By the time the faint morning light appeared, all the children had gone home—or rather, returned to the streets where they lived.
The snow-covered porridge stall had gone cold by then. The red-hot coals had burned down into snow-white ash, the flames had weakened, and only wisps of smoke remained inside the stall. The large pot barely retained any warmth. The chattering voices of the children had vanished, leaving only a solitary Santa Claus sitting beside the pot with a large spoon in hand, making the place seem especially desolate.
"Santa Claus" gazed at the paling horizon. Through the dark clouds, he could vaguely make out a few stars, and he casually turned up the pale-yellow stall light.
"Wheeze, wheeze, wheeze."
Batman walked through the pitch-black alley, panting. His black cape had become tattered beyond use and could no longer let him glide. His suit had been riddled with damage from blades and bullets. Even though fast-healing clotting spray had suppressed the bleeding, bright-red liquid still flowed from his nose and lips. His fully equipped tactical belt had already been replaced three times. Inside his body, broken bones throbbed faintly, and every movement brought intense pain.
Even in such a state, his steps remained utterly steady, without the slightest stumble. In fact, this situation had been within his expectations—and was even somewhat better than expected. Because most of the hidden injuries in his body had healed, he had performed even better in today's battle.
At that moment, he was like a wounded beast with only a sliver of health left—at his strongest in combat. Countless times, he had turned the tide and survived certain death in this state. If anyone underestimated Batman now, their fate would most likely be the same as that of all Batman's previous enemies: defeated by