Chapter 808

The previous day's failure did not discourage Savage; the Falcone family was after all the largest crime syndicate in Gotham, wielding immense power—if they were this easy to deal with, Savage would have suspected a trap.

Savage decided to wander the surrounding area again, to confirm he hadn't mistaken the location yesterday; after all, with the lantern in hand, he could leave at any moment, and even if he had no means of escape, he didn't think a few gang members could defeat him.

Savage possessed exceptional martial skills, and his physical attributes far surpassed those of an ordinary human—his reaction speed, agility, and bodily flexibility had all reached the pinnacle.

This time, he had learned to be smarter: to avoid instantly teleporting into the freezer as before, he chose to land on the street next door—and the result proved his choice correct.

As soon as Savage landed, he saw the opposite street blazing with lights; he assumed that was his destination, since an entertainment district ought to be brightly lit all night.

But as he drew closer, he realized the light didn't come from neon signs, and the figures patrolling the street weren't nightclub bouncers.

The dazzling lights came from searchlights mounted on armed vehicles; the patrols were fully equipped elite gang enforcers—if this were truly a game, their level ratings would be no lower than 100.

If it were only these gang enforcers, Savage wouldn't have feared them, since the crowd here wasn't dense—he could simply push through.

The problem was, every gang member was fully armed—not just with automatic weapons, but some carried rocket launchers; groups of three clustered around armored vehicles, and at the end of the street stood a light tank.

As Savage gazed toward them, he saw a helicopter land on the rooftop, and a short, frail figure stepped down from it.

Beside him, a tall gang enforcer raised a loudspeaker and shouted: "The intruder who breached Falcone territory last night—you've broken the rules. If you don't want your gang or family to suffer consequences, come talk. God will always protect you…"

Savage saw the short figure from the helicopter enter the building through the rooftop door; he deliberately did this to signal the other side: come to this building to meet him.

This was an obvious trap—few would fall for it—but Savage didn't need to intercept Falcone's cargo; he came here solely to speak with Young Falcone.

From the files, he learned the patriarch's family wasn't known for brutality; on the contrary, Gotham's Italians preferred to talk things out.

Skipping negotiation and going straight to gunfire was considered rude by peers; even non-Italian gangs began imitating this, yet Gotham's upper echelons remained civilized.

Knowing this, Savage felt certain of victory—if he could meet Young Falcone, he could persuade him to turn against his father.

Savage suddenly appeared outside the building's entrance; several guards instantly leveled their guns at him. Savage lifted his head and said: "I'm the man your boss is looking for. Take me in."

Though Savage made few gestures, his presence was imposing and commanding—and this mode of arrival was sufficiently shocking.

The gang members glanced at each other, uncertain what to do—when a servant emerged from the building, bowed to Savage, and said: "Please enter, sir. Mr. Oswald has been waiting for you."

He turned and led the way; Savage followed.

As they passed through the gate, Savage frowned—the guards made no move to search him, not even glancing at the lantern he carried in his hand.

From the moment he entered the building, not a single gun had been pointed at him; the suited gang members standing in the stairwell stared straight ahead; the servant smiled throughout, and at the door, carefully opened it for him.

In Savage's mind, gangs were chaotic—grouped in threes and fives, shouting, yelling in the streets, pointing guns at heads, grabbing collars.

Even the more refined ones were no better than rats smuggling drugs, scurrying through alleys, utterly beneath notice.

His impression wasn't wrong—most gangs across the world operated this way; to earn more money, the false mask didn't need to last long—eventually, it always came down to kill or be killed.

But Gotham's gangs maintained this dignified posture because the pie was simply too large—their cooperation far outweighed competition; even friction was merely minor friction among the lower ranks.

When the underlings fought over territory, the bosses sat together, lit a cigar, raised a glass, and said, "Those underlings don't understand," and the matter was settled.

Once back home, they didn't rage at their underlings for losing—they only thought them rude, breaking the rules, and bringing shame upon them.

The petty gains the underlings fought over meant nothing to them; in an era where resources hadn't yet dried up and upward mobility remained wide open, Gotham's gangs valued rules and face above all else.

Savage realized his tightly held aura was useless here—Gotham's gangs followed far stricter rules.

Inside, he saw a small, slender man—or perhaps a boy—Cobblepot pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket, covered his mouth, and coughed twice. "Hello, sir. How may I address you?"

"Wandal Savage." Savage stated his name outright. Cobblepot nodded, stepped forward, and looked up at Savage. "Then, Mr. Savage, could you tell me why you appeared on that street yesterday?"

"What is your relationship with Young Falcone?" Savage didn't answer Cobblepot's question directly, but posed another.

Cobblepot slightly narrowed his eyes but showed no surprise. "Mr. Savage, it seems you came prepared. Speak plainly—what do you want?"

"I want to speak with Young Falcone." Savage stared into Cobblepot's eyes. "If you're his subordinate, I hope you'll help me contact him. Believe me, I bring him good news."

"But you've already brought him bad news—you breached Falcone territory, alarmed everyone here, and still refuse to state your purpose…"

"My purpose is to speak with Young Falcone." Savage said directly.

Cobblepot took a deep breath; he felt he couldn't reason with an idiot. Why couldn't this towering man understand what he was saying?

After years among the upper echelons of gangs, everyone knew the unspoken rules: no matter your reason, no matter how urgent your situation, intruding on another family's territory was forbidden—you must first yield before any conversation could proceed.

Typically, in such cases, the offender would visit the other family's higher-ups to apologize in person.

If the heads of two major families were involved, they'd meet for dinner at the offending family's mansion; if matters were especially complicated, a third family—or even the patriarch—would be invited to the table to clarify the issue.

But no matter what, the one who broke the rules was always in the wrong—and this Savage still acted as if he couldn't understand: yielding didn't mean groveling in apology—it meant simply saying, "God bless the patriarch."

Cobblepot studied Savage again and noticed his attire bore ethnic motifs; though unique in style, the fabric was extremely expensive—this indicated the man wasn't some street thug ignorant of rules.

Of course, he also saw Savage was an outsider. Outsiders could be ignorant of rules—but a newcomer to Gotham, unfamiliar with its customs, demanding to meet the Falcone heir? Was he mad?

Cobblepot grew impatient. He decided to make one final attempt—should the man still fail to grasp the subtext, he'd have no choice but to turn hostile and eject him.

As for meeting Alberto? Don't make me laugh. The young patriarch, disturbed in his rest last night, was still furious—Cobblepot had no intention of provoking him.

Alberto and Yin Wensi were complete opposites. Alberto was identical to the patriarch in his youth; now two patriarchs, two mountains—Cobblepot had to tread carefully, for he still sought to restore the Oswald family's glory—and surpass it.

He had no desire to offend Alberto over some madman from nowhere. Seeing Savage stubbornly refuse to cooperate, he waved his hand. "Mr. Savage, since you feel there's nothing to discuss with the Falcone family, let's end this here… Show him out."

He turned to leave, but Savage let out a cold snort. "You'll regret your words today."

At that moment, Cobblepot suddenly turned back, his gaze icy as he locked eyes with Savage. "What did you say?"

Savage didn't repeat himself—he simply stared at Cobblepot. He often used this method of intimidation—but he forgot: he was no longer the great monarch who ruled the Eurasian continent. In Gotham, there was only one king—and the patriarch accepted no threats.

As Cobblepot waved his hand, guns and cannons were raised; the roar of armed helicopters outside the window sounded like a storm descending—dozens of muzzles aimed at the room. Before any shots were fired, the air thickened with gunpowder.

But then footsteps approached from outside the door. Alberto entered the room, paused briefly by the threshold, adjusted his tie, ignored Savage, and spoke only to Cobblepot:

"Don't be like this, Cobblepot. He's a guest from afar. Let's hear what this man has to say to me…"