Chapter 290: The Morning at Wayne Manor

At dawn, dim, hazy light spilled across the dining table; the soft clink of glass against silverware sounded especially pleasant, the tablecloth sliding smoothly from the surface, Alfred set down the final dish, and Bruce, seated at the head, nodded to him; the old butler turned away with a look of quiet satisfaction.

Bruce sat at the head of the long dining table; across from him was Selina, to her right was Dick, and beside Dick sat Elsa; on the surface, this looked like a harmonious family breakfast—but the moment Bruce tapped his wine glass with a fork to signal the start of the meal, chaos erupted.

Most children have a very strange habit: outside meal times, they shove everything into their mouths; but during meals, they act as if they hate food and refuse to take a single bite.

Fortunately, Elsa's appetite had always been enormous—or rather, excessively so—she loved shoving anything and everything into her mouth, at any time, in any place.

*Crack! A bite took a chunk out of the sandwich plate; Dick, mid-sip, spat water everywhere, coughing twice, then spun around, patting Elsa's back to make her spit out the ceramic shards.

Dick frantically wiped his mouth with a napkin, gesturing wildly: "No, Elsa, that's not part of the sandwich! That's the plate! It's tableware, understand? You can't eat it… Wait! Put down that cup!"

*Crack! The cup cracked under Elsa's teeth; milk splashed all over her. Dick covered his eyes, then took a towel from Alfred and wiped the stains from her clothes; the old butler smiled warmly, clearly enjoying the scene.

"Elsa, don't bite the utensils. Don't give Alfred trouble," Bruce said. Alfred, bringing a fresh glass of milk, replied: "Oh, it's fine, Master. You spilled milk several times when you were little—it's perfectly normal…"

Bruce opened his mouth to say that spilling milk and biting a hole through a milk glass were entirely different things.

But Elsa's sharp teeth were simply that powerful—whether ceramic plate, glass cup, linen tablecloth, or wooden table, one *crack* and a large chunk vanished.

Dick patiently taught Elsa how to hold a fork; she picked it up and shoved it straight into her mouth—*crack! The metal tines snapped off. Dick stared, wide-eyed, as she chewed the metal like gum. He glanced at his arm, still marked with her teeth, and swallowed hard.

Elsa spat out the chewed fork; the poor utensil was now a shapeless lump of metal. Dick tossed it aside, asked Alfred for a new fork—and just then, Elsa screamed: "Wah! Wah!!"

Selina, dozing off, jolted awake, rubbed her eyes, and said: "Bruce, she's calling for you…"

Bruce looked at Elsa; she reached out her arms. He set down his knife and fork, walked over, picked her up, then asked Selina: "How do you know what she means?"

"Didn't you notice Elsa's been learning to speak lately?"

Selina propped her head on one hand, looking exhausted—she'd slept very late last night. "Last night, when you weren't home, I played blocks with her. Suddenly she screamed like that. I didn't understand why—until I realized she was trying to find you…"

*The Evil God of Reversal*

Bruce pulled Elsa slightly away and studied her closely; she grinned at him with her sharp teeth, making muffled "wah-wah" sounds. Dick turned around, listened carefully, and said: "She's trying to say 'papa'—she just can't pronounce the 'P' sound."

Bruce carried Elsa to his seat, poked a piece of sandwich with his fork, and fed it to her; she bit down, swallowing both the sandwich and the fork's tip. Bruce told her to spit it out, but she chewed twice and swallowed outright, then stared at Bruce with wide, innocent eyes.

"Don't worry, she's fine," Selina sipped her juice. "Haven't you noticed your daughter has some unusual abilities?"

"... hat unusual abilities?"

"Can a normal child run at 120 miles per hour in three seconds? Jump from the third floor unharmed? Swallow three blocks and still bounce around?"

"Clearly, Elsa has superpowers."

Bruce stared at Elsa in his arms; Dick's eyes lit up. He turned to Bruce: "Superpowers?? Mr. Wayne, if Elsa is your biological daughter, then does that mean you…?"

"I don't," Bruce said outright. But Dick clearly didn't believe him. Children of this age idolized superpowers that let you fly or leap through the sky; Dick's expression made it obvious—he desperately wanted Bruce to demonstrate a levitation.

After holding Elsa for a while, Bruce set her back in her seat and asked Dick: "Where have you been lately? Yesterday at noon, I wanted you to help me fix the car, but Alfred told me you and Elsa went out…"

"Oh…" Dick fidgeted with his cutlery. "I… met some new friends."

"New friends? Who?"

"Hmm…" Dick hesitated, as if struggling to speak.

He knew Bruce wasn't ordinary—but he didn't yet know he was Batman. To Dick, Bruce was just a ridiculously rich man from the South Side. He didn't know if Bruce would share the South Side's disdain for the poor of the East Side.

But Dick got along well with Jason and the others—partly because they were close in age, and kids their age always had more to talk about; partly because his own background was rough. The opulence of Wayne Manor made him uncomfortable, stiff. Jason's rundown underground base, by contrast, felt more natural.

But he couldn't tell Bruce this—because his entire stay in Gotham depended on Bruce. He knew he lacked Jason's ability to survive alone on the city's streets.

After a few days, Dick realized that surviving in Gotham required more than just martial skill—and his skill was weak, given his age. He had no real street-fighting experience.

Dick feared that if he told Bruce, he'd be forced to cut ties with his new friends. He didn't want that. He found the street life thrilling—not only did it hone his skills, but it exposed him to all kinds of fascinating things.

For example, yesterday Jason's Tail Gang clashed with the Red Beak Gang on Red Beak Street. These kid gangs, though small, had everything: reconnaissance, terrain scouting, weapon preparation, troop organization—even specialized roles: lookouts, fighters, rear guards, and so on.

In Gotham's child society, the brutal, bloody reality of adult gangs was scaled down—these kids couldn't get serious weapons, and fights rarely turned deadly. But the excitement, the wildness, the visceral thrill of violence remained—and it easily drew in boys like Dick.

But Dick knew the wealthy wouldn't see it that way. They'd rather their children learn piano, violin, ballet, etiquette.

Just as he thought this, Bruce said: "Since I adopted you, I'm responsible for you. I've already spoken to Alfred. Starting tomorrow, you'll attend the boarding school up north—it's the best in all of Gotham, top-tier facilities, faculty, and curriculum: Latin, ballet, harp…"

Dick looked at Selina with pleading eyes; she shook her head, giving him a helpless look.

Dick sighed. He'd thought Bruce adopted him just to find a nanny for his biological daughter—but now it seemed worse than that.

As they talked, Bruce finished breakfast, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said: "I'm going out. I'll be back tonight. Alfred will prepare lunch and dinner for you."

He rose and left the table. Selina stretched, looking drowsy, and followed, heading upstairs to nap. Dick sat where he was, sighed, picked up Elsa, and said:

"Come on, I'll take you out. In a couple days, my good days are over—you won't see me anymore."

Elsa didn't understand Dick's worry. She kept babbling "wah-wah," her tone and rhythm clearly an earnest attempt to mimic human speech.

Dick decided to teach her: "'Papa.' Say it like this—press your lips together, then make a soft 'P' sound…"

"That word means father—that's Mr. Wayne. He's your father, so you must call him 'papa.' But when you grow older, you'll say 'dad' or 'father.'"

"That word is for babies. But all these words mean the same thing—just different forms: infantile, spoken, written. The same goes for 'grandfather' and 'grandmother'…"

Elsa, who had been practicing her pronunciation, froze.

Language was a function unique to Order-aligned beings. Chaos beings had no need for it. They were born singular, without tribe, without need to communicate or understand others. They arose from chaos, and would return to chaos. Nothing logical existed in their world.

For a Chaos being to suddenly become Order-aligned—just grasping the *purpose* of language was hard enough. Learning pronunciation, tone, vocabulary, grammar? Nearly impossible.

The Parallax, now in the form of a little girl, hadn't even figured out how to pronounce one simple word—when Dick told her there were countless more words waiting to be learned. It was enough to make a monster's head spin.

Tired of Dick's babbling, Elsa wriggled free and ran out. As she reached the lawn, she felt a familiar power approaching.

She paused, looked up—and faintly saw two figures, one yellow, one green, colliding in the sky.

She strained her mind, then kicked her short legs and dashed back inside, bumping straight into Dick, who was just about to follow her.

Elsa waved her arms, screaming "wah-wah!" But Dick couldn't understand. She mimicked Dick's expression, frowning and pressing her palm to her forehead.

She kept saying "ah-ah-ah," as if she was just one sound away from saying it.