Dawn.
When Bruce opened his eyes, he was jolted awake by a sharp pain.
The tingling sensation in his lower back felt like insects crawling within his bones.
His abdomen was wrapped in white bandages, and Bruce stared blankly at the familiar ceiling.
He remembered his spine being broken, shattered by the Mysterious Man's knee.
"What should I do?"
Crippled, how could he possibly uphold his will? How could he change this city?
Bruce struggled to move, trying to sit up.
Immediately, a strange scene unfolded in the room.
Even though his lower back felt like it had been stabbed and twisted by dozens of gangsters with knives, he miraculously sat up.
"Impossible."
Bruce narrowed his eyes slightly, a hint of disbelief playing on his lips.
He knew his injuries, and he knew Alfred's capabilities.
His butler didn't possess the ability to make someone with a broken spine sit upright again.
Eliminating all other possibilities, the only remaining truth was clear.
The Mysterious Man had saved him.
Bruce recalled his experience in the underground maze.
His mind and body were both tortured.
But what concerned him more was the information revealed in the other person's words.
"He said 'you Gotham City', which means he's not a local."
Bruce began his deductions.
"His physical attributes far exceed those of ordinary people, and he has close ties to the League of Assassins."
"He mentioned the word 'Joker'. I don't know if anyone would really call themselves the Joker; perhaps I should have Alfred investigate."
Sorting through the various matters in his mind, Bruce still couldn't find a moment's peace after removing the Batman identity.
"I need a powerful set of equipment to combat these extraordinary beings."
"Also…"
Bruce frowned, clutching his lower back. "The battle suit modifications need to be prioritized, especially the back armor."
The feeling of a broken back wasn't pleasant; he didn't want a repeat experience.
"Knock, knock."
The door sounded. The familiar butler, still maintaining that elegant British gentleman demeanor, was Alfred. He held some food in his hands, and his slightly aged face was filled with sorrow.
"Master Bruce." Alfred sighed. He knew Bruce's personality; once he decided on something, he wouldn't change his mind. All he could do was silently support Bruce from behind.
"I believe you need some supper to help recover from your broken spine."
Alfred placed the food in front of Bruce's bed, then produced a stack of paper and an empty bottle from his left hand, which he held behind his back.
"I believe you should know that I found these items near you when I discovered you outside the manor."
"So, you found me at the manor's entrance."
Bruce pondered this. It seemed the other person's words weren't false; the Mysterious Man truly didn't want him to die.
However, the more he thought about it, the more intense Bruce's sense of urgency became.
He feared encountering the other person again. If he couldn't satisfy the man, the madman might involve the entire Gotham City in his games.
Thinking this, Bruce picked up the papers on the table and opened them. As his gaze swept over the contents, Bruce fell into a long silence.
"Master Bruce?"
Alfred looked at Bruce, who was hanging his head, and asked with concern, "What's wrong?"
"Alfred." Bruce raised his head and handed the letter to his butler.
"This is a hit list, recording the political figures and dignitaries killed by the Court of Owls since the founding of Gotham City."
"Gotham City Deputy Sheriff Michaelty Davis."
"City Council Spokesperson Miguel Vadaloupe."
Names of politicians popped out of Bruce's mouth one by one, and as far as he knew, their deaths were attributed to various accidents.
Michaelty died by suicide in the bathroom due to excessive work pressure.
Miguel was confirmed to have been hit by an unlicensed vehicle while running at night and died on the spot, being flung several meters away.
What made Bruce even more horrified was that not long after these people died, new politicians quickly took their places.
This just proved something incredibly cruel.
The Court of Owls, which Bruce had always believed didn't exist, was secretly interfering with the operation of the entire city.
They eliminated dissenters and assassinated enemies, constantly growing stronger, leeching off Gotham City and growing wildly.
Bruce looked at the bottle again, staring at the remaining transparent liquid inside. He guessed that this was the thing that had healed his injuries, though he didn't understand what it actually was.
Silently thinking about adding the task of researching the mysterious liquid to his agenda, Bruce picked up the second letter. Unexpectedly, there were only a few short sentences on the paper.
"The Court of Owls is dead, this is a small gift for you."
"Signed: The Nameless One."
"The Court of Owls is dead?"
Bruce "chewed" on the words, setting the letter down as fragmented clues began to connect in his mind.
"The Court of Owls is dead."
"When did they die?"
He closed his eyes, recalling recent events, and the intelligent Batman quickly provided Bruce with the answer.
He blurted out:
"It was the group of wealthy politicians and elites who died together at Wayne Tower last week."
Suddenly, a wave of sorrow enveloped Bruce.
He stood up with difficulty, and under Alfred's concerned gaze, he walked to the window with the white paper, looking up at the dark night sky.
He said to the butler,
"I've always believed the best way to understand a city is to get your feet on the ground, to feel the cracks in the sidewalks beneath you."
"The scorching waves of heat rising from the parking lots on a sweltering summer day."
"I didn't realize how wrong I was until recently."
A hint of bitterness flashed across Bruce's face.
"Alfred, if I had only discovered these things sooner..."
He didn't finish the sentence, but the weary look in his eyes spoke volumes.
He considered himself an arrogant fool.
He blamed himself for all the mistakes.
If he had discovered them sooner, perhaps he could have saved everything, brought the criminals to justice, and let the innocent live happily.
"No one can predict everything, Master Bruce."
Alfred, the old man who had accompanied Batman for a quarter of his life, walked gently to Bruce's side. He reached out and patted the broad shoulders in encouragement: "You always take the blame for mistakes that aren't yours."
"But sometimes, fate is like a mischievous child, and you can never guess what it's thinking."
"Then what should I do?" Bruce covered his face in pain.
He heard the old man's voice slowly: "Do your best."
Bruce's originally gloomy eyes gradually brightened. He raised his head, his gaze firm: "You're right, Alfred."
"I need to get stronger!"
"Find me a full-body photo of Gino Luther."
"Also, establish the Anti-The Nameless One Archive Project!"
"Priority: S!"
------------------------
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