Chapter 814: The Red Hood (5)

He had to admit that Yin Wensi was indeed a very diligent student and understood Shiler well; the advice he gave Shiler struck him as reasonable.

Shiler decided to give Bruce a decent grade and let him graduate not out of guilt or pity.

Human emotions and psychological states change over a lifetime according to certain patterns; many people believe time is the best cure for pain, but only if it's pain—not illness.

Psychological issues and mental illnesses do not weaken with time; on the contrary, because many lack awareness of their mental state, they remain for long periods in potentially stressful environments or repeatedly trigger trauma through reliving it, and without treatment, the overall trend is decline.

A psychiatric patient with severe psychological trauma cannot escape the illness on their own—it's like asking someone to fly by stepping on their right foot with their left; it's not something "thinking positively" can fix.

But Batman truly thought things through.

Regardless of how he resolved himself or whether he applied the professional knowledge he learned at school, he created a miracle: he cured himself and made significant progress toward mental stability and logical coherence.

Such achievements were enough for graduation, but the problem was he was far short on credits, making the standard process impossible—Shiler still needed a legitimate reason to let him graduate.

There had been cases before: undergraduates who published several top-tier papers but failed to graduate due to excessive absences for special reasons, yet were granted degrees by special dispensation—Shiler had seen two or three such cases himself.

But special dispensation wasn't arbitrary; you had to produce tangible results. His time in the slums only proved he healed himself—it couldn't count as practical experience for graduation, and his experience was too horrific; even if Shiler wanted to publicize it, Bruce wouldn't allow it.

If so, Bruce needed another practical exam to meet the criteria for special graduation. Since his theoretical performance lagged far behind his practical skills, a practical test would be ideal.

Originally, Shiler planned to send Bruce back to the slums to repeat his previous method—this time with a strategy in hand, allowing him to achieve an outstanding result in minimal time, perfect for graduation.

But then he reconsidered: many other students at Gotham University came from the slums; this experience wouldn't be convincing—it would only make them think, "So he made a name for himself in the slums? My relatives could do the same."

So Shiler had to raise the difficulty. He believed Bruce's poor performance during his first slum mission wasn't due to lack of ability, but because he hadn't yet come to terms with things.

If your moral bottom line is higher than everyone else's here, you must accept living below the standard of most people here—after all, if Gotham were a normal city where everyone followed the law, such behavior would be fine; but Gotham is the complete opposite: those who follow the law are the rare species here, and rigid adherence to rules won't let you compete with these people.

If so, why not raise the class level to somewhere with order—but not too much order—where he could fully apply his theoretical knowledge, understand the rules, and integrate quickly into the group?

And this new scenario was naturally the Gotham underworld.

Even low-level Gotham gangs had plenty of rules, more order than the chaotic slums, not too difficult, yet sufficient to demonstrate Bruce's abilities to other students—his special graduation should then pose no problem.

After deciding, Shiler went to Bruce's hospital room. Since the lizard serum had been injected earlier, his most serious wounds had fully healed, leaving only superficial scars that hadn't yet perfectly regenerated.

Now, Bruce's only injuries were external wounds; when he heard the news lying in bed, he thought his mind might have suffered trauma, causing hallucinations.

Shiler was going to let him graduate??!

Bruce closed the book in his hands and looked at Shiler: "Professor, if you truly feel guilty about me falling into the chemical pool, you needn't resort to this method."

"There are several errors in what you just said," Shiler said calmly, glancing at his notebook. "First, the one who pushed you into the chemical pool wasn't me—it was the Joker. Second, even if it had been me, I wouldn't feel guilty about it. Third, this isn't a negotiation—it's a notification. If you don't intend to participate, don't graduate."

After speaking, Shiler tossed the notebook filled with writing to Bruce—it listed well-known exam requirements.

First, Bruce couldn't use existing tech equipment like the Batsuit or Batmobile, but he wasn't restricted from inventing his own gear. Second, he couldn't reveal his identity, since many in the underworld still recognized Bruce.

Third, and most importantly, the passing criteria: reading that single line, Bruce felt insulted—it plainly stated, "Successfully join a gang and avoid expulsion for one month."

Under conditions allowing unlimited invention and unrestricted use of his genius to earn money, the requirement was merely to join a gang and not get kicked out—Bruce suspected Shiler was favoring him, and he had proof.

Bruce had no intention of merely meeting these minimums; even if Shiler hadn't arranged this exam, he still intended to explore the underworld.

As an inseparable part of Gotham, gang culture was its foundation and lifeline; Bruce was curious about it, so he would go eventually—not just to join, but to rise within it.

And now was the perfect time: his appearance hadn't fully recovered, and more importantly, his voice had changed.

After falling into the chemicals, he had inhaled water; his throat and vocal cords were partially corroded, making his voice distinct from both Bruce and Batman.

His two-month ordeal in the slums had drastically altered his physique—even his chin, often visible, had grown sharper; even those familiar with him wouldn't recognize him.

This meant he could use a hidden identity to interact with former acquaintances without being discovered.

After the brutal lessons of the slums, Bruce finally understood: "A good man needs three helpers" wasn't just a proverb—without connections, surviving anywhere was hard. So for this gang journey, he planned to seek out familiar faces to guide him.

But lying in bed, Bruce counted through everyone he knew: either they were completely outside this circle and offered no help, or… or they were too Shiler.

After much thought, Bruce fixed his gaze on one person: Jason Todd.

The last time Jason had helped Bruce, Bruce realized Jason was a good kid, inherently kind, but shaped by a unique environment into a different kind of childhood.

Yet this experience hadn't made him fragile—it had revealed his talent. Having lived in the slums, Bruce knew that even native Gothamites found it extremely difficult to become a child gang leader.

Becoming a gang leader meant not only managing your own food, shelter, and clothing, but also worrying about everyone in the gang—even for someone well-versed in the streets, it was an immensely difficult job.

Or rather, it wasn't an IQ issue—it was an EQ issue. You had to first rise in this society before you could lead others; it was hard even for adults, let alone a child.

Bruce thought: if he'd been eleven and handed such a gang, he'd have been overwhelmed for months. He could invent, but how would he sell his inventions? How would he divide the money? How would he protect it? How would he explain distribution to the kids? All these were problems.

But Jason handled it well. From what Bruce knew, the Tailgang was among the top two or three child gangs on that street—if he could gain Jason's help, the gang scenario's opening would be smooth.

So he concealed his identity and approached Jason, intending to start from the bottom of the underworld, learn its structure, and lay the groundwork for what he planned to do next.

Bruce chose a red hood to distinguish himself from Batman's previous image; if he wore all black again, everyone would know it was just another Batman alias—better to use bright colors.

Moreover, he had a perfect excuse for wearing the mask: his wounds hadn't fully healed, and the exposed scars looked exactly like severe burn marks. Saying he wore the hood due to disfigurement from burns would raise no suspicion—after all, this was Gotham.

Jason didn't disappoint him: whether in deduction, planning, or execution, his skill far surpassed peers—and even most adults.

In the past, no matter how well Jason planned, Batman would always devise his own plan, forcing Jason to follow it, preferably handling every detail himself—he'd have scoffed at Jason's "bet it all" approach.

But now, Bruce sat quietly in a phone booth, waiting for Jason's call. Soon, the phone rang; Jason's voice came through: "Got his apartment number. Be ready to pick me up."

Bruce could hear Jason's voice was weak. He hung up quickly, already thinking where to find quick-stanching supplies—Jason was likely injured.

But that was normal: an eleven-year-old executing a solo infiltration mission—even if the hotel had no gang members, its security or staff might still be armed.

After a while, a truck pulled up steadily at the alley entrance. Jason sat in the driver's seat, slumped over the steering wheel, hand pressed to his abdomen. Bruce hurried to the passenger seat, pulled his arm away, and examined the wound.

A deep gash ran three centimeters below his leftmost rib—unclear if internal organs were damaged. Jason gritted his teeth, gasping: "First time doing this—I wasn't skilled. Left footprints on the carpet. Ran into a hard case. Lucky he didn't have a gun. I dodged, but got hurt…"

Bruce said nothing. He took off his coat, wrapped it around Jason's waist, told him to press on the wound, then moved to get out and find a first-aid kit.

"No… don't leave me here…" Jason panted. "Carry me… carry me back to the cellar. Let me go home… someone there can save me… let me go home…"

Bruce's hand tightened instantly on the door handle. He hesitated, then turned and lifted Jason out.

Carrying Jason, drenched in blood, Bruce walked slowly into Gotham's night. Behind them, the storm rolled in like a wave.