Chapter 932: In the Depths of Mist and Rain (5)

“Bang!”

The shotgun fired; in the instant the muzzle flash appeared, Merkel saw the estate’s scene: all the plants’ leaves began to sway, stretching endlessly toward him.

Realizing the gun was useless against the plants, Merkel remained calm, picked up the bag he had just sprinkled powder from, and rapidly scattered the powder across the ground around him.

He retreated toward the estate’s buildings, sprinkling powder along the ground he passed; once back inside, he fired the shotgun at the powder on the threshold—the bullet’s spark ignited the specialized flammable chemicals, and flames erupted instantly.

Standing before the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the garden burn fiercely, Merkel sighed deeply, then walked into the hall and picked up the phone: “Hello, Mr. Alfred? I have terrible news—I just burned down my employer’s garden…”

In Wayne Manor, Alfred set down the little girl he was holding, pressed his forehead, and said: “My God! You haven’t called in so long, I thought you’d finally become a proper butler! Damn it.”

“I didn’t expect you’d plan such a grand surprise… Reason? What reason could justify burning down the estate’s main garden?! That enormous garden at Rodriguez Estate is famous throughout Gotham’s private mansion circles—you actually burned it down?!!!”

“Alright, listen, Merkel, you’re a butler, and only a butler—if you still can’t adapt to this profession, I’ll have to contact… what? The plants attacked first??”

Alfred raised his voice: “You didn’t drink, did you? That’s a serious breach of professional ethics! You can’t—”

“Aaaah!!!”

A scream echoed from Wayne Manor’s back garden; Alfred immediately hung up the phone and sprinted toward it—but faster still was Elsa. As the grandmother and grandson burst into the garden, they saw Dick hanging from the fence.

Alfred rushed over, freed him, and said: “Young Master Dick, even if you’re practicing gymnastics, you can’t keep jumping off the wall—I told you before, one day you’d get stuck hanging in midair, because Young Master Wayne himself once got stuck like this…”

“No…” Dick scratched his head. “I didn’t jump off the wall. I was rehearsing the dance routine for the club—I felt like a hand lifted me up onto the fence?”

Dick turned, puzzled, toward the garden wall—but there was nothing there except vines. He said: “This is ridiculous. Did I get so absorbed in rehearsal I didn’t even notice I walked onto the wall?”

Alfred’s vigilance far exceeded Merkel’s; he immediately pulled Dick away from the wall—but as he turned, he saw a thick vine snatching up Elsa.

Elsa, confused, thought it was a game, waving her arms and cheering; Alfred instantly grabbed the garden spade beside him, swung hard, and the sharp edge severed the vine—he rushed forward and caught Elsa before she hit the ground.

Holding Elsa in one arm and gripping Dick’s hand with the other, he led both children back into the manor, told them to stay by the window and not move, and kept them within his sight.

He went to the tool shed, grabbed a shotgun and the same flammable powder Merkel used, fired at the vines first—found no effect—then poured the powder around the plants’ roots and lit it.

After circling the garden once, as every plant began to stir, the flames consumed them all. When Alfred returned indoors, holding the shotgun and spade, Dick gaped: “Holy crap! Mr. Alfred, you burned down Wayne Manor’s garden!”

“Young Master Dick, you can practice your dance in the parlor. Oh, remember to bring Miss Elsa. I need to make a few calls—don’t you two go outside…”

Seeing Alfred’s furrowed brow, Dick sensed something was wrong. He nodded solemnly, picked up Elsa, went upstairs to their bedroom, shut all doors and windows, and began building blocks with her.

Downstairs, Alfred went to the phone and began calling every butler he knew.

“Hello? Is this the Lough Estate on Fish Hawk Street No. 3? This is the butler from Wayne Manor—have you noticed any mutations in your garden plants?… Oh, you saw vines moving? Yes, they’ve mutated…”

“Remember that flammable powder we used for disposing of certain fertilizers? Yes, that stuff works great—just sprinkle it around the plants’ roots. Yes, use more than usual; this weather doesn’t make ignition easy…”

“Hello, Mrs. Tich? This is Alfred. What’s wrong? You sound tired. Another burglar trying to break in? Looks like they’re trying to loot during the chaos—did you handle it?”

“I’m calling to warn you—the garden plants may have mutated. You’d better burn them all—use that flammable powder I recommended earlier. Yes, the same one you used against those burglars. No need to be so polite…”

“Hello, this is Alfred. I need to warn you.”

As call after call rang out across the manor districts of the south and west, Batman, crouched in his helicopter preparing to land on the roof, saw every estate in the southern and western zones ignite one after another in rapid succession.

In an instant, the entire southern and western zones blazed to life; the thick smoke from the roaring fires was denser than the rising mist, countless columns of smoke pierced the sky like swords, tearing through the clouds—and for a fleeting moment, the heavy rainlines halted.

Batman, having landed on the roof, saw the garden reduced to blackened ash. He lowered his communicator silently, swallowing the warning he’d planned to give Alfred—that the plants might have mutated, and fire might be effective.

Back at the manor, Alfred rushed forward. Before Batman could speak, Alfred smiled: “Plant samples and burned specimens have been sent to the underground lab. Power is activated. Hot tea and towels are on the table to the right of the lab bench. Dick and Elsa are already asleep…”

Batman opened his mouth, retracted his question, nodded, and walked toward the underground lab.

He turned and saw Alfred smiling at him. Now he understood what Schiller had meant: his efforts to stop the mastermind’s actions against Gotham weren’t meant to save Gotham—but to save the mastermind from sinking into the abyss of self-righteousness, from which he could never return.

Zombies unleashed, plants mutated—in another city, this would be an apocalyptic disaster. But in Gotham, it felt like ordinary life. The ones who defeated these dangerous, mutated plants weren’t great wise heroes—but the butlers who dealt with petty thieves every day.

Entering the underground lab, Batman looked up at the ceiling. He remembered: when this lab was built and the underground strata excavated, he finally understood why, growing up in Gotham, he’d never heard of burglars breaking into Wayne Manor.

He finally understood just how terrifying Catwoman’s skill must be—to have stolen her way through all of Gotham without equal.

Picking up the plant samples Alfred had pre-collected, Batman began his research without pause—but his thoughts drifted again to Catwoman.

Though he knew Catwoman likely wouldn’t be overwhelmed by this level of attack, Batman couldn’t help worrying—and in a way, his worry was justified, because when the plants first moved, Catwoman was terrified.

After Bruce moved into the slums and took over her old apartment, she could no longer live there, so Catwoman moved to Hell’s Kitchen—but it was too far from her usual workplace in the North District, so later she moved to a newer apartment closer to the north.

The buildings here were old, constructed over forty years ago when Falcone first arrived in Gotham—traditional stone structures, many illegally added onto.

Just as the rain began, Catwoman returned from patrolling the North District. Her haul had been excellent, so her mood was good—but when she reached for her keys to unlock her door, the gemstone necklace in her pocket snagged on the keyring, forcing her to stand at the entrance and untangle them.

As she focused on freeing the necklace from the keyring, she felt something move in the shadow beside the light. She froze, stepped back slightly, turned—and saw nothing.

“This damn old house…” Catwoman muttered. In her peripheral vision, the moss growing between the bricks suddenly sprouted countless tiny legs and crawled toward the lock.

“Aaaaaaahhhhh!!!!”

Her scream pierced the apartment building’s roof. In the next three seconds, the door to Catwoman’s apartment was stabbed over a hundred times.

Catwoman’s first reaction wasn’t to flee—but to attack the moving moss furiously. And her instinct was correct.

Sparks from her blade slicing the iron door drove back the moss; it scurried like a rat along the corridor’s corner into the shadows and vanished.

Catwoman gasped for breath, then realized it wasn’t a ghost—it was moss. She cursed softly, stared at the dark corridor and the still-tangled keys, and sprinted to the window, threw it open, jumped out, and climbed up the drainpipe to the roof.

There she saw: flames bursting on the ground, three gang enforcers chasing two trees with legs from south to north—a group of children with torches herding a vine that kept stretching forward from north to south.

“What the hell? How did the plants grow legs?!” Catwoman squinted in disbelief.

Catwoman was somewhat afraid of ghosts—but only the kind you couldn’t touch, that lurked in shadows and jumped out to scare you.

If something could be attacked, then it wasn’t a ghost—it was the thing that should run. This mindset was shared by most Gothamites: they feared ghosts, but if it could be struck, it wasn’t a ghost.

Once they realized gunfire was effective against these mutated plants, the nature of the situation changed. Gothamites’ first reaction wasn’t “What the hell is this?”—but “This isn’t a ghost at all!”

Crouched on the roof, Catwoman scratched her head, confused by the situation—but she knew who could make sense of it all.

Without hesitation, she ran toward Wayne Manor.