Chapter 977: The Battle for Gao Ta (12)

By nightfall, when he returned to the dormitory, Batman hadn’t spoken a word before Jiao began chattering excitedly, his voice brimming with unprecedented fervor.

“Did you see that? That big brute got whipped! If you ask me, that must’ve been hell—he was probably sent to the eastern mines to haul molten rock. That’s no job—it’s exhausting, and you’ve got the cruelest overseers watching you. Anyone who slacks off gets sent there!”

Jiao panted heavily, his voice roughening as he said, “I can’t believe I said all that—my legs were shaking the whole time. I couldn’t even look the overseer in the eye. My god, how did humans even come up with such a cunning scheme?!”

“You were right—they little devils spoke up for me. They hated that idiot brute too. Besides, Aofei hates him more than anyone—he smashed two of his children to death while crushing ore. Sure, Aofei has over twenty kids, but those two were the strongest, the most beloved…”

Jiao mumbled on about their past—how Aofei gave birth, how the two children grew, how they were crushed to death. These domestic tales, seemingly trivial, were all recorded by Batman, becoming part of his intelligence.

“You seem happy?” Batman asked.

“I… I am a little… but I don’t even know why. All afternoon, I felt this electric excitement—I worked harder than ever. I’m just so glad I don’t have to put up with that idiot anymore!”

Then Jiao’s tone turned bitter. “Those damn magma devils should all drown in lava. They always bully us, relying on their brute strength. If it weren’t for how loud this got and how many spoke up for me, the overseer would’ve punished me too.”

But then he sighed. “Still, this trick only works once. And lately, ore’s needed urgently—they say the front lines are about to fight. Everyone’s rushing to meet quotas. I’m practically dead from exhaustion…”

“Who was the overseer today?” Batman asked. Jiao thought a moment. “I heard they’re the head of the big mine. There are seven mines, right? Each has a head. The whole minefield has one overall head—the Corpseheart General. Beyond that… I don’t know.”

“Does he often whip people?” Batman asked again.

“Of course. Any miner who slacks off gets whipped. The big head’s whip is especially brutal—a magma devil barely survives one strike. If it hit me, I’d die instantly.” Jiao’s voice trembled. “I’ve seen it myself—he used that whip to kill Aofei’s grandfather…”

“Why?” Batman asked.

“Because of Flame Powder. You saw the stuff the overseer’s whipping with—it’s a stimulant, calms the nerves. I’ve never tried it, but they say it’s amazing.”

“The overseer spilled a bit on the ground. Aofei’s grandfather picked it up, took a puff, got caught, and was killed.”

Jiao’s tone was fearful. Batman spoke: “For something so small?”

“Small? That’s not small. Only overseers can use Flame Powder—or veteran miners, or those favored by overseers. It’s a symbol of status.”

“And those little devils? What are they? If they use Flame Powder, it shames everyone. Besides, they breed so much—killing one or two doesn’t matter.”

“Aren’t you afraid they’ll kill you?” Batman paused, then asked.

“Of course I’m afraid—who isn’t afraid of death?” Jiao’s voice grew timid. “But I don’t cause trouble, and I work hard enough. I won’t die easily.”

Batman fell silent again. Jiao’s tone, posture, behavior reminded him of someone—though utterly different, they shared many traits: the little girl who died of hypothermia in Wayne Manor.

Once, Batman couldn’t understand this foolishness—the way they lived day to day, never thinking ahead, ignoring looming dangers, refusing to change anything, refusing to save themselves.

But later, as Batman walked alone through the slums, he understood where this foolishness came from.

They weren’t unafraid—they just escaped the futility of fear and resistance by accepting whatever came.

Sitting in the dark, cramped room, Batman almost heard the rain of Gotham. He thought: Gotham might need a thunderclap—to shake this foolishness awake, to show people that when driven to the edge, death isn’t the only option.

Could he be that thunderclap? Batman asked himself. But quickly, he answered no.

He knew his wounds had forged in him vigilance, defense, suspicion—making him only a solitary figure in the rain, never a banner-bearer, never a flame-lighter.

Batman once wondered if the Patriarch and Xieler were waiting for him. Now he realized: perhaps neither the Patriarch, nor Xieler, nor he himself, were the seed Gotham awaited.

They were not thunder in the rain, nor flag-raisers in the tide. Perhaps their whole lives were merely loosening the soil of evil, letting roots dig deeper.

Who will crash down at the first thunder of early spring? Who will break through the earth when the rain awakens life?

As he pondered this, Batman realized he didn’t care. After facing Gotham’s darkness, he no longer clung to empty fantasies. Cleansing this soil was enough to occupy his entire life.

In these thoughts, Batman drifted to sleep. But when he woke in the middle of the night, he found Jiao in the next room still awake—his breathing still heavy, tangled in restless thoughts.

Batman didn’t linger. Tonight was the assembly time. He followed the same path to the mid-slope, where Xieler and Alfred were already waiting.

The three waited a few minutes before Merkel arrived, limping slightly. Xieler looked at him. “What happened? Injured?”

“Just a sprain. Not serious.” Merkel panted, then pulled a whip from his coat.

Placing it on the table, Batman saw faint green light glowing from the handle—clearly, it was the same whip he’d seen on the overseer’s hand that day.

“How did you get this?” Batman asked.

Merkel winced. “Of course I stole it.”

Then, as if half-delirious, he muttered: “I’m an ops agent, specialized in deep infiltration. I kept saying—I don’t do covert ops, I don’t do covert ops… nobody listened…”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “You said you’re from the Fifth Bureau, right? I’ve always wondered—why is the Fifth Bureau doing covert ops? Aren’t you supposed to be assassins and saboteurs?”

Merkel shook his head. “Bad luck. My cohort had too many elite agents. My physical scores would’ve been top two in any other year—but in mine, I ranked third from the bottom. No important missions for me. So I got stuck in covert ops.”

Xieler gave a strange smile, his eyes glinting. “So according to that standard, you’re still quite professional—I mean, when you break things.”

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Merkel covered his eyes tightly. Alfred sighed. But Batman looked gloomy—like a student who finished his homework on time, only to find his desk-mate not only finished early, but added extra practice.

Batman had never been a brute-force type. He preferred thorough preparation, gathering every detail before acting. But now, he realized—he’d have to do both.

Batman narrowed his eyes at Merkel. His inner thought, in plain terms: Someone dares to compete with me? Watch me crush you with sheer volume.

Indeed, during the intel exchange, Merkel had gathered little. In two days, he’d used his ops agent’s core skills—tracking the overseer’s schedule, mapping all infiltration routes, stealing the whip when unguarded.

Batman laid out everything he’d learned: racial dynamics, intergroup relations, interpersonal networks in the deep mine. His intel was detailed, matching what Xieler and Alfred had gathered from the overseers.

The key agreement: everyone in the mine was desperate—especially the overseers.

Because the front lines were tense, Piel seemed determined to do something unprecedented. Before troops move, supplies must come—they needed vast quantities of ore to smelt and forge. Pressure from above was intense.

The senior overseers didn’t produce—they passed pressure down. The junior overseers, in turn, relentlessly pushed the slave miners. In recent days, several clashes erupted; multiple slaves were beaten to death.

“They’re killing chickens to scare the monkeys,” Xieler said. “They hope brute force will make all slaves work harder. As the deadline nears, their own pressure will erode their reason. Their methods will grow more brutal. A large-scale bloodbath is coming.”

“You mean massacre?” Alfred frowned. “But they know too many dead slaves mean no one’s left to work.”

Xieler shook his head. “They rely on those giant worms. To them, slave miners are expendable. Even if they kill faster than they capture, as long as they believe ‘slaves are endless, losing a few doesn’t matter,’ they won’t hesitate to kill.”

“Hurry up. Begin the operation,” Xieler stood. “I’ll assign tasks.”

“The mine has many races, but our targets are the lower races. The demon overseers don’t recognize their strength—because they’re stupid and short-sighted. But we know: the most insignificant races, when united, hold immense power.”

“Each of you will link one race. Start with single points, form lines, then expand. Before large-scale bloodshed erupts, plant the seeds of rebellion.”

“Batman, you’ve already connected with a Shadow Fiend and built trust. You’ll handle the Shadow Fiends.”

“The Little Devils are critical. Alfred, you’ll handle them.”

“Merkel isn’t good at persuasion. You’ll handle the Sludge Devils. Remember: start with complaints, then paint hope. No grand theories—only what’s near. The situation is dire, but the future is promising.”

“And what will you do?” Batman asked.

Xieler smiled—but his eyes held no warmth, cold and haughty. He looked directly into Batman’s eyes.

“Me? I’ll do what I’ve always done.”