In the Mortal Realm

Night had fallen.

Bane and his men left their hideout and walked through the streets of Gotham City's slums.

In the average person's imagination, a major villain was usually a hulking brute, built like an ox, the kind of burly giant who looked like he could eat three kids for breakfast.

And in reality...

Yes, Bane was exactly that kind of man.

But even so, in Gotham, some people at the end of their rope would still seek help from such a fearsome, monstrous freak.

Like, right now.

"Excuse me, can you save my mom?"

A little girl stared blankly up at the mountain-like, muscle-bound freak as he loomed over her, and couldn't help but timidly clutch the doll in her hands.

It was a doll she'd fished out of a trash can, matching her tattered clothes perfectly.

"My mom has cancer. She needs medicine. She's in so much pain. People say only God can help her."

She trembled, looking up at Bane with hopeful eyes.

"Can you help me?"

Bane stopped his men, who were about to shoo the little girl away.

"Where do you live?"

The little girl pointed at the rundown house behind her.

Bane walked inside.

A few minutes later, Bane came out, wiping the brain matter and blood from his hands.

"Your mother will never suffer again... Bury her."

"...Don't go asking strangers for help so easily anymore, or the world's suffering will come knocking on your door."

He looked up slightly, seeing the eastern sky where countless stars were hidden beneath the hem of darkness.

Bane spoke thus:

"There is no God here... But Bane is here."

Gotham's night was so still, filled with a peace like tombstones.

A faintly sour gray rain mingled with the industrial haze under the neon lights. Deathshot stood on the rooftop of a building, watching Gotham City sneer in the drizzling rain.

Down on the street, a car roared past, splashing mud all over a pedestrian. That pedestrian immediately pulled a submachine gun from his coat and opened fire at the retreating vehicle, rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat...

The people in this city were way too extreme.

Deathshot thought this to himself as he casually pulled an anti-tank rocket launcher and a mortar from his bag.

He aimed his thumb at a distant building, measuring distance and wind speed.

"I have to remind you, Deathshot, my mission requires zero casualties."

The employer's voice came through the earpiece.

"Ventriloquist, you've been in the mob for years. Where'd you come up with this no-killing superhero crap?"

"A villain should act like a villain."

Deathshot grumbled as he set the mortar on the edge of the rooftop. "If you weren't a regular client, I'd almost think you were one of Batman's informants."

"Speaking of which, that new puppet of yours—you haven't really gone over to Batman, have you? Didn't he give you a set of Robin tights without the pants?"

Thump!

The mortar fired, arcing a deadly parabola through the air, and Ventriloquist's voice came at the same time.

"Dead men don't pay."

"Alright, alright, I got it. Don't rush me."

Deathshot licked his lips and raised the anti-tank rocket launcher.

Bang!

The rocket shot out, arriving before the mortar shell, and met it in a French kiss above the building's roof.

Boom!

With a deafening roar, the building's roof tore open like a popped can, blasted to pieces, revealing the enemies below scrambling like ants.

"See? I told you I'd deliver Mad Hatter to you in one piece."

Deathshot pulled out a sniper rifle but didn't aim. "But now, my employer..."

"Because of your lack of trust, I don't want this job anymore."

"What?"

"Startling him like that will probably make the Mad Hatter go into hiding. Catching him again would be ten times harder. Besides, Gotham is Batman's turf—not many mercenaries are willing to come here."

"This employer, you don't want the mission to fail, do you?"

"...Enough! Just state your terms."

Deathshot looked up at a 45-degree angle, without hesitation, with righteous indignation, clear enunciation, and a sense of moral grandeur, and said:

"Gotta raise the price."

The night was like a maiden shedding her veil, passionately and fervently entwining with the city.

Cheshire Cat gracefully strolled through the empty hallways of Gotham Heights High School, while outside the window, sirens blared and panicked shouts filled the air.

"I must remind you, ma'am, that this mission's target, Mr. Zsasz, is just as deadly a killer as you are."

The voice came through the earpiece from Ventriloquist—no, wait, it was the bat puppet on his left hand.

"I have no doubt you can defeat him, but my requirement is to ensure the safety of every student hostage. So, you need to separate Zsasz from those female students first, and then fight—"

"Oh, is that so?"

Cheshire Cat's slender fingers traced her impossibly narrow waist and the dazzling whiteness at her chest, then paused on her smiling cat-face mask.

"I don't think it needs to be that complicated. Does it?"

"What are you talking abo—"

"She wasn't talking to you."

Cold moonlight, mixed with the red and blue of police lights, fell on the killer rising from the shadows.

Dense, crisscrossing scars were carved into his burly muscles.

Victor Zsasz, one of Gotham's infamous villains.

His gaze lingered on the woman's graceful figure:

"Why not let me see your face, lady?"

"Oh no, you know how it is."

The female killer turned.

"A cat never takes off her mask—especially not in front of a naked exhibitionist."

A short blade appeared in the other's empty palm.

Cheshire Cat sighed. She pulled out an extendable blade from behind, then produced a bunch of shuriken from her front center, like a hamster emptying its hoard.

Then she tilted her head.

"Catfight?"

Gotham's infamous exhibitionist and serial killer, Mr. Zsasz, twisted into a grotesque smile:

"Cat Quest."

In the Batcave beneath Wayne Manor, Chen Tao was using Ventriloquist's voice to remotely micromanage the mercenaries like some bald-headed mastermind.

"...Enough! Just state your terms. What? Gotta raise the price?"

He waved his hand grandly, channeling the voice of a loaded tycoon: "Add it, I can add it all!"

He turned around and saw Third Generation Robin, Tim Drake, angrily holding up a piece of paper in front of him, which read:

"Batman, I still can't believe you didn't take me and instead spent money to hire those mercenaries to deal with Bane!"

The real Ventriloquist crouched innocently in the corner, trying to disguise himself as an actual dog.

Tim looked at him and felt his fists clench, but ultimately couldn't bring himself to beat the guy up in front of Batman for no reason.

So the young Robin could only grit his porcelain-white teeth and, filled with indignation, continue writing: "And not only did you bring outsiders home, you're also on the phone with other bad guys right in front of me!!!"

Batman hung up the phone and sighed.

Third Generation Robin fell silent for a moment.

He asked:

"Is it because of Paul? (Jean-Paul, the Death Angel killed by Bane earlier)"

"Not entirely," Chen Tao replied. "Listen to me."

He turned around, grabbed the other's shoulders, and looked straight into Robin's eyes.

"I'm planning to retire."

"Wh...what?" This unexpected response completely stunned Robin.

"Youth must eventually fade, Tim. The boyhood is gone, the golden cup is drained, old dreams can no longer be sustained. Batman is merely a dream that an eight-year-old child refused to wake from... and now it's time for that dream to end."

"I'm going to do one last thing for Gotham, then live a normal life—the life I deserve. You too, Tim."

"You've excelled in your studies, you're brilliant, and you have both a father and a mother."

"You have no idea how rare that is!"

"You deserve all the wonderful things in this world. You should go to school, and one day meet the love of your life."

"She'll have golden hair and sea-blue eyes, or maybe wine-red hair... she might be a Gordon, or a Brown, but one day she'll be a Drake."

"You'll come to know each other, fall in love, my child... that kind of innocent and pure love is something I'll never have the chance to experience again."

"We both need to escape this nightmare."

With a clatter, the tray in Alfred's hands behind them fell to the floor, shattering into pieces.

He covered his face, weeping with joy.

"Is this real? Bruce? Am I really not dreaming—Bruce?"