Dreaming for 10,000 years

Chapter 356 Awakening (End of Volume)

Morning light filtered through the iron bars of Arkham Asylum, casting dappled shadows on the concrete floor. The smells of disinfectant and excrement mingled in the air, and a cockroach crawled across a moldy crack in the corner of the wall.

The clown suddenly opened his eyes, the yellowed pages of "Red Star Over China" stuck to his pale cheek.

He slowly raised his right hand, and the original German edition of "Mein Kampf" was pressed against the vein on his wrist, the gold lettering "Mein Kampf" on the spine shimmering eerily in the morning light.

“Ah, an intellectual’s nap,” he muttered to himself, his voice like sandpaper rubbing against glass.

He seems to have fallen asleep while reading.

Arkham Asylum is a mental hospital for criminals, and in order to provide humane care, it naturally also has a library.

It was a storage room piled high with donated books, the shelves covered in dust that hadn't been wiped clean in ten years. No one would care what a madman was reading, just as no one would study the reading preferences of sewer rats.

Can a madman read books?
Of course I'll watch it.

Because no one can guess what a madman is thinking.

“Puddin~” Harley Quinn’s voice came from the foot of the bed, where she was hanging upside down from the iron bars, her light blue pigtails dangling to the ground: “You were laughing so—terrifyingly just now, what kind of sweet dream were you having?”

The clown didn't respond with his usual exaggerated laughter. He slowly sat up, his spine making a crisp popping sound, like a reassembled doll.

His eyes, however, were unusually clear. He looked down at his palm, the stitches from the dream still seemingly lingering on his skin.

He had a bizarre dream in which he was in Goof City, not Gotham City. Batman didn't exist; there was only Owlman.

Ironically, Night Owlman is now old and lying in a nutrient tank, while his clones have become the Dark Knight, fighting crime.

Ironically, he was killed by three LW gangs working together. But after being killed, he didn't die; instead, he wandered around Goaf City like a ghost, eventually witnessing a good show, and...

They encountered the God of Dreams.

His doubts were resolved, and the confusion that arose from those doubts subsided.

“Wrong, all wrong! Everything is wrong, dear Harley.” His voice softened, as if soothing a child to sleep. “We’re all acting in an absurd play, and the writer is a terrible, third-rate author.”

Harley tilted her head, and the smile on her face gradually froze.

Harley Quinn was once a criminal psychology expert at Arkham Asylum in Gotham City. While treating the Joker, she was drawn to his twisted charm and his advocacy of the "philosophy of chaos," and gradually became obsessed with him.

Therefore, Harley's obsession with the Joker is almost blind; she chooses to follow him even after being pushed off a high-rise building and abandoned by a rocket launch.

The Joker's feelings for Harley are instrumental; he uses her loyalty to carry out his criminal plans and even tests her obedience through electric shocks and torture. However, when Harley chooses to leave, he displays possessiveness.

Overall, the two of them are quite complicated.

But in any case, Harley had never seen a clown like this before—no manic laughter, no exaggerated movements, only an unsettling calm.

“Puddin?” Harley looked at the Joker with a puzzled expression as he stood up and walked to the iron bars. Sunlight streamed through the bars, casting his gaunt figure onto the wall. The number “D-17” on his purple prison uniform had faded, and scorch marks from last week’s electroshock therapy remained on the collar.

“I always thought chaos was the cure,” he said softly. “But now I understand. Chaos is an escape, a poor imitation of despair! Chaos doesn’t solve anything.”

Is chaos a form of escapism?

Harley was puzzled, then saw the Joker turn around and couldn't help but take a half step back. A new flame burned in the Joker's eyes—not the usual madness, but a terrifying clarity. "What's wrong with you…" Harley looked at the Joker's clear eyes, not understanding why he had become like this.

The mad clown becomes a sober clown, but is he still a clown?

“I’ve just figured some things out, Harley.” The Joker looked at the woman in front of him.

Her face was covered with pale foundation, as if it were the base color of madness, and her cheeks were painted with round peach-pink blush, as naive as a child's toy, yet with an eerie blood-red hue.

Her hair was styled in twin ponytails with a red-blue gradient, the roots a deep, blood-red hue transitioning to an electric blue at the ends, as if dyed with boiling venom in a chemical vat.

Harley's lips always curve into an exaggerated smile, like the fixed smile of a circus puppet, or a mockery of worldly rules.

That was an imitation of a clown's smile.

“Not human.” The Joker suddenly reached out and stroked her cheek. The gesture was unusually gentle, but Harley trembled as if she had been burned.

His thumb brushed against the scar at the corner of her mouth, where traces of last year's chemical bath still remained.

Who are they?

Harley had questions in her mind, but she also felt the gentleness in the Joker's hands.

She only ever felt abuse from the clown, never tenderness.

At this moment, the Joker felt completely unfamiliar to Harley.

"Are you alright?" Harley asked.

If you asked her that normally, the clown would slap her and tell her he's fine.

Now, the Joker lowered his hands and said, "I'm going to change the rules of the game, Harley."

He picked up "Red Star Over China" from the ground, his fingers lightly tracing the pages: "No longer meaningless killing. It's about showing Gotham that it was wrong."

"We'll show those bastards in Gotham what kind of consequences our actions will bring them!"

Harley didn't quite understand what was being said, so she simply asked, "What are you planning to do?"

The Joker said seriously, "Of course, it's about building Gotham and serving the people of Gotham."

Construction? Service?
How could such words come from the Joker?

Hearing this, Harley felt relieved. The Joker she was obsessed with was still the Joker. Only now he was even more insane.

The heavy footsteps of the caregiver echoed down the corridor. The clown suddenly smiled, not a maniacal grin that tore at the corners of his mouth, but a calm, almost elegant smile.

“Notify our people!” he told Harley. “It’s time to prepare for something big. This time, we’ll make Gotham see the monster in the mirror for itself.”

When the caregivers opened the cell door, they didn't see a deranged criminal, but a man who was terrifyingly calm.
He stood by the window, the sunlight gilding his figure, holding a book in his hands, like a scholar deep in thought.

He turned to the fifth chapter of "Red Star Over China" in his hand, and the shadow on the wall was stretched very long, as if it were about to devour the entire Arkham.

(End of this chapter)