Chapter 744

The early spring in Gotham was far from gentle, unlike the open wilderness; even in this season of renewal, icy winds howled night after night.

But the wind outside the window could not drown out the roaring flames of the hearth; Merkel, still chilled, added fresh firewood he had just fetched from the warehouse back into the hearth.

The fire stretched his shadow long, and in the unlit hall, every piece of furniture's outline flickered faintly in the dancing light and shadow.

Footsteps came from the staircase; Merkel rose and turned, striding toward Schiller, who had just come downstairs, and picked up a coat from the nearby rack. After Schiller put on the coat, he took a black umbrella from the stand.

Merkel glanced at his watch and said, "Sir, the opera doesn't start until nine tonight. Do you have another appointment?"

"Correct. Someone invited me to dinner at a restaurant beside the opera house—he called the school directly to reach me, so you didn't know." Schiller adjusted his tie before the mirror. Merkel took up a duster and brushed off the dust from the coat's hem. "Looks like this is a modern gentleman—he dares to call your school directly for a dinner date."

"Yes. After all, it's 1990 now. A new year, a new atmosphere. Many old orders should step aside."

With that, Schiller stepped out the front door and boarded the car he had arranged. Through the window, he saw the streets unusually vibrant; the once-decaying West End estate district had regained its glittering lights.

As Gotham's logistics industry flourished, supporting services expanded accordingly. The East End's dining scene exploded, especially those small, even shabby and run-down local restaurants, which became favorites among dockworkers and truck drivers.

Every logistics hub's nearby restaurants shared a few traits: ingredients weren't necessarily the best, but portions were always generous. If they added a distinctive flavor or specialty that spread by word of mouth among drivers, loaders, and construction workers, business was guaranteed.

As Schiller rode toward the restaurant near the opera house, Cobblepot also rode in a car, traveling from the North End to the East End to prepare for the opening of the Iceberg Lounge.

Before deciding to open a restaurant, he spent a long time investigating, which is why he chose the East End.

Most restaurants here fit the criteria mentioned earlier. Looking out the window, the roads were still somewhat dilapidated; compared to the revitalized West End, there were no grand Gothic facades, no ornate script, no French-labeled signs, and no waiters in suits and polished shoes whose reflections outshone the lamps.

Cobblepot saw that none of these restaurants had impressive entrances; most were ground-floor conversions of residential homes, with a small round window for food delivery and a wooden door, above which hung a canopy, beside which a sign declared what they sold.

French lamb chops and Italian desserts were utterly unpopular here. As the car crept forward into the busiest commercial street, the most popular restaurant was "Anderson's Old Street Steakhouse."

The steak here wasn't served on delicate porcelain plates, tender and slightly pink, oozing juices—Cobblepot, having investigated suppliers and sourcing channels, knew best: that old bastard Anderson wouldn't dream of buying good beef. He bought only the cheapest kind.

The steak here wasn't eaten for its natural flavor. The most famous dish was the Old Street Secret Sauce Steak—slathered in a giant bowl of chili sauce, the secret chili sauce being Anderson's lifeline.

The tiny steakhouse had fewer than ten tables, all occupied, and many others squatted outside, devouring their meals.

Gotham's climate was perpetually damp and cold, so spicy food was wildly popular. Cobblepot leveraged this advantage, hiring a Mexican to formulate his chili sauce. Meanwhile, laborers always craved large quantities of meat and carbohydrates—bigger, thicker steaks were better, and if they could dip bread in the juices, even better.

Cobblepot recalled his restaurant's menu—he hadn't forgotten to place the large, thick-cut steak with bread as the first main course.

As the car sped past, a bicycle bell rang "ding-ding"; Cobblepot glanced out the right window. A dozen children clustered outside a bakery, some unloading crates, others packing bread, and still others counting milk bottles.

Cobblepot had once done this work himself—when his mother was first admitted to the psychiatric hospital. Of course, he delivered bread and milk not just to earn money, but to map the routes and movements of these vendors.

He harbored immense ambition—he wanted these children to serve him—and ultimately, he succeeded. Now he was Gotham's undisputed King of the Kids.

It may sound unimpressive, but Gotham locals knew: whoever held this title would have a seat among the city's elite, with a foundation more solid than anyone else's.

The logistics industry hadn't escaped setbacks; the earlier blizzard had struck Gotham's fledgling economy a crushing blow—but it made the city's child gangs thrive.

Snow blocked doors, the cold froze everything, roads were jammed, no one could go out to work, and everyone stayed indoors—so how did they get food and firewood?

Most didn't choose to go out themselves: partly because they didn't know which shops had stock, and partly because braving the wind, trudging far, only to be told the goods were sold out, was a waste of effort.

Also, in a city crawling with gangs, a strong adult wandering freely through another gang's territory risked getting shot.

But children had no such worries. They were already doing this—exactly which bakery had stock, which route yielded the freshest warm milk, where to buy seasonings, beer, or household goods—they knew better than anyone.

Gangs didn't care about these kids, nor did they see them trespassing as provocation. And they knew too many shortcuts, especially underground passages. For a small delivery fee, you could get newspapers, bread, milk, beer—anything.

Cobblepot quickly mapped their network. The previous King of the Kids had been entangled in Constantin's affair and had since been sacrificed to the devil.

Afterward, several gangs fought fiercely for the throne. At first, Cobblepot, an outsider, faced heavy skepticism.

But the Penguin's ambition and intelligence were undeniable. He secured the throne not merely through violence, but because he could make everyone profit.

No child had his ability to coordinate all of Gotham's children, reassigning them optimal roles and the most efficient routes, doubling their daily earnings without conflict over customers.

East End bakeries also sold milk. Every morning, fresh milk arrived from farms outside the city and was delivered to the bakeries, where children could buy bread and milk directly. Depending on the customer, they might also stop at tobacco shops and bars for cigarettes and beer, then pick up a newspaper from the kiosk.

Cobblepot bundled these into different packages. If someone bought only bread and milk, vendors would recommend adding a newspaper. If someone frequently bought cigarettes and beer, vendors would suggest the breakfast package.

During the blizzard, people were forced to use these children because they were trapped at home. But after forming the habit, they found it incredibly convenient.

Every morning, before waking, hot milk and steaming bread waited outside their doors. Every evening, when they wanted a drink, they didn't need to go to the bar—they could get one delivered.

After several months, the vast majority of Gotham citizens had subscribed to the full package.

A typical three-person family in the East End ordered one pound of plain white bread, one bottle of milk. Better-off families added two slices of bacon and ham, plus a newspaper.

Those who bought cigarettes and beer usually ordered the night before, receiving delivery the next day. The same went for household goods.

Though the East End was a slum, Gotham's overall economic prosperity and abundant supplies meant its people weren't starving—three meals a day were still possible. The greatest problem in Gotham's slums was abysmal housing, frequent water and power outages, and disease caused by poor sanitation.

The "Living Hell" slum renovation progressed smoothly and had reached Phase Three. The entire outer perimeter of Living Hell had been upgraded, but resistance grew fierce when extending further out.

Living Hell's living and sanitation conditions had become unbearable, but elsewhere, conditions weren't nearly as dire. Since no one was starving, many didn't feel urgent about improving their homes—some even preferred to leave things as they were.

A local who had grown up here, never attended school, and had almost no contact with the outside world had no pressing need to improve his life—after all, life was still livable.