Chapter 742

After Shiler entered the room, Batman followed him in; when Shiler walked in, the children showed fearful expressions, but as soon as Batman stepped inside, they all scrambled to the corner, staring in terror at the strange figure clad in black spandex.

"Cobblepot, these are the children you rescued?" Shiler scanned all the children and said, "It's worse than I thought—they need to eat more."

"They've been eating well these past few days. In another two weeks, they'll return to normal," Cobblepot said flatly.

Batman shook his head. "Impossible. Every one of them suffers severe malnutrition, has open wounds, and is on the verge of infection. They must go to the hospital."

"All Gotham children are like this," Cobblepot said, not even looking at Batman. "Hunger and injuries mean nothing. As long as they're alive and have enough food and safe shelter, they'll recover quickly."

"You'll let them miss their best window for treatment," Batman said. "It'll stunt their growth and leave permanent scars."

"As long as it doesn't impair mobility, it doesn't matter," Cobblepot frowned.

Batman stared at him in silence, his dissatisfaction clear. Suddenly, Cobblepot grew agitated, his lips trembling as he spat, "Stop broadcasting that useless pity, rich man. Stay away from us… Get out of here!"

"Calm down, Cobblepot," Shiler stepped forward and patted Cobblepot's shoulder. "Ignore his nonsense—he's just a rich man."

"I'm only stating basic medical knowledge that everyone should know," Batman raised his voice slightly. "Malnutrition weakens immunity. Extreme hunger damages their digestive tracts. These hard breads could cause blockages or vomiting."

"The temperature is only fifteen degrees, it's still raining outside, five or six of these children have fevers, and one is shivering all over. What we should do now is take them to the hospital and get them treated."

As he spoke, Batman walked among the children, grabbed the arm of the weakest little girl, and tried to pull her closer to examine her condition.

The girl was a mixed-race Black child with thick black eyebrows and large eyes, but she was so thin she looked like a grape balanced on a twig—her limbs too slender, making her proportions grotesque.

Because her arm was so frail, Batman gripped it gently, exerting no force to drag her. Yet the instant his glove touched her skin, she bit down.

She let out a piercing shriek, clamped her teeth onto Batman's wrist, then yanked free and sprinted to the corner, screaming as she shoved at the door, convulsing, voice hoarse.

"I only wanted to take you to the hospital," Batman said to her. "You don't need to fear me. I'll get you to a doctor. The doctor will cure all your illnesses."

He looked down at the children around him, but every child who met his gaze shrank back, trembling, then screamed and fled. Soon, no one remained near Batman.

Even with his mask covering his face, any normal person could see Batman's expression was far kinder than Cobblepot's. Cobblepot's hooked nose looked especially cruel, unmistakably evil—yet he had the most children clustered around him.

"You're obstructing their access to proper treatment," Batman stood and faced Cobblepot. "If you lack medical knowledge, you should at least know that malnourished, rain-soaked, feverish children often die."

Cobblepot held a multi-tool knife, spinning it in his hand. He stared into Batman's eyes. "Do you know why they're afraid of you?"

Batman remained silent, but his gaze clearly sought an answer.

"Perhaps you know these begging children have 'parents'—their leaders. These 'parents' collect abandoned infants, feed them minimally, then force them to beg once they grow."

"But they're not real parents—just merchants. Merchants want their products to sell well. When business is bad and they can't earn money, they pick the worst-performing child and beat him half to death."

"Sometimes they go too far. The child can't beg the next day. Gotham won't donate extra money because a beggar is too injured—they'll just think the blood dripping in the rain stains their shoes."

"When a child becomes useless, the 'parents' announce they'll send him to the hospital and give him to wealthy adopters, declaring he's escaped his suffering and been freed."

"But the children aren't stupid. Everyone knows he won't go to the hospital—he'll be dumped on a garbage truck and die in a night of rain. Every child dragged out by a 'parent' meets this fate."

Cobblepot stared into Batman's eyes. "When you tell them you'll take them to the hospital, it's the same as telling them you'll kill them."

Seeing the children's eyes huddled in the corner, Batman knew Cobblepot wasn't lying. These children had heard the word "hospital" for the first time—from the very leaders who abused them.

At that moment, Shiler knelt halfway, waved to one child, and said, "Come here, child."

It was a Black boy, his legs trembling, yet he shuffled forward to Shiler. Shiler looked at him. "Where are you hurting?"

"I'm not hurting. I'm fine. I can work," the boy trembled. "I can go work on the outer street."

Shiler looked up at Cobblepot, who explained: "'Outer street' means the docks. More people there—rich men take yachts out to sea. Sometimes, for smooth sailing, they give beggars coins. But there are also brutal dockworkers. You need to be strong and smart just to survive there."

"Good. You look healthy. I saw you eat a piece of bread. Are you full?" Shiler asked.

"No, I'm still hungry, but I don't need more," the boy replied fluently—as if rehearsed a thousand times.

"Good. Do you feel cold? Do you need an extra layer?" Shiler asked again.

"I'm cold, but I don't need clothes," the boy answered again.

After asking, Shiler stood and shook his head. "They need doctors—but psychiatric ones."

Batman looked at him, seeking an answer. Shiler gave Cobblepot a glance, and they walked out of the room.

Batman followed, but as the red truck was about to leave, Shiler stopped him. He told Red Truck: "Stay here. Keep them company. After all, you're the one who gives them food."

Red Truck looked confused but nodded. After the others left, Shiler tapped the ground with his umbrella tip and said:

"You should've noticed—his answers are strange. When I asked about his condition, he first says it's bad, then adds he doesn't need improvement."

"He says his condition is bad to show his controller he can't escape control—he's still cold, hungry, weak, easily manipulated."

"But he also shows he won't waste the controller's resources—he won't ask for extra clothes or food, won't increase costs."

"Clearly, this isn't natural behavior," Shiler glanced back at the room. "They're trying to embody exactly what their controllers want: weak, obedient, non-resistant, cost-efficient, and highly compliant…"

"But they're dying," Batman said grimly.

"Then give them medicine," Cobblepot said, expressionless. "One antibiotic each. Fever? Take a fever reducer. Cold? Wear more clothes. Hungry? Eat bread."

"You're still abusing them," Batman breathed deeply. "You're no different from the leaders who exploit and torture them. Why can't you truly save them?"

"I am saving them," Cobblepot stepped close to Batman, jabbed his knife against Batman's suit, and said:

"Batman, this is me. This is us. This is why Gotham hates you. You think only you can save Gotham. You think you're a savior. But you're not. You can't save anyone here. You can't save this city."

"You've done nothing, yet you position yourself as a savior, looking down on anyone who doesn't follow your way. Batman, if I weren't busy right now, I'd make you regret this."

When Cobblepot's expressionless face twisted into cruelty, even Batman felt a chill—he sensed a malevolent soul brewing inside Cobblepot, ready to become one of Gotham's greatest threats.

"At least, when they suffer, I give them professional medical care," Batman stared into Cobblepot's eyes. "At least, I can save these children. Your ignorance will kill them."

"Enough!" Shiler pressed his temples, clearly annoyed. "Here's the solution: you each take half the children. Save them your way. Doesn't matter how. They'd all die in some alley anyway."

Batman opened his mouth to refuse, but met Shiler's gaze. The words about human rights died in his throat. He and Cobblepot exchanged a look—neither spoke.

Cobblepot walked into the room and told his mailman subordinate: "Go to Andrew, the drug dealer on Green Street. Get some antibiotics. If there's morphine, bring some—but no needles."

"Go to the restaurant next door. Ask the owner for a kettle. Have the bar upstairs boil water and send it over. Tell the bar owner to send tonight's leftover fried fish, meat pies, and vegetable salad—anything not spoiled—to feed them."

"Also, you and Red Truck keep watch. Don't let them run off or scream. Don't disturb the bar's business. If the bar owner comes down to check, tell him the Spencer family is hosting a ball soon—I'll give him an invitation. Let him forget this place."

Cobblepot spoke and left without looking back, showing no intention to care for the children. Batman watched his back and said, "You're murdering for profit."

"Who's murdering for profit—you'll find out soon enough."