Chapter 827

Bruce frowned deeper as he listened. "But if you don't go to school, how will you even learn basic grammar?"

"So what?" the fat boss shrugged dismissively. "All you need to learn is how to put on airs at a gang family gathering. Lucky for you, the cigars you brought today suit my taste—I'll teach you one trick…"

"I'm all ears," Bruce said.

"First, your attire isn't bad—this suit's clearly high quality; you've got some family wealth. But that's not enough. You must learn how to speak. Good thing—you, Doyle, you've never learned this either. You're riding on his coattails…"

Doyle smiled at Bruce, who gave a slight nod without speaking. The fat boss took another drag of his cigar. "I ask you: suppose you're at some mansion and you spot your rival—you've had a minor clash recently. He walks up and says, 'The food here is terrible. I see you've eaten a lot.' What does he mean?"

Doyle frowned first. "I think he's asking for a beating! He thinks the food's bad, then points out I ate a lot—that's calling me tasteless! I'll make him regret it when I get back!"

Bruce frowned. "Those two sentences form a progression—they express the same meaning. If it were just provocation, there are far simpler ways to say it…"

The fat boss chuckled. "This one—what's his name again? Oh, right—Matchstick Ma Long—he's smarter. What he really means is: we shouldn't be here together. You've eaten enough. Let's find somewhere private to talk."

"And since you've had a recent clash and he's the one approaching you, he's trying to back down, show weakness. But he's not being obvious about it—he doesn't want to discuss this in public. It's more like saying: 'We both messed up the other day, but it's not worth breaking over something so small. Let it go. But next time, I won't let you off again.'"

Doyle and Bruce exchanged glances. Doyle shook his head. "Good thing my territory's remote—no such fancy rules. If it weren't for my brother-in-law's influence, I wouldn't even be here."

Bruce felt a headache coming on. It felt like he was back in psychology class—he remembered Shi Le giving two lectures on behavioral science. Bruce had slept soundly through both.

Overanalyzing every word and gesture of a person isn't madness here—it's normal, even common.

Everything was shrouded in a veil of secrecy. On the surface, they were civilized men in suits, moving through lights and candle glow, nodding, smiling, dancing, their restraint and politeness almost unbecoming of gangsters.

Behind all the glamour, however, were assessing glances, calculating stares, whispers of contempt and mockery, silent conversations unfolding without sound.

Bruce felt he was stepping into a new world, where every behavior differed from what he knew. But what concerned him more was what advantages and flaws this system held—and where its key lay.

He instinctively felt Doyle's earlier remarks about his son's education might be the key. So he spoke again: "I know these rules should be learned—if I get the chance, I'd like to. But aren't the things taught in school still necessary?"

The fat boss shook his head. "Yes, reading more might help—make you speak more refined, like you. Your education level must be high, right?"

Bruce replied: "Yes, I graduated college."

He added silently: "But not quite fully."

"Exactly," the fat boss said. "It helps you. You got lucky—you used force to kill an unpopular boss and convinced his men to follow you."

"But for most others, learning grammar is pointless. Better to learn how to read people. No one here will test you on syntax. And if you don't pick up these skills, your position won't last long."

"Of course, if I were to teach my child, I'd rather he learn music or painting—not too much, just enough to maintain elegance, avoid being crude. A touch of artistic refinement makes others look at you differently when you speak."

After leaving the ward, Bruce kept thinking.

For a long time, Shi Le had chased him for papers. It gave him the illusion that everyone in the world had to study—that life without learning was meaningless, and failing to write papers meant death.

But now he clearly understood: Shi Le's demands on him were exceptional—rare as phoenix feathers. In Gotham, most gangster kids didn't study much; they focused on cultivating aura, not knowledge.

In their gang lives, knowledge was useless. Family tutors provided enough. And with most energy devoted to leading their families to victory, there was simply no time for school.

Though Bruce also hated waking early and staying up late writing papers, he felt the opposite extreme—complete rejection of learning—was equally unacceptable.

Bruce's genius mind had, by age twenty, mastered the most essential knowledge in the world—in depth and breadth, far surpassing his peers, even most of humanity.

But with knowledge, the more you know, the more you realize how little you know. The more learned you become, the more you see how much remains unknown, incompletely understood.

Bruce was no different. The more he learned, the more he felt how much he hadn't learned. He even wondered if his finite life could ever grasp the full allure of infinite knowledge. Complete ignorance was unthinkable to him—without knowledge, he felt no safety.

He foresaw the consequence if the gang world continued this way: rules would harden, those within them would grow ever more narrow-minded, the well would shrink until they were frogs in a well, seeing only the sky above.

The thought that Gotham's current state wasn't even the bottom—that it could still sink further—made him feel urgent.

Even now, with all his effort, he couldn't guarantee turning things around. If it kept falling, hit rock bottom, everyone would die together.

After days of observation and experience, Bruce realized: he wasn't saving Gotham—he was saving himself.

Bruce sat on his hospital bed, scribbling constantly with a pen. He'd spent a lot to get a private room, for quiet thought.

As he thought, he gradually drifted off to sleep. The next day, it wasn't the nurse who woke him—it was a clamor. He heard a familiar voice outside the door:

"Group One! Right-side ward! Enter one by one, two per room. Stand outside the door, check the room number, remember your assigned patient…"

"Group Two! Follow me! Why are you all standing around? Didn't you learn this in school? Field internship is like this…"

"What? You saw your father? He's a patient now, understand? Don't talk about family ties anymore. What decides your graduation isn't your parents—it's me…"

"Group Three! Group Three! Over here…"

Bruce heard footsteps approaching. He quickly rolled over, pretending to sleep. Then he heard the door open—and Shi Le's voice outside.

"Group Three are all top candidates for graduation. So the other two groups are under Dr. Brand. But I'm personally leading Group Three. You ten… oh, no—nine. That damn Wayne didn't show up."

"Yin Wensi! Yin Wensi, come here—hand these out first. Everyone read the rules. Come on, this patient, please cooperate…"

Shi Le waved at Bruce. Bruce stayed still. Shi Le paused. "Hello, patient. I'm Dr. Rodriguez. Could you please cooperate?"

Bruce still didn't move. As Shi Le started to approach, Bruce had no choice but to roll over.

All the students stepped back in unison at the sight of his mask—everyone in Gotham knew: those who wore masks weren't weak.

Seeing Bruce, Shi Le froze. He scanned him up and down, confirmed he wasn't mistaken, then took a deep breath, gritting his teeth:

"Patient, our third-round internship has begun. Could you please cooperate?"

Bruce coughed hard, then spoke in a voice utterly hoarse: "Fine. Let's begin."

Looking at this masked, burned, voice-shattered would-be serial killer, the students glanced at each other.

All stepped back again.

Shi Le glanced at him. "This patient's condition is serious. Yin Wensi, line them up. Question each one in turn."

Bruce saw his familiar classmates, each holding a medical file, forming a long queue before him.

Bruce opened his mouth to speak—but felt Shi Le's deathly stare. He could only lean back on the bed, as any normal gang boss would, utterly lifeless.