I should do either, but I was born a Gothamite. Besides this, it seems there's nothing else I can do—Camilla Martin."

"Died by gunshot."

"I was born liking to kill people with guns, and I'm good at it too. Maybe one day, I can casually take out the parents who abandoned me—Throel Thomas."

"Died by gunshot."

He read them one by one, his voice very soft, yet interwoven with the hoot of an owl, carrying far through the rain. Every sentence was of a person who once lived; every passage recounted a ragged life; every word accused certain people present and absent.

Among those buried in the cemetery, some were killed by members of the Maroni Family, while others had killed members of the Maroni Family. But at this very moment, after death, they revealed similar life backdrops and similar tragic circumstances.

Gang members, accustomed to blood on their blades and decisive in killing, had never so clearly and directly realized that every deceased person was so similar in essence, and that such similar people were killing each other to death.

Whether enemy or friend, everyone lying buried here beneath the earth looked exactly like their own future fate.

And more tragically, the Gotham civilians harmed by these deceased gang members looked exactly like their former selves.

No one spoke again. In this gray-white curtain of rain, they mourned from the bottom of their hearts for all the dead and the living, whether enemy or friend.

This matter spread throughout Gotham City the next day and also reached the ears of the Roman. Upon hearing this, the Godfather of Gotham's Heidao Sect did not show anger or sorrow, but simply softly recited the epitaph the Tree Planter gave to everyone.

The next day, the figure of the Godfather appeared in the rain curtain beside the cemetery.

Maroni stood in the rain holding a black umbrella, looking at the Godfather beside him. The two stood in silent eye contact, neither arguing nor speaking, only turning their heads to watch the figure in the black cloak appear again at the forest edge.

This time, he brought some children wearing black raincoats. Apart from that, it was almost no different from the last time.

Just as he said, digging holes, planting trees, and filling the soil was a very dull and tiring job. But the two gangs stood quietly on the side from start to finish, watching them plant trees, listening to Ma Ma Zhaodi's eulogy, witnessing him sprinkle fertilizer with their own eyes, seeing the cypress sprout, and hearing the owl cry.

Day after day passed, tree after tree was planted. The number of people mourned by the tree planters grew larger, from gangsters to civilians; the number of people participating in the silence grew larger, from high officials and the wealthy to common folk.

How long had it been since the people of Gotham City had grieved so freely like this? Or rather, how long had it been since the people of Gotham City had personally experienced others' sorrow like this? No one knew the answer.

The citizens of Gotham City continued to arrive in a steady stream, silently gazing at a small tree representing a deceased friend or family member, watching it slowly grow branches and leaves.

Only at this time was everyone within arm's reach. Only at this time did Gotham's civilians dare to stand before the Roman and Maroni, expressing their dissatisfaction with the status quo of Gotham City through silence.

Perhaps, it was not just dissatisfaction with Gotham City.

"Rosen, quick, quick, keep up! This is big news!"

"Albert, I still think this isn't right."

"What nonsense are you talking? We are the first reporters with the courage to get close to the Tree Planter. We will get his first-hand interview material. This is a reward for the brave! Just think how sensational our exclusive interview will be!"

"But, but Falcone—"

"So many days have passed. Have you seen anyone at the scene get hurt by gang members? I guarantee you, the scene is absolutely safe!"

"But this ceremony is very solemn. I don't really want to—"

"Stop talking nonsense! You do what I say, you hear what I say! Do you understand?"

Under Albert's forceful demand, Rosen, carrying the camera, soon fell silent.

It wasn't raining today. The two squeezed by the edge of the silent crowd, trying hard to push to the very front.

"Friend, friend, make way, thank you."

Albert, pushing left and right, casually brushed past someone in front. That person turned around; beneath the blond hair were sharp blue eyes.

"What do you want?"

"Oh, Chief Gordon, nothing, nothing. Just want to take a couple of photos."

"You'd better not do that." Gordon turned his head, seeming unwilling to speak much here, and only tightened his grip on Barbara's hand.

Harvey, wearing a trench coat beside them, holding Greta, also turned back and gave him a warning glance.

But Albert paid no attention. What he was doing wasn't illegal. As an annoying news reporter, he was already used to the cold stares of those involved and the description of him as "cold-blooded and heartless."

But compared to first-hand news, what could these evaluations amount to? News cares only about ratings; bosses care only about profit. News people with consciences have long since starved to death on the path of seeking the Dao.

Those who truly survived were exactly people like him.

(End of Chapter)