Chapter 273

Over Gotham City, icy winds howled, but faster than the wind was Bruce, fleeing for his life through the black rain-soaked night.

Behind him chased a deformed monster—a creature with limbs impossibly long, spiderlike, and more horrifying still, its face was Alfred's, one of its arms cradling a cup of hot milk.

Repeated screams echoed from behind—Alfred's voice, twisted and shrill: "Young master, you must drink the milk before you sleep! Don't you remember?!!"

"You're not a good boy!!" Alfred's face contorted further; his multi-meter-long limbs writhed as he crawled across the ground like a colossal arthropod, his head spinning 180 degrees as he shrieked: "Good boys must finish their milk before sleeping!!!"

As Bruce ran forward, he recalled what had happened just minutes earlier.

After discovering the globe and the note, he had been attacked again by the clown beneath the bed, then jolted awake once more.

Undoubtedly, he had gathered more clues—the globe? Bruce thought. What could a spinning globe represent?

But the creature beneath the bed was too formidable; no matter how Bruce reached for the globe, the clown's dagger struck him, and he woke again.

Unable to make progress on that front, Bruce stepped out of his room again, exploring the hallway and other chambers—but just like the traps in his bedroom, he was killed over and over by clowns lurking in other rooms.

Soon, Bruce stopped in the center of the hallway and turned to look back at his bedroom door.

Each time he awoke, he opened the door from inside his bedroom, then was killed by the clown outside, only to return to bed and open the door again from within.

But he had never stood in the hallway and opened the door from the outside.

Standing in the pitch-black hallway, hand on the doorknob, Bruce pondered long, then deduced the rule—he must confront his fears.

In his bedroom, his greatest fear was the story he had heard as a child; perhaps he thought he had long forgotten it, but clearly, in this dream, he had not—the fear was etched into his deeper consciousness, now unearthed, becoming a mountain blocking his path to the truth.

In the hallway, his greatest fear might be opening his bedroom door, for he knew it meant not just the end of one despairing day, but the imminent start of another.

Bruce remembered: for a long time, he had feared returning to his room to sleep; every time he pushed open the door to rest, he was overwhelmed by guilt and shame, convinced there were more important things waiting for him.

Now, as he gripped the doorknob again, that familiar sensation surged back—just like the fear he felt when staring beneath the bed.

Yet he pushed the door open anyway—and on the other side stood the second floor of Wayne Manor.

As he stepped onto the second floor, the door behind him vanished, but Bruce knew something even more terrifying awaited: the second floor had more rooms than the third, and more importantly, it was where Alfred rested.

As he entered the second-floor hallway, he encountered Alfred carrying a tray—with a cup of hot milk. Alfred looked at Bruce with concern: "Young master, another nightmare? Have some milk."

Bruce didn't move—then suddenly, the milk turned into a grotesque bomb, exploding with a "bang." Alfred was blown to pieces, and Bruce jolted awake again.

The second time, he tried to pick up the milk—but it still turned into a bomb, killing him, forcing him to restart.

"Confront your fear…" Bruce muttered.

What was he afraid of? Alfred? Or was he afraid to face Alfred's care?

Again and again he awoke—no matter how he reached for the milk, no matter what he said, he always woke.

But soon, Bruce's thoughts cleared. When facing Alfred again, he said: "Thank you, Alfred, but could you please bring the milk to my room?"

This time, the milk did not explode. Neither Alfred nor Bruce died. Alfred merely smiled and nodded: "Of course, young master."

Now Bruce stood on the second floor, and his instruction had been to have Alfred bring the milk to his third-floor bedroom—so he must return to the third floor. But there was no staircase.

The fastest way would be to wake again, appearing back on his bed in the third-floor bedroom—but Bruce was astonished to find the second floor too normal: no knife-wielding clowns, no collapsing staircases.

Bruce realized he could not proceed to the next cycle.

When you realize you're dreaming and wish to wake, what do you do?

Most choose to jump—falling sensation jolts you awake—but there's another way: induce enough pain—or suicide.

"Confront your fear…" Bruce murmured again, then thought: all humans fear death. So suicide must be the purest way to confront it.

He found a screwdriver in one of the rooms—its tip sharp enough to pierce his heart. But when he pressed it against his chest, he realized another fear surrounded him—his hand trembled uncontrollably.

What if this isn't a dream?

What if he's been deceived?

What if this entire sequence—waking on the bed, leaving the room, arriving on the second floor, meeting Alfred, asking him to bring the milk upstairs—actually happened in reality?

What if, when the screwdriver pierced his heart, he didn't wake—but collapsed in agony, helplessly waiting for death?

That would be the greatest joke of the century.

Bruce had no doubt: some madman had laid layer upon layer of traps, guiding him to willingly drive a blade into his own heart and welcome death.

Bruce suddenly understood every madman in this world—whether they laughed wildly, screamed, mutilated themselves, or attacked others—they were like Bruce now.

Perhaps they attacked themselves just to escape a terrible dream; perhaps they attacked others to strike at monsters within their dreams.

If viewed from the outside, anyone would think Bruce was insane.

He leapt around his room, flipped mattresses, dragged desks, repeatedly entered the bathroom, twisted doorknobs endlessly, checking every object as if suffering from severe OCD, repeating compulsive rituals without pause.

To an observer, he seemed terrified of the stairs—preferring to jump from the atrium rather than step onto them. He crawled on the floor, peered under the bed, pulled out a perfectly ordinary globe, then stared at it for a long time.

He stood frozen before his door, refusing to open it. When Alfred brought him milk, he suddenly wore a look of sorrow and terror. He held the cup like a bomb, then flung it away with a swing of his arm…

At the instant the screwdriver pressed against Bruce's chest, he finally understood the clown.

The clown laughed endlessly; others called him mad. But perhaps he merely saw a joke in his own hallucination—in his own dream, his choices made perfect sense.

The Immortal Wood's Miracle

Every madman believes himself sane in his own world.

As Bruce slowly pressed the screwdriver into his chest, drawing a wound, he suddenly heard a piercing scream—and behind him, a monster with Alfred's face appeared, its head spinning as it shrieked: "Young master! Why aren't you in your room?!"

"You ran away just to avoid drinking milk! Come back with me! Finish your milk before you sleep!!"

No matter what, seeing his butler transformed into a long-limbed arthropod with a spinning head was overwhelming—Bruce's first instinct was to evade.

He rolled to the right, then, as Alfred turned, bolted for the exit.

There was no staircase on the second floor—but as Bruce dashed into the hallway, the window at its end burst open with a "crash," icy wind surging in. Bruce had no choice.

When he leapt from the window, he expected the sensation of falling and dizziness to jolt him awake—but it didn't. He hit the ground hard, searing pain exploding in his back and shoulders.

This pain was too real. Bruce began to doubt whether he had truly returned to reality—but the impossible monster behind him reminded him: this was still a dream.

The rain grew heavier; the monster's roars grew more shrill; everything spiraled into chaos—as if the puzzle had suddenly become a horror game, with an extreme chase.

Bruce ran faster, unsure if he'd ever wake again if the monster caught him.

Bruce knew every road beyond Wayne Manor—he'd walked them countless times—but now, the area around his home had become an endless labyrinth.

The monster chased; Bruce fled—just like the classic nightmare of pursuit. Time wore down his spirit and strength.

What was the rule? Bruce thought. Confront your fear?

Fear…

Suddenly, he stopped at a familiar intersection—one he'd passed several times but ignored.

It was a place he knew intimately: how many broken stones, how many wires—he knew every detail, for it was there, with a single gunshot, that his life changed.