Chapter 748

"... already said it—that weirdo isn't any good." A fat man leaned back in his chair, picking his teeth with a toothpick. "Rescuing people unconditionally in Gotham? Doesn't that sound absurd?"

The man across from him was thinner, but his cufflinks and watch revealed he was wealthier than the fat man; he cleared his throat and said: "That's exactly what worries me. I have no prejudice against gangs. In shipping, I've seen plenty of local strongmen—feed them, and my ships are safe."

"But what I fear most are those idle youths who gather in small groups, skipping school, refusing honest work, always scheming petty thefts, sometimes causing big trouble. Ever since they blew up the mast of one of my ships, I've banned anyone under twenty from coming near my vessels."

Beside him, a wealthy lady in lavish attire wiped her lips with a handkerchief. "Yes, those brats are the worst. In my view, Batman is the same."

"I know this view is popular in university clubs—those naive boys think acting as vigilantes makes them heroes, so they feel entitled to do whatever they want. I strongly oppose this. A daughter of the Goth family would never admire such a person."

The fat man chimed in: "Yes, madam. Everyone knows your daughter is the most well-bred. But I doubt Batman has such good intentions. They say he saves people—but who has he actually saved?"

The fat man skewered a matsutake mushroom with his fork and popped it into his mouth. "Have any of you heard of friends who received his help? At least none of my chauffeurs have ever benefited from him."

At that moment, Miss Goth spoke: "I've never heard any of my classmates mention friends or family saved by Batman. It seems he's merely a figure of empty reputation—and this time, he probably couldn't hold back anymore."

"Oh, Miss, you attend an all-girls school?" the thinner man asked.

"Yes," Miss Goth nodded primly. "It's a church-run girls' school. I've studied at church schools my whole life, Mr. Vetter."

Mr. Vetter smiled and turned to Mrs. Goth. "Actually, I came to Gotham specifically for the Angelica Troupe's performance. After seeing their production of La Traviata in Metropolis, I couldn't stop thinking about it—the performance was exquisite."

"Such refined drama should be enjoyed by ladies. Would you and Miss Goth honor us with your presence at an Angelica Troupe performance, alongside my son and me?"

Mrs. Goth smiled faintly and nodded. Everyone at the table wore satisfied expressions.

Just then, a knock came at the door. Mrs. Goth nodded to the waiter, who stepped forward, opened it, and Oswald Cobblepot entered.

Over a year had passed; his body had grown considerably. Since he was naturally mature-faced and dressed exactly like an adult, his youth was nearly invisible.

Cobblepot stepped forward and shook Mr. Vetter's hand. "How was your dining experience, gentlemen and ladies?"

The fat man spoke first: "Excellent, Mr. Cobblepot—the ingredients are very fresh. But I must say, downstairs is far too noisy. How can laborers eat in the same restaurant as us?"

Mrs. Goth added: "Yes, when I came in, their shouting nearly shattered my eardrums. I've never seen so many uncultured people gathered in one place. Good heavens—if my daughter hadn't insisted on trying it, I'd never set foot in such a place!"

Cobblepot bowed his head and smiled. "Don't say that, madam. I allow them in because of your generosity. Think of this place as a charity hall—every dollar you spend here is an act of charity."

Mrs. Goth's brow relaxed slightly. She pursed her lips and nodded. "Then I suppose I'm being charitable. Before I came, I saw the waiters downstairs were children. Please take some tips down for them later—out of pity."

At this, Miss Goth made the sign of the cross over her chest. "I'm deeply saddened by the poor little girl mentioned on today's front page. She fell into the hands of evil and died on a cold night. I'll hold a choral memorial for her this coming weekend—I hope more people will come to mourn her…"

Miss Goth winked at her mother. Mrs. Goth covered her mouth. "My poor Bell—always so sentimental. Mr. Vetter, after the play, why don't we go to her school and listen to the choir?"

"Of course, madam. My son is also eager to do good."

They exchanged a glance, both smiling with satisfaction, and resumed chatting with Cobblepot—this time about the upcoming comedy.

Mid-conversation, a waiter suddenly entered, bowed low, whispered something to Cobblepot, his face still pale with fear. Cobblepot glanced at him, then smiled at the others.

"New restaurants always face all kinds of troubles, don't they? A poorly trained new hire broke one of my office sculptures and is now crying. I must deal with this. Please, carry on…"

He left. After the door closed, Mr. Vetter shook his head. "This owner is quite humorous—but sadly, lacks business foresight…"

The others nodded in agreement, but Cobblepot, now upstairs, heard none of it.

In the top-floor office, a dark figure stood by the window. The waiter stood outside, trembling, pointing at the shadow. "Boss, should we call someone? That looks like Batman…"

"No. Leave. I'll speak with him alone."

"But the papers say Batman's a murderous child-killer! Boss, please call someone!"

Cobblepot fixed him with a stare. The waiter's voice faded. He fell silent, turned, and gave Cobblepot a gesture—"Call me anytime."

Cobblepot entered, tapped his desk, and looked at Batman. "What are you doing here?"

"What did you do?" Batman asked.

Cobblepot stared silently. Batman spoke again: "You're fabricating news to frame me. The editor told me you ordered him to publish that article."

"Batman, you don't think losing to me comes without consequences, do you?" Cobblepot sneered. "We both know you lost. This is the price: ruin, public scorn."

"You're fabricating facts. Deliberately framing me."

Cobblepot lowered his head, then raised it again. "Aren't these facts? You killed that child. Her body is buried in a Gotham cemetery."

"Also, the children you sent to the hospital haven't improved. One has gone into shock—he's in intensive care. If nothing changes, he won't survive."

"Don't tell me the noble, righteous Batman considers this a failure." Cobblepot tapped his desk lightly. "Before you came, you must've investigated my restaurant. The children I took—they're well cared for."

"True, they're still malnourished, forced to work daily without pay. But now, try taking them away. If you succeed, you win." Cobblepot stared at Batman with defiance.

Batman wouldn't fall for such a trap. Cobblepot was goading him into a public rescue—confirming his villainous image. He stepped forward, locking eyes with Cobblepot. "Regardless, fabricating facts and distorting reports is a crime."

"You want to arrest me?" Cobblepot bared his teeth, then suddenly turned and bolted out the door.

Batman's fury peaked. He chased after him. Cobblepot knew the building better—he sprinted down the stairs. Batman knocked over a waiter on the way, but didn't notice the man scrambling up to grab a phone.

On the fifth floor, Cobblepot tripped and fell into the hallway, crying out in pain. Several VIP room doors opened.

Batman rushed down, grabbed Cobblepot's collar, and raised his fist to strike.

But the fist never landed. Cobblepot screamed. Guests screamed too. Batman heard a familiar voice—Mrs. Goth, shrieking:

"My God! Mr. Oswald!"

He was seized by Batman! Quick, go get help! This should be the Spencer family's territory—go summon their enforcers!

！」

「Batman! What are you doing?! You dare kill this restaurant owner in broad daylight? Are you insane?!

「Hurry! Call the police! Gotham's cops aren't the useless fools they used to be! They've got heavy firepower! Call now! Say Batman's trying to kill someone!

！」

Batman never touched Cobblepot, yet Cobblepot rolled on the ground screaming in agony. Those guests farther away, who hadn't seen what happened, began shouting along.

Batman looked at them, released Cobblepot's collar, gave him a cold glance, then leapt out the window.

Ten minutes later, Gordon opened the rooftop door and walked toward Batman, who stood at the building's edge. He sighed and said: "Batman, what exactly happened with that article—and just now?"

Batman stood silently at the rooftop's edge. Gordon stepped beside him and said: "You went too far today. Many upper-class people saw your actions. They believe you threaten their safety, and they've pressured Gotham PD heavily to take you in for investigation."

"If I didn't still have some standing in the police force, you'd already be wanted. After all, the Iceberg Lounge just opened—it's packed with people—and you publicly assaulted Oswald..."

"I didn't assault him." Batman said.

"Batman, we haven't talked like this in a long time. I'm not here to lecture you, but I must say—you need to calm down and think about what you're really doing."

"Yes, I believe you wouldn't do anything malicious. If a little girl really died, it might've been an accident—a mistake. But you should also consider better ways to do good. If you keep going like this, we'll all suffer."

"Why don't you use that same advice on yourself?" Batman said. "You should find another way to do good. You don't have to stay in Gotham."

"You're angry, Batman. You know this isn't the same thing. If your emotions hadn't gotten out of control, I'm sure you wouldn't have attacked Cobblepot in public. The fact that you did means you've been troubled lately."

Gordon sighed. "You don't have to push yourself so hard. You don't have to solve all of Gotham's evil in one night. Sometimes, you need to learn to return to life. You still have to live, don't you?"

Before turning to leave, Gordon said: "Go back to your estate. Live quietly for a few days. Don't show up again these nights. Otherwise, your name will be on a wanted poster."

After Gordon left, only the howling winter wind of Gotham remained around Batman. Then, another set of footsteps approached. A whip curled around Batman's waist, followed by a warm body pressing against him.

"Darling, I've been looking for you for days. Where have you been?" Catwoman's voice came. "You look... unhappy?"

"You should read the newspapers." Batman didn't turn, his tone calm.

"I read them. So what? I don't believe that was you." Catwoman wrapped her arms around Batman's neck. "To me, you're a hopeless softie—sacrificing your own fun just to save people."

"If you truly failed to save someone, it must've been an accident. It could never be intentional. Compared to me, you seem to care more about those strangers you couldn't save, don't you? My Jesus?"

Catwoman's teasing tone flickered in Batman's ears, stirring anger in him. He couldn't stand how she treated everything like a game.

He pulled her hands off, removed the whip from his body, and shoved her away. "You don't have to see me. Going to the amusement park is just as good."

"What? Why?" Catwoman was baffled. "We haven't seen each other in over a week. Don't you want to go for a ride? Like before—racing across Gotham's rooftops?"

"Selina." Batman turned, calling her by name. "Not everyone can treat every event in their life with your flippant attitude."

Catwoman stared at Batman. "Have you ever considered that maybe you're too serious?"

She stepped back two paces, flicked her whip into the air, then turned and walked away.

Batman took a deep breath, closed his eyes in pain. Everyone around him held this attitude—but he was certain he was right.

He should plan for everything, maximize success rates, reflect and improve, keep everything under his control. This isn't being too serious—it's the foundation of being Batman.

Batman stood on the rooftop, overlooking Gotham's thousand lights. Then he saw a robbery unfolding in a nearby shop. He leapt down to confront the criminals.

But the shop owner, who had been screaming, saw Batman's silhouette and raised a gun, pointing it at him. He shouted:

"Batman? It's Batman! Get out! Get out of my store! Or I'm calling the police!"

！」

Batman only wanted to subdue the criminals, but the owner's shout drew out other shopkeepers—all armed. One hot-tempered owner fired directly at Batman.

Batman rolled aside, instinctively threw a batarang toward the shooter. The shopkeeper dodged wildly—the batarang grazed his hair and embedded deep into the store's sign.

Batman's silhouette, the shopkeeper's panicked expression, and the sign torn open by the batarang—this image froze on the front page of tomorrow's newspaper.

Again, Bruce took the newspaper from a neighbor's mailbox and sighed, turning to look at Wayne Manor. Perhaps, he thought, Batman needed a few days off.

These past days had exhausted him. He couldn't focus. Last night, on his way back, a stray bullet from a gang shootout had grazed him. While recovering, he could gather evidence to restore his reputation.

When he returned to Wayne Manor, Alfred was not in the foyer. Bruce frowned. Normally, at this hour, Alfred would be adding wood to the fireplace.

As he crossed the foyer toward the back garden, he suddenly heard violent coughing.

He saw Alfred leaning against the corridor wall, coughing fiercely, gagging.

His aged, hunched body slowly slid down the wall. His once-pristine suit now wrinkled from the motion.

Bruce's eyes widened. He rushed forward, lifted Alfred, and asked: "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

Alfred shook his head. "No. It's just cold weather—I caught a cold. I've taken medicine. I'll be fine soon."

"We're going to the hospital." Bruce looked at him seriously. "This doesn't look like a simple cold!"

He helped Alfred into the car and drove straight to the hospital.

Ten minutes later, only Bruce walked out of the hospital holding the diagnosis slip. It read: "Severe cold—possibly from exposure to rain."

Bruce remembered: when Elsa ran out, Alfred had been frantic. He'd grabbed a small umbrella. The wind outside had been fierce.

In the running, it was impossible to shield his whole body. When Alfred returned, Bruce was still drunk-driving. He never saw Alfred's soaked clothes—or took him to the hospital right away.

Standing before the hospital, Bruce looked up at Gotham's gloomy sky, clutching the diagnosis slip tightly.

He didn't understand why he had ruined everything.

Batman's reputation has been ruined; people no longer listen to him. He has become a pariah in Gotham, and soon he may be wanted by the police.

Dick would rather stay at school than come home; Isis is still angry with him, Alfred is hospitalized with a severe cold, Schiller is deeply disappointed in him for drinking and street racing, Gordon feels he cannot communicate with him, and Catwoman has left him in fury.

Standing on the sunless streets of Gotham, Bruce raised his hand to shield his eyes, then slowly crouched down.

He ruined Batman's life, and he ruined Bruce's life.

In that moment, Bruce felt an irresistible despair engulf him, for he knew he was alone again.

At that moment, Bruce suddenly felt a shadow fall across the ground before him. He looked up and saw a pale, grinning face.

"What do I see?" The Joker tilted his head, made a sobbing expression, and said: "... sad little bat! Oh! Come here, let me hug you! Hahahahahahahaha!"

!

The Joker laughed and opened his arms, and within them were nothing but bombs.