Chapter 149: Oswald Cobblepot

The first law of Gotham is: things here always go downhill; if you have a bad feeling about something, it will inevitably come true.

The second law of Gotham is: no matter how righteous your intentions, how brilliant your methods, or how flawless your plan, they will always turn it into a pile of shit.

This vocational school, founded jointly by over a dozen major gangs, is located in the Living Hell of the East District, because renovations here had turned its infrastructure into the best in the entire East District—and the only place with an environment and atmosphere relatively suitable for a school.

Note: relatively suitable.

When Schiler returned to the Living Hell, it had changed dramatically.

The renovated Living Hell was still chaotic and crowded, but no longer dilapidated; the alleys remained narrow, yet at least clean; the stairwells were still cramped, but at least well-lit and marked with signs to prevent people from getting lost.

The vocational school occupied an empty room on the eighth floor of the eastern building, with an outdoor terrace outside that students could use for free activity.

Originally, this space was meant to be a laundry room, but due to changes in the plumbing layout, it had been left vacant.

This prime location with a terrace was naturally controlled by the Muney Gang, who, under pressure from the other dozen or so major gangs, surrendered the space for the school's use.

So far, the situation had remained reasonably normal; though the whole affair sounded absurd, it had not yet exceeded Schiler's understanding of Gotham.

As Schiler had anticipated, the gang leaders warmly welcomed his arrival and invited him to teach a class.

There were no special requirements for the lesson content: simply teach these students whatever you would teach the Falcone family's heirs.

Schiler had foreseen this, so he did not refuse; he stepped onto the podium, intending to lecture as he normally did at the Falcone Estate—on Gotham's history and the development of its criminal industries.

The classroom was fairly large, at least by the standards of other rooms in the Living Hell.

Yet the forty-odd students packed it tightly; as Schiler stepped onto the podium, he glanced down and saw that most were young, none older than twenty, the youngest around ten or eleven.

This was normal; gang bosses weren't fools—they knew a drunkard in his thirties or forties, even if he showed up to class, had no future.

These youths, even if they already had bad habits, still had minds uncorrupted by alcohol, and they learned faster than middle-aged men.

Schiler had a habit: no matter where he taught, the first thing he did in class was take attendance.

But this class had no roster; the gang bosses watching from below could only hand out a sheet of paper and tell the students to write their own names.

The paper circulated among them; when Schiler collected it, he pressed his hand to his forehead and said wearily, "Alright, it seems the situation is worse than I thought."

Yet he maintained his professional composure as a teacher: "First, I need your real names—not nicknames or aliases. Who is this 'Tire'? Raise your hand so I can see you."

A short, chubby boy raised his hand, grinning smugly at his neighbor before shouting, "Me! Teacher! I'm Tire! The tire that explodes!"

"Alright, then tell me your real name. What's your surname?"

"I'm just Tire. My mom and everyone around me call me that—I was born fat."

"But you must have a surname, right?"

The boy frowned. "My dad died before I was born. I don't know his name. As for my mom, I only know she's called Bonnie…"

"Alright, sit down." Schiler continued scanning the paper. "Then who is this… 'Red Truck'?"

A Black man in a red jacket, with lip and nose piercings, stood up. "Me! I'm the street racing king of this area! Teacher, need to move cargo? Come to me! From the Living Hell to Elizabeth Street—I'll get there in ten minutes!"

"That's quite…," Schiler paused, recalling the distance; even if he drove, it would take at least forty minutes. Was this guy flying?

Another voice chimed in: "Yeah, right! You ride a motorcycle—what cargo can your bike carry?"

Schiler looked up; the speaker was a white girl with tattooed arms. "What's your name?"

"I don't have a name. Most people here don't have real names. Call me Rocket—like the most powerful kind. Zzzzz—hahaha…" The girl and her classmates burst into laughter.

Schiler sighed and kept scanning the names on the paper; his eyes moved down the list until he spotted a handwriting unlike the rest.

Most of the names looked like scribbles—English letters, already simple, had been twisted into crawling insects. But among this swarm of scribbles, one stood out.

Its letters were neatly formed, with subtle cursive flourishes. Schiler read the name aloud: "Oswald Cobblepot…"

He was about to look up when he froze—why did that name sound so familiar?

No way.

The moment he finished saying it, a small figure in the corner stood up—pale-faced, sunken eyes, and a prominent hooked nose. He raised his hand. "Me, Teacher."

Schiler opened his mouth, then hesitated—asking what he wanted to ask felt inappropriate; the boy looked no more than fifteen, possibly younger than Bruce.

He couldn't just walk up and ask, "Will you become Gotham's infamous Penguin one day?"

Correct—Oswald Cobblepot was an unmistakably unique name; in all of Gotham, there would be no other. If his instincts were right, this was the teenage version of the Penguin.

Schiler studied Cobblepot closely. Aside from being short and having a gloomy demeanor, the boy was surprisingly refined.

You had to consider the company he kept: most students here resembled Red Truck—wearing garish jackets, ears pierced six or seven times, Black students with dreadlocks, white students with bizarre haircuts, covered in tattoos, fidgeting constantly in their chairs like they had needles under their skin. If not for the gang bosses standing along the walls, they'd have torn the place apart.

In this environment, Cobblepot seemed perfectly normal—even dignified.

He wore a clearly outdated suit, ill-fitting and of uncertain origin, beneath it a plaid shirt, collar meticulously buttoned, even the cufflinks fully fastened.

His black hair was neatly trimmed, his temples tidy; no piercings marred his face, no visible tattoos. Aside from his hooked nose, which lent him a somber air, he looked quite presentable.

For some reason, Schiler felt a pang of emotion seeing this Penguin—there were still normal children in the Living Hell.

Indeed, compared to this crew of demonic second-generation gangsters, the Penguin almost qualified as well-behaved.

Schiler recalled: in the comics, the Penguin was always a gang boss with aristocratic pretensions, fond of elegance, always wearing a top hat, holding a cigar, and owning a lavishly decorated restaurant.