An Unsolvable Riddle

As Bane's massive, blood-soaked machine of violence had its "parts" dismantled one by one by an unseen hand with cold, efficient precision, Gotham City's other "king"—the Riddler, Edward Nygma—sat in his secret base, surrounded by screens and intricate machinery, feeling an unprecedented fury... and insult.

In his eyes, Bane's conquest through nothing but muscle and brute force was itself a lowly, barbaric act. And what Batman was doing now—using more efficient, colder violence to answer violence—was equally a desecration and insult to the ultimate art of "intelligence."

"No! It shouldn't be like this!" Wearing that ridiculous green bodysuit, he paced nervously before the console. "Gotham, this great city, should be guided by extraordinary, peerless intelligence! It should not become an arena where two barbarians wrestle! I, Edward Nygma, and only I, am qualified to be its master!"

A sick sense of mission and fury at being ignored made him decide that he had to do something to prove his exceptional intellect to that bat who only knew how to use his fists, and to every stupid citizen of Gotham.

He dropped into his chair, his hands flying madly across the keyboard as streams of complex code cascaded down the screens.

The next second, all of Gotham City plunged into a sea of green.

From the enormous commercial billboards in Times Square to the market displays in Gotham Bank's trading hall, and even the televisions, tablets, and smart refrigerator interfaces in every ordinary citizen's Household... every screen was forcibly hijacked at the same instant. A giant spinning green question mark replaced every image.

Then the Riddler's smug face, slightly distorted by excessive excitement, appeared at the center of the question mark.

"Listen up, Gotham! Listen up, Bat hiding in the shadows!" His voice blared from countless speakers in every corner of the city, shrill and piercing. "Your barbaric, boring antics must end! Violence brings only destruction, while intelligence brings true order! Now, let's play a truly sophisticated game!"

"My first riddle: I have cities, but no houses; I have forests, but no trees; I have rivers, but no water. What am I?"

He proudly presented his riddle, expecting to see the whole city descend into confusion, expecting that black bat to rack his brain over his brilliance.

Meanwhile, in the Batcave.

Bruce merely stared expressionlessly at that enlarged, endlessly babbling face on the main screen. His eyes held undisguised disgust and contempt, like an engineer working on an important project whose train of thought had suddenly been interrupted by a clown.

"Truly... noisy."

He could not even be bothered to think about the answer to that laughably simple riddle. He gave the Batcomputer an order directly, his voice cold and utterly flat.

"Alfred, mute it. It's too loud."

"As you wish, Master Bruce."

"Computer," he continued, "trace the global broadcast source of this signal. At the same time, cross-reference all known hideouts belonging to Edward Nygma, his mother's birthday, his favorite prime number, the property records of all his shell companies, and records of every area in Gotham City with abnormal power consumption over the past three years. Give me every possible hideout within three seconds, including backups and decoys."

"Command received. Beginning multidimensional cross-analysis..."

The Batcomputer's powerful quantum core began operating at full capacity, and the data streams on the screen instantly became a dizzying waterfall. Countless seemingly unrelated pieces of information were linked, filtered, and eliminated in an instant by his "tactical master mind."

Less than two seconds later.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Six bright red coordinates lit up simultaneously on Gotham's holographic map. Each coordinate came with a detailed structural blueprint and analysis of the surrounding environment.

"Analysis complete. The most likely hideout is Ace Chemicals in the old district. Its underground structure and energy consumption patterns match the suspect's past habits by 97.8%."

Bruce looked at the six red points, a cold curve lifting at the corner of his mouth.

"Hmph. Boring tricks."

He rose from his seat. His V8.03 Knight suit gave off the faint hum of servo motors as he moved. Rather than choosing a stealthier, more agile "Bat," he walked straight toward the steel beast crouching in the depths of the cave like some prehistoric monster—the fully equipped Batmobile.

VROOOOM—!!!!!

With an engine roar like thunder, the Batmobile's black, aggressively angular frame shot out through the secret passage behind the waterfall like lightning tearing through the darkness.

It took none of the hidden underground routes. Instead, it appeared directly on Gotham City's main roads, charging forward in a savage manner that completely ignored traffic laws. Abandoned vehicles and barricades along the way were effortlessly hurled aside like paper before its heavy armor.

The Riddler's first hideout was an abandoned toy factory in the industrial district. This was supposed to be his first "stage." The factory gate was sealed by a massive combination lock flashing a complicated sequence of lights. The speaker above the door continuously played the Riddler's smug voice. "The Riddler asks: What has doors but never walks? Answer correctly, and the door will open for you, little Bat!"

Bruce sat in the cockpit, looking at that ridiculous "riddle door" with nothing but indifference on his face.

"Switch to combat mode."

Click! Click-click-click!

The Batmobile transformed instantly. A vicious turret rose from its roof, the 60-millimeter Vulcan cannon spinning up as it locked onto the gate.

"The answer is... a map." Bruce murmured, then pressed the firing button.

RATATATATAT—!!!

Blazing muzzle flashes erupted as a dense storm of shells blasted the so-called "riddle door," along with half the thick brick wall behind it, into flying fragments!

He did not even get out of the car.

After the vehicle's searchlights swept through the factory and confirmed that it was packed with automated turrets and sensors, he merely gave a contemptuous sneer, pulled the trigger again, blasted every piece of equipment-looking junk inside into burning scrap metal, and drove away.

The second hideout was an underground parking garage.

The third hideout was an abandoned subway station.

The fourth... the fifth...

Inside the underground main control room of Ace Chemicals, the Riddler watched helplessly as the bases he had painstakingly arranged, each a crystallization of his intellect, were flattened on the dozens of surveillance screens before him by that barbaric madman who refused to follow any script, using the crudest, most direct, most unreasonable methods imaginable!

His expression shifted from initial confidence, to shock, to disbelief, and finally... absolute terror.

"No... How dare he... How could he... My riddles! My designs! My art!"

When the Batmobile's enormous ram-equipped front end smashed through the gate of his final base—the one he believed was the most hidden and secure—with a thunderous crash, the Riddler had already gone mad.

Bruce stepped out of the Batmobile and slowly walked toward him.

Looking at the black figure descending upon him like a demon god, the Riddler finally erupted. He shrieked hysterically at Bruce as he stormed in, shouting the philosophical riddle about the ultimate meaning of life and the universe that he had prepared for so long, a riddle he claimed no one could solve.

Yet Bruce slowly walked up to him without even giving him a proper glance. As he passed by, he casually spoke the answer, one so simple it was almost laughable.

The Riddler froze instantly, as though all the strength had been drained from his body.

Bruce ignored him and walked straight to the main control computer. His fingers tapped across the keyboard like a pianist's, strings of code appearing too quickly for the eye to follow.

"Your game is over, Edward." His voice was icy and emotionless. "Now it's my turn."

"I just used your name to anonymously donate every secret account you hid in tax havens around the world—a total of two hundred fifty-seven million, one hundred thirty-four thousand, two hundred dollars—to the Wayne Memorial Fund for Children Orphaned by Crime."

"Oh, and those energy and network technology patents you were so proud of? Their electronic ownership certificates are now sitting on the servers of Wayne Enterprises' legal department. Congratulations. You have made a 'tremendous' contribution to Gotham's clean energy industry."

"You have nothing now, Edward. Except... that pathetic, worthless pride of yours."

"No... No... No!!!!!"

The Riddler let out a desperate wail like a cuckoo crying blood. He had not been knocked down with a punch, nor had he been thrown into Arkham. But the wealth he had amassed over his lifetime, the creations of intellect he had taken such pride in, everything he depended on to survive, had been stripped away in mere seconds by the man before him, using the "intelligence" he excelled at most!

This kind of complete destruction—cutting off his foundation and crushing him spiritually and materially at once—was far crueler than any physical blow.

His mind completely broke. He collapsed onto the floor and sobbed like a child, tears and snot streaming down his face.

Bruce turned and left without even looking back at him.

To him, this did not even count as a fight.

It was merely... an utterly ordinary bit of trash sorting.