Chapter 57: Gotham's Evening Bells (Part Two) (Patreon)

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In the midst of a pitch-black alley, the faint glint of armor intertwined with a deeper, denser mist.

In a moment, the gray mist condensed into a silhouette, halting at the end of the alley. The friction of armor ceased, and heavy footfalls, treading upon still-damp puddles, produced an ominous rhythm.

"The Mourning Bell?"

"That, indeed, is your Mourning Bell."

As soon as the words fell, a flash of a blade, and Schiller momentarily vanished, reappearing behind the silhouette.

"Who's your employer?"

"That's none of your concern."

"It seems you have great confidence in your craft."

Schiller once again dodged two dart-like projectiles and faced the Mourning Bell. He spoke, "You shouldn't kill me."

"I can kill anyone, as long as the price is right."

Schiller extended his hand, flames igniting within it.

"No matter who your employer is, the price they offered you is inadequate."

The Mourning Bell remained silent for less than a second before turning and leaving.

"Indeed, farewell."

"How will you deal with an employer who deceived you?"

"It depends."

"Kill him, and I'll pay you."

"You don't have that much money."

"Bill it to the world's richest person."

"Goodbye."

Schiller watched the armored figure as it disappeared into the depths of Gotham's streets. He thought to himself that his adversary had some skill to have hired the Mourning Bell to kill him.

Several consecutive blinks had drained Schiller's energy. In such a narrow alley, no vehicles could navigate, so he decided to make his way back slowly. When he returned to the Church, he'd call for a ride.

He turned into another alley, reaching the main street. Then, he glanced back and noticed some commotion at the far end of the street.

At that moment, Batman stood within a room that was incredibly dilapidated, gloomy, and cramped.

The environment here was wretched, unlike any room Batman had ever entered before in his life.

This was a three-story structure with windows nailed shut, walls shedding their outer layers, extreme dampness inside, and slippery stone tiles for a floor. Furniture was scattered randomly, while the remaining space was filled with various forms of trash.

Upon seeing Batman, the room's inhabitant hesitated for a moment. Then, he lowered his head, glanced at his own feet, muttered something incomprehensible, and turned away, picking up an empty salt shaker, seemingly attempting to hand it to Batman.

Batman accepted the salt shaker, which was devoid of contents. Then, the man waved his hand, apparently trying to signal him to leave.

This was a frail, hunchbacked old man with dark skin, deeply sunken eyes, a limp, and a continuous stream of muttered profanities.

It seemed that a neighbor from downstairs, who couldn't see Batman's face, only a vague silhouette, leaned out from the staircase and said, "Why are you here for this old guy? Who are you to him?"

"What's wrong with him?"

"What else could be wrong? Can't you see? He's suffering from dementia, doesn't recognize anyone anymore, not even if you know him. In his time, maybe that salt shaker meant something, but it's empty now."

"But, in a stroke of luck, his landlord seems to have been killed by a gang. This attic isn't worth much, and if he killed him, he'd have to deal with the body, so he's lived up to now."

"Whoever you are, just leave him alone. He survives on the scraps thrown down from upstairs every day, but his upstairs neighbor moved out a few days ago. I doubt he'll last much longer."

With that, there was a "thud" from downstairs as the neighbor closed the door.

Batman held the empty salt shaker, observing as the hunched old man sat in a chair, silently gazing at a desktop, drool trickling down from his mouth.

He saw the old man's hands, rough and distorted from years of heavy lifting, with veins protruding prominently on his withered palms.

"Are you Louis?"

There was no response other than Batman's own voice.

"Do you still remember Thomas Wayne? Do you remember Martha?"

Batman felt his voice trembling.

An extreme sense of anger surged from Batman's chest, and he gripped the salt shaker tightly, making it squeak.

His nemesis had forgotten everything he had done to innocent people, all his past sins. This was not the punishment Batman had hoped for; it only seemed to relieve him of inner guilt.

He repeated his questions to Louis again and again:

"Why don't you remember anything?! Have you really forgotten the name Wayne?! What about Edward? Falcone?!"

Just as Batman mentioned the name Falcone, the elderly Louis suddenly let out a strange, agonizing scream. His mouth hung wide open, and his long-dormant jawbone made cracking noises.

He tumbled from his chair, shaking uncontrollably, screaming loudly, and throwing everything within his reach at Batman. Tears, snot, and saliva streamed down his face.

Batman saw endless fear in his eyes.

Batman thought that Falcone hadn't lied; when he had killed Leif all those years ago, it had indeed terrified many, including Louis.

Schiller walked to the middle of the alley, glanced up, and noticed that only a room on the third floor had its lights on. Inside the room was a shadow with pointed ears.

He waited at the bottom of the building for a moment, and when Batman emerged, Schiller was somewhat surprised, but Batman's mind was currently sluggish.

Schiller assessed Batman and saw that he was unharmed, with no signs of recent combat.

Then his gaze fell upon the salt shaker in Batman's hand.

Schiller didn't know what it was, but it was evident that Batman, in his current complex state of mind, needed to talk. Without waiting for Schiller to ask, Batman recounted the entire story.

As they walked and talked, they passed by the Church's front gate, and the sky was already getting light. Batman held the salt shaker and said, "He doesn't remember any of this."

As Batman spoke, his tone was no longer filled with anger but with a profound sense of reflection.

"You mentioned he still remembers one person."

"Yeah, he remembers Falcone. Why does he remember Falcone but forget Wayne?"

Schiller sighed, looked into the distance, and said, "Because fear, fear is etched deepest in the human soul and is the most difficult scar to erase."

"He forgot everything, except fear," Batman said.

At this moment, it was the darkest time before dawn, and the intense darkness almost engulfed everything. All buildings were shrouded in shadows, and their outlines were indistinguishable.

Soon, what woke Batman from his thoughts was the heavy tolling of the Gotham Cathedral's bells. The deep, resonating chimes traveled far, and sound waves, like darkness, penetrated everywhere. Even in the darkest and gloomiest alleys, that vibration could be felt.

Batman thought, fear, fear.

If he couldn't achieve true vengeance against the era and the people who had taken his parents away from him, if the person he had striven to capture, the one he sought revenge against, had completely forgotten everything, then all his anger and hatred would be in vain.

But at least, he reminded Batman of one thing: sometimes, something more terrifying than death is an unshakeable fear.

If that's the case, Batman thought, he would become the Dark Knight who brought endless fear to all the criminals in Gotham.

Years ago, accompanying his parents' death, were the bats that cast shadows across the skyline. Many years later, he would ultimately bring the fear of the bat to all the criminals in this city.

Just like the Gotham evening bells that permeated every street and dark corner.

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Next Chapter >>Chapter 58: The World of Caution