The Madman's Self-Cultivation

In Gotham's curtain of rain.

Lady Paradox found it just as unbelievable.

Almost at the same instant, Lady Paradox whipped her head around too.

For the first time, her usually calm and unruffled aura showed obvious disturbance. Her clothes stirred without wind, and in the shadow beneath her umbrella, it was as if panic were beginning to breed.

"Lady Death!"

Lady Paradox's voice shot up in an instant, losing its customary composure. Her perception was like the most violent tide, sweeping through all of Crime Alley in a flash and rapidly spreading into the surrounding blocks, scanning every inch of space, analyzing every trace of residual energy, tracing every abnormality in the flow of time.

There were no residual fluctuations from a spatial jump or teleportation.

No energy trail left by high-speed movement.

No sign of magic or dimensional transition.

No iconic, extremely violent burst of life energy from "resurrection" or "rebirth"—Lady Paradox was certain of her sensitivity to regeneration energy as a Time Lord.

And yet.

She could not sense even the slightest bit of him.

Ian was as if, in those few short seconds when they had looked away, he had evaporated into thin air—or had completely merged into the filthy, dark, damp "background" of Crime Alley.

"He's—he's really gone mad!" Lady Death repeated again, her voice trembling. It was not that she did not want to explain what Riddler was, but that her emotions were surging too violently for her to organize her words for the moment.

Aside from Ian's sheer, outrageous audacity.

What set alarm bells ringing even louder in Lady Death's heart was that, as the embodiment of the universe's concept of death, her perception of "death" events was fundamental. Especially for a "destined death" she had personally helped design and that Saint of Killers