[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel":3,"chapter-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-821":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"chinese","My Life as a Mental Mentor in Marvel",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},2323389,4544,"Chapter 821","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-821",821,"\u003Cp>“From those noisy clamors, I heard countless familiar voices—I once laughed and chatted with them in luxurious mansions, but now their tones brimmed with hatred, as if they wanted to kill me.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I know breaking into someone’s home is impolite, contrary to Gotham’s gang rules, yet something I cannot explain drove me to do it…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Why are you doing this?” Jason asked from the truck: “Batman, give me a reason. I don’t believe you’re this impulsive.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Though we’ve only formally known each other a short time, I feel you’re much like me—you prefer to plan every detail before acting, minimizing surprises. But what exactly are you doing now?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I don’t know.” Bruce gave an answer that surprised even himself: “Something drove me to do it.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The shouts around grew louder; gunshots began to ring out. Most residents of the North District were heads of major gangs, so this place glowed with lights and thrived in prosperity.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It stood like an isolated island, towering above Gotham’s society—its people were both makers and admirers of the rules, singing praises to them.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>So when a truck that had no business being here crashed into the district, everyone screamed for blood. The children inside the cargo bed could see fierce flames rising through gaps in the roof.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But their first reaction wasn’t screaming—they covered their mouths, absolutely silent. This truck wasn’t good cover; if it exploded, no one would survive.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The tires were hit first—these gang enforcers weren’t street thugs. Their marksmanship was precise; they knew blowing a tire might cause the truck to lose control, but stopping it was worth it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The front tire burst with a bang, spewing white smoke. Bruce gripped the steering wheel tighter; the few remaining muscles in his arms unleashed all their strength, twisting the wheel and flooring the gas, speeding faster.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Where the hell is he going?! Stop him!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Damn! It’s the Estate District! Quick, quick, shoot!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“It’s over, it’s over—he’s going in! Hurry! Wake everyone up! This is huge!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Driver’s cab! Shoot the driver’s cab!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Yet in this moment of crisis, Bruce’s mind grew clearer. The truck’s path formed in his mind—every gunman’s position, every muzzle’s angle, every bullet’s trace—all became shimmering lights, laid bare before his eyes.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Beneath the Red Hood, his blue eyes grew brighter; the truck sped faster—but the fuel gauge began to flicker.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The truck’s gasoline had been added by the little brat earlier; his fuel came from a mechanic school. He was just a kid—he couldn’t carry much. This fuel was already the absolute limit to get the truck from East District to North District.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The truck kept getting shot at, but because events unfolded so suddenly, most enforcers weren’t ready—the truck had already surged past. Direct fire wasn’t intense, yet stray bullets struck the cargo bed; children hit screamed in pain.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This truck was like a short-lived tree—from sprout to growth to decay—in mere minutes. After its peak, only a withered husk remained.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A feeble screech of brakes—white smoke billowed as the truck halted before a mansion’s gate. Rain poured down; the storm howled relentlessly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Amid the rain, the name on the mailbox swayed like fallen leaves in the wind, yet never dropped. The letters were brief, but the legend was long.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Out from the mansion gate stepped Falcone. He stood at the entrance of Falcone Manor, took a black umbrella from a servant’s hand, and stared expressionlessly at the battered truck before him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He saw the driver’s door open—but no one stepped out. Instead, the figure gripped the door, stepped on the handle, and flipped cleanly onto the truck’s roof, looking down at Falcone from above.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Their distance was mere dozens of meters; each could clearly see the other. Bruce saw the lone Don—a stubborn root in the storm, above ground no longer young and lush, but underground, his roots remained unseen, beyond even a fraction of their depth.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Falcone saw a strange man in a red hood, standing atop a broken truck in a wind-lashed rainstorm. A fierce emotion surged forth, piercing the heavens.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Good evening, Don.” A voice, impossibly hoarse, carried through the wind—barely audible.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Falcone waved a hand, halting the gunmen aiming nearby, ordering everyone to stand down. “Hello. Your truck is impressive—very much like one I saw years ago.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Aren’t you going to let them shoot?” Bruce asked. “Don’t you think I’m one of those dangerous lunatics?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You mean the one who always laughs? Or the thief? Or the one who does human experiments?” Falcone gazed calmly at Bruce: “They won’t come for me—they don’t like me.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Falcone lowered his head, looking at the puddle at his feet. “They think I’m the most boring man on earth, because I built the most boring order in the world. So they’ve never come for me.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I just want to ask you one question…” Bruce’s voice echoed through the rainy night. He slowly walked toward the truck’s canopy, then slit open its side. Wind and rain rushed in; all the children recoiled in terror.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Not only did cold wind and rain flood the cargo bed—the stench of blood from wounded children drifted to Falcone’s face.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Don, you spent forty years building rules for Gotham. These rules aren’t perfect, but they work… But I only want to ask: who were you making these rules for?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Falcone gently rubbed his wrist. “Don’t dance around, child. If I say I did it for Gotham, you’ll say these children aren’t well-off. If I say I did it for myself, you’ll tell me to do it for Gotham.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“But the truth is—I made these rules because I came from an era where I had no other choice.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Forty years have passed. Both of us are old. We’ve fulfilled our missions. But I won’t reform it from the top down. Do you know why?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Bruce silently watched the old Don—his figure trembling in the storm, yet never moving.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I led by example, showing them how, in that glorious age, we decided history’s course over casual conversation.” The Don’s voice carried a unique vintage quality—as if returning to the era when the Statue of Liberty’s torch lit the world.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I made them imitate me—learn to be civilized amid chaos, like taming a dog. These rules? They’re the leash I use.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I have no patience to teach a dog how to be human. I know a dog is a dog—it won’t become human. They plunder for me; I use those gains to light lamps, build cities.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“A society rich enough won’t breed dogs—it will breed people full of compassion and empathy. Among them, those with courage, wisdom, and resolve will eventually stand before me and say: loosen your leash. Let them be free.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Don looked at the vivid red hood, through the hood at Bruce’s eyes, and through the eyes into his soul. He said:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“These children prove your compassion. This truck proves your courage. This journey proves your wisdom. Standing face-to-face with me proves your resolve…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Now, say what you came to say. Afterward, I will say what I must.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Some fierce emotion within Bruce suddenly dissipated, replaced by a faint bitterness.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He had fought through every trial, hacked through every thorn—but at the end, he didn’t face a demon. He faced the last hero.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The hero of the previous age, constrained by vision, knowledge, wisdom, and social conditions, who never reached the end.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Amid the howling wind, Bruce’s voice came: “A friend of mine told me—this path isn’t won only when you reach the end.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Clearly, this wasn’t the line Falcone expected to hear. He hadn’t imagined anyone coming here would say this to him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But he wasn’t pleased. He spoke: “If this shakes you, if it stirs thoughts of surrender, you’re doomed to fail. Don’t waste my time.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Even if there’s no perfect solution, gang society is still the worst possible answer.” Bruce paused, then spoke the words: “The old rules must step aside, Don.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Falcone turned and walked slowly toward the mansion. His shoes crushed puddles; each splash of water was like gold panned from gravel in that chaotic age.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Finally, he stood in the mansion gate’s light, made the sign of the cross over his chest, and whispered: “God bless Gotham. Amen.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When his figure vanished, the mansion’s lights slowly dimmed. The Don had never slept so early—but as the light from his bedroom window faded, the beacon of Gotham grew dimmer.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Every age passes. The arm that never lowered the torch will, with each stormy night, rot into driftwood, sinking beneath the sea as history’s great wheel rolls over it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Bruce stood on the broken truck in the howling night, watching the lights of the entire North District fade, leaving only the deafening roar of rain—and the vivid red hood in the dark.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Jason, lying on the truck, understood this conversation better than the ignorant children—or even better than Bruce.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In this dream full of confusion, Jason suddenly woke. He sat up, reached one hand out the window, and the wind wrote a long poem on his arm with raindrops.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Bruce removed his hood. This disguise had lost all meaning.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He tossed the hood onto the truck’s roof. It slid down the wet metal surface, like dew on a newborn leaf, slowly dripping away.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A small, tender hand caught the red hood. Five fingers slowly closed, gripping tightly in the pitch-black rain: Jason held the only splash of color.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Fingers gradually lengthened; faint scars crept upward. After placing the stack of papers down, Bruce looked at Alfred with quiet hope.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Alfred, holding a candle, walked slowly to the door, turned, and said to Bruce: “I liked the final scene. You wrote it well, Master.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Why? Because it’s the narrative climax?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“No. Because I like the color of the hood.”\u003C\u002Fp>",1630,"2026-06-20T16:39:22.658Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","aeb66bcee4bb7215ef1e570a39b62c973494ee8a769c6b7d0592acb594ee3f31","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-822","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-820",1000,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fmy-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-cover.jpg"]