Cobblepot's Happy Life (Part 1)

Gotham's first law is: things always go wrong here, and if you have a bad feeling about something, it will definitely come true.

The second law of Gotham is: in Gotham, no matter how correct your intentions, how clever your methods, or how perfect your plans are, they will always manage to turn it into a mess.

This vocational school, jointly founded by more than a dozen major gangs, is located in the Living Hell of the East District. Due to its construction and renovation, the school has become the best in the entire East District in terms of facilities and is the One place in the East District with a relatively suitable environment and atmosphere for a school.

Note that it is relatively suitable.

When Schiller returned to the Living Hell, it had changed drastically.

The transformed Living Hell, though still as chaotic and crowded as ever, is at least no longer old and dilapidated. The alleys are still narrow, but at least they are clean. The stairwells are still cramped, but at least they are well-lit and have signs so people won't get lost.

The vocational school is located in an empty room on the 8th floor of the building on the east side of the Living Hell. Outside is the 8th-floor terrace, which students can use for free activities.

Originally, this place was designed to be a laundry room, but it was left vacant due to changes in the water pipe routes.

The prime location with a terrace was naturally controlled by the largest gang in the area, the Muni Gang. Under pressure from more than a dozen other major gangs, the Muni Gang handed over the land to them to set up a vocational school.

So far, things have been going relatively normally. Although the whole thing sounds a bit absurd, it hasn't exceeded Schiller's understanding of Gotham.

Just as Schiller had predicted, the gangsters warmly welcomed him and invited him to give a lecture there.

There were no special requirements for the course content. Simply put, whatever was taught to the children of the Falcone family was also taught to these students.

Schiller had anticipated this, so he didn't refuse. He went up to the podium and, as usual at Falcona Manor, planned to talk about the history of Gotham City and the development of the gang industry.

This classroom is relatively large; at least compared to the other rooms in the Living Hell, it is quite spacious.

However, the forty-odd students below were already packed to the brim. When Schiller walked to the podium, he glanced down and found that the students below were all quite young, the oldest being no more than 20 years old and the youngest probably just over 10.

That's normal. Gang leaders aren't stupid. Of course they know that a drunkard in his thirties or forties, even if he comes to school, won't have any future.

Even if these young people have some bad habits now, at least their brains haven't been ruined by alcohol, and they definitely learn things faster than middle-aged people.

Schiller had a habit that, no matter where he taught, the first thing he did at the beginning of class was to take attendance.

As a result, the class didn't even have a roster. The gang leader, who was watching from below the stage, could only take a piece of paper and let the students write their own names on it.

The paper spun around underneath, and when Schiller picked it up, he covered his forehead and said with a hint of helplessness, "Well, it seems the situation here is worse than I thought."

But he did his best to maintain the professional ethics of a teacher. Schiller said, "First, I need you to write your real names, not your nicknames or aliases. Who is this person called Tire? Can you raise your hand and show it to me?"

A chubby little boy raised his hand, grinned smugly at the side, and shouted, "It's me! Teacher! I'm the tire! The tire that'll explode!"

"Okay, then tell me your name? What's your last name?"

"I'm called Tire. That's what my mom and everyone around me call me because I was born fat."

"Well, you need to have a surname, right?"

The chubby boy frowned and said, "My dad died before I was born, so I don't even know his last name. As for my mom, all I know is that her name is Bonnie..."

"Okay, sit down." Schiller continued looking at the paper and said, "Then who is this guy called... Red Truck?"

A black man in a red jacket, with a lip piercing and nose ring, stood up and said, "It's me! I'm the street racer in this area! Sir, need a delivery? You've come to the right place! From Living Hell to Elizabeth Street, I can drive there in 10 minutes!"

"Well, you really are..." Schiller paused for a moment. After thinking back, he realized that it would take him at least 40 minutes to get from here to Elizabeth Street. Did this person fly? He got there in 10 minutes?

Another voice immediately rang out in the classroom. "Come on! You ride a motorcycle, what kind of goods can your motorcycle carry?"

Schiller looked up and saw that the person who spoke was a white girl with tattooed arms. He asked, "And what's your name?"

"I don't have a name. Most people here don't have proper names either. You can call me Rocket Launcher, the most powerful kind. Whoosh—hahahahaha..." The girl and her classmates around her laughed.

Schiller sighed and continued looking at the name on the paper. His gaze followed his finger downwards, and soon he noticed a handwriting that stood out from the rest.

The handwriting of most people on this paper looks like scribbles. Even the simplest English letters are written like worms crawling. However, among this bunch of worm-like handwriting, there is one handwriting that is very special.

Its letters were not only written neatly, but also showed some cursive and connected strokes. Schiller read out the name: "Oswald Cobblepot..."

He was about to look up to see who it was when he suddenly paused, realizing that the name sounded so familiar.

Could it be such a coincidence?

As soon as he finished reading the name, a short figure sitting in the corner stood up. He was pale, with sunken eyes and a hooked nose that didn't look very appealing. He raised his hand and said, "It's me, teacher."

Schiller opened his mouth, but he felt that what he wanted to ask was a bit inappropriate, after all, the boy who raised his hand looked to be only a teenager, probably even younger than Bruce.

He couldn't very well go up to me and ask, "Will you become the infamous Penguin, the Penguin of Gotham?"

That's right, Oswald Cobblepot is a very unique name, and there shouldn't be anyone else with the same name in Gotham. If I'm not mistaken, this should be the Penguin in his teenage years.

Schiller took a closer look at Cobblepot and found that, apart from being a bit short and having a gloomy demeanor, the boy was quite refined and cultured.

After all, you also have to consider what kind of Demons he's surrounded by. Most of the students sitting here are just like that Red Truck, wearing all sorts of brightly colored jackets, with six or seven piercings in their ears. Most of the black students have dreadlocks, and the white students also have bizarre hairstyles. They're covered in tattoos, and they all sit in their chairs like they have thorns growing on their butts, moving seven times a minute. If it weren't for the gang leaders standing by the wall, they would have already caused a huge uproar.

In this environment, Cobblepot appeared perfectly normal, even somewhat refined.

He was wearing a suit that was obviously a bit old and didn't fit him very well. It was unclear where the suit came from. He was wearing a plaid shirt underneath, with the collar neatly trimmed and even the cufflinks fully fastened.

He had a head of black hair, his sideburns were trimmed, and there were no messy piercings or obvious tattoos on his face. Apart from his hooked nose, which made him look a bit gloomy, he looked pretty good.

For some reason, Schiller felt a touch of emotion looking at the Penguin; it turned out that even in this Living Hell, there were normal children.

Indeed, compared to these chaotic and unconventional second-generation blacks, the Penguin can even be considered law-abiding.

Schiller thought back and realized that this might be normal. In the comics, the Penguin was a gangster boss with aristocratic tendencies who liked to pretend to be elegant. He often wore a top hat, carried a cigar, and owned a luxuriously decorated restaurant.

Although this little Penguin hasn't reached that stage yet, there are already some signs. His clothes and appearance are very old-fashioned, like someone from the 19th century, which makes him somewhat out of place.

Cobblepot sat alone in the corner of the classroom, completely ignoring the whispers of the others, and just stared blankly at Schiller.

Schiller felt he looked somewhat familiar, but he couldn't quite place where he had seen this future Penguin before. He thought about it for a moment, then, realizing he couldn't remember, he put the matter out of his mind.

Schiller cleared his throat, and the room quieted down considerably. He said, "Some teachers have already given you lessons, but I need to set the rules for this class. There are two things I need to do."

"First, we need to make a roster. I don't care if you had names before, but now you all have to make up a name for yourselves. The only person on this list with decent handwriting is Cobblepot, so let him do it. After you've made up your names, tell him and have him write them down on a piece of paper..."

"The second thing is to choose a class monitor to be responsible for arranging the timetable and scheduling get out of class times... You chubby kid called Tire, I think you're popular, so you'll be the one. After each teacher's get out of class ends, go and ask them when the next class is, and then record it on the timetable."

The chubby boy opened his mouth, clearly not expecting such a big problem to fall on his shoulders. He looked pleadingly at a gang leader standing by the wall. The gang leader glared at him, and the chubby boy had no choice but to say, "Okay, but, teacher, there are some subject names I don't know how to spell."

"Then let's go find Cobblepot. He should be able to. I think his handwriting is pretty good. We can ask him to write out the timetable and stick it on the wall."

Corbert was clearly surprised that Schiller would entrust him with the task. He seemed a little reserved, showing none of the villainous qualities he was destined to have. He muttered a few words under his breath, but in the end, he said nothing.

Schiller wasn't giving him special treatment, nor was he eyeing the future Penguin.

He was telling the truth. In the whole class, only Cobblepot could write in a way that was legible, and he could remember and spell such a complicated name correctly. If we didn't teach him, there was no one else.

As soon as Schiller announced the end of class, the classroom erupted into chaos, but Cobblepot remained hidden in a corner, silent.

Looking at this scene, Schiller shook his head. In a city like this, even the most basic vocational education was a long and arduous task.