Chapter 755

Alfred in the ward coughed twice and said, "Who's here? I thought I heard Professor Shiler's voice."

"No, no one." Bruce instinctively denied it. Alfred gasped twice, drank some water, then said, "I haven't spoken to that professor in a long time—I wonder how he's been lately…"

"He's been doing well." Bruce turned back, adjusted Alfred's hospital bed, filled his water cup, and said, "I'm sorry, Alfred. I won't be able to stay with you tonight. I'll come back to see you tomorrow morning."

"Go on, Master. Dick and Aisha still need you. By the way, aren't you in your fourth year of university now? I heard Gotham University selects outstanding graduates. Thomas Master was one— I'm sure he wouldn't mind adding another award to the Wayne family honor wall."

Bruce coughed twice and said, "... 'll do it."

Without looking back, he left. Alfred smiled, and after Bruce was gone, he whispered, "Without distant worries, there are near troubles. If one is always burdened by near troubles, perhaps one won't indulge in idle thoughts."

Bruce didn't hear Alfred's words, but he knew clearly that certain accumulated tensions had been on the verge of ignition—and this explosion, while unlikely to destroy Gotham City, would certainly knock him down hard.

Looking back on Bruce's three years of study, his learning style couldn't be called diligent—it was more like fishing three days and drying nets two. His grades weren't exceptional; they relied entirely on birthright. Had he not borne the Wayne name, he'd have been expelled long ago.

On the way back to the city, Bruce thought he had ample justification for all of this.

After all, Batman's day only has twenty-four hours. First, he needs four to five hours of sleep to maintain basic energy—leaving him with twenty hours.

Batman spends seven to eight hours fighting crime, leaving him roughly ten hours for studying.

But don't forget: all of Batman's gear is self-developed. Beyond hardware like the Batmobile and Batsuit, he must also develop medical tech and pharmaceuticals—so now he's down to five or six hours a day.

Of those five or six hours, subtract mandatory meals, and what's left is mostly spent maintaining the gear. Occasionally, he might spend one or two hours with Dick and Aisha—but studying? If he gets half an hour left, it's already a miracle.

He truly had ample justification for his poor grades and missed assignments—but whether the people he needed to explain them to would even listen? That was another matter.

Batman never felt he needed to explain anything to anyone—provided he could beat them.

Bruce knew he had a contingency plan for Shiler, but he couldn't activate it over a missed assignment. Not only would he have no moral ground, but if Alfred found out he'd tried to attack his professor, he'd be finished.

Since the overdue assignments were unavoidable, he'd just have to try to finish them.

On the drive back to the city, Bruce gripped the steering wheel as Gotham's howling night wind swept past his ears. He felt his palms sweating steadily, accelerating faster and faster until his vision blurred.

But Gotham was always like this: when you gave everything to accomplish something, unexpected obstacles always rose as roadblocks, drowning every plan and preparation.

A screech—the brakes slammed hard. Bruce's body lurched forward, then slammed back against the seat. Before he could speak, the driver in front roared.

"You damn idiot! Can't you see?! Get out of my way!"

The massive truck sped off. But Bruce suddenly felt a crash from behind.

He unbuckled, got out, and checked: the impact wasn't severe, but the rear of his car was dented.

The car that hit him was also expensive—and out stepped someone Bruce had just seen.

"Oh my God, Mr. Wayne, what are you doing here?" Mrs. Goth adjusted her shawl, walked to the back of Bruce's car, and gasped, covering her mouth. "My heavens, I'm so sorry! Leon! Leon! Come here—you've damaged Mr. Wayne's car!"

Leon, the fat man in the driver's seat, got out, wiped sweat from his forehead, and bowed apologetically to Bruce.

Bruce frowned, then flashed an irritable expression. "What the hell were you doing? This is a brand-new car! And there aren't any parts for it in all of Gotham—I'll have to ship it elsewhere for repairs!"

"We are truly sorry, Mr. Wayne. We will cover all costs," said Lady Goethe, pulling her daughter who had just stepped out. "We just encountered a murder at the theater and are still shaken—Leon may have been frightened and didn't notice ahead. Please forgive him; we will compensate!"

"But I'm in a hurry now—your crash wrecked my car. How am I supposed to drive off like this? Am I supposed to let people laugh at me?" Bruce said, clearly annoyed.

Leon checked his own vehicle; due to its model and bumper design, it showed no visible damage, so he said, "I'm truly sorry, Mr. Wayne. Please ride with us—we'll take you to your destination."

"As for this car, we'll send for the best towing company to have it repaired, and we'll cover all costs."

Leon bowed deeply to Bruce, but Bruce still seemed dissatisfied. He glanced at Lady Goth, who understood his meaning. She said, "Leon is a distant cousin of mine. He's from Los Angeles and came to Gotham this time to scout for an actress for his new film investment…"

"To be honest, we visited the theater troupe and checked backstage hoping to find a suitable actress who could head to Hollywood. But who knew this would happen…" Lady Goth sighed with regret, then pointed to the car door. "Mr. Wayne, please get in."

Bruce sat in the front passenger seat. As the car moved, he feigned interest and asked, "You came to Gotham to find actresses? How did that idea come about?"

Leon smiled, pulled out a box of cigars from the car, and offered one to Bruce. Bruce took it skillfully, lit it, and drew in a puff. "Then again, you're not wrong—there really are plenty of beauties here."

"Mr. Wayne, I've heard much about you," Fat Leon smiled. "Hollywood never lacks beauties—but it's desperately short of investors as generous as you. If you're willing to invest in Hollywood films, those actresses will surely flock around you."

Bruce exhaled a plume of smoke and snorted. "I do have some interest in films. Tell me more about this investment."

Leon gave a knowing smile. He knew such matters couldn't be discussed openly—and often, not outright refusal meant three words: "Let's talk privately."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne, I have a film project that's missing an investor. Of course, if you invest, you may choose the lead actress yourself. If your companion is interested in films, she could even join the production…"

"Her?" Bruce smirked. "She can't act. Forget it. I'm almost there. We'll talk another time."

"Here's my card," Leon immediately handed it over. "If you're interested, call me anytime—I'm always available."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, took the card, slipped it into his pocket, then opened the car door and stepped into Wayne Manor.

After returning to Wayne Manor, he went straight to the basement and turned on the listening device's receiver. From the speaker came the voices of Lady Goth and Leon.

"... e didn't bite. But that's normal. Young Wayne may be a playboy, but he's not stupid. One or two attempts won't win his trust." Leon's voice no longer carried its earlier deference—it had turned dark and cold.

"Did we seem too eager? Maybe we should have waited until the second or third meeting to bring up the film again?" Lady Goth's voice came through.

Hearing this, Bruce initially thought they were simple con artists. But then Leon's next words made him realize they had far greater intentions.

"I was counting on Vicky. But after only two contacts, she lost her nerve and told the theater owner she planned to go to Hollywood."

"Bad luck for her—the theater owner's a madman. He killed her outright. A shame. With Vicky's talent, she could've drawn many elites to our Great King."

At the words "Great King," Bruce frowned. But then Leon spoke again:

"If we can bring Wayne into this, we won't lack funds. More importantly, the Wayne family's influence could make Gotham our stronghold on the East Coast."

"But the Goth family…" Lady Goth sounded anxious.

"Yes, the Great King won't forget your contributions. But with the Wayne family on our side, we'll gain wings. Once our grand dominion over humanity is achieved, your reward will come sooner."

Lady Goth fell silent. Bruce heard no more from Leon. Standing before the receiver, he realized this group hid far greater secrets.

As Bruce pondered, he instinctively glanced at the clock on the wall.

He saw it was already 9: 0 p. . and he had to submit his fifty-thousand-word thesis by 9: 0 a. . tomorrow.

Bruce practically sprinted upstairs. Dick, waiting in the hall, nearly toppled over from the wind he stirred. He chased after him. "Mr. Wayne, are you telling Aisha a story tonight? If so, I won't…"

"No, Dick. No story tonight. I have urgent work. If you're tired, go to sleep."

Bruce didn't turn as he spoke. Dick shook his head, baffled, unsure what had gotten into Bruce.

He was about to head upstairs when Bruce, arms piled high with papers, nearly knocked him over. Dick frowned, turned his head, then climbed the stairs.

In Aisha's room, Selina was soothing her to sleep. Seeing Dick, she waved him over. "Take over. I'll go check on Bruce—he's been acting strange lately."

Dick picked up Aisha. Selina descended the stairs, glanced around the hall, then turned toward the study.

She tiptoed into the study and found Bruce buried under piles of papers, furiously writing. She smiled, stepped close, and said, "Are you alright, darling? Want to take a drive?"

She dangled the car key ring in front of him with her fingertip. Bruce didn't look up. "The car's in the garage. When you come back, park properly."

Selina's eyes widened. She stared at Bruce from head to toe. "What? You want me to go alone???"