Chapter 855: The Final Act (Part 2)

A autumn wind had just passed, and another cold rain arrived; the next morning, chill seeped through the gaps in the window frame, only to dissolve within the warm air inside the room.

Jason crawled out from his soft, comfortable blanket, ruffled his messy, nest-like hair, stretched on the side of the bed, then opened the window.

The moment cold air rushed in, he shivered, then quickly closed the window gap a little tighter.

He shuffled in his slippers, opened the door, didn't turn back to close it, and walked toward the shared bathroom at the end of the corridor.

The bathroom was about the size of two bedrooms, with four rows of faucets in the center and more faucets mounted on the walls; right now, the room was packed with children—some washing their faces, others drying them after washing, and still others holding cups to catch hot water.

Jason yawned, saw a faucet had just freed up beside him, walked over, turned it on, splashed cold water on his face twice, then went to the cabinet at the far end of the bathroom, took out his own toothcup and toothbrush, and brushed his teeth.

Two children beside him were brushing with mouths full of foam, laughing and spraying bubbles at each other; most of them found brushing teeth fascinating, especially since the toothpaste the House of All Things bought foamed up so much that after brushing, you could pass for Santa Claus.

After washing up, Jason returned to his room to change clothes, then wandered through the House of All Things' office and found everything normal.

The children moved like schools of fish darting through coral and seaweed; the fierce wind outside the windows affected them not at all—some were even sweating from running and jumping around.

At this moment, the flush on their cheeks and the hope in their eyes were things never seen before.

After a while, Jason led the younger children to the daycare, handed them over to a few older girls there, then went downstairs to the school to urge the other children to read.

After finishing his duties inside the building, he left the structure, mounted a bicycle, and rode toward the Ice Mountain Restaurant.

The bell jingled; the waiter hurried over and led Jason up to the restaurant's office on the upper floor.

There, besides Cobblepot, were several children—the very beggars he had rescued earlier.

They were still very thin, but their complexion and physical condition had improved considerably; now they huddled in small groups, whispering quietly.

Cobblepot and Jason led them outside; Jason waved to them and said, "Come with me—we have two kids who paid extra in Phase Two for better housing; their rooms are now empty. You can move in first, and return here once your place is renovated…"

The children were nervous, but Cobblepot stepped onto the vehicle first; they clearly trusted their leader deeply, so they pushed and shoved one another to climb aboard.

After dropping the children off at Jason's House of All Things, Cobblepot did not get back into the car when he exited the building—he planned to take a circuit through the East District.

Passing around the Phase One and Two buildings, he came to the construction sites of Phase Three and Four; the buildings were nearly half finished. Ahead lay Phase Five and Six, not far from the Ice Mountain Restaurant.

One construction site after another sprouted like bamboo shoots from the ground; towering skyscrapers rose from nothing—nothing was more awe-inspiring than this.

Cobblepot had read little, yet he still felt the grand tide of an era shifting—the thunder of giant machines echoed like the rolling wheels of history; the ever-taller buildings resembled humanity's branches climbing ever upward.

After returning to the Ice Mountain Restaurant, he drove alone to the North District, which, compared to the East District's endless construction, felt quiet—or rather, lifeless.

He drove slowly, so through the car window he could see many heads of the Twelve Families gazing intently at their newly acquired treasures inside their estate windows.

Beautiful oil paintings, exquisite sculptures, antique artifacts steeped in history—but they stood on the bridge admiring the view, while those upstairs watched them.

Cobblepot thought these Twelve Family leaders were like antiques left over from the last era, carrying the hazy, yellowed aura of the previous century—elegant yet fragile.

The strongest fortresses of the last century, forged in storms of violence, crumbled at the roar of new machines; had they awakened sooner, they might still have found a place in this new age—but if they refused, then museums were their only fitting end.

The car stopped before the Falcone Estate; as Cobblepot stepped out, he instinctively adjusted his tie, stamped his foot, paused, shook his head, then strode into the estate.

In the reception room, he met Alberto; Cobblepot stepped forward, shook his hand, and said, "I heard you're engaged? Congratulations—but I still don't know which family the bride is from…"

Alberto shook his head. "No, she's not from Gotham. She's a girl from the Metropolis that Yin Wensi met during a theater rehearsal. They fell in love, and the Godfather didn't object."

Cobblepot raised an eyebrow, seemingly skeptical of the last remark. Alberto said, "I know the rumors—that the Godfather rose to power through his wife's family. But my mother wasn't from Gotham, nor from any noble house. She was just the daughter of a fisherman from a small coastal town."

"You two brothers… I mean, your condition… uh… you don't mind?" Cobblepot asked more delicately—he meant Alberto and Yin Wensi's dissociative identity disorder.

Alberto shook his head. "I cannot understand love, nor do I seek a true beloved. I only wish the Falcone family could stand on a broader stage, rise above Gotham's rules and laws, and claim true glory."

"When is the engagement ceremony?" Cobblepot asked again.

"In a week. How about holding it at the Ice Mountain Restaurant? All of Gotham's elite will gather there—it'll be good for your business."

But Cobblepot shook his head. "I don't want to deal with the Twelve Families right now. They're all spouting Renaissance and Impressionism—good heavens, do they even remember they're a crime family?"

Alberto smiled. "People are like that. Once they've amassed wealth through violence and bloodshed, they desperately try to escape their origins, using every possible thing to prove their nobility."

"You needn't feel disgusted by them. Very soon, you won't see most of them anymore." Alberto shook his head. "Wei En won't wait long."

As he gazed out the window, crimson leaves drifted down; golden ginkgo leaves blanketed the path. On the day of the engagement ceremony, colorful fallen leaves covered the entire area around the Ice Mountain Restaurant, as if celebrating the couple.

One pair after another of polished leather shoes stepped onto the red carpet; one head after another in tailored suits entered the brilliantly lit hall.

Laughter, blessings, and music rose together; crimson poppies like blood, golden chandeliers, deep twilight curtains—all colors interwoven.

"... y student, a sincere, upright, and energetic young man, and this beautiful, dignified, virtuous young lady, shall today make a lifelong vow to each other..."

"As Alberto's teacher, I am deeply moved. Such an outstanding student, a beloved younger generation, a son beloved by God, a man of faith and righteousness, deserves unwavering love..."

At the front of the hall, Shiler glanced at Yin Wensi, then at the future Mrs. Falcone, then turned his gaze to the Godfather standing behind Yin Wensi.

It was the first time the old Godfather stood behind someone—and yet he looked perfectly calm, his expression tinged with nostalgia.

Then Shiler began his prayer: "I come under the guidance of the merciful Father, here to witness this couple's vows. Saint Peter once said..."

Amid the obscure, difficult prayer, Yin Wensi turned, holding his fiancée's hand, facing the photographer's lens.

Cobblepot, Bruce, Dick, Jason, and many of Yin Wensi's classmates stepped forward, forming several rows.

"Click." With applause and cheers, the photograph fluttered out of the camera and landed on a brown table.

A hand in black leather gloves gently brushed the photo's surface. He set down his violin case, removed his felt hat, and sat in the train compartment's seat.

A distant whistle blew; white steam rose; the red carriage passed through the valley.

"Good day, sir, would you like a cigarette?" The train's cigarette boy knocked on the compartment door. It opened slowly, revealing an aged face—though his temples were white, his presence was commanding.

The boy saw the cigar box beside him, smiled apologetically, and prepared to leave—but the old man called him back, handed him a roll of bills, and asked in Italian: "When do we reach the next station?"

"Sir, if you mean the next stop, it's ten minutes away."

The boy left. When the next station arrived, another man entered the compartment.

Seeing the old man's attire, his fingers trembled slightly. He removed his hat and placed it over his chest. "Sir, may I sit here?"

"Of course."

The man heard the old man's Italian—always with a sinking tone, like someone from the last century.

"Do you know when we'll reach the next station?" The man replied in classical Italian, echoing through the carriage: "About twenty minutes. If you mean the final stop, perhaps several hours..."

"It doesn't matter—as long as we arrive."

Silence fell in the compartment. The man noticed the violin case beneath the table; his fingers clenched.

"Relax, child. God watches over you."

The old man lit a cigar, placed it in his mouth, and mumbled.

He turned toward the window, watching the scenery outside blur past like an Impressionist painting.

The soft clatter of doors, the noise from outside, the scent of leather and cigar mingling in the air, the occasional bell, the attendant's loud greetings—all felt exactly as they had in his youth.

He thought: the legends of these forty years had finally ended. And in the swirling smoke of the cigar, he saw a calm, peaceful shore, fishing boats in the sunset, a beautiful girl from a small town...

Before the window of the Falcone Estate, Alberto saw Gotham's lighthouse ignite, casting a hazy glow through another cold, rainy night, guiding ships home.

The young Godfather gazed far into the distance, beyond the blurred coastline through the rain, and saw the distant, beautiful Sicily—the place the legendary protagonist had told him of, again and again.