Chapter 821

"From those noisy noises, I heard countless familiar voices. I had laughed and talked with them in luxurious mansions, but at this moment, the hatred in their tone seemed as if they wanted to kill me."

"I know that breaking into someone else's house is impolite, and this doesn't conform to the rules of the Cat Getan gangs, but what drives me to do this is an emotion I cannot explain..."

"Why on earth do you want to do this?" On the truck, Jason asked, "Batman, give me a reason. I believe you are not such an impulsive person."

"Although the time I've officially known you is not long, I feel that you should be very similar to me, liking to make all plans before doing something, trying to avoid accidents as much as possible, but what on earth are you doing now?"

"I don't know." Bruce gave an answer that surprised even himself. He said, "An emotion drives me to do this."

The shouting around grew stronger, and gunshots began to ring out. Most of the people living in the North District were heads of big gangs, so it was brightly lit and very prosperous here.

This place is like an isolated island cut off from the world, standing above Cat Getan's society. Everyone here is the maker of the rules and also a supporter. They sing praises for this.

Therefore, when a truck that shouldn't have appeared here rushed in, everyone was shouting and killing. The children sitting in the carriage could see intense fire rising through the cracks in the truck's roof.

But their first reaction was not to scream, but to cover their mouths with their hands. They absolutely could not make any sound. This truck was not a good bunker; once it exploded, no one would survive.

The first thing hit on the truck was the tires. The gang thugs here were not the small fry outside; their marksmanship was very accurate. They also knew that a blowout might cause the truck to lose control directly, but as long as it could be stopped, it was worth it.

The front wheel was hit, making a "bang" sound and emitting white smoke. Bruce's hand gripping the steering wheel tightened more and more. The remaining muscles on his arm erupted with all their strength, twisting the steering wheel to control the truck, and with a step on the gas, it rushed faster.

"Where on earth is he going?! Stop him quickly!"

"Oh no! It's the manor area! Hurry, hurry, hurry! Shoot!"

"It's over, it's over, he's going to rush in. Hurry! Wake everyone up, something big has happened!"

"The cab! Shoot the cab!"

But the more critical the situation, the clearer Bruce's thinking became. The route the truck took was constructed in his mind. The position of every gunman, the direction of every muzzle, the trace of every bullet, all turned into flickering light, unobstructed before his eyes.

The blue eyes under the red hood grew brighter and brighter, and the truck's speed grew faster and faster. However, the needle on the fuel gauge began to shake gradually.

The gasoline in this truck was added by the little rascal before, and his gasoline was taken from the auto repair school. He was just a child and couldn't take that much gasoline. This gasoline was the limit for the car to drive from the East District to the North District.

The truck kept being shot at, but because things happened too suddenly, most of the thugs were not prepared, and the truck had already rushed past, so the direct firepower was not too fierce, but there were still stray bullets that shot at the carriage, and the children who were hit screamed.

This truck was like a short-lived tree, from sprouting to growing, then to withering, in just a few minutes. After its most glorious period passed, only the old and decrepit remains were left.

With a "squeak," the sound of powerless braking came. The truck emitting white smoke stopped at the gate of a manor. The heavy rain poured down, and the storm whistled incessantly.

In the rain, the name on the mailbox, like a fallen leaf in the wind, kept swaying, but never fell. The several letters written on it were short, but the legend was very long.

Walking out of the manor gate was Falcone. He stood at the gate of the Falcone Manor, took a black umbrella from the waiter's hand, and looked at the dilapidated truck in front of him expressionlessly.

He saw the cab door open, but the person didn't walk down. Instead, he grabbed the door, stepped on the handle, and reached out, flipping onto the top of the truck neatly, looking down at Falcone from a high position.

The distance between the two was no more than a few dozen meters, and they could see each other's image clearly. What Bruce saw was the Godfather who came alone, like a stump in the storm that was hard to shake. The part on the ground was no longer youthful and lush, already old, but the root system deep underground was hard to glimpse even one ten-thousandth of.

What Falcone saw was a freak wearing a red hood, standing on a dilapidated truck in a rainy night with a howling wind. A violent emotion erupted, straight into the sky.

"Good evening, Godfather." An extremely hoarse voice, through the howling wind, was almost inaudible.

The Godfather waved his hand, stopping the gunmen aiming nearby, letting the people around retreat. He said, "Hello, your truck is really nice, very similar to what I saw in my early years."

"Don't you intend to let them shoot?" Bruce asked, "Don't you think I'm one of those dangerous lunatics?"

"Are you referring to the one who always likes to laugh, or the one who likes to steal things, or the one who likes to do human experiments?" Falcone looked at Bruce quietly and said, "They won't come to find me because they don't like me."

Falcone lowered his head and looked at the puddle in front of his feet. He said, "They think I am the most boring person in the world because I created the most boring order in the world, so they never came to find me."

"I just want to ask you a question..." Bruce's voice echoed in the rainy night. He walked slowly toward the truck's shed, and then he cut a hole in the side of the shed. When the wind and rain blew in, all the children hid in terror.

Not only did the cold wind and rain enter the carriage, but the bloody smell of the injured children also drifted out, blowing in front of Falcone.

"Godfather, you spent forty years creating rules for Cat Getan. These rules are not perfect, but they are effective... But I just want to ask, who did you create these rules for?"

Falcone rubbed his wrist lightly and said, "No need to beat around the bush with me, child. If I say I did it for Cat Getan, you will say these children are not living well. If I say I did it for myself, you will tell me to do it for Cat Getan."

"But in fact, the reason I would set such rules is just because I came from such an era. In that era, I could only make this choice, and there was no other way."

"Forty years have passed. Both I and it have grown old. We have both completed our missions, but I will not reform it from top to bottom. Do you know why?"

Bruce looked at the old Godfather silently, watching his figure swaying in the storm, but he never moved.

"I lead by example, showing them how we decided the direction of history in the midst of laughter during that glorious era." The Godfather's voice always carried a special sense of the era, as if returning to the era when the torch of the Statue of Liberty illuminated the world.

"I let them imitate me, learning to become a civilized person in the midst of chaos, just like domesticating a dog. These rules are the chains I use to lead the dog."

"I don't have the patience to teach a dog how to be a human, because I know that a dog is a dog. They won't become humans. They plunder benefits for me, and I use these benefits to light up the lights and build the city."

"A sufficiently prosperous society will no longer raise dogs, but will definitely raise people with pity and compassion. And those among them who have courage, wisdom, and boldness will eventually stand in front of me and say to me: loosen your chains and set them free."

The Godfather looked at the bright red hood, looked at Bruce's eyes through the hood, and looked at his soul through his eyes. He said:

"These children prove your pity, this truck proves your courage, this journey proves your wisdom, and facing me proves your boldness..."

"Now, you can say what you should say, and after you finish speaking, I will also say what I should say."

Some intense emotions in Bruce's chest suddenly dissipated and turned into a slightly bitter emotion.

He had overcome obstacles and broken through thorns all the way, but what was waiting at the finish line was not a demon king, but the previous hero.

The hero of the previous era, who, confined by vision, knowledge, wisdom, and social conditions, failed to reach the finish line.

In the whistling wind, Bruce's voice came: "A friend of mine told me that this road is not necessarily won by reaching the finish line."

Obviously, this was not the sentence the Godfather wanted to hear. He had never thought that the person who came here would say this to him.

But he was not happy, but said, "If even this makes you waver and rise with the emotion of giving up, then you are destined to fail. Don't waste my time anymore."

"Even if this question doesn't have a perfect solution, the gang society must be the worst answer." Bruce paused, but still said that sentence: "The old rules should step down, Godfather."

Falcone turned and walked slowly toward the manor. Every drop of water splashed by his leather shoes on the puddle was like gold panned from gravel in that chaotic era.

Finally, he stood in the light of the manor gate, made a cross on his chest, and whispered, "God bless Cat Getan, Amen."

When his figure disappeared, the lights in the manor slowly went out. The Godfather had never gone to sleep so early, but with the disappearance of the light from his bedroom window, the light of Cat Getan's lighthouse became weak.

Every era will pass. That arm holding the torch high that cannot be put down will eventually turn into decaying ship wood with every night's storm, sinking to the bottom of the sea, watching the giant wheel of history drive over its head.

Bruce stood in the night of howling wind and rain, on the dilapidated truck, watching the lights of the entire North District gradually go out, leaving only the deafening sound of rain and the red hood that was particularly conspicuous in the dark rainy night.

Jason, lying on the truck, understood this conversation better than those ignorant children, or rather, he understood it even better than Bruce.

In this startling dream filled with confusion, Jason suddenly woke up, sat up from the seat, and stretched a hand out of the car window. The wind wrote a long poem on his arm with raindrops.

Bruce took off his hood; this disguised identity no longer had any meaning.

He threw the hood on top of the truck. It slid down along the metal surface wet by the rain, like dew on a newborn leaf, slowly dripping down.

The red hood was caught by a childish hand, and the five fingers slowly closed. In the pitch-black rainy night, Jason gripped the only touch of color tightly.

Fingers gradually lengthened, and shallow scars climbed up. After putting down the stack of paper in his hand, Bruce looked at Alfred with a hint of expectation.

Alfred, holding a candle, walked slowly to the door, turned to look at Bruce, and said, "I like the last scene. You wrote it well, Master."

"Why? Is it because this is the climax of the narrative?"

"No, because I like the color of the hood."