Chapter 802

"Shiler, I think we really need to have a serious talk." One morning, Bruce blocked Shiler as he was leaving, speaking to him with grave seriousness.

"What are you doing? Don't stop me—I'm going to look for a job. Don't you know how dire things are? I've been here for days and still haven't found a single proper job." Shiler pushed Bruce's arm away, trying to walk out.

Bruce studied Shiler. Days had passed, yet his clothes, shoes, and watch remained untouched; his face was flushed, his spirit bright. He spent over twelve hours daily searching for work—and showed no sign of fatigue.

Shiler tried to leave again, but Bruce blocked him. "No, you can't go out. What you're doing is too dangerous. Can't you just find a job inside the Living Hell?"

Shiler paused, then said, "Alright, maybe there's some sense to that. I've wandered around for days and found nothing promising. I've never even tried looking right outside my door. Fine—I'll give it a shot."

Bruce exhaled in relief—but that breath hadn't even lasted half a minute before his heart shot back up to his throat, because Shiler headed straight for the water purifier.

Bruce dragged him back with great effort, now nearly exhausted, more tired than he'd been in all the previous days combined, his body barely able to stand upright.

Leaning against the nearby railing, he told Shiler: "You can't poison the water supply. You can't threaten every gang here with chemicals to force them to hire you. You can't collude with newsboys to block water delivery and sell it at inflated prices..."

Shiler thought for a moment. "Alright, then I'll go check upstairs."

Ten minutes later, Bruce blocked him again. "No—you can't go harass the newsboys to monopolize newspapers, and absolutely not open other people's milk bottle caps..."

"Shiler! Don't go to the rooftop! Don't touch the greenery! You can't dig up these plants to sell for cash—they're public property..."

"Don't touch the sewer pipes! What? The Owl? There's no Owl anymore!"

"Hans came looking for you? You can't kill for him—you're not a killer! You're a university professor!"

!

In the following days, Bruce fully realized the catastrophic consequences of making decisions while deprived of proper nutrition.

During these days, Bruce's main task was following Shiler as he searched for jobs—Shiler always managed to invent the perfect job opportunity for himself in every attempt.

In truth, there were only a few job locations in East Gotham, and without leaving the district, those were the only places to look—so Shiler spent nearly every day wandering between the warehouse district, food service zone, trucking area, and the Living Hell.

Shiler kept searching for work—but never actually found a single real job.

In the warehouse district, he became a warehouse manager, falsifying records, swapping labels, stealing goods. In the food service zone, he teamed up with one vendor to poison another's food, then teamed up with that vendor to poison the first's. In the trucking area, he allied one gang to stage accidents against another, then allied that gang to stage accidents against the first. In the Living Hell, he monitored the water purifiers above and the sewer pipes below...

Logically, such schemes shouldn't last—but Shiler somehow turned them all into long-term, sustainable, even expanding enterprises.

At first, in the warehouse, he altered inventory logs just to smuggle out goods for basic survival. But later—whether by accident or design—a gang boss discovered what he was doing.

Logically, this should have been the start of his downfall. But Shiler went to speak with the gang boss—and soon, his rival's warehouse suffered terrible losses: today, 1, 00 units destroyed by a tipped truck; tomorrow, 800 units lost to fire.

The targeted gang boss grew desperate and confronted Shiler—only for Shiler to offer him another idea.

No goods means no profit. No profit means, under gang rules, no protection fee is owed. Of course, if you replace "protection fee" with "tax," many might understand.

Of the 2, 00 units total, 1, 00 were crushed beyond sale by the truck accident, and 800 vanished entirely in the fire—so the profit from these 2, 00 units was zero, meaning the protection fee owed to higher-ups was also zero.

Meanwhile, transporting the 2, 00 units required labor costs, storing them required warehouse costs, marketing or transferring them required additional expenses—all of which, added together, tripled the cost beyond the original purchase price of the goods themselves.

Since the 2, 00 units vanished, all those costs became losses. On the year-end financial report, the equivalent profit was erased—and thus, no proportional tax needed to be paid upward. In short: tax exemption.

Watching Shiler's actions escalate from petty theft to tax evasion, Bruce had no choice but to change the rules: the warehouse district was off-limits. If this continued, the rate of rebuilding would never keep up with the speed of fire dragons burning warehouses.

In the food service zone, it began with helping small vendors eliminate competitors—but soon, Shiler turned his attention to meat supply chains.

To get cheap, high-quality meat, one had to target smuggled frozen meat. But Shiler seemed to think even smuggled frozen meat was too expensive—he turned his gaze to diseased cattle.

But diseased cattle were too scarce, and it was a one-time deal. So Shiler planned to collude with veterinarians to fake cattle illnesses, then eventually contacted ranchers to collectively depress calf prices.

To protect Gotham's future food safety, Bruce also barred Shiler from the food service zone. Shiler said nothing—just turned and went to torment the truck drivers instead.

Of course, the truck drivers had survived only thanks to Joker Jack—the hero named Jack had defended the drivers' territory, driving Shiler out when he tried to organize a trucker's union. This time, it was the victory of the lower classes.

Still, Bruce removed the truck drivers' gathering spots from Shiler's job-searching range. After all, he didn't want to wake up one morning to find two clowns squatting by his bed, asking him to arbitrate.

Everywhere was off-limits—so he'd just stay in the Living Hell? But clearly, even staying there couldn't stop Shiler's relentless desire to find a stable job.

After accumulating his initial capital, Shiler began flipping real estate.

Flipping property alone was hard—but Shiler excelled at drawing grand, empty pictures and luring crowds into the trap.

The Living Hell had strong locational advantages in East Gotham: complete infrastructure, decent living conditions, and above all, uniquely superior sanitation—and it was the only school district. What else was there to wait for?

Bruce wasn't foolish. As soon as Shiler began his first move, Bruce saw the inevitable outcome: all original residents would be driven out, every house emptied to serve investors, wealth gaps widened further, and chaos would grow worse.

During this time, to stop Shiler's endless schemes to create jobs and expand investments, Bruce stopped sleeping at night and rose even earlier in the morning. He ate hastily, barely swallowing a bite—worse off than when he'd been homeless.

When he was homeless, he fought against a mad reality. Now, he fought against a madman whom even a mad reality couldn't touch.

Bruce realized the fundamental reason Shiler held the upper hand here was that he had no morals.

And from this, Bruce understood why Shiler had once wondered why life in the slums was so hard—it made perfect sense to him. To Shiler, life in the slums wasn't hard at all. Coming here felt like coming home.

This made Bruce wonder: was his own suffering here because he wasn't bad enough?

When he had exhausted his last ounce of strength, unable even to leave his room, only half-propped on his bed speaking to Shiler, his first question was: "Do you think I deserve this?"

Shiler pulled up a chair, sat at the foot of the bed, peeling a fresh apple. "I know what you want to ask. You're wondering: should good people be held at gunpoint?"

"You've realized your hardship here isn't because you're not smart or not hardworking—it's simply because you're not bad enough."

"You don't want to hurt others. You won't abandon your conscience to fight for survival. That gives you zero advantage in competition. You've discovered that playing by the rules here only leads to death."

Bruce now looked like a withered corpse. In just over two months, he'd lost so much weight his skull's shape was clearly visible; his eyes sank deep into their sockets. The handsome face that had once tormented him with its worries was gone.

He now resembled a true East Gotham man—among the lowest of the low. But his blue eyes still burned bright, like a sky Gotham had never seen.

"If, in a city, good people have no path forward—only death in this kind of society—then perhaps this city is beyond saving, isn't it?" Shiler looked at Bruce.

Bruce remained silent, offering no answer.

"I admire your persistence," Shiler stood, turned toward the door. "I'm a man of persistence too. So I'm going to find a job."

In the moment Shiler turned back, Bruce saw his smile.

After the door slammed shut, Bruce scrambled up from the bed in panic—he had seen something terrifying in that final smile.

Now he understood: the abnormality wasn't random. The man sharing his room wasn't a professor. It was Gotham's eternal nightmare.

Bruce used his last remaining strength to rise. He knew he had to catch Shiler—some force compelled him to do so.

As the faint, fading laughter nearly vanished, another force erupted from his chest.

He staggered out the door. Shiler was gone—but Bruce knew exactly where to go.

In the production hall of ACE Chemicals, Shiler stood on the feeding platform above a massive chemical mixing tank. In his hand, he held a match. On the tank's side, Bruce saw the sign: "NO OPEN FLAME."

Shiler acted as if he didn't see Bruce. He stared silently at the match's flame. Bruce stumbled up the platform, spent his last strength, and collapsed to the ground.

Against the fluorescent chemical liquid, their figures appeared tiny. The round storage tanks glowed like suns—and Shiler and Bruce floated upon the sun's fire.

Bruce had no strength left. The prolonged torment had robbed him of any ability to fight. He could only watch as Shiler struck another match—and behind the flame, smiled with madness.

Bruce shut his eyes in agony. His voice, rasping from his throat, was quieter than the wind over an endless desert:

"Joker..."