Chapter 928

As the strong night wind gradually subsided, the clouds Changnianlongzhaozaigetanshangkongdewuyunjingransanquleyixie , the next day brought Gotham a rare clear day, though a light mist lingered.

Schiller rose early, slipped on his leather boots, picked up his garden spade, and went down to the garden.

Merkel, beside him in the tool shed, lifted the pot used for heating milk, poured the milk into a teapot, and carried the teapot and tea bags to the base of the oak tree in the garden, where Schiller was organizing the garden hose he had taken out the day before.

Merkel sprinkled a handful of tea leaves into a cup, then poured the steaming hot milk into it; white vapor rose, and the scent of British-style milk tea spread through the air.

Schiller took the tiny cup whose handle could barely fit one finger, shook his head, and said: “I never thought I’d drink milk tea in the morning. Doesn’t the estate have any coffee supplies left?”

After speaking, he took a sip—the taste was indeed decent, not sweet, the tea flavor more pronounced, making it tolerable even for Schiller, who disliked milk. Merkel shook his head and said: “No, sir. The coffee beans and machine are both ready. It’s just this weather—it reminds me of my homeland.”

“England is always damp and rainy. In the farm owned by my family, after a strong wind, the sky would clear a little, and everyone would rise early.”

“At that time, the farm workers would go to neighbors’ houses to buy freshly milked milk. Honestly, that taste was far better than what we’re drinking now…”

Schiller took another sip of milk tea. Merkel poured himself a cup as well. They finished their drinks beneath the oak tree. Schiller picked up the spade again and said: “The gardener’s condition is dire. Looks like we’ll have to do this ourselves. This morning, we’ll clear the broken awnings, then rinse the garden with the hose. Tomorrow, we’ll dig out the dead plants.”

Merkel went back to change his shoes. Schiller leaned on the spade, gazed at the ruined garden, and sighed. But soon, he lifted the spade and began digging out the awning supports buried in the soil.

After a while, Merkel returned. Schiller glanced at his shoes and asked: “What’s wrong? Where are your rain boots?”

Merkel shook his head and said to Schiller: “Sir, there was a phone call—it seems to be from Mr. Wayne…”

Schiller frowned. Merkel took the spade from his hand. Schiller walked to the door, stamped his feet on the rug to shake off the dirt, passed through the foyer, entered the main hall, and picked up the telephone receiver from the side table.

“Hello? What’s wrong? You’ve only been gone a few hours—why are you calling again?… What? The building in the East District collapsed? Didn’t you go help with rescue?”

“Really? That’s good. The children actively joining rescue efforts can build their capabilities, right?”

“Yes, I know. But even small things like delivering food can get many people involved. Cobble did well this time… What? Someone got injured?”

“How could the children get hurt? They were just delivering supplies… A mentally ill person suddenly went mad? Who got injured? Don’t tell me it’s… Alright, I understand. I’m coming right over.”

Schiller hung up the phone and hurried toward the stairs. Merkel, who had just entered, caught up with him and asked: “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”

“Get me my coat. I’m going to Phase One renovation site—Building One of the demonstration zone. One of my students was injured—he was attacked by a mentally ill person who suddenly went mad. I need to see what happened.”

“Oh, and call Brand. Have him come too. He might be needed for pathological analysis.”

Merkel nodded and went to fetch the coat. Schiller went upstairs, changed out of his work clothes, put on his formal attire, tied his tie, and as he descended, took the trench coat from Merkel’s hands.

“Dr. Brand said he’s at the hospital. Mr. Wayne invited him to a consultation. The driver is already at the door—the umbrella is on the back seat…”

Schiller nodded, stepped quickly outside, got into the car, and holding the umbrella, frowned as he looked out the window.

Today was a rare clear day in Gotham, but the sunlight wasn’t bright—just slightly lighter than usual. The sky wasn’t blue, still a misty gray, yet the clouds hung low without the usual oppressive, dark feeling.

What was different was the mist hanging in the air, the higher humidity. Breathing in, the chill traveled from his nostrils to his lungs.

On the streets, puddles stretched into one another. Most puddles floated golden fallen leaves blown down last night. Because of the rising temperature, some surfaces emitted fine white mist, like bowls of steaming soup.

Occasionally, bicycle bells rang from across the street. In neighborhoods not yet renovated, newsboys raced past in groups. Schiller watched their newspapers and asked: “Driver, do you have a paper? Any big news today?”

The driver, elderly and a native, gently tugged his glove and said: “The paper’s in the left door compartment. But don’t take it out—the weather’s damp, the ink hasn’t dried yet. You’ll get it on your hands.”

Schiller’s hand froze. The driver continued: “As for today’s news, it’s the building collapse on Broken Fish Basket Street…”

“Men like you probably never set foot on streets like that. Those houses aren’t built all at once like your estate—they’re added on, haphazardly, as people move in.”

“Those buildings aren’t reliable. Last night’s typhoon brought down the outermost one. Originally, just that one fell—but the houses there are packed too tightly and poorly built, so six collapsed in total.”

“What’s the casualty count?” Schiller asked, frowning.

“Those buildings aren’t tall—unlike downtown, where they’re thirty or forty stories. The six that fell were at most six stories, and the materials were shoddy. No one was crushed to death, but a few were seriously injured and taken away by Wayne Group ambulances.”

“I heard the gangs helped with rescue. And the kids from the renovation zone went too?” Schiller asked.

“Of course the gangs helped with rescue,” the driver said, pressing the horn to signal the car ahead to move. He turned the steering wheel as he spoke. “In the past, gangs always handled rescue after accidents. This time, even that rich fool Wayne joined in—efficiency improved a lot.”

“As for those kids, they did alright. But I heard there was some conflict—a wounded victim suddenly went mad and started attacking those trying to save him.”

“The gangs, working all day and hungry, were already on edge. A fight broke out. As for the kids…” The driver shook his head. “They wouldn’t have joined. Those little bastards are experts at running away.”

“In real gang shootouts, they bolt faster than anyone. This was just a fistfight—they’ve got no excuse for not dodging.”

Schiller nodded, but his frown didn’t ease. If Bruce was right—that Jason was injured in this brawl—the situation was far worse than the driver described.

First, Jason was the kids’ leader. When fights broke out, his followers protected him instinctively—he was their head, their brain. That’s how they preserved their group’s interests. Jason wasn’t easy to target.

Second, Jason was a decent fighter. He wasn’t as skilled as the genius Batman or naturally athletic Dick, but among ordinary kids, he was strong. He shouldn’t have been the first to be surrounded and beaten.

Even if he lost, Jason wasn’t the type to stubbornly stand his ground. As the driver said, these Gotham kids survived because they were masters of escape.

After all, gangs never warned them before a shootout. The moment gunshots rang out, the kids vanished in a flash—that was their survival skill in Gotham.

As he thought this, Schiller stepped out of the car, called on his phone outside Building One. After a moment, Cobble came down. The moment they met, Schiller noticed his face looked grim. He asked: “What happened? Your expression is unusually serious…”

Cobble shook his head, said nothing, and led Schiller into the elevator, up to the 15th floor where Jason lived.

Opening the door, Schiller saw several children gathered around Jason, lying in bed. Cobble waved them off. Reluctantly, they left. In the cramped room, Schiller walked to the bedside and looked at Jason—his complexion was worse.

Schiller glanced around. Cobble immediately understood, stepped out, and returned with a chair. Schiller sat at the bedside and reached out to feel Jason’s forehead.

“He’s running a fever. No fever-reducing medicine?” Schiller asked.

“There is. He took the maximum dose his weight allows two hours ago,” Cobble said, troubled. He could see how much Schiller valued Jason.

Not just Schiller—Cobble himself valued Jason deeply, seeing him as a key ally in establishing the new order. But now, Jason’s condition was dire. Having grown up in the East District, Cobble knew: when medicine failed, the situation had reached a critical point.

Schiller frowned deeply. “I heard he was injured. Where?”

Cobble stepped forward, pulled Jason’s arm from under the covers. Schiller rolled up the sleeve and saw three deep gashes on his forearm—like claw marks.

At that moment, Tires pushed the door open. “How is Jason?… Oh, Boss Cobble, you’re here too. Good heavens—Professor Schiller! You’ve finally arrived…”

Tires wore a look of guilt. “Please, save Jason. It’s all my fault—he was injured protecting me!”

Schiller had no intention of blaming him. He turned to Tires and asked: “What happened? You were just delivering food—how did you end up fighting?”

Tires stamped his foot in frustration. “It’s not our fault—it’s those lunatics… Or maybe not even them. Blame the typhoon.”

“Last night’s typhoon was the fiercest Gotham’s seen in over a decade. Six buildings collapsed on Broken Fish Basket Street. Many were injured. The gangs went to rescue.”

“I know all that. Tell me what happened next.”

Perhaps Schiller’s calm tone soothed Tires’ anxiety. He took a deep breath, gathered his thoughts, and began:

“Last night, when Boss Cobble told us we were delivering meals, Jason suggested we cook ourselves. We all agreed, so all the kids rushed to prepare…”