Chapter 820: The Red Hood (XI)

The rain continued without pause, the truck hurtling like lightning back into the black rain-soaked night.

"Where are you going?!" Jason asked, frantic.

"I'll get you out of here! Find a safe place!" Bruce shouted, gripping the steering wheel.

"Stop!" Jason shouted back, the rain pounding louder outside; both had to scream with all their strength just to be heard over the storm.

"You're killing us—you'll kill us all!" Jason's voice trembled. "You and I can escape this rule—we can leave anytime—but these children can't!"

"Bruce, please, stop the car!" Jason gripped the seatback tightly; Bruce wasn't sure if he heard a hint of tears in his voice, but there was no doubt—Jason was utterly vulnerable.

"I never should've let you fix this truck!" His tone was thick with guilt. "This will kill us all..."

"We shouldn't have had a truck in the first place, let alone made it move—and least of all, driven it down Gotham's streets while every child was crammed inside!"

"Why can't you drive on Gotham's streets?" Bruce shouted. "Anyone can drive—including you!"

"No, you don't understand. Bruce, the gangs spare us because we have so little—we're no threat. But once we have enough, our time is up."

Bruce was certain—he heard deep fear in Jason's voice. Jason's breathing grew erratic. "If we can steal a truck, it means someday we'll steal guns, steal rocket launchers, then take territory from them..."

"All the kid gangs are parasites clinging to the gangs. We must stay weak, harmless—that's the only way we survive. This rule can't be broken..."

Bruce felt a bone-deep chill. Jason's tone reminded him of the little girl who died that night at Wayne Manor.

Now he finally understood why she had died.

This society—every person in it—had used extreme violence to tell her: you must not own anything. You must remain weak. Otherwise, we will take more—from you, even your life.

So she etched this cruel survival rule into her skin, carved it into her bones and heart.

Bruce gave her food, shelter, medicine—but to accept them, she would have had to peel off her skin, snap her bones, tear out her heart.

"This is our mask..." Jason said. "This society put this mask on us..."

"We know this mask makes us suffer, makes us starve—but we still fight to protect it."

"Because with the mask, we survive in society. And as long as we survive, there are cracks—enough to fill our stomachs, build shelter—instead of dying in endless chaos, gunshots tearing us apart."

"So Bruce, please..." Jason's body temperature rose, his mind growing hazy. "Don't take off the mask. I can't take mine off—even though I could, I can't..."

Bruce's face grew colder. His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. How does a person fighting to survive in this society remove their own mask?

In that moment, he thought of the Joker—and of himself.

The roaring fire had burned the Joker's only means of survival; society had left him no room to live—so he set fire to the mask society had trained him to wear.

And he—Batman—had come to understand that to save this society's suffering, he must stop living so solemnly, like every ordinary person. When he laughed, the false playboy mask dissolved completely in the chemical pool.

But now—these children, and all others trained by Gotham's rules—how do they remove their masks?

Or even Jason—bright, sharp, brave—clearly sees all this is wrong, yet still submits, or becomes an enforcer of this cruel rule, to stop Bruce's change, to beg for his companions' survival.

In this despair, in this storm, in this broken, rattling truck—where should it drive to find a way out?

Bruce kept asking himself this question. Where could this city, already at its darkest bottom, possibly go?

Bruce heard Jason crying—but the sound had faded, drowned by more cries from inside the truck cabin. The children didn't want to cry, didn't want to show weakness—but they had no other choice.

Amid those cries, Bruce felt a long-forgotten sorrow and rage. His grip on the steering wheel shook, then steadied—as if he had made his decision.

"Long ago, I read analyses of class conflict. At the time, I didn't fully grasp the difference between non-antagonistic and antagonistic contradictions—but I remembered one line..."

At Wayne Manor, Bruce wrote:

"The contradiction between classes is irreconcilable. And the only means of resistance... is violence."

*Click. The overhead light turned on. Alfred walked in with a cup of hot milk, set it gently beside Bruce. "Master, you should've turned on the ceiling light. This desk lamp won't do for late-night reading."

"Oh, I was so deep in writing, I didn't notice it was dark," Bruce set down his pen and looked up. "I've finished the narrative section—only the commentary remains."

He paused, then looked at Alfred. "Alfred, if I add theoretical references here, will it hurt my grade?"

"Master, I studied mathematics in university," Alfred shook his head. "I've hardly written anything worth calling an essay. If you have questions on this, ask Mr. Dent."

"You're being too modest." Bruce turned back to his desk. "I remember—you taught me grammar as a child."

"Yes, Master—but that was very basic. If you need to look something up, I can find the books for you."

"I..." Bruce's hand paused on the desk. He didn't know if Alfred was deliberately avoiding the topic—or truly didn't want to discuss it.

If the former, Bruce thought he shouldn't press further. If the latter—did Alfred see him as this dull, unteachable fool?

So Bruce looked at Alfred. "Alfred, let me read this part to you. Can you check for grammatical errors?"

"Of course, Master. I'd be honored to help."

"The car drove aimlessly down the streets. I took in every child who begged for help. I kept driving forward—without a destination—until Jason began to ask me..."

The truck kept moving, jolting along. Jason asked: "Where are you going? Where are you taking us?"

Hearing his weak voice, an unfamiliar emotion rose in Bruce. Amid the truck's rumble, he said: "I'm going to the North District."

Jason shut his eyes in pain. "There's no one there who needs saving. The truck's already full."

Bruce glanced back. The rear compartment was packed—children huddled together, shivering. But because they were so tightly packed, heat loss was slow. Most were pale—but not yet hypothermic.

Bruce's hand paused on the wheel. "True. There's no one there I need to save. But I must go there. I need to know—who created this rule?"

Who created this rule... Jason thought, lying on the seat. Who made Gotham's current rules? Many would say the Don. Maybe Bruce thought so too. But Jason felt it was more than that.

This city was a microcosm. Every form of evil here could be found. These evils weren't created by the Don. Before he arrived, this place was even more chaotic, more corrupt.

Jason hated the cruel rule—but he was also one of its enforcers. He knew: if this rule collapsed, the weak would suffer worse. But if not the gangs' rule, then what caused the evil?

As the truck crashed onto the North District bridge, the entire North District ignited—lights flared one by one, shouts echoing endlessly.

Through the haze, Jason saw the manor's lights close ahead—yet their fate still plunged into the unknown.