Starting from scratch, Batman crushed my dream of getting rich

Chapter 96: The first rain, the first flourishing spring forest

The crowd around them seemed to be intentionally or unintentionally blocking Albert and Rosen. The two tried very hard, but were always pushed back little by little by the crowd.

They stood in the very middle of the team, unable to move forward or backward. The solemn and silent atmosphere was almost like a mountain, pressing down on the two men so hard that they couldn't breathe. So they could only squeeze forward desperately, hoping to reach the front.

After an unknown amount of time, Albert suddenly felt his vision clear. He looked up and found that he had really squeezed to the front of the crowd.

Standing on the left is the Roman who took off his hat and observed a moment of silence. He is the godfather of the Gotham City gang, the untouchable and high-ranking underworld boss.

Standing on the right is Maroni, the second-largest gang leader in Gotham City, the current head of the Maroni family, and the underworld legend in Gotham City second only to the Romans.

Right in front of us were tree planters waving shovels and filling soil into the tree pits, along with a group of children.

Albert swallowed carefully. This was the first time he had ever seen such a scene, but since he had come this far, he had no intention of retreating. So he whispered to Rosen, "Rosen, follow me closely."

"We have to—"

"Shut up."

Albert practically dragged Rosen forward. At this moment, everyone's eyes turned to him. Only then did they understand what "almost solidified gaze" meant.

However, everyone just watched, including the Godfather and Maroni. No one tried to stop the reporter's actions, but just watched him walk forward step by step.

Who was that man in the black cloak? What kind of fertilizer did he use? Why did the saplings sprout so quickly? Did he train that owl?
Questions kept popping up in Albert's mind, and he kept processing them into more eye-catching and conflict-provoking news questions. He pulled Rosen closer and closer, almost reaching the man.

"My ideal is a hero like Don Quixote."

Albert's body suddenly froze when he heard these words.

"He would carry a microphone like a sword that would cut through the darkness; he would face the camera like he was stepping into a sacred and solemn duel; and he would wear a suit like he was wearing indestructible armor."

"He would use the news to expose injustice and darkness, and rage against the dying of light. If he died in a duel with the evil giant, I would be buried with him. Mrs. Albert, died by suicide."

"I can die for this road, but I can't let her suffer for me - Albert, the former journalist, died under duress."

Following the voice of the tree planter, the memories of the man who had died in the corner surged like a tide. That was the past that Albert had tried his best to escape from and had been reluctant to recall over the years. It was the most unbearable memory in his heart.

It was his dead ideals and lover who made him what he is today.

Knight Albert was an upright swordsman before he became a minion of the Titans.

Suddenly, a wind whistled in the forest, blowing across Albert's cheeks as he stood there, like the hands that had wiped away his tears countless times in his memory; the sounds around him suddenly became denser, including flying birds, deer, squirrels, sparrows, etc.

Animals emerged from the woods one after another, and birds spread their wings and circled like a whirlwind, almost drowning Albert and Rosen in an instant. The deer gently turned its body and used its soft back to push against their legs, forcing them to retreat. In just a moment, the two men stood back in the crowd.

Once they had stopped, the animals vanished into the forest like the wind, leaving no trace. Along with them, the tree planter with his shovel vanished. But Albert wasn't in the mood to continue the interview. Silently, he pressed Rosen's camera, watched the tree sprout, and left the scene half an hour later.

Perhaps, from now on, there will be one more mourner at the edge of the woods in the cemetery.

"Ma Zhaodi, a lot of people have come to ask you about your affairs recently."

Jason, carrying a shovel and walking on the road with Ma Zhaodi, said to him: "They all know that we are a gang of homeless children living in the city, but they don't know who you are."

"So I want to know from you guys?" Ma Zhaodi stepped forward, shovel in hand. His words were modified by the voice changer beneath his burqa, becoming a mature and steady middle-aged male voice. "Did anyone betray me?"

"What nonsense are you talking about?"

"That's fine then."

"But they might suspect you, since you're the closest to us." "Suspicion without evidence won't lead to an answer," he responded. "They might have suspected me the second or third day after we went to plant the trees, but as long as I refuse to admit it, who would dare force me to admit it?"

"But why on earth don't you show up?"

“I don’t want to be seen as a charlatan.”

"Well, the scene just now really did feel like Saint Patrick."

"is it?"

"Yes, I heard Sheriff Gordon say before that he is a believer in the Lord, a green messenger. Animals follow him voluntarily, and there are elves talking to him."

"You have a very good memory. You remember everything Inspector Gordon told you."

"I'm very smart!"

Ma Zhaodi couldn't help but laugh as he looked at Jason, who unconsciously straightened his chest and raised his head.

"Since you're so smart, how about I teach you something? Do you know when seven days from now will be?"

"Seven days later." Jason thought for a long time and scratched his head: "What day is it?"

“It’s Qingming Festival.”

"What is Qingming Festival?"

"It's the festivals where we live, offering sacrifices, worshipping ancestors, and sweeping graves. The living remember the dead, borrow a little courage and optimism from them, and then move on with their lives."

"Oh, so it's about the same as now?"

"Perhaps you should feel more at ease than you do now—I'll teach you a poem."

"You can recite poetry? Can I learn poetry too?"

Ma Zhaodi rolled his eyes at Jason.

"We just don't talk normally, we can't be completely uncultured."

It was raining again at this time, and the dripping rain fell on the black raincoat, the brown soil, and the green leaves by the forest.

"You've all been learning pinyin with me for a while now. Now read with me: Qingming Festival - season - rain falls -"

So a group of slightly clumsy children followed suit and learned it.

"Qingming World——"

"It's the season, the Qingming Festival."

"During the Qingming Festival, rain falls heavily..."

"Very good, next sentence."