Gotham

Why was Gotham so terrible?

It was always choked with smog beneath an overcast sky. Beneath the city lurked crime and ugliness, oppressing everyone's nerves.

Because of a demon—a demon named Barbatos, summoned by Thomas Jefferson.

Jefferson was Bruce Wayne's ancestor. Before the end of the Revolutionary War, he had imprisoned many demons beneath Gotham City.

Barbatos's long-standing existence had deeply affected Gotham City's development and its citizens, causing and worsening a series of bizarre incidents.

It was hard to say whether it had caused Batman's birth, or whether Batman, as the protagonist destined by fate, had been born in Gotham, the city of sin, when the times called for him.

It was late at night.

As always, Gotham's nights were pitch-black.

By Gotham Harbor, dim yellow harbor lights swayed. The salty sea wind whipped through the dark harbor, carrying the sound of waves, making the clothes of two groups of people flap loudly.

One group had seven or eight men. Their leader was a tall, burly Russian man in a jacket, smoking a cheap cigarette, with undisguised contempt on his face. The salty wind could not move his powerful frame, and the cigarette bobbed between his lips as he narrowed his eyes. "Is Falcone out of people? You're bringing a brat who hasn't even been weaned out to 'work'?"

The Russian man's words drew laughter from the men behind him. "Go home and drink your mother's milk, brat." "You should be trembling in your mommy's arms." "Brat, you look like a gay bottom." "Want a go?"

In an instant, the people opposite them tensed, hands pressing against the waists of their suits.

Their leader was a seventeen-year-old youth. The group behind him wore neat suits, a stark contrast to the men across from them. They looked orderly and imposing as they frowned grimly at the crude bunch of hulking men.

The youth pressed his lips tightly together, glaring furiously at the leader opposite him, which made the Russian man burst out laughing again.

At the youth's side, a middle-aged butler in a fitted, sleek suit bent slightly toward him. "Young master, don't be angry. Everyone knows Hank is a foul-mouthed, stinking, hairy bastard. Don't lower yourself to his level."

Hearing the butler's words, the men behind the Russian brute Hank were not offended in the slightest. Instead, they laughed even harder, shifting their mockery to their own leader without restraint.

Seeing that no one across from him was paying attention to him anymore, the youth silently felt grateful to the butler. His tense lips pulled into a slight curve as he nodded at him, his heart calming somewhat.

"Shut up, you pieces of trash."

Hank tossed his cigarette butt onto the ground. The sea wind sent it rolling away, its sparks flickering.

The moment he told them to shut up, the people behind him fell silent.

Someone behind him thoughtfully found a greasy, blackened oil drum and placed it between the two groups.

The oil drum swayed in the sea wind, knocking against the ground with dull clanks.

For a while, only the solemn atmosphere remained, along with the rushing sea wind and the waves pounding one after another against the shore, making the tension even greater.

The sky seemed to have grown darker as well. Only the dim, swaying streetlights intermittently cast light across their faces.

"Let's make the trade. Gotham's sea wind isn't pleasant."

A mocking smile appeared on Hank's lips as someone behind him handed him a suitcase.

The butler beside the youth also handed him a black briefcase. It sank heavily in his hand, but the youth tightened his lips and lifted it in one breath. "Go on, young master. It's all right."

The butler's soft words steadied the youth's heart a little more.

The youth nodded and stepped forward, his legs trembling slightly.

At the same time, Hank's bear-like body and the youth emerged from their respective groups and approached the oil drum in the middle.

The people behind both sides became alert, staring hard at one another. The atmosphere was so delicate that a single spark seemed capable of setting everything off.

Hank placed his suitcase on one half of the oil drum and lit another cheap cigarette. The corner of his mouth curled up. "Not bad, brat. What's your name?"

Facing Hank's towering body, the youth swallowed and looked at him before proudly stating his name. "Mario. Mario Falcone."

When he spoke the Falcone name, the youth thrust out his chest with even more confidence. He had even greater faith in that name.

Hank was slightly taken aback. He had clearly not expected the youth to be a Falcone. He had thought the boy was some trusted associate of Falcone's being brought out for training, someone they intended to cultivate.

He had not expected them to be grooming the next generation's Mafia boss.

The two exchanged suitcases and opened them atop the greasy oil drum, with the cases facing each other.

Hank opened his case to find neatly stacked U.S. dollars. He slipped his thumb into the bills and flicked through the notes one by one, a smile lifting his lips. He was clearly satisfied. Then he looked up.

Mario Falcone was seriously poking his finger through a bag of white powder. He dabbed some of the powder onto the tip of his nose and sniffed it, then dipped some onto his tongue for a taste.

Seeing Mario Falcone's serious expression, Hank laughed hoarsely. "I've traded with your people twice. Hank's reputation is still trustworthy."

Mario Falcone nodded silently without speaking and continued checking the other bags.

Only after he finished did he raise his head and nod at Hank, indicating that there was indeed no problem, earning another mocking laugh from Hank.

If nothing unexpected happened, the deal would be completed just like that.

It would become Hank's third successful transaction, proof of his fine character.

But everything feared the unexpected.

Splash! A sudden crash of waves rang out. At the concrete edge where the waves struck, a pair of hands gripped the shore and pulled hard.

A figure abruptly emerged from the darkness like something rising from an abyss, sending water spraying everywhere.

He was naked, his hair plastered to his face. Seawater streamed down his muscular body, and the scars across his face and body testified to countless battles. A test tube filled with red liquid hung from his chest, along with a metal cylinder smaller than his little finger.

This was Ba Di.

He had swum all the way from Nevada's Snake River to Idaho. After evading General Vick's pursuit, he had crossed from Idaho through Utah, traveled to Colorado, and then reached Kansas.

Without any mishaps, Ba Di found Smallville Town and the Kent Couple's farm. The kind and hospitable couple had even hosted him for a day.

However, Ba Di had not seen any sign of Superman.

In other words, Kal-El had not yet arrived on Earth. Ba Di calculated the timing and found that Kal-El would likely arrive in around half a year to a year.

Ba Di decisively left Smallville Town. He could not squat in Kansas for months on end waiting for Superman. He had other matters that needed arranging.

So he left Kansas again, passing through Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. After crossing more than half of the United States, he arrived in Delaware.

He had traveled a long and dusty road. After leaving the Underground Research Institute, his free-spirited nature had been unleashed. Seeing that Metropolis was close, he had acted on a whim and jumped into Delaware Bay, intending to swim directly to Metropolis.

He had no identification documents, so to avoid trouble, he chose to swim there.

Who would have thought that, swimming in a straight line, he would arrive in Gotham City on the other side of Delaware Bay?