Chapter 852: Savage

As autumn set in, Gotham's temperatures began to drop, especially chilly in the mornings, yet the conference room on the top floor of Wayne Tower was packed with mob bosses in suits and ties.

Bruce stood at the front and said: "I'm sorry, but Wayne Enterprises accepts only cash investments…"

At these words, the room erupted in uproar; Lawrence immediately stood up and said: "Wayne! Are you mocking us? How can urban and transportation projects accept only cash investments? Don't you need raw materials and transportation costs?"

Bruce cleared his throat, lowered his gaze to the document in his hand—actually blank, all technical data stored in his mind—but he still pretended, as if reading from a script prepared by his advisory team.

"Gentlemen, please remain calm. I accept only cash investments for sufficient reasons: Wayne Enterprises' construction technology has reached a qualitative leap. The raw materials and transportation costs you can provide are negligible in our eyes."

"Please look at the TV screen—this displays the materials used in our Phase One and Two projects. All sections marked with blurred labels involve proprietary technology…"

The screen filled with technical terms the heads of the Twelve Families couldn't comprehend—obscure English words, decipherable only by root and suffix, most of which used rare morphemes; without prior knowledge, guessing was impossible.

Bruce raised his voice: "As you see, the materials I use to build aren't ordinary concrete and rebar. The entire structure is monolithic—earthquake-resistant, fireproof, even tsunami-proof."

"The raw materials you can buy, the workers you can hire, the engineers you can recruit—all lack the technical capability to participate. Their skills are far too inadequate."

"Right now, only Wayne Enterprises' production line can manufacture such buildings. And those defense systems? Only functional on such structures. Otherwise, a single laser blast punches a hole through the floor and the whole building collapses—why build it at all?"

Bruce spoke with absolute conviction, cutting straight to the core. He didn't debate investment amounts—he declared outright: your technology is too primitive to understand, so equity or material contributions are out of the question. The only way to join is to pay cash.

Originally, the heads of the Twelve Families weren't short on cash—combined, their capital could have injected a powerful boost into the entire project. But they'd just spent heavily.

Savage's rare collectibles, though priced low, were still based on market value. The original works of the Renaissance masters, Van Gogh, Monet in their prime—no need to elaborate on their worth. Even at a tenth of that price, they were still exorbitant.

Savage didn't sell one or two pieces—he had entire tons of art: oil paintings, sculptures, antiques, rare gemstones.

Desperate to liquidate, he slashed prices drastically and offered massive quantities. The Twelve Families bought aggressively—and now their liquid capital was exhausted.

Everyone hoarded the collectibles, planning to resell at higher prices; some even intended to keep them. Their liquid funds barely hovered above the safety line.

Yet precisely now, they realized Bruce's construction plan threatened their core interests—and also realized that if they joined, future returns would be staggering.

But Bruce demanded only cash. Now the heads of the Twelve Families were caught in a dilemma: protect their heads or their asses? An eternal question.

After the meeting ended, the heads of each family jostled through the conference room, whispering among themselves.

"I just acquired a genuine Van Gogh. The auction house appraiser I know told me, if it goes through proper auction, minimum this much—but if sold privately, I'd struggle to break even…"

"Same here. I bought two sculptures. The appraiser confirmed they're authentic—but without auction house procedures, they fetch nothing…"

"Even urgent sales require price cuts—lose ten percent, that's millions gone. Who can afford to let that go?"

"But this damn Bruce wants cash. Do you think his project will cover the whole city that fast?"

Lawrence cleared his throat: "I say we stall. Keep causing minor disruptions. When we have cash again, we'll come back to him."

"Agreed. The art market's doing well. If we use auction houses, within a year I'll have cash again."

"Exactly. We're all broke. No one's ahead. Let's unite and stall him—until we have money, that's all."

The heads of the Twelve Families exchanged opinions. All felt this strategy was sound.

It was common in business: insufficient liquid capital but desperate to secure a project—just stall. If competitors emerge, sabotage them. Wait until funds are available, then invest.

But Bruce, stepping out of the conference room, knew he'd already won this battle.

The greatest challenge of Gotham's renovation lay in this: once it threatened the mob's core interests, they'd unite in violent resistance. And if the gangs began to war, countless lives would be endangered.

Bruce's primary goal: eliminate violent conflict entirely, prevent it from becoming a citywide war.

The sedatives he'd slipped into the mob's systems had worked well enough—but eventually, the Twelve Families would catch on. Then, he'd need psychology and behavioral science.

Investors always seek maximum returns, buying as cheaply as possible. When Savage began dumping his collection at rock-bottom prices, Bruce extended the olive branch—and the heads naturally took it.

The art market showed no signs of collapse. The experts they hired confirmed this. Acquiring Savage's treasures at such low prices meant direct asset appreciation for their families.

But assets and liquid capital are different. They were spending liquid capital now to increase future estimated assets.

At the time, their decision was correct—they didn't need that much liquid capital then.

But Bruce precisely now demanded more liquid capital—and framed it as an investment.

No money, no investment—that's universally accepted. If you lack funds, you can't blame me for excluding you. Bruce stood firmly on this principle.

The Twelve Families' plan to stall relied on the assumption that Bruce was a businessman seeking to recoup costs and profit. In their view, he couldn't invest endlessly. Since he wanted their money, he could be stalled.

But this was exactly what Bruce wanted. He needed this one-year buffer. The Twelve Families could use it to raise money—he could too.

His earlier urgency for cash had been to complete everything before the gangs reacted, preventing violent backlash.

But since they chose to stall, Bruce would stall with them. In the same year, Batman's earning capacity dwarfed theirs. Bruce was confident he'd earn enough to complete half of Gotham's transformation.

When the Twelve Families regained their liquidity a year later, they'd face a half-finished Terminator—Batman fully unleashed. Buying Earth would be a matter of time.

This sedative wasn't injected by Bruce—it was self-administered by the Twelve Families.

The heads of the Twelve Families wanted both: they wanted their collectibles to appreciate, earning passively, and they wanted to join Bruce's investment to fully control Gotham.

So they lacked the resolve to cut the tail, burn the boats—to urgently sell their collectibles, raise capital, and confront Bruce.

Ultimately, it was still about profit.

"This is what I meant—we can exploit their lack of long-term vision," Schiller smiled in his office. "They bought those collectibles too cheaply—the profit margin is enormous. This is guaranteed money. They won't let it go."

"But they also can't abandon the future you described. They didn't see your true goal. So they made exactly the choice you wanted: no armed resistance, no violent conflict—just peaceful stalling for a year, trying to have it all."

Bruce gently ground his fingers together: "One year…"

He shook his head, sighed softly. Alberto turned to him—he knew Bruce had mastered nearly all knowledge on Earth in just twenty years. One year was already an impossibly long time.

"Don't forget our agreement," Alberto said. "The Twelve Families are just my father's dogs. He might sigh a little—but I'm different. I only want to step forward into the new era."

"Aren't you afraid he'll average you out?" Schiller asked.

"I don't intend to stay in Gotham. That's not the end of the Falcone family," Alberto glanced at his watch. "My father wants to retire in Italy."

"Perhaps one day, Wayne truly rules the world…" Alberto glanced at Bruce. "Then we might go further. You won't mind, will you?"

Bruce turned to him and said: "Your father spent forty years establishing order in Gotham. If you wish to surpass him, Gotham is certainly not your endpoint…"

Alberto stood, looking at Bruce: "Honestly, I don't care whether these people live well, whether the Twelve Families' fate is good or bad, or when the gangs will die. The Don feels the same…"

"In that era, he did his utmost. Whether he succeeded or failed—it doesn't matter. Because he knew, earlier than you, that this path isn't won by those who reach the end."

Before leaving, Alberto turned his back to Bruce: "He also told me to pass on this: he dislikes that phrase. It sounds like a coward's excuse for abandoning the pursuit of the end."

"Bruce Wayne—the Don says you're no coward… you'd better not be."

Bruce sat in silence for a long time, then asked Schiller: "Do you think I'll change?"

"People change," Schiller paused, then answered.

Then he said: "As for that question, you might as well ask your butler."

Bruce left in silence. Schiller looked out the window.

Lush green faded. The peak vitality of summer withered under autumn winds. The red of maple leaves, like the blood of the earth, told everyone caught in upheaval: Gotham's autumn had come.