Chapter 164: The Gotham Avengers (Part 2)

Last night, as darkness just began to fall, Batman stood on the roof of the bell tower of Gotham Cathedral, staring down at the pitch-black alleys below.

Gotham's rain, the umbrellas from Viskin's Shop, the Owl Court, the gunshots in the dark alleys, the scattered pearl necklace…

Batman closed his eyes, and all the events began to form a line in his mind—but many details remained blurred, requiring further investigation and exploration.

In the end, he still focused his attention on Louis, the man who hired the hit.

From the rooftop of the cathedral bell tower, a shadow leapt down like a real bat, weaving through countless dark alleys, and landed on the window of a building's attic.

Looking down through the skylight, the elderly Louis sat slumped in his chair, completely paralyzed, forced to survive on the trash piled around him.

When Batman entered the room, Louis showed no reaction—he was blind, deaf, and unaware that an intruder had broken in.

Unfortunately, Batman found no clues on him; Louis was far too old, suffering from advanced dementia and terminal illness, likely not surviving another month. Batman could not extract anything from such a man, and the attic had long since become a landfill, offering no useful items.

Batman changed his target and went to the Edward family's old mansion.

The Edward family had once been one of the Four Great Families of the East District, equal in stature to the Cobblepot family, but unlike the Cobblepots, they had not declined—mainly because they controlled the docks, giving them far greater resilience against risk than the other families.

Yet they could not escape the Godfather's retribution: Old Edward was dead, and young Edward had vanished—no one knew where the Godfather had taken him. Now the entire mansion had been taken over by the Falcone family, but Falcone paid it no mind, so Batman encountered almost no resistance entering the estate.

The Edward mansion was pitch-black, with no lights on—but this posed no obstacle to Batman. After a thorough search, he finally found what he sought: an umbrella bearing the Viskin insignia.

In Arkham Asylum's office, Batman placed two parts side by side on the desk and pointed to them, saying to Schiller: "Look here—the same burn marks. Your umbrella's damage wasn't accidental."

Schiller narrowed his eyes and realized Batman was right: the damage patterns on both parts were identical—both had their threads burned away.

Logically, an umbrella isn't a firearm or artillery; even in Gotham, where small-scale wars happen daily, the chance of an umbrella ever seeing combat is virtually zero. The most likely damage would be broken ribs, loose parts, or detached components.

But it was impossible for a single small part of a rib to be burned out, causing the entire umbrella to fail.

Since Schiller lacked knowledge in this area, when the rear half of one rib snapped, he assumed it was just like ordinary umbrella damage—a faulty connection.

But now he reconsidered: although Gotham rained daily, strong winds were rare, so the stress on the umbrella's joint parts was minimal—yet it was destroyed completely.

Now the truth lay before him: two identical umbrellas, made by the same craftsman, had suffered identical damage to the same part—this could mean only one thing: it was all deliberate.

"The Owl Court is more evil than we imagined," Batman said in a low voice. "They never intended to leave a single survivor. Everyone in Gotham—whether they bought an umbrella or didn't—ends up with the same fate…"

"And you've also realized another fact," Schiller said, looking into Batman's eyes. "Old Edward's umbrella broke, so they went mad. No one can accuse them of hiring a hit—it was their madness, not their intent."

Batman remained silent. From the moment he took the umbrella, he had already thought of this. Schiller continued: "Clearly, you've set yourself a new target—but it's still revenge, isn't it?"

"If I can make them all pay, why settle for just one?" Batman murmured under his breath.

"So you plan to team up with Evans and Cobblepot to investigate?"

"They're the ones who want to team up with me."

"I understand you and Cobblepot…" Gordon said, watching Batman. "After all, you both may have lost loved ones. But Evans? What reason does young Falcone have to get involved in this?"

"According to him, his older brother, Alberto Falcone's death, is tied to the Owl Court."

Hearing this, Gordon froze. He thought back and said: "Alberto Falcone? That name sounds familiar—I think Harvey mentioned him…"

Then he shook his head. "It seems everyone avoids mentioning the Godfather's eldest son. Brock only brought it up once—and when I pressed him, he refused to answer."

"Brock told me it's a name the old Godfather refuses to speak of. That's probably why no one else dares mention him."

"That does seem strange," Gordon said, puzzled. "Ten years ago, the Falcone family was even stronger. The heir should've been better protected—no one would've dared touch him…"

"Except the Owl Court."

"What are you planning to do?"

"We've formed a temporary alliance to investigate this mysterious organization from different levels of Gotham."

Batman's tone finally shifted slightly, revealing his weariness: "Only when I began investigating did I realize how deeply hidden they are—even with my resources, I've scoured all of Gotham and found no useful leads."

Schiller and Gordon knew he meant Wayne Enterprises' power. If Wayne Enterprises, with its dominance in Gotham, couldn't find this organization, the Owl Court's concealment was staggering.

"So I must rely on others," Batman explained. "Cobblepot is a criminal—but if he's targeting the Owl Court, I'm willing to temporarily ally with him. He knows Gotham's underbelly well; some details may lie hidden in these dark corners."

"The Falcone family has ruled Gotham's underworld for years—every gangster is their informant. Evans might uncover different clues."

"Once we find our target, the alliance ends. I don't need anyone's help to exact my revenge."

"So what are you going to call this alliance? Even if it's temporary, it needs a name," Gordon asked Batman.

Batman fell silent. Schiller suddenly had a bad feeling—and then he heard Batman say: "I'm going to call it the Avengers…"

"Wait!" Schiller interrupted. "I advise you to reconsider—this name is unlucky…"

Batman looked at Schiller. Schiller's expression was strange. Batman paused, then said: "A name is just a label. I don't believe in superstition…"

"But the last organization to use this name didn't last long before it split apart."

"We're not a team. I have no intention of forming any group. This is just a temporary alliance. As for the name…" Batman unusually dragged out his final syllable. "Each of us has a grudge against the Owl Court. We are all Avengers. So why not call it the Avengers Alliance?"

Batman saw Schiller wear an expression he'd never seen before—and then he heard Schiller mutter under his breath: "Those who won't listen meet bad ends…"

At the same moment, in the ward next door, Evans watched Cobblepot fiddling with an umbrella.

"What are you doing?" Evans asked curiously, leaning over from the bedside. Cobblepot didn't look up, only grunted: "I'm making a weapon."

"A weapon?" Evans was more confused. "Using an umbrella? Why not just grab a gun?"

Cobblepot ignored him completely—he'd had enough of Evans these past few days.

If Evans' recent experiences were written as an article, the title would be: "How to Coexist with Someone I Disdain and Find Extremely Annoying."

Cobblepot had already told Schiller he despised the Godfather's son—young Falcone—and thought him a complete fool. But when this fool was placed in the same ward, Cobblepot discovered young Falcone wasn't just foolish—he was irritating.

Unlike Batman, Evans was lively and talkative. He wasn't sick—he'd only come to escape boredom. He was in excellent spirits, with zero sense of being a patient, and spent his days dragging Cobblepot into conversation.

At first, Cobblepot humored him to extract information about the Falcone family. But soon, he realized Evans did everything—except anything useful.

Evans had wide-ranging interests: he was skilled in art, painting, vocal music, and multiple instruments, especially the cello—he played it exceptionally well, and his violin was also strong. He loved opera, could sing, dance, and act, and often practiced singing in the ward.

But when it came to family business, Cobblepot judged Evans to be a complete idealistic fool.

After days of talking with Evans, Cobblepot had gained nothing but useless music theory knowledge—and so in the following days, he refused to speak to him at all.

Evans stood up, walked over to Cobblepot, watched him work for a while, then asked: "You don't seem to be able to modify this umbrella. Do you need help?"

"No, I don't," Cobblepot yanked hard on a rib—a part shot off with a *whoosh*. Evans covered his face and screamed: "Ow! Are you doing that on purpose? Be careful!"

"Damn it…" Cobblepot cursed. "This umbrella's weird."

He picked it up, examined it, and said: "What is this thing made of? Why won't welding or cutting work on it?"

Evans leaned in, touched the rib, and frowned: "This isn't steel or anything like it. It feels familiar…"

"Familiar?" Cobblepot turned to him. "Where have you seen this before?"

Evans rubbed his chin, thinking. "I can't quite remember, but I'm sure I've seen it. But if you can't modify this metal, you won't be able to make a weapon."

Cobblepot said nothing, staring silently at the umbrella, as if deep in thought.