Bruce Wayne was dead.
This was not even particularly shocking news. Little Bruce's death had been equally unremarkable. Starving, dragging his broken body as he tried to escape, he had not even made it to the factory gates before being spotted. A guard grabbed him and slammed him to the ground. The back of his head struck the floor, and Little Bruce immediately lost consciousness.
In the next several reincarnations, Little Bruce did not even survive half a day. Either he reincarnated directly into the middle of a firefight, or he began already on the verge of death, unable even to move, left with no choice but to endure several long hours before dying.
This was his eleventh reincarnation. When he woke again, Little Bruce found his arm throbbing with unbearable pain. Waves of bloody stench flooded his nostrils, making the urge to vomit stronger and stronger.
He lay on a bed, feeling as though his entire body had fallen apart... Wait, there was a bed here?
Little Bruce laboriously turned his head and saw a filthy mattress. Then an enticing aroma drifted over from beside him. He forced his eyes wider and looked over, seeing wisps of steam rising from a chipped bowl.
Driven by hunger, he used every last bit of strength to sit up, but failed. Only when a pair of hands supported his injured arm was Little Bruce able to exert himself and lean against the headboard.
When he looked up, he saw an utterly ordinary boy stirring the soup in the bowl with a large spoon. Little Bruce swallowed, only to find his throat so dry that he could not speak.
The bowl of soup was handed to him.
Little Bruce stared fixedly at the bowl with a greed that made even him ashamed. The