[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel":3,"chapter-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-111":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"chinese","My Life as a Mental Mentor in Marvel",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},2322679,4544,"Chapter 111: Daylight Lamps, Nightfire, Fool","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-111",111,"\u003Cp>After Gotham’s winter passed, temperatures began to rise, making this one of Gotham’s rare seasons with little rain. Though the sky remained overcast with not a single clear day, and a thin fog always clung to the city, the weather was still much better than in winter.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The first reform initiative of Mayor Luo Yi was naturally to tackle Gotham’s traffic.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Of course, this wasn’t because the previous mayor died in a car crash, but because, with increased cooperation with other coastal cities, Gotham entered a new wave of development—warehouses and supporting facilities sprang up overnight, and countless cargo ships lined up at the port, waiting to unload their goods.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But Gotham’s traffic situation could only be described in one sentence: if it had even a single traffic rule, it wouldn’t have zero traffic rules at all.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This led to a deeply frustrating situation: cargo ships had sufficient capacity, the warehouses under construction, though still incomplete, could indeed accommodate the goods—but the problem lay on the road between the docks and the warehouses.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The warehouses belonged to different crime families, all of whom needed to transport goods, and nearly all operated 24\u002F7. But Gotham had no traffic rules; no one decided who should go first. In Gotham, the solution to such matters was simple: whoever had more guns, and more bullets in those guns, went first.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But there was another problem: the drivers, though also gang members, were not combatants. When two vehicles blocked each other and the cargo escorts began to fight, the drivers and other technicians on board would get injured too.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gotham was already critically short of such skilled personnel. When fights broke out, no one cared about anything else—resulting in both sides ending up in the hospital together.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Their hospitalization wasn’t the issue—it was the trucks left blocking the road, which then trapped everyone behind them, leaving them utterly immobile.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This vicious cycle brought Gotham’s traffic to near-total paralysis. While most goods could wait a few days, continuing like this was pure money-burning: labor costs, warehouse expenses, cargo ship maintenance fees, and penalties for delayed deliveries had the heads of the Twelve Families pulling out their hair.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Among them were plenty of university graduates, but Gotham was such a cesspool that, after living here so long, none had realized the city’s core problem. Whenever anyone thought about how to coordinate relations here, all they considered was how to force other gangs to give them way.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But since everyone wanted others to yield, no one yielded—and everyone ended up stuck on the road together.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In essence, Gotham was an anarchic, chaotic city. The evil order built by the gangs was, at its core, still anarchy.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Fortunately, the new mayor, Luo Yi, was a sensible man. He didn’t try to instruct the gangs while their tempers were at their peak; he let them brawl until chaos consumed everything, completely blocking the central streets so no one could move.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Only when Gotham’s most vital central roundabout and four secondary ring intersections were reduced to rubble did the gangs finally lose their nerve. Money lay right before them—but they couldn’t reach it. No one could make the cargo in the ships fly to the warehouses on its own. No people, no vehicles, and now, no roads.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In the end, they had no choice but to summon the old Godfather. When the heads of the largest families sat at the negotiation table, they were all silent as mice. The blocked road included Falcone family cargo. The old Godfather’s authority remained undiminished; the heads knew they were in the wrong and mostly kept their heads bowed, taking the scolding in silence.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The problem was now clear: continuing to fight would only make things worse. Soon, there wouldn’t be just no roads—there might be no city left at all. How would they make money then? Wait to starve?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The situation had reached a point where a proper solution to improve traffic was absolutely necessary.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>So, on the second Sunday after the temperature warmed, Mayor Luo Yi Brown held a televised speech on Gotham Television.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>On screen, Luo Yi no longer wore a trench coat and felt hat as he had in Chicago; instead, dressed like a Gotham gangster, he wore a suit and tie, a flower pinned to his chest. Sitting in his mayor’s office, he spoke calmly:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Dear citizens of Gotham, I am your new mayor, Luo Yi Brown. I believe you all already know me.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“The main purpose of today’s address is to advocate for traffic rule compliance and to explain the new municipal initiative I will implement in Gotham.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“As we all know, in this ancient city, we have advanced together to this day—and now, Gotham stands on the brink of another renaissance, with a golden opportunity for growth before us all.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Therefore, as mayor, I am once again introducing a new municipal program to serve Gotham’s citizens.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“This new policy is called the Gotham Civilized City Initiative. Its main components are: starting tomorrow, Gotham’s six major traffic hubs, seventeen main roads, and twenty-two secondary roads will begin the ‘Gotham Traffic Civility Day’ campaign.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“During this period, professional traffic guides will direct flow. Drivers must strictly obey traffic rules—or face the consequences themselves.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>NovelReadingFree.com\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The televised speech ended. Bruce turned off the TV and suddenly felt a terrible premonition.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And as proven, Batman’s instincts were always accurate—or rather, Gotham’s First Law was this: in Gotham, no matter how right your intentions, how clever your methods, how perfect your plan, they always turned it into a pile of shit.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The next day, at Gotham’s central roundabout, a garishly painted sports car slowed down. The driver rolled down his window, leaned out, and whistled at a woman standing by the roadside. A tattooed hippie youth shouted: “Hey! That hot chick! Look here, check out Gotham’s racing kid…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Before he finished speaking, the woman turned, crushed her cigarette underfoot, grabbed the rifle behind the lamppost, and fired a single shot at the car’s tire.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The “bang” of the explosion startled the two men inside. Before they could rage, the woman walked over, holding the rifle. She looked young—no more than twenty—with a fit figure and wild, dark skin.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>She lit another cigarette, pulled a small notebook from her jeans pocket, flipped through it with a bored glance, and sized up the stunned men in the car: “Racing kid, huh? Manic depression, neurotic headaches, early signs of schizophrenia. Recommended treatment: three months.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As she spoke, she scribbled on the notebook, tore off the page, and tossed it into the car. The tattooed youth picked it up—the header read: “Arkham Psychiatric Hospital Diagnosis Form.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He immediately flashed a sycophantic smile: “Sorry, miss, I didn’t know you were an Arkham intern. Could we get another one of these?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“By the way, is it true? Can we use this diagnosis form to get… I mean, effective headache medication?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The woman glanced at him again: “Yes. Report to the attending physician’s office within three days. Wait for ward assignment.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Can we get another one? I think I’ve got some mental illness too,” shouted the other youth.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The woman ignored him, grabbed her walkie-talkie: “Fourth Avenue! Fourth Avenue! A modified supercar, left front tire flat, two passengers. They’re… who do you work for?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“East District Old Smoker. Our boss is Old Smoker!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“East District Old Smoker? Damn. Why is it always the East District’s poor bastards? Don’t the rich bastards in the West District even drive anymore?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Moments later, two officers on police motorcycles arrived. One, in uniform, gave a half-hearted salute and snapped: “Speeding, illegal lane change, running a red light. Fine: three hundred.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Seeing the rocket launcher mounted on their bikes, the youth reluctantly paid the fine. Then the other man accompanying them stepped forward: “Hello, Doyle Towing. Do you need towing service?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Doyle? How the hell are you? You’re a bastard! When did you start wearing a suit? And when did your family even get a towing company?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The young man named Doyle straightened his tie. Clearly, the suit was new—bought yesterday—and ill-fitting.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He leaned against the car, lit a cigarette: “Don’t talk nonsense. This is a family business. We’ve been in this line for eight generations. Since we know each other, I’ll give you a 30% discount: one-fifty to tow you to the nearest avenue. You know, I’m the only one who knows which avenues aren’t blocked. You’re heading to the East District warehouse, right?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The youth in the car sneered: “Fine. Looks like your boss really trusts you—giving you this job. Tow the car, and we’ll walk to Arkham for meds.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As they talked, the woman turned and spotted a black Mercedes about to turn around. She grabbed her bullhorn and shouted: “Stop!!!! You’re violating traffic rules!!!!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Seconds later, another gunshot rang out. The police and tow truck crew didn’t even move—they just closed another deal.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Down this street, every intersection had two intern doctors, tasked with stopping cars and issuing diagnoses. All carried walkie-talkies; as soon as an accident occurred, police and tow crews raced to the scene on motorcycles, issuing fines and signing towing agreements in one seamless motion—within ten minutes, the vehicles were gone.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Of course, this only applied to ordinary main roads and intersections far from the city center. At the six major battlefields near the core district, the chaos was far worse.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Bruce turned to one of his bodyguards: “Stop that red Lamborghini. Tell him he turned wrong—he must go back and retrace his route. Come to me later for the diagnosis form.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Also, where’s that guy who was cursing? Find him, beat him up. Say it was Wayne who did it.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>No sooner had he spoken than a “whoosh” echoed—a car exploded ahead. The driver scrambled out, screaming at the man on the raised platform holding a rocket launcher: “Are you blind?! I was going straight! He changed lanes! He cut me off! Why did you blow up my car?!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Before he finished, the blast wave from the explosion seemed to hit the lane-changing car too—its hood detonated, and flames erupted instantly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The driver of that car also tumbled out. The two men were about to fight—until they saw the man on the platform had reloaded his rocket launcher and was now aiming at them. They cursed and retreated. Soon, each encountered a man claiming to be from a towing company, and the wreckage of both cars was quickly hauled away.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Listen!! Over there, you bastards! Are you deaf?! The next green light is ours!! Did you hear me?! It’s OUR turn!!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Have you never watched TV?! Look at my hand! What’s this?! The Gotham Driver’s Handbook! See it?! You’ve already had two turns! Now it’s OUR turn!!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>From a line of cargo trucks across the roundabout, a burly, tattooed man stepped out, holding a rifle. He flipped off the shouting driver and said: “Is your brain full of dogshit?! The East Road goes first! Then us! You wait another full cycle!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Bruce listened to their mutual curses, strained his genius mind—and realized he could find zero evidence in his memory to support any of the rules they claimed were valid.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He asked a bodyguard: “Gotham Driver’s Handbook? Does that even exist? Get me a copy.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The bodyguard replied: “There is one—but it was just printed yesterday, handwritten copies. Our mayor seemed pretty drunk when he wrote it…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Still, he fetched a car and brought back a copy. Bruce opened it—the bodyguard was right. Even if the mayor had drunk one sip less of that one-liter vodka, he couldn’t have written such an insane driver’s handbook.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The handwriting was illegible. The mayor, a commoner with no college education, misspelled countless words. His grammar was a mess. He crossed out mistakes with wild scribbles. Some lines were jammed together; others were spaced far apart.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Bruce shut down his intellect and tried reading the handbook from the perspective of these idiots. He found that despite the messy script, chaotic content, and more profanity than actual text, it made perfect sense.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The entire handbook boiled down to one sentence: our shitty place has no traffic rules. Every driver here is unlicensed. If you want to drive here, you only need to know one thing: grip the wheel, press the gas, and pray to God.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After a while, Bruce’s phone rang. He answered: “Hello? Professor… Yes, the internship is going well. I’m at the east intersection of the central roundabout—traffic here is decent. The west side is worse—too many sports cars…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Yes, I think this internship method is great. I heard they’ve memorized dozens of psychiatric terminology terms. That’s already a miracle—probably boosts their final exam scores by five points…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Evans? No… he’s not directing traffic. He has more important things to do.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As Bruce spoke, he looked up. A man in a black suit—clearly one of the Twelve Families’ heads—was bowing to Evans, quickly moving his blocked vehicle aside. The traffic jam instantly cleared.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though Bruce said this, in reality, the so-called “Gotham Traffic Civility Day” was still a complete mess.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Luo Yi had built small observation towers at every major intersection. The traffic guides there carried machine guns and rocket launchers, blasting anything that looked wrong.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Under this intimidation, most drivers obeyed the rules—but the problem was, Gotham had no unified traffic rules. No one had ever learned traffic yielding protocols. So Luo Yi added someone from another city who had actually driven before to instruct them.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But in America, every state’s traffic rules differed, and driver’s handbooks varied. This meant every intersection used different rules.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though this was vastly better than the original gridlock, it still couldn’t meet logistical demands.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In the Gotham University math department office, Professor Anna pressed her forehead and sighed: “The logistics calculation errors are enormous. Any leads, Victor…?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Victor looked worse. Dark circles covered half his face. If you didn’t hear him speak, you’d think the Freeze Man had awakened.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He said: “Don’t forget we must account for shelf life. The cargo at Dock Two is perishable—it needs a fast lane, or it’ll spoil. Dock Three has fragile goods that can’t move fast. When these vehicles enter the central roundabout, they slow everything down…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At that moment, the door burst open. Luo Yi stormed in, holding a gun: “How’s the logistics system coming? A dozen heads are waiting for my update. Their cargo is piling up at the docks—I can’t hold them off much longer!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“We’re calculating manually. Have you ever seen manual calculations be fast?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“They’ll pay more! Any amount! One hundred thousand? Two hundred thousand? Just give us results fast! Time is money, friends!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Victor set down his papers: “Last night I called my old classmates—professors in math, physics, biology. You’ll need to offer them a price they can’t refuse. You know how this city’s reputation is…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Give me their numbers. I’ll make sure they’re satisfied!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Meanwhile, as Luo Yi said, most of the Twelve Families’ heads gathered in a conference room, anxiously awaiting results. Sitting at the head was the head of the Spencer family, holding a phone:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Warehouse Three’s goods were damaged? Why? Weren’t they properly frozen?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Temperature sensors didn’t work? Why wasn’t anyone checking?… Can’t read the gauge? Fuck! You idiots! Those are tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of goods!!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Low-temperature warehouse quality is bad too? What now? Who did we kidnap… I mean, high-salary hire to fix this? Tell him his salary is doubled! Get him to solve this! Wait—get him on the phone!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Who? Professor Fries? Who’s that? Gotham University? No… I can’t go there. That’s the Godfather’s territory. Contractual? Is he good?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“…What? A living person? His wife? No… that’s irrelevant!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You mean he froze a living person in a cold storage unit—and kept her alive?!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Ha… oh, no… no… I mean, that’s truly tragic. What a sad love story. God bless that poor lady. I’ll donate to her cause. I’ll have him come tomorrow. You see, I’m a believer in love too…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Meanwhile, Shi Le sat in his office at Arkham Psychiatric Hospital. A long line waited before him. He didn’t look up: “Next!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A burly black man stepped forward. The diagnosis slip in his hand was smaller than one of his fingers. He held it carefully, handed it to Shi Le. Shi Le glanced at it: “Congenital cerebral palsy? Who wrote this? Didn’t I tell you to copy terms from the textbook?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He looked at the man: “Room 302, second floor.” He scribbled two lines on the form, signed it, wrote a prescription, handed it over, and shouted: “Next!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At that moment, Brand burst in, wearing a white coat: “We can’t take any more! We have no more rooms!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Squeeze them in. There are still over a hundred people here.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“But you can’t fit thirty people in one room!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Shi Le looked up, thought for a moment: “Release them on parole. Don’t the prisons in Gotham still have space?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Brand stared, dumbfounded: “Parole… what?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Most of them came here for parole medical care anyway!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Then set up a prison medical station, let… let Bruce go there; intern doctors are still doctors, he has experience—have him replicate this model there. If the hospital has no space, send them to the prison; if the prison has no space, bring them back to the hospital. That’s the plan.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After Schiller had arranged all the remaining patients, he returned to his office at Gotham University, where chaos had already erupted—everyone with a college degree or higher had been dragged off to do calculations.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In an era without supercomputers, calculating the perfect logistics route by hand required an unimaginable amount of computation; Victor and Anna, leading the effort, were nearly driven mad.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Schiller, leveraging his symbiote, joined in as well—he was more than happy to work extra hours to avoid future traffic jams on his commute.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But soon, Roy returned, still holding a gun and a phone, storming into the office: “Three of the city’s financial officers have fled—two ran away, and the third got buried under sand from a dump truck and is still in critical condition. Who’s coming with me? The financial reports are piling up like mountains!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A local Gotham professor said: “This isn’t a job anyone can handle. In Gotham, mayors don’t last long, and financial officers don’t live long either—everyone knows what they’re really doing…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Hearing this, Schiller instantly snapped awake, rolled up his sleeves, and said: “Let’s go—I’m with you!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Roy hesitated: “Forgive me for asking, Professor, but aren’t you a psychology professor? Does psychology include finance?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Of course it does. You must understand, psychology encompasses everything—and I happen to have exceptionally rich personal experience in this area…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Roy reluctantly agreed, half-skeptical.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The next morning, Roy stood before all the crime family bosses and said: “I have one good piece of news, and one bad piece of news.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Tell me the good news first—I’ve had enough bad news,” one of them said. “I’ve got three trucks stuck on Fifth Avenue right now.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“The good news is, barring any mishaps, this year our city’s GDP is projected to surpass Metropolis and become the number one in the nation.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The room erupted in murmurs: “How did we jump to first so fast? My goods haven’t even sold yet!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Weren’t we fifth or sixth just last month? How is this possible? Are these stats even accurate?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Roy waved for silence, then said: “The bad news is, this isn’t because the city has improved—it’s because the reports are flawed.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“So now it’s up to you: do we accept this #1 ranking or not?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The others were even more confused: how absurd would the reports have to be for us to leapfrog Metropolis overnight?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Honestly, Roy didn’t understand it either—he’d just seen Schiller, after pulling an all-nighter compiling the financial reports, hand him a set of data that was both perfectly logical and utterly absurd.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Schiller had then told him he would become the mayor in American urban history to achieve the fastest, greatest, and most rapid economic growth ever recorded.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Roy said: “According to a financial officer who wishes to remain anonymous, if we accept this #1 ranking, we’ll gain greater fame and attract more investment; if we decline it…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Roy paused, pulled out a sheet of paper, and began reading: “Certain statistical deviations permitted in macroeconomics will provide greater flexibility for actual data, including stable mechanisms for… managing inflated growth, creating buffer space for… crisis impacts, and…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Midway through, Roy couldn’t continue—he sighed: “Sorry, I don’t recognize half these terms, but basically, if we reject this honor, everyone will have more…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Roy made a standard mob gesture—every boss instantly understood, and they unanimously chose the latter.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Of course, this wasn’t for official money laundering—it was purely because Gotham citizens were humble, unpretentious, and uninterested in empty glory.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Meanwhile, at Gotham Police Department, in Gordon’s office, Bruce finally snapped: “You’re saying you want to borrow my Bat-Signal? What are you planning to do?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gordon looked slightly embarrassed: “It’s either this or nothing—some idiot last night got a wild idea and modified the only old-fashioned traffic light left at the central intersection, causing major chaos.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Sure enough, just as traffic was starting to improve, another disaster struck.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Most intersections in Gotham had no traffic lights because they were useless—only the central district still had one ancient traffic light pole.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though once useless, Gordon had discovered that under the threat of force, this light was far more efficient than shouting orders.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>So now, most traffic in the central district was directed by the traffic light, while the tower personnel handled intimidation.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But of course, Gotham’s famously simple-minded populace never lacked for bizarre geniuses.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Some physics and engineering prodigy had sneaked out in the dead of night and modified this ancient relic of a traffic light.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Under the faulty light’s direction, yesterday’s roundabout operated like this: left lane finished, then right lane; front lane finished, then right lane; back lane finished, still right lane…\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>By the end of the day, the entire right lane was completely clear, while the other three lanes sat idle, seething.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gotham drivers were already all terminal road rage cases—when everyone was stuck, fine, but when others kept moving while you were trapped, they couldn’t stand it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>So the roundabout, barely repaired, nearly got destroyed again.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Eventually, the light was fixed—but after all that abuse, the old traffic light barely worked anymore; and any ordinary traffic light would likely suffer the same fate, rarely surviving past three hours during rush hour.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>To Gotham citizens, such an ordinary device was too subtle for their chaotic minds to comprehend, so Gordon came up with a solution: he planned to install a super-high-power version.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>So the question was: where in Gotham was the most powerful light located?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Bruce stared blankly at Gordon, who rubbed his hands: “This counts as crimefighting too—after all, if everyone’s hauling goods at night, fewer people will be out causing trouble.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gordon dragged Bruce over to the wall-mounted map of Gotham and said: “Here’s my latest analysis—look, neighborhoods with good traffic flow have seen crime rates plummet, because gangs usually hire local drivers who know the routes.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“These drivers are mostly local gang members—the core of local crime. Now, with transport shortages, gangs are paying top dollar to hire them for overnight deliveries, licenses be damned—most of them don’t even have licenses anyway.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“They’re driving trucks all night, so they have no time to commit crimes. Two trips earn them more than two months of robbery. Most gang members who can drive have switched to this line of work—I even heard of a small gang that turned entirely into truck drivers and are now desperately hiring.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This wasn’t surprising to Bruce—he’d noticed during his night patrols that there was simply nothing left to patrol; the streets were full of people working.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Truck drivers didn’t rest, and drivers needed food and drink—after their night shifts, they’d head out for late-night snacks. Restaurants, bars, and street stalls stayed open; goods sold during the day needed to be restocked at night, requiring more drivers, more cooks, more servers.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But formal restaurants still have rent, so their prices are higher, and the food the chefs prepare may not suit the gangsters’ tastes—they’ve eaten street food since childhood.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>So many people who could cook set up street stalls—Gotham had no street vendors enforcement, so you could set up anywhere.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>With more street stalls, narrow alleys became even narrower, forcing most people to tear down illegal front-yard structures to widen roads and accommodate the night markets.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>These night-shift drivers suddenly made big money and started spending it—casinos and dance halls stayed open nonstop, forcing bartenders, dancers, and dealers to work through the night; these workers needed food, drink, and services too.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In short, every street near a transportation hub had been lit up brightly these past few days, busier than daytime—once Gothamites gathered, they inevitably sought stimulation and confrontation. In this era without video games, stimulation meant basketball, soccer, or loud gossip.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Batman? He was Gotham’s Dark Knight—emphasis on “dark.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Walk down any alley near a main road: at one end, a crowd of amateur soccer players yelling and shouting; at the other, truck drivers sitting on stools, gorging themselves and boasting wildly. The entire street was strung with wires and colorful lights between lampposts, with powerful spotlights shining down on the ground. Batman, landing silently from a dark rooftop, froze—blinded by the glare.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Because these hub-adjacent streets were so lively, Batman had little room to operate, so he headed toward quieter, less populated streets.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But commercial concentration brought not just bustling street life, but population mobility—even Gotham’s most vulnerable, like single mothers with children, could find jobs washing dishes or serving food at all-night diners.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Able-bodied workers usually took higher-paying jobs, so restaurants were desperate for labor; Gotham’s communities weren’t isolated—word spread fast: people from distant neighborhoods began flocking to busy night markets for odd jobs—even picking up trash could earn a few dollars, enough for a meal.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But since their homes are far from their workplaces, it would waste their work time, so most of them move to places closer by.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Rent near these areas skyrocketed, but landlords weren’t stupid—instead of charging $100 per room to one tenant, they now split each room into three, charging $50 each, making $50 extra—and the tenants were grateful.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>So landlords across night-market streets began subdividing apartments even smaller; the vulnerable didn’t care how tiny or broken the rooms were—they couldn’t be worse than their previous homes.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Then the gangs controlling these streets realized: if they created more such rooms, they could attract even more newcomers, boost the entire street’s efficiency, and collect more protection money.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>So they began converting their own unused attics and empty rooms into even smaller apartments, specifically for newcomers drawn by the booming economy.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Some destitute people had no money at all, but gangs still let them move in, promising to pay back rent monthly; some gangs needing labor didn’t even charge interest—initial rent was waived entirely, as long as you worked on the street. They’d even subsidize you—after all, they weren’t making much from your tiny rent anyway.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Then Batman noticed: Gotham had strangely grown quiet. Centered on transportation hubs, night markets radiated outward, and new commercial districts gradually emerged.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In these new districts, few people caused trouble—because in the past, killing two people in a dark alley might go unnoticed for hours, or even become an unsolved case if you knew the right tricks.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But in these bustling night markets, such things were nearly impossible—even if someone cheated during a soccer match, everyone on the street would know by tomorrow. If you tried to rob someone on the spot, you’d better hope the police arrived quickly—otherwise, local gangs would stuff you into the sewer.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Because if you murdered someone in public, you’d need time to clean up, right? Police investigation would require cooperation, witnesses would need to be summoned one after another—how much time would that waste? How much revenue would be lost? How much protection money?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>If you were farther away, gangs might ignore you—but this close, with a dozen gang enforcers patrolling the street, the moment you pulled a gun, before you even finished saying “robbery,” you’d already be riddled with bullets.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Business was business, but Gotham’s tradition of “shoot first, ask questions later” would never die.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And so, night after night, Batman stood alone on rooftops, watching the once dim, dark streets slowly light up. Now, standing atop Wayne Tower—the highest, most central point in Gotham—he looked down at a sea of lights.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He thought: perhaps he had witnessed a miracle—an irredeemable, chaotic, terrible city beginning to sprout and grow within its own chaos, blooming into a strange, bizarre flower.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It bloomed wildly in the darkness, unashamed of its chaos and malice; Batman thought: this black flower would still turn toward the sun—only it was a black sun.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And he, Batman, felt no defeat. A new power stirred within him—a new thought, broader than darkness or vengeance—appeared in his mind for the first time.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He had a strange feeling: this world, this universe, was changing—just like Gotham—for something.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Next time, he thought, in such miraculous change, he would no longer be a bystander—he would be a participant.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He watched as night fell once more, one light after another flickering on. Beyond the cold wind and darkness, glowing dots spread rapidly across the streets, until the entire city was illuminated.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Here, now, this lone bat standing above the city, felt he had finally learned how to turn on the lights.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>————Extra Notes————\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Ten thousand words today!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Because the plot flows seamlessly and the pacing is tight, it’s one continuous chapter.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Please vote!\u003C\u002Fp>",4959,"2026-06-20T16:39:12.484Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","cb2a49c639b7319660f19b4dad6c6936a7c3e7cf96ad07828e9169974adc4852","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-112","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-110",1000,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fmy-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-cover.jpg"]