Chapter 831

After opening Arkham Asylum, Bruce did not choose to get in a car; instead, he donned his long-unused Batsuit and returned once more to Gotham's night.

Following the path outward from Arkham Asylum leads to the edge of the East End; continuing south along its border brings you to the territory of the Tail Gang, which can be called the secondary hub of the East End—a newly active area alongside Arkham and Greene Street.

Most of the water on the main roads had drained away, but puddles still lingered in the alleys nearby; stepping on them sent up high sprays of water.

Gotham's roads were never built to bear the weight of so many overloaded trucks, so many areas were crushed beyond recognition; some truck drivers, seeking shortcuts, deliberately took the narrow alleys, where road conditions were even worse and standing water more abundant.

The Tail Gang's children had all been sent back to their territory, left undisturbed; Jason had been taken to the hospital, though he may already have been discharged. Standing atop the alley wall, Batman's gaze wandered aimlessly, searching for a familiar face—but Jason did not appear in his line of sight.

He knew he could not simply storm into the Tail Gang's territory, burst into their base, and look for Jason, because he was no longer a child, he did not belong here, and further violating their rules would only bring deeper disaster upon the children.

A little farther east from the Tail Gang lies Greene Street, the birthplace of the East End's gangs and once the affluent district where the most powerful crime families resided.

But that was long ago; now all the mansions here looked ancient and abandoned, with few people around. At the street's end, the bouncers outside a few nightclubs lounged listlessly—they hadn't seen a worthy guest in years.

Batman walked across their rooftop terrace, following the glow of neon lights until he reached the perimeter of Arkham, where activity was now intense; from afar, he could see Arkham's iconic structure: a single, unified residential tower.

The entire Arkham district was one single building, interconnected and crisscrossed like an independent world.

Standing at the foot of this steel giant, Batman saw shadows moving through countless narrow corridors.

He was certain he had seen smiles on the faces of its residents—but this struck him as absurd, for their living conditions were terrible, with less than ten square meters per person, corridors constrained by architecture so narrow that some required bending to pass through.

Yet these people seemed happy, even proud—why?

Batman thought perhaps it was because they lived better than anyone else here, and thus felt more content.

Batman felt this was unfair, because these people had never seen a wider world since birth; they did not know what true happiness looked like. The happiness born of "better than some, worse than others" was false; they had too many unmet needs.

But Batman knew the first phase of Arkham's renovation had drained nearly all of Wayne Enterprises' liquid assets; this architectural marvel, in truth, was built with his blood.

Logically, he had saved so many, improved their lives, given them happiness—he should feel immense pride, feel his compassion fulfilled.

After all, he had paid so much; he had no obligation to do this. These people could have died here, rotted here—it would have meant nothing to him. Now, he had saved them, yet they offered no gratitude, might not even remember him, perhaps even cursed him in the newspapers.

Batman's reason told him these efforts were meaningless—but an emotion stirred within him, and in that instant, he suddenly understood something Clark had once said to him.

"Because I'm stronger, smarter, and can fly, they treat me like a god—but I hate that, because being a god isn't just about strength, intelligence, or flight."

"If a man could save everyone, grant every person the happiness they desire, only then could he be called a god. I cannot do that, so I do not wish to be called one."

"Or rather, I fear that title—if they expect this of me and I fail, they will be disappointed, and I will be utterly ashamed."

Batman did not know whether Clark realized, when he spoke those words, that he truly could save all of humanity—but now, as he read them, he knew he had that ability.

So why hadn't he acted immediately?

What emotion had risen within him now?

What thought had blocked him from giving Shiler a direct answer?

Perhaps it was humanity, Batman thought—perhaps the most instinctive self-preservation of being human. This emotion told him he did not want to lose the luxurious Wayne Manor, the Batcave with its high-tech equipment, the Wayne Enterprises that provided him endless funding…

Was it worth trading all that for the small happiness of people unrelated to him?

As he pondered these questions, Batman felt as if nailed to a cross—each wedge driven into his body expelled hypocrisy, selfishness, greed, along with his blood.

As he moved through the East End, Batman felt he walked a pilgrimage path; certain negative emotions within him were worn away by the desert wind, and more light streamed forth from the cracks in his heart.

Continuing south from Arkham, he neared Gotham Cathedral; near it, in a slum district, Batman stopped. He remembered having been here before.

He had followed the trail of his parents' killer to an attic, where he met the frail Louis, clutching an empty salt shaker—now utterly devoid of salt.

Batman climbed the building again, leaping onto the attic balcony; through the window, he saw only clutter—no one remained.

This was unsurprising; Louis's health had been near collapse then, and he could not have survived three more years here. After his death, the place had not been rented out again, but turned into a storage room.

Downstairs, noise erupted—a drunk had smashed a flowerpot, and the landlord was scolding him; deeper down, a child screamed, as if accused of stealing.

Batman left the building and walked down the alley toward Gotham Cathedral—but on a side street, he encountered someone he had not expected: Constantine.

Today, Constantine seemed far more lucid; he held a cigar between his lips, bent low, searching for something. Seeing Batman, he paused, sizing him up. "You're alright? I was going to visit you at the manor, but your butler wouldn't let me in."

"What are you looking for?" Batman asked.

"I moved recently, but the truck driver who helped me was a terrible driver—he jolted everything too hard. My magical ritual materials are gone. I'm searching around…" Constantine shoved his hands into his trench coat pockets, turning left and right, scanning the ground closely.

"Materials? What materials?" Batman asked again.

"Uh, I can't really explain it—you're better off not knowing." Constantine stamped his foot in place, clearly trying to change the subject. "What are you doing here? I heard you were injured—why aren't you in the hospital recovering?"

Batman fell silent for a moment, then looked at Constantine. "Do you think I can save Gotham?"

Constantine blinked, glanced upward at the sky, then said: "... robably."

"I want the truth," Batman said, blunt and concise.

Constantine sighed, stepped forward, and put an arm around Batman's shoulder. "Bruce, you don't need to carry this much pressure. Honestly, this city doesn't need saving—and it can't be saved."

"Why?" Batman asked.

"Look, the people here aren't doing that badly, honestly. You've probably seen too little—there are far worse places. London's slums might be even worse. Don't worry so much."

Batman turned to stare at Constantine. He knew the man was lying. Constantine, pressured by his gaze, released his hold after a long pause, rubbed his hands, and stamped his foot.

"Alright, kid, you're always too sharp. If you insist on knowing, I can only say: you cannot save this city—but not because you're not strong enough. Because of something far more mysterious."

"I know you don't believe in fate—but fate is real. Perhaps someone has decided this city's destiny, finds it distasteful, and treats it like a trash bin."

"Look, the world is vast. You don't have to repaint every trash bin into a house. Every home needs a trash bin, doesn't it?"

Constantine spoke incoherently, sprinkling in arcane terms—but Batman understood. He said: "Gotham became what it is now—not just because of human actions, right?"

Constantine sighed deeply again. "Some things I can't say plainly—too many eyes are on me. I'm telling you this only because you're my friend. All I can say, Batman: stop wasting your effort."

Batman walked past Constantine. Constantine tried to follow, but couldn't keep up—he could only watch Batman's figure vanish at the alley's end.

Batman's pace quickened, as if chasing something; his steps grew heavier, yet firmer.

The sound of his boots on the steps was dull, like thunderous drums. Batman ascended the steps of Gotham Cathedral and entered the vast nave—but waiting beneath the statue was not a priest, but Shiler.

Batman slowed his steps, walking slowly to face Shiler. He saw the halo above Shiler's head, but felt no surprise. Shiler flipped through the Bible on the pulpit, murmuring a prayer.

Then he asked: "Batman, have you made your choice?"

"I will save this place," Batman said, taking a deep breath. "No matter the cost, no matter the sacrifices, no matter whether people remember me—I do not care. Because I am the Night."

"I will save this place. Whoever arranged Gotham's destined fate, whoever arranged my own destiny, who made tragedies that could have ended repeat endlessly—I will make them regret it. Because I am Vengeance."

"I will ultimately save this place—with every resource I can obtain, with my wisdom and talent, with everything I've learned from every person I've met—to win this war, and I will win it, because I am Batman."

As his words ended, the moonlight, which had previously illuminated the crucified Jesus through the cathedral's stained glass, now fell upon him.

And Shiler continued his quiet prayer:

"Merciful Father, I repent of my arrogance—for failing to hear the Gospel, for not witnessing your incarnate miracles, for disbelief and irreverence…"

"Now, you have chosen me, sent your beloved Son into the world to suffer, nailed to the cross, his flesh rotted, his face stripped away, his blood drained, his soul dissolved…"

Batman lowered his head, for he saw a faint glow emanating from his wounds.

Shiler's low prayer echoed through the cathedral; as his pace quickened, the glow intensified, forming rings of light behind Batman, then drawing back into his body.

"All who believe in you on earth shall follow you in heaven. We have heard from the Lord: when he died, he rose again. All his suffering was to redeem us."

"When he lost everything, we came to know: he is… the Eternal Lord Jesus."

When the prayer ended, Shiler smiled at Batman.

"From god to man, and from man back to god… Jesus endures."

Batman felt no new power—but something had changed. Finally, he heard Shiler's whisper echo through the cathedral, laced with a killing intent he had never heard before:

"Come, Laughing Bat… Jesus will protect you. Amen."