Chapter 118: Gotham in Progress (Part 2)

Gotham City’s sewer system is ancient, and no urban renovation has ever touched it; this is Gotham’s darkest underground kingdom.

No Gotham citizen would casually wander here; if Marvel’s New York sewers sometimes harbor strange evil scientists and friendly neighbors, Gotham’s sewers in this era are utterly silent—not even vagrants or beggars dare descend, for they’ve heard the legend that everyone who enters the sewers vanishes without a trace.

But Catwoman, fearless and skilled, could slip into any corner, and to evade Bruce’s gaze, she slipped into the sewer in seconds.

Catwoman truly had a gift for this; she hadn’t walked far before she spotted signs of human activity near the eastern reservoir.

Initially curious, she followed the traces, but what she found next surpassed her expectations—Catwoman discovered a massive chamber within the sewer.

Even Catwoman knew this was serious, and she immediately called Bruce.

Falcone, Bruce, and Shiler arrived together; the three stood inside the vast chamber, Bruce gazing up at the ceiling hung with silk ribbons, saying: “This isn’t something any gang or thug could have built…”

Indeed, the ceiling rose over ten meters high; the chamber relied on massive stone support structures. Leaving aside the ingenuity of the design, the sheer scale of the construction couldn’t be accomplished by two people.

Falcone stood at the head of the enormous conference table, unusually silent; the old patriarch’s gaze traced the length of the table to its end, where Shiler sat in thought. He asked: “You don’t seem surprised.”

“Neither do you,” said Shiler.

All three fell silent; finally, Bruce broke the silence: “It seems we’ve all suspected a mysterious force secretly controlling Gotham—and this is the proof.”

“We’ve all paid a terrible price,” said Falcone. “I know you haven’t stopped questioning your parents’ deaths—and neither have I.”

The old patriarch closed his eyes, as if sinking into memory again. He said: “My eldest son died in a similarly bizarre shooting—another night, many years ago. I chose silence until today.”

“Do you think these people are the killers?” Bruce tapped the table, then turned to Shiler: “Professor, you have no reason to investigate this—and yet, that day, when you faced the assassin, you called out his name.”

“Don’t be so hasty,” said Shiler. “What do you think I’ve been chasing all over the world for, if not serial killings?”

Bruce frowned. “You knew about this organization’s existence all along?”

“More than that—I know even more. But I cannot reveal it. And even if you knew, it likely wouldn’t change anything.”

“What’s its name?” asked Falcone.

“The Court of Owls. Their assassins are called Talons.”

“That nursery rhyme…” Bruce suddenly remembered—the eerie, terrifying children’s song long whispered through Gotham: Beware the Court of Owls, watching your every step, peering from shadows, hidden in walls and attics, present within your home, lurking beside your bed. Never speak their name—Talons will come for your head.

Falcone fell silent, asking no further. Bruce wanted to press more, but Shiler cut him off: “We must now ask why this organization suddenly abandoned this place. That doesn’t seem like a good sign.”

Shiler was genuinely confused—how had the Court of Owls vanished overnight?

In all these comics, he’d never seen the Court of Owls leave Gotham. The chamber looked as if it had been used recently—how had they disappeared so instantly?