Chapter 411: Who

A British folk song played from a dimly lit bar counter, accompanied by the faint hiss of a cassette tape; the music cut off as a bartender with long hair pressed his hand against the radio, shaking his head helplessly.

The chime of a customer's bell called him over; as he turned, he saw a blond man passed out at the table. The bartender sighed, stepped forward, and nudged the man's shoulder. "Mr. Constantine, are you all right?"

"The radio… why did it stop?" Constantine mumbled. The bartender took a glass from the shelf, wiping it as he replied, "That old radio was left by the owner's father. It's too ancient—always breaking."

Constantine didn't lift his head, only slowly raised one hand. The bartender saw that, under the light, his fingers were slender and elegant, their knuckles distinct—unlike the rest of his Tuifei demeanor.

He snapped his fingers lightly. A sharp *crack* echoed, sparks burst from the radio, and the music resumed.

The bartender jumped back two steps, startled—but not by the magic. Constantine was a regular here; everyone knew this Tuifei man possessed unusual powers.

The bartender set the clean glass on the counter. "Same as usual?"

"Yes. And an extra glass of ginger juice."

"Ginger juice?" The bartender frowned. "You mean that medicine for colds? We only serve alcohol here…"

"Give me a glass."

Constantine finally sat up, clutching his head. The euphoric daze from the drugs hadn't faded; his vision blurred. He saw a glass reflecting the glittering lights placed before him, pointed a finger, and the glass filled instantly with ginger juice.

As he finished, a shadow appeared in the corner of the bar. Constantine didn't turn. He simply shifted his body slightly—as if making room for someone.

The shadow stepped forward, clad in black armor, a black cape trailing behind, two pointed ears atop his head. Constantine propped his chin on his hand, tilting his head to look at him. "If I designed a costume, I'd leave the chin exposed too—otherwise, how could I drink? …Cough… cough…"

Batman picked up the glass. The sharp scent of raw ginger filled his nose. Constantine smiled faintly. "You're the one who prefers ginger juice over alcohol. Aren't you going to take a sip?"

Batman set the glass down. Constantine took the real drink the bartender offered, sipped it, winced as if chilled, and said, "…It's incredible. I've never had liquor this cold anywhere else but in Gotham Bar."

"What's your secret?" Constantine asked the bartender.

"Gotham's cold chain is famous now," the bartender replied, still wiping glasses. "At the start of this year, four large ice factories opened. Our ice is top quality—extremely cold and slow to melt."

Constantine took another sip. Batman stared at him. Constantine shook his head. "I know what you want to ask. Magic… magic…"

He slumped sideways like a drunk, resting his head on his arm. "You've been following me these past few days, hoping I'll give you an answer. But I already told you, kid—don't try using magic to bring someone back."

Batman remained silent, staring. Constantine spoke as if foreseeing his thoughts. "I know. People like you won't fully reject something until you understand its mechanism."

"But in your quest to understand, the price you pay will be far greater than you imagine."

Constantine lifted the glass but didn't drink. He pressed it against his cheek—the cold seemed to sharpen his mind. "I was once like you. Curious. I thought—if I never truly pursued it, how could I know it wasn't my path?"

"But that's magic. It lures you to seek, to prove—and in the process, it takes everything from you. Eventually, you realize: the act of losing everything… is magic itself."

"It's not an equal exchange," Constantine shook his head. "You don't give something up to bring someone back. You lose everything simply by trying to bring someone back."

The British folk tune continued playing. Batman's grip on the glass revealed youth—his body was fully grown, but his knuckles still betrayed his adolescence.

Seeing his hands, Constantine remembered his younger self: bright, naive, healthy—like an oak in summer.

He thought, thank goodness he met young Batman now. If their ages were swapped—or if they'd met at the same age—it would've been chaos.

This was Batman's longest stay yet in a Gotham bar. The tune echoed in his mind, reminding him of English countryside. He couldn't recall when, but Alfred had once hummed a similar melody.

When Alfred's face appeared in his memory, Batman rose from his stool, set down his glass, and turned to leave.

On the way back to Wayne Manor, Batman felt the winter was unusually cold—so cold that, upon seeing the familiar silhouette of the manor, he felt a faint warmth inside.

Yet when he opened the manor's front door, his movements were unusually cautious. Even crossing the courtyard, he abandoned his usual swift, windlike stride, stepping lightly, slowly inward.

At the manor's staircase, he glanced at the grapple on his wrist. Usually, he fired it straight to the balcony and leapt up to his room.

But tonight, he chose the stairs.

It was hard to expect Batman to walk stairs properly—he excelled at appearing anywhere, regardless of access, using any method imaginable.

So as he crept cautiously up the steps, he didn't notice the old staircase railing had loosened. When he reached the third floor, about to step onto the final stair, he instinctively gripped the railing—and it emitted a faint, creaking *squeak* under his hand.

Batman's heart lurched. He spun around instantly—and saw a small black shadow darting like wind from the end of the second-floor hallway.

It was a little girl with black hair and blue eyes, strikingly similar to him. She wore pajamas, rubbing her eyes sleepily, then stared at Batman with eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

Logically, Batman's first move should've been to reach for his batarang and activate his night-vision.

But this time, his first move was to extend one finger, curl the others, and press it to his lips—a silent *shh* to the girl.

The girl frowned, sniffed hard, looked puzzled, then dashed up the stairs to Batman's side, sniffing twice more.

Batman shook his head. As he reached to cover her mouth, she opened her mouth wide—teeth gleaming—and let out a deafening *WAAAAA!

Instantly, Wayne Manor blazed with light.

Minutes later, Batman sat on the manor's living room sofa, holding Elsa. She gnawed on his gauntlet with her sharp teeth. Batman stared coldly at Alfred across from him. "No, I didn't drink."

Alfred's gaze fell on Elsa. The girl, who rarely understood speech, suddenly seemed infused with boundless wisdom. She released the gauntlet, leapt to the other side of the sofa, bounced up and down, pointed at Batman, and shrieked nonstop: "Wah! Wah! Wah!"

Dick stumbled down the stairs, eyes closed, gripping the railing, clearly exhausted.

He stretched, yawned. Alfred walked over, patted his back, and said, "Go back to sleep, Master. No more noise will disturb you."

Dick kept his eyes shut but shook his head. He walked to Batman's side, grabbed his arm. "You didn't go to that place again, did you?"

"I didn't," Batman denied immediately. But Elsa screamed louder. Batman sighed, picked her up. Dick rubbed his eyes. "Elsa says you smell like alcohol. You went to a bar?"

Batman said nothing. He looked at Elsa. Her mouth still emitted only meaningless shrieks.

He glanced at Elsa, then Dick, then Alfred, who watched him intently. He wondered if the three shared some secret code—he heard no discernible syllables in Elsa's screams.

Elsa wriggled free from Batman's arms, ran to Alfred, tugged his pant leg, and pointed at Batman, shrieking: "Wah! Wah! Wah!"

As Alfred picked her up, she fell silent. He held her and said to Batman, "Master, though you are now the father of two children, you are still legally a minor."

"Frequenting places harmful to minors' health makes a poor example for your children."

Whether it was hallucination or not, Batman thought he heard menace in Alfred's tone. The old butler added:

*"Cheated Kangxi"*

"I don't know how that London scoundrel, Constantine, manipulated you—but I hope, in his remaining time, he stops tarnishing his homeland's reputation."

"Otherwise, as his countryman, I feel compelled to teach him proper gentlemanly manners."

Meanwhile, in the bar, Constantine, still drunk, suddenly felt a bone-chilling cold crawl up his back. He shuddered violently, scanned his surroundings—but found no threat.

The cold clung to him, source unknown. Helplessly, he turned his head—and spotted the ginger juice he'd conjured. He grabbed the glass, pinched his nose, and drained it in one gulp.

The searing heat finally brought warmth. He coughed twice, sneezed, and broke into a cold sweat.