Chapter 784

Ten minutes later, Bruce watched as Joker, sitting in the passenger seat, wiped his eyes with a tissue and said in an exaggerated, mocking tone, "Oh, the joke you told was just too funny! I haven't laughed this hard in a long time!"

"What's so funny?" Bruce asked, staring straight ahead.

Suddenly, Joker leaned toward Bruce, his face nearly touching Bruce's, and asked with wide eyes, "Do you need to eat? Do you get hungry? I have bread in my car, do you want some?"

"No, I'm not hungry," Bruce replied, but Joker immediately saw through him. He pressed his head near Bruce's stomach and said, "I heard your stomach growling. You must be hungry. Come on, have a piece of bread!"

Joker pulled the half-eaten bread from his pocket and sniffed it hard, saying, "This is leftover from last night, but it tastes really good. Don't you want some?"

"No." Bruce refused again. He wouldn't eat anything of Joker's even if he were starving; who knew what kind of explosives he might have stuffed inside?

Joker suddenly went quiet. He sat bolt upright in the passenger seat, clutching the half-loaf of bread, and stared at the congested traffic ahead. "Why didn't you ask me that question earlier?... Why not earlier?"

"What question?" Bruce looked at him.

"How do you eat without money?... That's what you just asked me. You really should have asked me sooner." Joker suddenly changed his expression. He smoothed his messy hair and rubbed his eyes.

"What's wrong with that question?" Bruce asked again.

"Nothing." Joker shook his head, as if he didn't want to talk anymore. After a while, he asked, "Did you earn any money?"

"Not yet." Bruce stepped on the gas, and the truck moved forward a short distance before stopping again.

Joker went eerily silent, as if he didn't exist. Bruce drove the truck forward in fits and starts, and after being stuck on the overpass for over an hour, he finally neared the distribution point.

At the distribution point, Bruce discovered that the person coming to receive the cargo today was a stranger, and he looked like trouble.

Bruce reached for the gun he had just bought. The moment the group saw the weapon, their expressions changed. The bald man in the lead signaled to the back, and a thin man stepped forward, looking at Bruce with cold indifference. "You're new, aren't you? Do you know the rules of this distribution point?"

Having been in the slums for days, Bruce's genius-level intellect and learning ability had already helped him grasp the rules of the bottom rung. He didn't say much, simply chambered a round and raised the gun. "I only know the rules of this thing."

Only then did the bald man step forward. "Alright, kid, don't get too excited. None of us want trouble. After all, this is a good time to make money; if you end up in the hospital, you won't earn a cent."

"Which warehouse do I go to?" Bruce asked, touching the grip of his gun again. The thin man spoke up, "Go to Warehouse 4 and wait in line to unload."

Bruce pointed the gun at him and partially squeezed the trigger. "Don't try to cheat me. Warehouse 4 has the smallest parking spots; it takes half an hour just to make a turn. Let me go to Warehouse 8."

"You're pushing it," the thin man said, raising his voice. "Warehouse 8 is for the Street Gang from Green Street. A country bumpkin from Cross Square like you wants to go to Warehouse 8?"

The bald man also tried to persuade him, "New guy, don't think you're so great just because you have a gun. Everyone here has a gun; we just don't take them out because we don't want to waste bullets. How about this? We'll open a back door for you and let you unload at Warehouse 5. That's the third largest space..."

Bruce remained unmoved. "If you don't let me unload at Warehouse 8, I'll unload right here."

He turned as if to open the cargo door. Only then did the bald man's expression change. He walked quickly to Bruce and blocked him, gritting his teeth. "Alright, kid, who taught you that?"

Seeing his expression, Bruce knew the tactic worked. It was a trick he'd learned yesterday after buying a meal for an old truck driver from Cross Square.

The people guarding the distribution point weren't afraid of you threatening them with a gun—after all, as he'd said, who didn't have a gun here? They probably had more bullets than him.

What they feared was you parking your truck right in the middle of the path and dumping all the cargo at the entrance. If you did that, no other trucks could get in. With trucks parked haphazardly, it would take all afternoon to clear the mess.

Plus, if any trucks carrying valuables were blocked on the road, the big gang bosses would come asking questions, and everyone would be in trouble.

Ordinary truck drivers didn't use this trick, either because they didn't know it or because they were afraid of offending too many people. But Bruce had no such worries; he had no tangled web of relationships. The one with nothing to lose wasn't afraid of the one with everything to lose.

The bald man saw this too. He lowered his voice and said, "Let's compromise. Unload at Warehouse 7."

"I'm going to Warehouse 8, or no deal." Bruce stared at him and added, "I've already taken one step back. Don't think I don't know that 8 isn't even the best warehouse. Behind the corner to the east of Warehouse 9, there's one specifically for transporting..."

"Alright, shut up." The bald man looked left and right. "You know quite a bit, but you'd better keep your mouth shut, or it won't end well for you."

With that, he waved to the people behind him. "Let him unload at Warehouse 8!"

Bruce grabbed his gun and returned to the driver's seat. Joker, sitting in the passenger seat, clapped his hands. "That was a great performance, Mr. Truck Driver! Only a week on the job and you've already figured out all the tricks!"

Bruce turned the wheel and said, "A week is still too long. I should have figured this out in three days."

Joker lit a cigarette. Bruce frowned. "Don't smoke in my truck."

"Just one." Joker stuck his hand out the window with practiced ease and flicked the ash. "In three days, you learned how to drive a truck in Cat Getan. And then what? What are you going to do?"

Bruce was about to speak, but Joker took a deep drag of his cigarette and said, "Then you'll end your stupid 'experiencing life' phase, go back to Wei En Tower, and tell those shareholders that living in the slums is nothing special."

"You'll tell them that those poor wretches don't know how to work hard, and that they deserve to go hungry."

"Those beggars sitting on the side of the road—couldn't they have spent three days learning how to drive a truck? Since they're so lazy, they shouldn't be asking rich people for food when they're hungry. It's all their own fault."

Joker's tone was calm, devoid of any anger. He put the cigarette back in his mouth and said, "Then, that night, you'll put on your multi-billion dollar Batman suit, come to the slums where you 'experienced life,' and beat the hell out of the thugs who gave you a hard time."

"You'll think you've stood up for the people here, fulfilling the dream they've always had of beating up those villains."

"They won't sing your praises; they'll even publish newspapers slandering you. You'll think they're truly ungrateful and not worth saving."

"Then, you'll stand back on top of Wei En Tower, thinking that heroes are destined to bear the burden of insults and be misunderstood. The world kisses you with pain, yet you respond with a song, never forgetting your kind nature..."

The smoke drifted away. Joker flicked the ash out the window again and said, "Batman, this is why I say that anyone who dresses up as a bat is a lunatic."

"Have you ever thought that this society doesn't need you at all? Everything you do is just to move yourself."

"People are very good at calling things they don't need 'trash.' We are both trash thrown out by society, but only you think you're a hero."

"They see you as trash, but you see yourself as the god who saves them." Joker turned to look at Bruce. "Batman, we've never looked up to you, because everything you do says that this society is right."

"But in reality, they are narrow-minded. Anything not needed by them is labeled as trash."

"There's plenty of trash thrown out by society. We all treat this ugly society as a game, having fun and laughing out loud here."

"Only you, with your long face, act as if the master who threw you out is something precious and worth looking forward to."

Joker flicked the cigarette butt out the window and said, "You look ugly, like a dog abandoned by its master."

Bruce turned to look at Joker. "Are you done? Don't you have your own truck?"

"You've hit on another point." Joker turned to him with a smile. "I used to have one, but not anymore."

"Why not?" Bruce asked.

"That's the previous question."

"What question?"

"How do you eat without money?" Joker shrugged. "How do you buy a truck without money?"

"Then what about your old truck?" Bruce asked.

"Let me think." Joker tapped his temple, looking thoughtful. "Was it the first week I became a truck driver... or the second? My truck was set on fire."

"I can't quite remember why. Maybe I didn't load the cargo the way the gang wanted, or maybe I didn't give the warehouse managers their cut. Anyway, one day, when I walked out, I saw a raging fire..."

Joker waved a hand in front of his face. "I saw my new truck burning. It was raining that night, but the rain couldn't put out a fire like that. It burned into a wreck right before my eyes..."

"At first, I went crazy trying to put it out. The flames burned off my eyebrows and scorched my face. But later, the rain got heavier..."

Accompanied by Joker's voice, the rain began to fall, making a fine, pattering sound as it hit the ground. The crackle of burning flames echoed in his ears. In the rainy night, the fire consuming the truck was exceptionally fierce.

A dark shadow stood before the inferno, watching it burn quietly, like a traveler who had exhausted his last bit of strength on a snowy night.

Energy, time, and heart's blood had all been spent in the long, long night. He had no other firewood to burn; he could only burn the hope of the future.

He used these flames to keep warm, hoping not to freeze to death tonight. But he didn't need to survive the night, because there would be no sun tomorrow, either.

In the rainy night, he sat on the ground, head tilted back, watching the truck's flames burn quietly. The rain fell on him, but it didn't hit the ground; instead, like an infant returning to its mother's embrace, it vanished into his body.

Watching the rich, intense flames, the traveler jumped up and danced, rejoicing with genuine feeling for this final night of revelry.

Amidst the rising flames, he laughed, letting out a deafening, insane peal of laughter that pierced the dark sky of Cat Getan.

Because he knew that it was precisely because of this fire that he finally had the chance to laugh, to pierce the clouds and shroud the city.

It was this very fire that burned away the mask of poverty and hardship that had been forced upon him, allowing him to reveal a genuine smile and perform such a magnificent act.

Instead of, like everyone else wearing a mask, walking gently into that good night, just as society hoped they would—coming in with a clamor and dying in silence.