This is Gotham

"Give me a gun."

Downton pushed open the door of the gun shop, speaking to the bald boss reading a newspaper in front of the counter before he even stepped inside.

Hearing Downton's voice, the bald boss raised his eyelids, letting his gaze pass over his old-fashioned lenses to land on the newcomer.

"You don't look like a man with the money to pay. Should I hand a gun over to you?"

The boss put down the newspaper, scanning Downton's ragged clothes with a frown.

It was truly a mess of rags; heavy bloodstains and bullet holes covered his linen shirt and casual trousers, and the boss could even see his leg hair through the rips.

As for his pants pockets, they were utterly flat, clearly empty.

Noticing the bald boss's appraising gaze, Downton took a noncommittal step forward and came to a stop in front of the counter.

"If you want me to pay, at least let me see a gun!"

Downton raised a hand to rap on the counter, continuing to the boss.

"A handgun will do. You can probably tell that I'm in a hurry."

"Hah, fair enough.

A handgun, is it? I should get you a Glock, but that's too ordinary. I know what a guy like you would prefer."

Looking into Downton's calm eyes, the bald boss always felt he was looking at a blazing fire.

For some reason, the boss suddenly felt a bit of anticipation, so he retrieved two of his prized handguns from beneath the counter.

"An M1911 and a Mark XIX Modified. Old timers like us love these vintage pieces, especially the former's reliability and the latter's large caliber.

These two are cherished antiques of mine. Considering I don't get many customers here normally, I can give you a discount."

As he spoke, the boss loaded bullets into both guns respectively.

Watching the boss actually start loading bullets, Downton couldn't help muttering.

"Old pal, your service is great, even loading them for me. Aren't you afraid I'll grab the gun and blow you away?"

"This is Gotham, kid. What makes you think an old man like me can still run a gun shop?

If you want to, go right ahead and try, but I'll always be faster than you!"

The boss replied to Downton, then placed the two loaded guns in front of him.

His hands pressed firmly down on the ready weapons.

It was clear that should Downton make any sudden moves, the boss could shoot him dead at a moment's notice.

Yet even so, Downton still pushed aside the boss's left hand and hauled the Mark XIX up, cocking the hammer.

At the same time, the bald boss had already picked up the M1911, aiming its muzzle at Downton's chest.

Meeting the boss's muzzle, Downton broke into a grin.

"I've already got a gun, why on earth should I pay?

Boss, please respect the little toy you sold me."

As his voice fell, Downton also aimed his muzzle at the boss's head.

Seeing this, the bald boss shook his gun twice at Downton.

"Considering you're about the same age as my son, I can give you another chance to phrase your words, and plus, I'll offer you a piece of advice.

Gotham is never short of bad seeds carrying guns, and there are already countless high-as-a-kite punks—why add yourself to the list?

Even though I can tell what you just went through, you're still alive, and while you're alive you should cherish life, pal."

"Why cherish life? What doesn't kill me only makes me stronger, and if something really can kill me, it'll make me stronger than ever before!

Besides, so your treasured old goods are blued Desert Eagles? Looks like you're a redneck old white guy!"

Downton replied to the boss while stuffing the Desert Eagle into his waistband, turning and walking away without a care.

Seeing Downton pay no heed to his threat, the bald boss couldn't help letting out a comical smile.

"Your loss, pal. Consider that gun rented to you for now.

I'll throw in a box of .44 Magnum rounds for free. If you're still alive tomorrow, don't forget to come back and settle the bill.

Right, what's your name? I should at least know who to track down for the money."

"Downton. Downton of Downton Abbey."

Downton reached out to catch the bullets tossed by the boss, then strode toward the shop door.

Watching Downton's back, the bald boss's right hand holding the handgun twitched a few times, but in the end, he let Downton walk out.

Just as Gotham was never short of gun-toting bad seeds, Gotham was never short of robbed shops; the boss was long used to the life of being robbed and retaliating against robbers.

Still, today's robber made the boss feel a bit interested.

"Downton?"

The bald boss muttered.

"We both knew that if I wanted to, I could have killed him ten times before he took aim at me.

Since he doesn't give a damn about death, why should I give a damn about a gun?"

With those words, the bald boss withdrew his handgun and picked up the newspaper to read again.

Today's paper left him dumbfounded; Bruce Wayne had actually returned to the city after many years away.

Mentioning that name, the bald boss's gaze seemed to pierce through the walls and land on the tallest building in downtown Gotham.

That building was called Wayne Tower, just as Gotham could also be called Wayne City.

This was Wayne's Gotham!

The emperor of Gotham had returned!

Leaving the gun shop, Downton frowned; the gloomy weather and heavy rain made it hard to make out the signs on the distant streets.

Gotham was always shrouded in dark clouds, a typical humid subtropical monsoon climate. Downton didn't like it here, but Gotham seemed to like him.

Earlier this morning, Downton was still back home bustling around the community supermarket he had just taken over. It was also a thunderstorm then; while arranging stock, Downton was transported here amidst a crack of thunder.

Knowing the dangers of Gotham, Downton immediately sought a way out after transmigrating, starting by investigating the era he was in.

When he realized the newspapers here lacked any trace of Batman, Superman, The Flash, and a whole series of superheroes and supervillains, Downton immediately formed a plan.

He had bought a bus ticket to Metropolis.

Even though Gotham was Downton's first stopping point after transmigrating, he had no desire to linger in this city. Compared to Gotham, Metropolis without Superman was far safer.

As long as he stayed in Metropolis for a few days and then transferred to Washington, he would be safe for a full several years.

When Washington became unsafe too, he would emigrate to a country like Switzerland with no superheroes or supervillains.

His plan was sound, but the moment he boarded the coach bound for Metropolis, the vehicle got caught in the crossfire of a gunfight between Gotham gangs, and Downton's original jacket perished in the explosion.

Of course, so did he.

True to its reputation as Gotham, in just a single morning, Downton had already tasted the flavor of death.

As for now, just as he said, what didn't kill him only made him stronger, and what had killed him would make him stronger than ever before.

A Downton who had never died might still endure things for the sake of survival.

Yet having crawled back from death, he only wanted the ones who killed him once to taste the exact flavor of death he had just experienced!

When they used a crossroads as a battlefield and used Downton and the bus he rode in as cover to fire rocket-propelled grenades at each other—

Did they ever think that he would crawl right back out of hell?

Letting the pelting rain beat down on him as his body grew steadily hotter, Downton raised a hand and hailed a taxi.

After the car stopped, the driver rolled down the window, pulled out his gun-wielding hand to wave it at Downton, and pointed his muzzle at Downton's gun-stuffed waistband.

"You better just want a ride, pal."

"Of course I want a ride. To the place where the shootout just happened, somewhere near the Gotham bus transfer center. Take me there."

Downton replied, ducking into the car right against the driver's muzzle, while the driver looked suspiciously at the bullet holes on his clothes.

"There's way too many shootouts today. The Italian mob and the Russian mob are going at it hard.

Let me think, the bus station side is the Sabatini Family's turf, that whole area belongs to the Sabatini Family—he's a Falcone underling, so you'd better not go causing trouble."

"Just drive your car."

Downton urged, and the driver had no choice but to nod.

"Fine. I'll drop you about half a block away from there, and I hope I don't get caught in your mess.

You don't look like an Italian or a Russian. What business do you have with the gunfight over there?

Though it's normal if you do; I took one look at you and figured you were a dangerous man with nothing to lose. People like you with burning eyes are the most dangerous kind."

"Since you know, drive faster. Do Gotham taxi drivers always run their mouths this much?"

Downton urged again, while taking ten bullets from the box the gun shop boss had gifted him and tossing them into the taxi driver's lap.

"I didn't bring cash in my pockets, consider these the fare."

Catching the bullets, the driver immediately burst into a smile.

"Magnum rounds ain't cheap. You're a generous boss—let's roll!"