Chapter 826

"Yes, I was born here, maybe over fifty years ago? I can't remember. My parents dumped me in a trash bin, and a dockworker picked me up."

"I was lucky, wasn't I? My father was very capable—he could support me. Though later he was killed, at least I made it to adulthood..."

In the hospital room, a slightly overweight gang boss leaned against the wall, smoking a cigar, and recalled: "You look young, so you didn't live through that era. It was truly turbulent—did I use the right word?"

"Yes, you all know I'm new—not just to this hospital, but also to guns and whips," Bruce said subtly, but the others all chuckled: "Still, you're experienced. Many newcomers kill their own boss and offend everyone here at once."

"I know well: more friends, more paths," Bruce lit another cigar, squinting as he drew in smoke. "Truth is, I'm worried about what path to take next."

"Worried? Isn't life good enough now?" said another, younger gang boss. "Way better than ten years ago. I missed the good times—I got shot twice fighting for the docks, and it still hurts."

"You've had good luck," the fat boss spoke up. "When I first came to Gotham, no one taught you proper conduct. The whole city was a mess—unbearable."

"Oh, by the way," he turned to Bruce. "Kid, did you kill your elder to rise? Or did you take it from someone else?"

"I have no elders," Bruce shrugged. "I just couldn't stand the boss of my district. I lied that I was a merchant from out of town, pulled out a gun, and killed him. Luckily, he was already rotten—he skimmed wages from his men. Everyone had endured him long enough. I just took advantage."

The fat boss raised an eyebrow. "You've got guts—daring to pull the trigger. But that's fine. You're young. If you'd killed your own father or uncle, things would've been messy."

"What do you mean?" Bruce asked.

The fat boss waved a hand. "If you have no roots, built everything yourself, people will be more forgiving. But if you're brought into the circle by your father or uncle, any slip-up makes them think you're unreliable—they won't do business with you."

Bruce frowned. "Why would having no roots make people more forgiving?"

The younger boss spoke up: "Don't you get it? If you never learned proper conduct from your elders, they see you as a country bumpkin. A few blunders? No big deal. I went through the same."

"But if you're born into a gang family, raised watching your parents, trained every day—and still mess up? That just proves you're stupid."

Bruce said: "But if I make a mistake, won't they laugh at me just the same?"

"It doesn't matter—I've been laughed at too," the younger boss lit a cigar. "As long as you don't commit fatal errors, a few laughs won't hurt."

"After all, you didn't know because you never learned. But if you were taught for years and still can't grasp it? How can anyone do business with you? Who wants to deal with an idiot who spent years learning basic etiquette and still can't get it right?"

Bruce nodded. The fat boss continued: "Speaking of which, I think of my daughter. Thank God she has no foolish ideas about love—but don't you dare mention it to her, and absolutely don't let her set her eyes on some rich merchant's son. Those playboys are all trash..."

The fat boss drew on his cigar. "I wanted to send her to a church school, but my wife told me she'd learn nothing there—she wouldn't even know how to reply to an invitation, and they'd laugh at her."

"Church school? That should be fine," Bruce said. "Especially that famous girls' school in the city."

The fat boss waved dismissively. "Fine, sure—but look at what they teach. They teach my daughter the Bible, sewing, flower arranging, painting. But she's going to marry into the Lawrence family."

"She'll become Mrs. Young Lawrence, mistress of the Lawrence household. What good are those skills? Firecracker Ma Long... that's your name, right?"

"Tell me—if you wanted to visit the Lawrence family, wrote a formal letter, and dropped it in their mailbox, wouldn't you expect a reply?"

Bruce nodded. "Of course."

"But if their mistress is some dumb girl who doesn't even know who you are or your status, how can you expect a proper reply?"

The fat boss exhaled smoke. "The Lawrence family is far above you. A nobody like you shows up at their door—they can't be too warm, or they'll lose face with peers."

"But if their reply is too cold, you'll think they're rejecting you. To strike the right tone, you must read not just the wording—but the handwriting, the paper quality, the timing of the reply. Miss any of that, and you insult them."

Bruce thought it over. He realized it was true. Even in Gotham's upper circles, rules were endless.

Men had it easier. The ladies and young ladies? A single necklace, a single hairpin—hundreds of rules.

Who wore the new style, who wore the old, whose fan was gifted by whom, which way their hat was tilted—all mattered. Who got engaged, who gave birth, which family changed status—you could tell from the tiniest details of dress, food, housing, movement.

Bruce hadn't felt the weight because his disguise—Bruce Wayne—was already a thoroughly rotten playboy. He could throw tantrums at parties, no one dared challenge him. He could show up at grand mansions still in his gym clothes after working out, and servants and managers still smiled at him.

As for invitations—he never read them. Alfred never told him. He'd just say, "The X family invited you—would you like to go?" If Bruce said no, Alfred wouldn't ask how to write the reply.

In short: Bruce's parents, his butler, and his own disguise shielded him from all these hidden rules. No one in Gotham dared offend him—why should he follow any?

Now, imagining himself without the Wayne fortune, without the loyal butler, without the Bruce Wayne persona—he was just a rich merchant. To enter Gotham's circle, he'd have to sweat blood.

Not just how to write a letter or reply to an invitation—he'd have to learn who to send it to, what to wear, how to walk. Even Batman with 48 hours a day would collapse from exhaustion.

Now Bruce understood what Shiler had meant. Back then, he'd asked Shiler to experience slum life—and Shiler had asked him: "Do you really think slum life is harder than upper-class life?"

Shiler meant this: in the slums, your relatives, friends, brothers, colleagues are your allies. In the upper class, they're all your burdens.

One misstep, and they won't say a word to your face—but behind your back, they'll gossip. If rumors spread, your reputation crumbles—and business dies.

For someone like Bruce—high IQ, low EQ—the slums were easier. If he could adjust, his intelligence would give him plenty of capital to thrive comfortably.

But in upper-class intrigue—back-and-forth, hidden currents—Bruce couldn't read emotions or express his own well enough to sense the undercurrents, understand everyone's motives, and act perfectly.

Batman is a madman. The slums don't care if you're mad. But the upper class? If you're not high enough in status but act wildly out of line, you'll never be accepted.

As Bruce thought this, the younger gang boss spoke: "My son is only three. I plan to take him to meet his two uncles when he's five—they're in shipping. And when he's school age, I want him to go to the community elementary."

The fat boss clicked his tongue. "Don't you dare, Doyle. For the sake of our past cooperation, I warn you—don't send him to school. It's for his own good."

Doyle frowned. "Why? In my neighborhood, plenty of parents send their kids to school."

"That's because you bought a house in the South District, among rich merchants. Of course they send their kids to school. But you can't do that."

"Why?" Doyle asked.

The fat boss shook his head. "Think: if he grows up playing with rich kids at community school, how can he ever do business with them later?"

"Hire a private tutor—preferably an elder from the same generation as your godfather—to teach him etiquette and proper conduct. Have your wife take him to salons and afternoon teas, let him bond with his aunts, then let him play with their children. That's the proper way."

The fat boss sighed. "Worse—if your child grows up with rich kids, wants to go to the same middle school, same university—what if he gets sent out of town? Do you abandon your family business?"

"In Gotham, even four months can mean dozens of families killing each other over territory. If he's gone that long, he comes back a fat lamb waiting to be slaughtered—doesn't understand the situation, doesn't know anyone. How will he survive?"

Doyle thought, then nodded. "You're right. I shouldn't have listened to Alina. She insisted our son must go to university. Honestly, Gotham University grads? Send them into the gang for two days—they'd be dead."

The fat boss waved his cigar. "Since your wedding, I've said it—you picked the wrong woman. Your wife graduated from Cambridge. Her cursive script is unmatched in the Twelve Families."

"But marrying a woman from outside? She cries and screams about education, education, reading..."

"But look where you are. You read all those books, come back and can't even hold a gun. In the end, you'll just clutch your books and meet God."