Chapter 57

Silence echoed in the empty room, and finally, Batman said: “Since that day, everything I’ve done, every trial I’ve endured, has been for revenge.”

“The law and the courts told me Joe Chill killed my parents, but I knew the truth wasn’t that simple—I spent years building the capacity to question that outcome.”

“...And now, it is time for the Bat’s revenge.”

With the muffled evening bell of Gotham Cathedral’s clock tower, Batman’s figure vanished.

Recent movements by the Edgewood family alerted Batman, who monitored every corner of Gotham, revealing that before their rise, when the Edgewood brothers first arrived in Gotham, they had been the bosses of the very alley where his parents were killed.

But now, the Edgewood brothers were dead, leaving only their nephew—and young Edgewood had angered the Godfather; if Falcone refused to let him go, the Edgewood family would cease to exist.

Batman first sought out young Edgewood; he didn’t need to send men to summon him—he could appear directly from the shadows behind anyone.

The next day, Gotham was again shrouded in a dull haze; later, twilight dyed the mist above the city with deeper hues.

Schiller was chatting with the priest at the church entrance, behaving like a true Westerner—punctual, regular, utterly unremarkable.

The priest here was learned, his understanding of theology profound; Schiller enjoyed discussing philosophy and theology with him, and could also quietly gather intelligence.

The old priest had lived his entire life in Gotham, witnessed all its eras, and knew every story the city held.

The priest said: “Lately, the dockworkers haven’t come much anymore—perhaps their business has improved. I hope so. God tells people they must atone through hard labor.”

“The number of merchant ships at the docks has increased; the shipowners’ businesses have picked up,” Schiller said.

“I remember many years ago, there was a time when many dockworkers came here to pray—the church had never been so lively.”

The old priest’s voice carried the imprint of an era, like a railway track laid from history, faded and worn.

“It was clear they weren’t busy then—perhaps business was slow. Many complained, some were angry, there were even arguments—I did my best to calm them.”

“You’re a good man,” Schiller said.

The old priest squinted, recalling: “Back then, everything was chaos. I remember the man who ruled the docks—a fellow named Leif. He wasn’t someone to cross. People called him Big Beard, or sometimes the Viking Pirate.”

“He was huge and strong, with a full beard, and led a dozen equally tough men. They ran rampant on the docks—no one dared challenge them. They extorted protection money from laborers.”

“And then? Who put an end to them?”

“Falcone. The Godfather gave him a brutal lesson.”

The priest stroked his fingers, dry with age, and said: “The docks should have come under Falcone’s control—but somehow, they ended up in the Edgewood family’s hands.”

The priest shook his head and added: “I’m not saying the Edgewoods ran them poorly—but if Falcone’s family had taken the docks back then, if they’d unified the entire eastern district, Falcone’s power would be far greater than it is now.”

“I’ve often heard...” Schiller said, “that the Godfather’s control over the East District is weak—he only holds the northeast and some southeastern areas, while leaving the vital docks entirely unmanaged.”

The priest shook his head: “Perhaps he has his own reasons.”

Schiller pondered. The things the priest told him weren’t secrets—but they hadn’t spread widely because few from that era were still alive.

Of course, Schiller suspected the reason Falcone never seized full control of the docks involved deeper, more complex conflicts.

When night fell, Schiller bid farewell to the priest and walked out of the church alone.

As the last sliver of sunset sank below the horizon, he heard seven heavy, resonant chimes from the church’s clock tower above—each toll carried an indescribable air of decay.

The priest, at the church door, made the sign of the cross over his chest and whispered: “That is the death knell... May God grant your soul peace...”

Schiller stood outside, turned back, and through the deep gray smog, saw a black-and-yellow silhouette standing atop the towering bell tower.

Elsewhere, young Edgewood lay sprawled on the ground, facing the shadow with two pointed ears, trembling as he stammered: “I only know... I only know that back then... the Godfather ended the chaos on the eastern docks. My father and uncle wanted a share—even just one dock would’ve been enough...”

“But then... the Godfather suddenly wanted none of them... so our family got all five docks. I don’t know how it happened... I was too young then. You’d have to ask the Godfather—I truly know nothing.”

After the Bat’s shadow departed, young Edgewood shakily rose from the ground, muttered a curse—and suddenly saw another shadow before him.

He looked up. A massive umbrella loomed over him. Behind it, a cold, piercing eye fixed on him. Before he could scream, his vocal cords and throat were severed.

A faint rustle. Then the thud of a falling body, followed by the extinguishing of lights inside the Edgewood mansion—silence settled.

Finally, Batman arrived at Falcone’s estate. It was pitch black, eerily silent—as if no one lived there.

Unlike the Edgewood mansion, brightly lit and guarded through the night, Falcone’s residence appeared utterly undefended. Batman knew this was unnatural.

At last, Batman found him in Falcone’s office. No one else was there. Falcone sat alone, as if waiting specifically for him, in the pre-dawn stillness.

“I knew you’d come,” Falcone said. “You weren’t careful enough investigating old Edgewood’s history.”

“That means his history must have something special worth your attention,” Batman said.

“Indeed. Would you like to hear a story from many years ago?”

Then, from the lips of the Godfather—who had ruled Gotham for forty years—Batman learned of a turbulent era he had never seen or heard.

“...They gathered allies, ruthless and cruel. Among them, the Viking Pirate Leif held the greatest power.”

“I knew that to truly establish the Falcone family here, I had to break him.”

“That big-bearded bastard had amassed a fortune through years of extortion from shipowners. He refused to submit—he wanted to fight me.”

“So, in front of many witnesses, I killed all his family, then shoved him into a barrel of gunpowder.”

“Of course, it terrified many—and made my plan proceed smoothly.”

“What I want to know is about Park Street,” Batman said.

“Don’t rush. It’s coming.”

Falcone turned his chair, facing Batman sideways. “You remind me of your father.” He nodded. “...Very much.”

Before Batman could speak, Falcone continued: “I cleared out the major gangs on the docks—but I didn’t take control of them myself. I handed them to the Edgewood family. That decision ties directly to your parents.”

“Your mother was a good woman—a kind, gentle wife. She pitied the dockworkers, thought their ten-hour days were too cruel. Your father agreed. They believed the poor deserved better.”

“So they forbade the gangs from oppressing laborers. They instituted lighter work rules—you know, short shifts, breaks, food, water.”

“The Wayne family was determined to reform the entire Gotham dock system. But I knew... I knew...”

“I knew this wouldn’t work. But I didn’t want to fight the Waynes. So I withdrew—let them do as they pleased.”

“I allowed the Edgewood family to control all the docks. The Edgewood brothers were smart enough.”

Falcone lit a cigar. The faint glow lit his face—beneath his sharp brow, deep shadows swallowed his eyes, faintly revealing the youthful, formidable Godfather of that era.

“So the Edgewoods hired that thug Joe to kill my parents?”

Smoke curled slowly upward. Falcone’s voice grew slower, as if the memory receded further into distance and blur.

“You mean the man who pulled the trigger? No. Not them. Not the Edgewoods.”

“The one who pulled the trigger was a dockworker named Louis.”

“A laborer?” Batman felt absurdity claw at him. “Why? How could it be a dockworker?”

“I know it seems impossible. The Waynes helped them—yes, the workers no longer had to endure endless hours under the gangs and shipowners. They found their savior...”

Falcone shook his head. “But you don’t understand. Among laborers, there were hierarchies. The heaviest work—carrying sandbags, hauling cargo—fell to the lowest laborers. The senior workers handled only light tasks: assigning crews, counting supplies.”

“Your parents wanted everyone to be spared hardship. But no one did the dirty, exhausting work. Shipowners lost too much time, lost too much cargo. They’d rather sail farther than come to Gotham docks again.”

“I remember... Louis was... the foreman of the third or fourth dock. The Waynes watched him closely—forced him to assign equal work to everyone. Nine hours a day, with two hours for meals and rest.”

“Ships sat idle. Perishables and fruit spoiled. Shipowners demanded Louis pay for the losses. He couldn’t afford it. The shipowners and sailors beat him—broke his leg.”

“So he hired that thug to kill the Waynes?” Batman’s voice had sunk to a gravelly whisper.

“He turned to old Edgewood. Together, they orchestrated the murder on Park Street.”

“You must think it absurd—Judas betrayed his master, brought ruin upon his benefactor,” Falcone said.

“...But this is Gotham. A place even devils detour around.”

Batman closed his eyes. The truth was nothing like he’d imagined.

This was not a tale of villain and victim, of clear justice waiting to be served.

It was not black and white—it was an old, faded gray film reel, thick with the dust of that era.

“The thug and the Edgewood brothers are dead. But Louis still lives. If you still seek revenge, go to 7 No. 7, End Lane, Divine Grace Street, east of the church. He lives there.”

With that, Falcone exhaled his final puff of smoke and closed his eyes.

His fingers were well-kept, nearly wrinkle-free. The cigar between them had burned to ash. The glow faded—quietly, silently, closing the chapter on that boiling era, on all its turbulent waves.