Chapter 815

Bruce brought Jason back to the Tail Gang's base; it was already late, and nearly all the children had returned to sleep. Seeing Jason covered in blood, carried in by a strange stranger, Bruce faced a barrage of hostility unlike anything he'd ever endured.

These children were like savage, vicious stray cats, baring fangs and claws at anyone they deemed an enemy, even if they knew they stood no chance.

Fortunately, Jason had only been slashed—he bled heavily, but no vital organs were damaged. He spoke in a weak voice: "Don't move."

His voice was quiet—he dared not exert himself—but the moment he finished speaking, the entire scene fell silent. The children's obedience stunned Bruce.

Though everyone still glared at him with hatred, not a single one attacked.

Bruce often put himself in Jason's place, wondering if his eleven-year-old self could have done the same. He thought leading the Tail Gang to wealth wouldn't be hard—it was winning their loyalty that was impossible. Batman had never been good at this.

But for Jason, it was effortless. He took a breath and said: "I'm fine—just a surface wound. Big Sister, get the first-aid kit from the cabinet. Cookie Sisters, bring needles and thread. Ellie, fetch a basin of clean water. I think there's still iodine somewhere… someone find it. Everyone else, get out. Go back to sleep. We've work tomorrow."

In less than a second, the children scattered. Many glanced back with deep concern, but they obeyed without protest.

Bruce found it unbelievable, but he knew this wasn't the time to be astonished. He arranged the tools neatly and began preparing to suture Jason's wound.

Jason saw the man wearing the red hood reveal his hands. Big Sister let out a startled cry, then quickly clapped a hand over her mouth—the hands had almost no skin; muscles and joints were clearly visible.

Suddenly, Jason began struggling. He shoved Bruce aside: "Big Sister, come here—I'll show you how to do it…"

"What's wrong?" Bruce held him down. "I know first aid. I can suture wounds. Don't move, or you'll bleed more."

"Get off me. I don't want strangers touching me!" Jason turned his head away. Bruce didn't move. Big Sister dared not pull him—Jason was still in Bruce's grip.

Jason sighed. "Alright. The method Professor taught me—I still don't get it. Your hands can't get wet. Don't you know wounds like this get infected if they touch water?"

Bruce glanced down at his hands—but they didn't hurt at all.

Connors' new lizard serum included neurological enhancements that largely blocked pain. Bruce now felt his skinless body as occasional itching, and occasional electric jolts in some areas—not sharp pain.

Bruce paused, then released him. He turned to the girl beside him: "Come here. I'll show you how…"

It was the younger of the Cookie Sisters. They were young and hadn't done hard labor, so their skin was well-preserved. Their needlework was fine and careful, avoiding direct contact with the wound, easing Jason's pain.

There were no anesthetics in this crude basement. Bruce looked around at the children and noticed no one suggested using any special medicine.

After days in the slums, Bruce knew these children weren't naive. They knew everything. They didn't speak now not because they hadn't thought of painkillers—but because they dared not.

Jason clearly despised those drugs, and because he held such authority among them, no one dared speak up.

Seeing Jason's pale face, Bruce knew he was in agony. But in this dilapidated underground base, Batman couldn't conjure anesthetic out of thin air. He carried Jason back to his small room, then sat on the floor beside the bed.

The windowless basement felt especially dark and oppressive. The bulb overhead cast a dim, yellow glow—barely enough light. Everything fell silent. Neither looked at the other.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" Jason suddenly spoke.

Bruce thought he'd misheard. "What?"

"I asked—are you in a lot of pain?" Jason repeated.

Bruce froze, then looked at his hands. "No. I don't feel anything."

"We're all like this…" Jason's voice dropped low, as if suppressing something. "Even if it hurts, you never scream. If I cry first, they'll cry too. If we all cry, we're finished."

Bruce's grip on the bedframe trembled. He turned to Jason, but saw only his paper-white face. Jason went on: "This might be the most important lesson today—if you want to join a gang, you never scream in pain."

"Even if you're dying, even if you're already dying—you never scream. Never cry. Never show weakness. Make them believe that even as you die, you'll still tear off a piece of them."

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut. He looked at Jason: "But you're not really like this, are you? You're not this violent, stubborn, or strong. You want to cry, don't you?"

Jason rolled onto his side, lying flat, eyes closed. His eyelashes trembled. "I've lived this way since I was born. Never thought it was wrong. But now… I feel sad. Not because of the wound."

"Why?" Bruce asked.

"I saw another life. A life I've always dreamed of…" Jason's voice began to shake. "Sitting in a classroom, with a professor who truly cares, discussing all kinds of questions—questions that have nothing to do with filling your stomach…"

"But those moments are always brief. I still have to come back here. Endure this pain. Live this life."

Bruce couldn't believe it—he heard such weight in the voice of an eleven-year-old. "Why don't you leave?"

"Then why don't you leave?" Jason murmured, as if half-asleep. "Why won't you leave this rotten city, Bruce Wayne?"

In that moment, Bruce vaguely felt Jason had been touched by something—changed, no longer quite himself.

He no longer seemed like an eleven-year-old. He was trying to read Batman's soul—and instead of going mad, he pierced right through to its core.

Those two months in the slums had battered Bruce with endless despair. But looking back now, even in his darkest moments, he'd never once considered leaving Gotham.

Pain was pain—but escape was never the answer.

"Before I knew you were Batman, you said you'd restore order here. I thought it was ridiculous—but I decided to help you anyway. Because whether you succeeded or not, at least you'd know someone stood by you."

"Now that I know you're Batman, I still decided to help you. Because we're alike… You could leave. So could I."

Bruce saw Jason's body trembling. He reached out, touched the side of Jason's neck—his temperature was low.

Bruce stood, touched the basement wall. "It's cooling outside. A typhoon's coming. We can't keep going like this…"

Since Gotham's underground turned to ice, the city's average temperature had dropped over ten degrees—nearly matching high-latitude regions. Even in summer, sudden cold snaps during typhoons bit through the bones.

After speaking with his last ounce of strength, Jason fell silent. His breathing grew slow and deep—he seemed to slip into sleep, but his body kept shaking from the cold.

In a daze, he felt someone embrace him—but he thought it a hallucination. Since birth, no one had ever held him.

That embrace was so warm—it reminded Jason of a fairy tale: the little match girl, lighting matches, seeing beautiful visions.

Carrying that dream, he slept until morning. When he woke, he felt stronger. Bruce entered, holding a steaming plate of steak.

Jason sat up weakly. "Where did you get this?"

"The restaurant owner's car got flooded and wouldn't start. I fixed it. He gave me breakfast." Bruce handed the plate to Jason. The intoxicating aroma made Jason's eyes glaze over.

"Eat. You need nutrition." Bruce placed the plate in Jason's hands. Jason swallowed hard. "No. This is your prize. I can't take it…"

"Don't you want to pay tuition?" Bruce sat down, meeting Jason's eyes. "I'll get you breakfast every day. That's my tuition."

Jason sighed, picked up the plate, and bit into the steak hard. Chewing, he said: "First lesson today: only rich people eat breakfast."

Jason devoured the steak, felt his strength return, then looked at Bruce. "Wait—you said the restaurant owner's car got flooded. Why?"

"You didn't hear? It rained all night—probably the heaviest rainfall in Gotham's last five years. Many places are flooded."

Jason's eyes widened. He tried to get up. Bruce stopped him: "Where are you going? Your wound—"

Jason slammed his fist on the bed. "Are you stupid? Do you think every house is like your Wayne Tower—impervious to wind and rain, just sitting there untouched?"

"Our front and back bases are flooded too. Basements are low—they'll leak. I need to organize the kids to patch them. If too much water gets in, and it freezes overnight, our cheap boots won't hold—someone'll get frostbite."

Jason limped off the bed, but Bruce pushed him back down. "Tell me what to do. I'll direct them."

Jason waved his hand impatiently. "You can't direct them."

Seeing Bruce's skeptical look, Jason sighed, sat up on the bed, and said with utter resignation: "Fine. Go ahead. May God have mercy on you."

Watching Jason lie back down, Bruce stepped out and began giving the children the instructions Jason had given him.

But soon, Bruce realized commanding these children stirred up painful memories.

Raising one Aisha had nearly forced him to rewrite human child-rearing from scratch. Here, there were over twenty Aishas.