Chapter 741

Gotham's cold night rain always makes this modern metropolis seem on the verge of collapse; every night here is storm-tossed and precarious.

Amid the dense steel forest, pair after pair of eyes recall predatory beasts in a rainforest—guns are fangs, ambition is claws.

In the pitch-black alley, the glare of headlights traced arcs along the damp walls; the truck's massive lamps burned like demonic eyes of flame, and the mechanic shielded his eyes with his arm.

"Damn it! Is that poor bastard Vincent again?" The mechanic, thin and dry, covered in grease, dropped his wrench and stood up, hurling a string of curses: "Those beggars should die in the sewers—don't come begging to my place, you filthy, stinking vermin!"

But when the truck pulled up, the mechanic squinted—he saw a pale face behind the wheel, the driver with crimson lips, grinning wide in a horrifying smile.

The mechanic scrambled backward, fleeing in panic into his shop.

The wrench he'd just dropped tripped him, sending him face-first into the dirt; even as he lay sprawled, he crawled desperately away from the door, as if demons chased him.

"The Joker Truck! The legend's real!"

"There's really a Joker killer driving a truck!"

"No… no! Don't kill me! I haven't wronged you! I have no enemies! I have a wife and kids! No! Don't do this!"

"Beep… beep… beep…"

The rhythmic sound came again; the mechanic, urine-soaked and terrified, bolted for the back door—but the instant he reached it, the entire shop exploded.

No living thing inside could withstand the blast of so much explosives; in an instant, they turned to char.

Fire swallowed half the street; in the rainy night, the flames burned fiercer and fiercer—nature's power could not match humanity's terrible urge to destroy; such absurd scenes appeared only in this dark city.

Flames danced in Batman's eyes, illuminating his black armor.

His mask and cape became two utterly different colors: the light part was not bright enough, for he arrived too late—he saved no one in this violent explosion; yet the dark part was not dark enough, for behind him now lay Gotham's ten thousand lights.

Batman leapt down to chase the killer of this crime—the Joker killer, a figure existing only in urban legend.

As his cape swept past a building's window, shadow fell across Cobblepot's face—but vanished just as quickly.

Watching the wreckage across the street, Cobblepot stared blankly downward, holding a bottle of medicine; he twisted open the cap, took out a pill, and swallowed it.

"Don't we need to do something, boss?" A boy, slightly older than Cobblepot but still a child, stood nearby. His attire marked him as a mail carrier.

Cobblepot did not answer. His gaze settled on the hand that had unscrewed the bottle cap.

That hand had long, slender fingers, skin stretched tight over bone—but when clenched into a fist, it revealed a quiet strength.

"You know, about a year ago, I couldn't even open this cap. I was always weak, exhausted. But that's not strange—I rarely ate hot food, rarely ate enough."

Here, Cobblepot gave a dry chuckle, his face grim, making the laugh unsettling.

But his subordinate was used to it. He said: "Yeah, same with me. If you weren't starving, who'd be this thin?"

"No… it's a joke. You should laugh… because a year ago, I couldn't have owned this bottle. This medicine costs enough to feed me a month's worth of good meals."

Perhaps it was Gotham's shared dark humor—the boy mail carrier actually laughed. "Yeah, I'd almost forgotten—how could a Gotham kid afford medicine like this? Psychosis? We only get psychosis from being too poor!"

"So now, is your sympathy just because you're rich?" Cobblepot turned slightly, gazing out the window at the still-burning street.

In the firelight, a black figure was fighting the flames.

Batman's cape had caught fire; he rolled on the ground to extinguish it, but the charred wood ash stained his expensive armor, dulling its luxury sheen.

"If you had Wayne's money, you could have his compassion too. But the question is—will we ever be as rich as him?" Cobblepot watched Batman's figure: "Like this guy—he spends more fixing his suit than it would cost to feed every child in this city."

"That's why so many in this city hate Batman. They think he has too much—if they had what he has, they'd do more." Cobblepot pressed his fingers against the window glass.

Firelight warmed his pale fingers—but did not warm him, for the flames were too far. The light here had brightness, but no heat.

"But they wouldn't do more. If they had everything Wayne has, they'd be worse than him. That's why this city doesn't need saving."

"I think I have enough now," the boy mail carrier sighed. "So whether he's here or not… doesn't matter."

"Don't you want to be as rich as Wayne?" Cobblepot asked.

"Of course I do. Everyone does. But we all know it's impossible. Still—if I were as rich as him, I wouldn't donate a cent. I'd keep every dollar for myself."

"Yes. We all think that," Cobblepot replied. Then he looked at Batman: "But this rich man thinks we're selfish, evil people—and he's the good one."

"Don't joke!" The boy mail carrier bared his teeth. "Even if I had a hundred dollars right now, I'd hide it somewhere no one could find—only I'd use it. No one would take it from me!"

"Have you ever had a hundred dollars?" Cobblepot asked.

"Of course not," the boy rolled his eyes. "I've got two brothers and a sister. They eat anything within sight. I earn enough, but it's all gone before I can keep it. I don't even have ten cents on me."

"I'll teach you a way to make a hundred dollars fast. Want to try?" Cobblepot asked again.

"Yes! Boss, tell me quick! I always knew listening to you meant money—you're the smartest among us!" The boy said eagerly.

"Go down now. Scrape some ash from the burnt wood. Smear it on your face and body. Then sit down and cry. Soon, bills will float right to your feet. That rich bastard won't spare a few dollars." Cobblepot sneered.

But suddenly, the boy hesitated. He stood frozen for dozens of seconds, not moving. Cobblepot turned to him: "Why won't you go?"

"I don't want to beg," the boy said, fear flickering across his face. "Only kids born disabled or too young do that. It's terrifying."

"But I've already dealt with those 'parents' who abuse the begging kids. What are you afraid of now?" Cobblepot asked.

"No, it's not about them," the boy shook his head. "If Gotham kids had any choice, they'd never beg."

"Once you kneel and ask for money, they know you're a tender, juicy drumstick."

"They know you're desperate. No matter what they do, you can't fight back. Kneeling on the street is like shouting to everyone: 'I'm easy to hurt.'"

"That'll drag you into hell." The boy's voice trembled. He swallowed. "I've seen… I've seen them… I can't do that. No one wants to. No one in Gotham can show weakness—or the devils will swallow us."

"When we're strong, we're part of the devils—we beat up weaker mail carrier kids, even shoot them. But we all know: if we grow weak, we'll be beaten too. So we must be cruel. Once you kneel to anyone, you're dead."

The boy swallowed again, hesitating. Cobblepot said: "What do you want to say? Tell me."

The boy looked up, fearful, though taller than Cobblepot, and whispered: "When you killed those 'parents' who exploited the begging kids… we all knew they were gone."

"Because those 'parents' didn't just abuse them—they protected them. As long as those 'parents' were around, others wouldn't go too far. At least they wouldn't kill them. But without leaders, even if they're not killed, they'll starve."

"When we were strong, we were one of the devils—we beat up the little kids from the Mailboy Gang, even shot them dead. But we all knew that if we grew weak, we'd be beaten too, so we had to make ourselves cruel. Once you kneel to anyone, you're dead."

"I don't know. They're too young to play with us." The boy glanced nervously at Cobblepot. "But I don't think they're dead. I didn't see their bodies on garbage trucks or outbound trucks."

The Mailboy boy showed a look of fear, though he was taller than Cobblepot; he lowered his head and muttered, "Actually, when you killed those parents who exploited the begging kids, we all knew they were finished."

Cobblepot turned one last time toward the street across. The flames were nearly out. Batman's expensive gear was powerful—but now, it was worn beyond recognition.

Cobblepot left the building, entered a side door of the underground parking lot, and stepped into a dark tunnel. No light penetrated the tunnel. The boy mail carrier trembled—he wasn't afraid of people, but of ghosts.

Through the tunnel, they reached another underground parking lot. From an exit, they passed through narrow, dark alleys, descended into a cellar, twisted and turned, and arrived at an abandoned basement.

Due to his job, the boy had a sharp sense of direction. "This… is the old Robert's bar? The basement?"

"Yes. Smell the alcohol?" Cobblepot looked up at the ceiling, where rain still dripped through. "That red-haired old man stopped using it because it leaked."

As soon as he pushed open the basement door, the boy saw many children far smaller than him.

Most were six or seven years old, all thin and small, skin rough and dark from sun, wind, and constant hunger.

They were wolfing down large chunks of bread—eating fast, but orderly. A Black man in a red jacket, about Cobblepot's age, stood at the front handing out bread.

"Oh, Cobblepot. You're here. Bread's all gone. Want a piece?" The man smiled as he approached.

Cobblepot shook his head, looked up at him. "Red Truck? How come it's you? Where's the tire?"

"He's helping his mom today. So it's me." Red Truck glanced back at the children.

All were eating silently. The room held only the sound of chewing—these children barely made noise; they likely lacked the strength to speak loudly.

Years of hunger had left half these children severely malnourished. Many bore scars of abuse; some were disabled—missing fingers or toes; others struggled to walk.

"Alright, finished eating? Soon, someone will come to check on you. Sit properly. Now, I'm giving you names—so the doctor won't mix you up…"

"Those with names, step over there. Those without, line up here. Listen carefully to how I say your name. If you can't say it later, you won't get bread next time."

Red Truck finished. The children fell silent, divided into two lines. No shouting, no fussing—only quiet obedience.

After a while, the basement door banged twice. Several children trembled.

First came an umbrella—a black umbrella. Its tip pushed open the door. Rain dripped from the tip onto the threshold, then fell silently to the floor.

Black leather shoes tapped on the damp concrete. As every child held their breath, a man in a black suit appeared at the door—a professor.

He cleared his throat, about to speak—then turned suddenly to someone behind him:

"Why do you smell like burnt flesh? What did you just do, Batman?"

First came an umbrella, a black umbrella, its tip pushing open the basement door; rainwater dripped from the tip onto the door, then silently fell to the ground.

Black leather shoes stepped on the damp cement floor, making a "tap-tap" sound; just as all the children's hearts rose to their throats, a professor in a black suit appeared at the door.

He cleared his throat and was about to speak when suddenly he turned and said to someone behind him:

"Why do you smell like burnt flesh? What did you just do, Batman?"