Chapter 427

Benjamin didn't restrict guests from moving freely within the mayor's mansion, so news of Old Parker's death spread quickly; many stood at the railing of the courtyard corridor, staring down, their murmurs and exclamations never ceasing.

Many were descending toward the second floor, eager to see the corpse up close.

People are strange: when a corpse lies before them, they scramble to flee; but when it's far away, they rush closer to see what happened.

The only figure moving upward was Shiler, making him stand out from the crowd; Bruce noticed this the moment he left the room and stepped onto the corridor.

Bruce stood beside the railing on his floor, looking down, and saw Old Parker's body.

He lay on his back, a large bloodstain on his chest, the wound faintly visible—as if stabbed by a sharp blade; like Mayor White, he had been thrown from above and landed squarely in the center of the banquet hall.

Several agents were conducting the autopsy with various tools: some in gloves were probing the body, others took notes beside it, and still others swept the area with searchlights for clues.

Bruce, watching from above, lifted his eyes and saw Shiler ascending against the tide; though they had exchanged no words at the banquet, Bruce understood his logic.

You can't say what's happening in the hall right now isn't a crime scene—in fact, such scenes are common in old police thrillers or detective films.

From above, the composition resembles a classic suspense film: a corpse with a blood-splattered chest lies in a grotesque pose amid chaos, police rush to investigate, and onlookers whisper with varied expressions.

But whether judged by timing, process, or outcome, it's far too mundane; during his time as Batman in Gotham, Bruce had seen far more intense gang revenge scenes.

Gang bosses favor intimidating methods to eliminate rivals: some throw enemies into cement mixers, others tie stones to them and dump them into the sea.

Like the Godfather, family heads make rule-breakers enter a church, confess before God, then shoot them dead the moment they step onto the church steps.

Gotham's execution methods, in both ritual and impact, far surpass this scene.

Bruce could almost feel Shiler's utter boredom; even he, watching the shock on the crowd's faces below, wondered what they were so astonished by.

Thinking of this, Bruce began to imagine: what if this had happened in Gotham?

The moment he thought of it, he brushed his fingers along the side of his nose—as if warning himself against such dangerous speculation—but his thoughts still spiraled uncontrollably.

He imagined: at the banquet's start, when the host announced the guest list and spoke the first name, the man's body would plummet from above, dead.

Then suspicion would spread: people would turn on each other; when the second murder occurred, the method would be bizarre and unnatural, signaling a terrifying serial killer among them.

At that point, someone would inexplicably connect the hall's TV and rant about how society ignored them, laying down rules and conditions forcing everyone to kill each other.

Eventually, many would be driven mad, unleashing hidden potentials never expressed in civilized society, devouring others with deeper darkness.

As all descended into madness and chaos, that mad laughter would erupt with thunder in the rain-soaked night, flames igniting in the deep, dark downpour—marking the arrival of a lunatic.

Bruce shook his head, took a deep breath, exhaled, and relaxed slightly; he thought, thank God this is Metropolis.

After mentally replaying Gotham's scenario, Bruce lost interest in lingering here; he needed to uncover the secret behind this, but that didn't mean he had to descend and play nice with agents and Old Lu Se.

Bruce returned to the room; Selina was adjusting her bracers. He walked to the table, pulled out the box. Selina stood, stretched her wrists and ankles, then said: "As planned, I'll sneak into each room to plant bugs. You find the estate's surveillance room."

Bruce took off his sweater, opened a bottle of wine, and drenched the sweater until it reeked of alcohol; then he did the same to his pants.

He changed into the two garments, picked up the half-empty bottle, swallowed two mouthfuls of wine, then spat it out—ensuring his whole body and mouth reeked of alcohol—before stumbling out of the room.

At this moment, nearly everyone crowded the central corridor, watching below; as Bruce descended the side staircase, he encountered no obstruction.

He guessed the surveillance room was on the first floor, so he needed to check there first; he squinted hard, mumbling incoherent nonsense, appearing thoroughly drunk.

As he turned the corner onto the first-floor corridor from the side stairs, suddenly he saw a figure at the corridor's end—then it vanished. Bruce leaned against the wall and retched, but as he lowered his head, he lifted his eyes to watch the far end.

The figure must have heard Bruce's footsteps as he descended and hid on the opposite side of the corridor; but after a moment, realizing the intruder was merely a stumbling drunk, the figure emerged again.

Bruce couldn't see the person's face clearly, so he played the part fully: clutching his chest, he violently retched, then collapsed sideways onto the floor as if completely passed out.

Silik

The figure remained at the corridor's end, watching for minutes; finally, he stepped toward Bruce. Bruce feigned unconsciousness, one eye shut, the other barely cracked open.

First in his vision: a pair of polished leather shoes; slightly higher, a tailored suit pant; from the ankle's shape, the person was young.

Bruce felt hands grip his armpits and drag him toward the far end of the corridor; he relaxed his body, offering no resistance—but he sensed the person wasn't strong; after dragging him for seconds, they had to pause to rest.

Moreover, the person seemed repulsed by the alcohol smell, frequently covering their nose and coughing, yet still dragged Bruce, step by step, to the corridor's corner.

Around the corner lay a storage room; Bruce felt himself hauled inside. In the instant the light flickered, he opened his eyes—and saw red hair.

The hands yanked him into a corner of the storage room, his back against stacked cardboard boxes. When he glimpsed the person turn away through his eyelid slit, he fully opened his eyes.

He saw a tall, slender young man in a suit, with red hair; now he turned to leave the storage room. When he returned, he held the wine bottle Bruce had been carrying, poured the remaining wine onto the floor.

As he turned back, Bruce closed his eyes—and in that instant, saw him fiddling with a lighter.

Bruce slowly adjusted his breathing; the moment the lighter clicked, he leapt up, lunged forward, seized the man's throat, and slammed him against the wall.

He saw a young face, stunned; Bruce coldly asked: "Who are you?"

The man truly seemed shocked, his chest heaving violently, face flushed; Bruce held him down with one hand, closed and locked the storage room door with the other.

Then he released him, letting the red-haired boy clutch his throat and cough; when he finally caught his breath, Bruce was stunned—the boy knelt and burst into laughter.

"Hahahaha, Bruce Wayne… Bruce Wayne…"

The boy repeated Bruce's name endlessly; Bruce stepped back two paces, arms crossed, frowning: "You know me?"

"Of course, hahahaha! Do you know how funny this is? That idiot… that idiot… the one thing he never doubted… turns out to be a lie…"

After laughing for a long while, he straightened, leaned against the wall, hand on his throat, breathing heavily, then looked into Bruce's eyes: "Hello, I'm Lex Luthor."

Bruce frowned; he vaguely remembered meeting him at some gathering, but they were both children then, and their appearances had changed drastically.

And if Bruce remembered correctly, Lex had appeared then as an autistic child—silent, never speaking to anyone, just sitting alone.

"If I'm right, you're recalling our last meeting, wondering why someone who was autistic now speaks to you so fluently?"

Lex's face wore a sneering smile—the kind that made Bruce uncomfortable, reminding him of another lunatic.

"It all starts with an idiot."

Lex scanned Bruce from head to toe, then said:

"It starts with that idiot—the one who always insisted young Wayne was a playboy, and nagged me about it every day…"