Chapter 780: The Deadly Joke (Part 4)

Without academic pressure, Bruce returned to his life as Batman—idle by day, fighting crime by night—and his first order of business was to visit the children he had saved before.

The children he had sent to the hospital had mostly recovered, but only their physical injuries from abuse had been treated; their chronic weakness from long-term malnutrition still needed rehabilitation.

Bruce had expected to find a group of children restored to vitality when he returned to the hospital, but instead, upon entering the high-end ward he had rented at great cost, he found chaos.

The room reeked of an indescribable stench; the white walls were smeared with unknown substances—vomit or feces—food scraps and broken trays littered the floor, and none of the children lay in bed; some sat on the ground leaning against walls, others curled up in corners, asleep.

Bruce felt furious. He called the doctors and nurses, demanding: "What the hell are you doing? How did this happen? I paid top price for the best ward, hired the best attendants—why is this still the state it's in?!"

It was no wonder he was angry—he had brought these children here under his own name, Bruce Wayne.

He had gone straight to the hospital director, rented two connected rooms on the top floor—the most luxurious private recovery suites—hired the most expensive attendants, and tipped every doctor and nurse. Yet even so, they had managed to care for these children this poorly. Anyone would be furious.

But the doctors and nurses were equally helpless. The head nurse stepped forward and said: "Mr. Wayne, this is a hospital, not a school. We cannot educate these children."

She sighed, looking at the room's condition, and added: "These children have severe psychological issues. Our staff barely dare approach them without risking attack. Rose? Rose, are you here?"

The head nurse turned and called out. Another, younger intern nurse stepped forward. The head nurse took her hand and showed it to Bruce. Bruce saw a deep wound on the girl's arm—still red, stitches not fully healed—and the head nurse said:

"Rose and Sophia are responsible for daily care in this ward. About a week ago, just before her shift ended, she came in to check if the beds were properly adjusted…"

"She walked in, and all the children were watching her—completely silent. So Rose didn't feel threatened. But as she adjusted one of the beds, a child suddenly lunged at her, slashing her arm with a shard of broken tray. She needed seven stitches."

The head nurse grew angrier as she spoke: "Rose just graduated this year. We assigned her here precisely because she's exceptional—we want these children to have the best possible care more than anyone."

"Rose checks their wounds every day, but these kids show her no gratitude. Besides this slash, her arm bears several bite marks—all from these children. Sophia has the same."

The head nurse clearly differed from the ordinary nurses—she had more backbone, and even facing Bruce Wayne, she spoke with unyielding conviction:

"Mr. Wayne, we understand you may have seen these children on the street, pitied them, and brought them here."

"But this isn't something you can fix with a momentary act of kindness. They need long-term treatment and education. Their behaviors must be corrected. They need teachers more than doctors."

As the head nurse's tone grew more intense, the attending physician intervened, but sighed and said: "Mr. Wayne, you've surely noticed—we've done everything we can."

"Two senior nurses, two new nurses, three top-tier attendants, a head nurse, and one attending physician have been monitoring this ward nonstop. We've even brought in psychiatrists to guide them."

"But you know better than anyone: children this age don't need doctors checking their bodies daily. They need their parents. They need a safe environment. They need love."

"Otherwise, no matter how carefully we care for them behind these walls, they'll still turn everything to ruin."

Bruce touched his face and said: "Fine. I admit I've been busy lately. After dropping them here, I didn't check on them. But now, I need a plan—something that can at least let them live normally…"

The doctor and head nurse exchanged a glance. "We know this may sound cruel, Mr. Wayne, but sometimes, bringing home a stray cat isn't entirely kind—it can hurt both you and the cat."

"They've adapted to life on the streets. They can survive even in Gotham's lowest depths. If you insist on forcing a change in their lifestyle, be prepared for a long, bitter struggle."

Bruce took a deep breath. "I donate tens of millions annually to charity. You should believe in my commitment to philanthropy."

The doctor nodded. "If you truly understand this isn't a problem money can solve, our hospital can provide you with a detailed psychological treatment plan. But implementation—you'll have to handle yourself."

Bruce nodded. "Give me your professional advice. The rest is mine. I don't believe I can't save just a few children."

After the doctor left, Bruce stood outside the door, watching the children. He thought: perhaps healing their physical wounds alone couldn't solve the root problem—but if he committed more, applied more professional methods, addressing both body and mind together, change must be possible.

Back at Wayne Tower, Bruce immediately called a meeting. Standing before the table, he spoke with unwavering resolve:

"Beyond the Wayne Foundation, I will establish a separate foundation focused on the physical and psychological health of children under ten in Gotham. I want professionals to deliver a viable strategy to fundamentally improve the living conditions of children in this city."

The employees beneath him showed no surprise. They were used to their boss's impulsive, fleeting enthusiasms.

But this time, Bruce was resolute.

Before, he would never have done this—he believed Bruce Wayne could never save Gotham. Only Batman could.

He had once strongly resisted acting under his Bruce Wayne identity. But after everything he'd been through, he finally understood: he must no longer be bound by the limits of any single identity. He must act with results in mind, giving everything he had to achieve his goal.

Soon, the foundation plan was ready. The hospital's treatment proposal arrived. Bruce first read the psychological care plan from Central Hospital—but he was dissatisfied.

The plan emphasized drug therapy, aiming to calm emotions and reduce agitation. Bruce had never been a doctor, but he had studied psychology for years. His psychology professor, Shiler, favored traditional schools of thought and disliked prescribing medication on a whim.

Bruce didn't hesitate long. Sitting in his office, he picked up a pen and began writing his own plan.

Bruce Wayne had received the most classic elite education. So, as Bruce Wayne, when he first set out to solve Gotham's problems, his plan immediately opened to a grand scale.

First, under Wayne Enterprises, he would establish the Gotham Center for Mental and Psychological Disorders, gathering the world's most renowned psychologists and psychiatrists to analyze psychological issues arising from specific social strata—including children.

Second, establish a dedicated charitable foundation to monitor the living conditions of Gotham's children, analyzing the societal and human causes of harmful conditions—such as abuse, excessive labor, and severe illness—and investing resources to reverse the worst cases.

Third, create a specialized child protection organization to eliminate threats of violence during improvement efforts.

Finally, Bruce wrote a single word on paper: Education.

He stared at that word for a long, long time. The sheer scale of the project made even Wayne Enterprises hesitate.

He suddenly realized: his earlier belief—that saving a city with Wayne Enterprises' scale might be simple—was naive.

The greater one's ability, the more one can do—and the more one's ambitions grow. But satisfying such ambition demands even greater ability. People are like this: spend a dollar to get ten dollars' worth, spend a hundred to get a thousand's worth, spend a billion to get ten billion's worth…

Bruce suddenly realized: even Wayne Enterprises, at the pinnacle of global power, was not omnipotent. Raising basic education in a single city remained an immense challenge.

Thinking of this, Bruce Wayne realized: he had too much to do.

He was rich—but not rich enough. His intellect was high—but there were strategies he couldn't conceive. His resolve was firm—but the road ahead still stretched endlessly. His thirst for vengeance burned fiercely—but in Gotham's dark rain-soaked night, it was but a tiny flame, ready to be snuffed out.

Batman stood on the roof of Wayne Tower, gazing down at the city once more, and realized: its abyss had no bottom.

He realized he was like a bat hanging in the attic, unaware how far the ground truly lay below.

Only when he began to act did he see: the tangled, intricate web was beyond his grasp, beyond his sight.

He spread his cape again and dove downward. As he flew past countless lights, Batman thought: the bat sleeping in the attic was nothing but a useless thing thrown out by the house's owner—a pest no one cared about.

To truly save this city, he must resolve to crash to the ground and die—only then would he learn how deep the abyss truly was, how heavy the suffering.

Only then would he learn how hard it is to light a single lamp in this place.