Chapter 791

That night, Gotham's rain was unusually cold, carrying not just chill but a hollow despair that made one shiver from head to toe.

A figure staggered out of a pitch-black alley, leaning against the wall as he vomited violently, then burst into a fit of coughing, muttering incoherent nonsense; when he finally shuffled onto a step, the streetlamp illuminated Constantine's haggard face.

He hiccuped, slumping weakly against the icy wall, reeking of something foul; from the two shoe prints on his trench coat, it was clear he'd been kicked out for lacking money to buy more marijuana.

But his addiction kept raging—his hand trembled so badly he couldn't even strike a match; after several failed attempts, wasting only a few matches, Constantine sighed and slipped the cigarette back into his pocket.

Suddenly, he saw a flicker of flame appear on the other side of the wall, reaching toward him.

Constantine's eyes lit up instantly; he pulled out his cigarette, leaned forward, and lit it with the flame, inhaling deeply before exhaling a plume of smoke. "Thanks, buddy."

But the next second, he nearly jumped off the ground—he saw the face on the other side of the wall: Bruce, painted in clown makeup.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Constantine gasped. "If I hadn't activated my Spirit Sight, I'd have thought it was that lunatic! … Wait, you're not him, are you?"

He reactivated his Spirit Sight and scanned Bruce's soul from head to toe, then exhaled in relief. "Oh, good—you're not him… Wait, why are you wearing this makeup? Is it Halloween?"

Constantine forced his still-drugged brain to focus. He recalled: April Fools' Day was long past, and he hadn't offended Batman recently.

Constantine crouched opposite Bruce, studying his face closely.

He realized the makeup wasn't painted on—Bruce's skin seemed soaked in some chemical agent, now wrinkled and sallow, unnaturally pale; his lips were unnaturally red because the chemical had stripped away the skin, revealing raw blood.

Constantine narrowed his eyes, about to speak—when he saw Bruce pull a cigar from his pocket, light it, and the familiar scent reached him.

His eyes widened, his expression shifting from the most stunned he'd ever been to pure rage.

He snatched the cigar from Bruce's hand and hurled it to the ground, crushing it under his heel. "Batman!"

"Are you insane?!"

"Do you even know what you're smoking?!"

Bruce leaned against the wall. "Of course I know—it's just the same smoke you usually smoke. Smells identical. Of course, I know they call this stuff 'drugs' here…"

"You can't see it?" Bruce coughed hard twice. "I'm sick. I need this drug. I plan to get more later…"

"You're fucking insane!" Constantine, as if struck, shouted at Bruce. "Drug?!?! Use your goddamn genius brain—do you think this is a drug?!?!"

"You…" Constantine crouched, pressing his palms to his forehead. "Listen to me, listen, Bruce… Listen, kid—I smoke this because I'm terminal lung cancer. Terminal. Do you understand? My lungs are rotting away…"

"If you had Spirit Sight… never mind, you don't—but you must know: I'm dying. This isn't medicine. It's painkillers."

"I'm in pain right now," Bruce said, voice utterly flat, devoid of emotion. "I have a lot to do later. I can't afford to be incapacitated. I need to regain my focus."

"But this won't restore your focus!" Constantine stood up, hands spread. "Marijuana only dulls your memory, induces hallucinations, makes you nauseous, drenches you in cold sweat, drains every ounce of strength…"

"Prolonged use can damage your Ma Lei function. Overdose can cause shock—or death!"

At that moment, Constantine spun in place, gripping his forehead. "My God! Why am I even explaining this to someone?!"

His fingers trembled. He paused, then looked down at Bruce. "Do you really need me to say it? Do you need me to sound like a coward and admit this is awful? Fine."

"I want to vomit. My lungs ache. Every two minutes I cough until I throw up—and half this agony is thanks to this shit. Are you satisfied?!"

Constantine gritted his teeth. "Batman, you've really outdone yourself. Your psychology studies have clearly paid off."

"How did you know that if you turn yourself into a hostage, I'd have to act like some righteous savior and beg you to stop?!"

Bruce stood, reaching for the cigarette. Constantine shoved him hard—but to his shock, Bruce collapsed.

Constantine was even more stunned. "Satan! How weak have you become?! … No, you haven't… wait, wait…"

Constantine snatched the cigarette from beside his foot and hurled it across the street. Not satisfied, he ignited a flame in his palm, shaped it into a fireball, and hurled it at the cigarette until it was reduced to ash—only then did he relax.

Constantine knew he couldn't provoke Bruce with violence. He helped Bruce up, guided him to a nearby step, then knelt before him, gripping his shoulders.

"Bruce, I know you think I'm unreliable. Fine—I admit it. I'm a mess. I got hooked at fourteen. Just for fun, you know? All my friends were doing it."

"I'm not like you. I didn't grow up in the rich district. My parents didn't care. I was raised by a pack of scumbags who got me into this. I thought it was cool…"

"Yeah… yeah… at first, it felt great. God, I could lie on the couch all day. But I was too young—just like you—and I didn't realize how dangerous it was…"

Constantine released his grip, resting his hands on his knees. "Whoever got you into this—stop now. You still have time."

Constantine took a drag from his cigarette, snapped his fingers, and exhaled a plume of smoke.

Suddenly, a demonic apparition appeared on the street before him. Constantine walked over, pointed at it. "See? I can summon demons. That's why I dare do these things."

"If one day I decide I don't want to be this rotten anymore, I can sell my soul for decades of peace. But Bruce… Bruce… look at me…"

Constantine gripped Bruce's head on both sides, turning his face toward him. "Can you summon demons? Do you have magical talent? Can you reverse time and start over?"

"If you can't, then don't do this!"

"But everyone here does this," Bruce said, staring at the streetlights ahead. "They call this stuff medicine to treat incurable illnesses. The sellers think they're doctors. The users think it's medicine."

Constantine fell silent—he finally understood what Bruce meant. "You feel sorry for them? You think they can't afford medicine, so they do this—and you're sad about it?"

Then Constantine saw Bruce smile. The cigarette slipped from Constantine's fingers, its ash falling to the ground like a brilliant firework.

"No," Bruce said, his lips trembling, voice rising in feverish excitement. "I'm glad I'm part of it. I'm trying to become one of them."

Constantine didn't understand the metaphor—but he saw Bruce's state clearly, for he could see souls. He crouched again before Bruce, hugging his knees, head bowed.

"Batman, do you know why I'm trying to stop you?"

Bruce looked at him—no question in his eyes, only intense focus. He'd become better at listening than ever before.

Constantine moved his hand. "I know this sounds sentimental—but after all these years, after being this rotten for so long, you're the first person who ever truly wanted to save me."

"You know what? At first, I was confused," Constantine sighed. "I couldn't understand why you insisted on saving me."

"Of course, there are plenty who've saved my life and tried to exploit me. They all know what I can do. Some befriend me just for immortality. Others help me only to get me to kill for them."

"Reading these motives isn't hard—I see souls directly. I know when you lie. I sense your emotions… yes, I have telepathy."

"But when I first read your soul, I realized—you wanted to save me. And your reason? You wanted to save everyone in this world."

"I was stunned. Because you meant it." Constantine stared into Bruce's blue eyes, as if gazing into the ocean depths—through the soul, he spoke to the boy lying beneath the black tide. "You shouldn't be this kind. You've received far less from this world than you've given it. That's why I was shocked."

Bruce shook his head. "Hasn't this world given me enough? Infinite wealth, privileged living, no worries about survival…"

Constantine paused. "But that wasn't the world giving you. That was God. You didn't choose where you were born. No one in this society chose it for you."

"…I held onto those things and dreamed a long dream. In it, I became a bat, hanging high in the attic, burdened by my mission of vengeance…"

Constantine's gaze softened. He looked at Bruce. "Are you guilty for not saving this world sooner?"

"No," Bruce said, forcing a stiff smile—as if his facial muscles resisted the motion. "I just find it funny."

"While I sat in my house, thousands died outside. I just hung in the attic, sleeping, moved by the logic of my dream."

"Many made loud noises, trying to wake me. I called them mad."

"Finally, the owners couldn't take it anymore—they kicked me out. I never understood them. I thought they were stupid, short-sighted, easily fooled."

"I told myself: I don't need that house. I'll stand on the roof and save them. When I realized that wouldn't work, I found a small door and slipped inside."

"Then I finally understood the truth: it's not that they don't live seriously. It's not that they treat life as a game, laughing lightly and absurdly."

"It's that in an ordinary life, every accident arrives as absurdly, as humorously, as this. Nothing is ever fully under their control. So what else can they do but laugh?"

Bruce looked into Constantine's eyes. The streetlamp's glow reflected in them, like Gotham's sunset. "They can't cry—crying takes too much energy…"

"So what else can they do but laugh?"

They cannot cry, because crying wastes too much energy…

Then, what else can they do but smile?