American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 192 Batman: Farmer's Nightmare, Charge at the Tractor! Bruce!

The air was stuffy.

It had a pungent smell of rust and a damp, earthy smell that came with the rain.

It makes one want to vomit.

"Snapped--!"

Something broke.

It wasn't a sound, it was something else.

It was something he was clutching in his hand, warm, and then suddenly it was gone.

Then came the shouting.
"Bruce"

"Bruce!"

"boom--!"

He wanted to respond to the man and woman's calls, but the next sound was too loud, making his ears ring and he couldn't hear anything but that buzzing sound.

He looked down at his hands; they were empty.

Looking up again, I saw two shadows fall down.
It was very slow, like sinking into deep water.

He wanted to run over, but he couldn't lift his legs.

Because something warm splashed onto his face again.

It made him instinctively kneel down.

My knee slammed into the wet stone, and it hurt a lot.

But he didn't say anything, he just watched.

The woman's pearl necklace broke, and the white beads rolled one by one into the dirty water of the drain.

Then there was silence.

It was eerily quiet.

Until this stillness was torn apart.

It wasn't the sound that came first, but the light.

The sky suddenly brightened, the stark white light illuminating the wet, cobblestone path in front of him so clearly that every single hair was visible.

Maybe a second, maybe longer, passed before the sound caught up.
It's thunder.

It was the kind of oppressive feeling of the sky being torn apart and the earth being split open.

The shock made his chest go numb and his teeth chatter.

He's no longer in the alley.

He was on the ruins.

Stones and twisted steel bars were digging into his hands.

A faint, burnt smell filled the air.

Half a gray hem of his shirt was sticking out in front of him, and he remained motionless.

He recognized the fabric; it was the suit that Ah Fu had ironed many times, always keeping it impeccably crisp.

He wanted to shout.

The mouth opened, but no sound came out.

It felt like something was tightly gripping my throat.

He moved forward, digging his hands into the cold, broken bricks and mortar, where they chafed painfully.

Just a few steps away.

"boom--!"

Another beam of pale light illuminated the entire world, leaving no shadows, and swallowed up the half-piece of clothing along with the broken wall behind it.

He stretched out his hand, pointing forward.

But they still didn't manage to grasp anything.
-
"boom--!"

Bruce suddenly rolled over, his back slamming against the rough wooden wall with a dull thud.

My heart was pounding painfully behind my ribs.

He gasped for breath, his mouth agape.

A few seconds later, the ringing in his ears subsided, allowing him to hear the regular sound of the wind outside the window and the faint cries of animals coming from the distant livestock shed.

He slowly sat up, placing his hand flat against the wooden wall beside him, the solid texture of the wood pressing against his skin.

After a month or two of farm work, his whole body was full of energy, without the slightest weakness.

My breathing gradually became easier, and it no longer felt so rough on my throat.

He's here.

In a small cabin next to a farm in Kent.

It's not Gotham.

There were no sirens, no muffled thuds of collapsing buildings, and nothing else...

The sound of rain.

Bruce raised his hand and wiped his face; his palm was covered in cold sweat.

His forehead was wet too.

My vision slowly adjusted to the dim light.

A sliver of morning light peeked through the gap in the curtains, which weren't fully drawn, illuminating the outline of the table. His farm clothes, which he had changed out of after work, were draped over the chair; the mud on them had already dried.

He stood up, walked to the window, and peered out through the crack.

It was still dark, and the outlines of farmhouses in the distance were dark and quiet.

It's time to go and prepare Mr. Locke's morning feed.

Bruce took a deep breath, drew the curtains, turned around and found the pants he had left at the foot of the bed, then pulled them on, but just as he was about to change into his coat...
But it felt like something was pressing against my chest.

He instinctively looked down and reached into his clothes, his fingertips touching a small, hard object.
It's icy cold.

Bruce froze, his breath catching in his throat.

He reflexively tensed his body, his jaw turning white.

This shape...

He slowly pulled the object out of his breast pocket.

"Whoo~"

He breathed a sigh of relief.

It's nothing but a withered tree branch.

He probably slipped it into his pocket by accident when he was pruning the fruit trees for Locke yesterday.

The twisted shape of the branch, in the dim light just now, and in that instant in his hand, felt like...

He stared at the branch, his throat dry, and prepared to throw it into the corner.

But just as he loosened his grip...
"Qiang——!"

A sharp metallic scraping sound suddenly rang out from outside, piercing his eardrums.

Bruce shuddered, a cold sweat breaking out on his back.

The twig slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor with a soft thud. He whirled around, rushed to the door, and flung it open.

却.
In the courtyard not far away, a tall, familiar figure was squatting next to the familiar black Harley motorcycle with his back to him.

Clark was holding a wrench, straining against a part of the motorcycle; the piercing noise from earlier had clearly come from there.

Hearing the door open, Clark turned around.
He had some oil on his face and looked a little embarrassed.

"Bruce? Did I disturb you?"

“Sorry, sorry. I need the car later.” He shook the wrench in his hand. “But Ms. Tiffany, it seems like something is stuck.”

Standing in the doorway, the chilly morning wind rushed into Bruce's collar, making him shiver. He looked at Clark, at the motorcycle, then down at his empty hands, and his previously tense shoulders slowly slumped a little.

He took a breath and then slowly exhaled, letting the white mist dissipate in the cold air.

"fine."

His voice was still a little hoarse, so he cleared his throat before continuing, "Do you need any help?"

Seemingly surprised that the man she had woken up would offer to help, Clark paused for a moment, then moved aside to make room for him.

"OK."

Pointing to several locations below the engine, Clark began:
"Here, and here...maybe...uh, here too? It seems like they're all pretty stuck."

Bruce crouched down, his gaze sweeping over the motorcycle's thick, intact shell.

He paused, turned his head to look at Clark, and frowned slightly:
"You can still see inside?"

Clark gave an awkward smile and didn't reply.

Without asking any further questions, Bruce simply reached out and naturally took the wrench from Clark.

Insert the wrench into the screw, apply force with your wrist, and with a few deft twists, the outer casing's fixing parts are removed.

Then the outer shell is removed to expose the internal structure.

He checked it.

Just as Clark said, several connecting parts and drive bearings were severely jammed due to lack of maintenance and possibly rough driving in the past.

Um.
For Wayne, who was once obsessed with motorcycles, it wasn't difficult.

Bruce grabbed the lubricant and tools from the side and got to work.

His fingers were covered in dark grease, but his movements remained steady as he precisely cleaned, oiled, and adjusted them.

The whole process was quick, with no unnecessary movements.

The motorcycle was repaired in no time.

He then picked up the removed outer casing and prepared to put it back.

"Bruce"

A large hand gently patted his shoulder.

Clark wore an overly cheerful smile:
"Thanks, I'll take care of the rest, this thing is heavy."

Bruce stopped what he was about to do.

He glanced at Clark, then looked down at his oil-stained hands and the nearly finished work.

Only then did I realize that I had almost habitually taken over all the steps.

He shrugged, handed over the heavy casing, and casually shoved the wrench back into Clark's hand.

"Ok."

He stepped back two paces and watched as Clark held the metal plate and aimed it at the buckle.

To tell the truth
This guy is completely different from his original image.

Looking at his handsome face and the way he flitted between the two women, I had assumed he would be a playboy like Bruce Wayne.

Can.
This guy would squat in the yard early in the morning tinkering with a beat-up motorcycle, get his hands covered in oil from a simple mechanical malfunction, and show that carefree, purely happy smile because the problem was solved.

It's not quite the image he initially envisioned.
"Bruce?"

The shout pulled Bruce back from his wandering thoughts.

He looked at Clark and saw that the other man was focused on struggling with the metal plate, and there was even a little sweat on his forehead.

"Bruce," Clark said without looking up, as he adjusted the force to align with the outer shell's latches. "Just now, you... actually made me feel... a little... right?"

"Something's right?"

Upon hearing this, Bruce turned to look at Clark: "What do you mean?"

"Um"

Clark looked up, a black mark on his forehead.

“Well…” He rubbed his forehead with his arm, smudged the dark mark, “You are usually… quite nice, very helpful, and often smile. But I always feel that there’s something between you and us.”

Clark gestured in the air with his oil-stained fingers, as if trying to depict the invisible barrier.

"You are like someone buried under the wind and snow. Although you can still look there, you feel cold to the touch and you can't see clearly."

“On the contrary,” Clark chuckled, “when you were fixing the car, you didn’t say much and had no expression. You were a bit…cold.”

"But for some reason, I actually think you're more genuine that way."

"At least, I can feel that it's the real you."

Bruce listened, his face expressionless, but he simply looked away from Clark's face and back at the motorcycle.

After a few seconds, he replied very softly, "Is that so..."

There was neither affirmation nor denial; it simply plunged the air into silence.

The only sounds in the yard were the faint rustling of the morning breeze through the branches and Clark continuing his struggle with the screws.

After a while, Clark, as if to break the silence or as if suddenly remembering something, spoke while tightening a screw, changing the subject:
"Bruce, aren't you almost eighteen?"

"how?"

With a hint of barely perceptible teasing in his tone, Bruce chuckled, "Trying to experience 'youth' so early? Looks like those two girls aren't enough to keep you busy."

Clark's face visibly flushed.

"What are you talking about? I was just asking." His voice lowered, tinged with embarrassment. "Aren't you eighteen? I thought it was time for you to turn eighteen, so I was just asking where you're planning to go."

"As for university..." Bruce pondered for a moment, then looked up at the hazy gray-white sky to the east, where a few wisps of clouds had just been tinged with a touch of gold and red.

"Originally..."

He spoke, his voice flat and monotone:
"I should go to Gotham University. After graduation, I'll become a police officer."

"police?"

Clark whirled around, nearly dropping the screwdriver, his face contorted with disbelief. He sized Bruce up and down; though Bruce looked like a farmer, his usual extravagance was astounding.
The tips they casually give are probably enough for an ordinary police officer's salary for several months.

And
"Originally?"

He caught the key word.

"Um"

Bruce's gaze remained fixed on the gradually brightening sky in the distance, the faint smile on his lips fading. "Then something... happened."

He didn't specify what it was about.
But Clark was reminded of the towering flames that had engulfed Gotham City that day, and of his own out-of-control power.
Bruce's voice pulled him out of his memories.

“Ever since then, I’ve felt that even as a police officer, there are too few things I can handle, especially when it comes to unreasonable and sudden crises.” Bruce finally looked away and turned to Clark, his eyes calm. “So I decided to travel the world and eventually come back to Gotham to see what I can do.”

"The whole world..."

"That's great," Clark murmured, something gleaming in his eyes like a tiny flame being ignited. He tucked the wrench back into his belt, stood up, and smiled. "Actually, if I had the chance, I'd like to see the whole world."

"you?"

Bruce took another look at the seemingly ordinary farmer's son.

“Yes. I want to see what I can do for this world,” Clark remarked.

"." "I'm really sorry, but my eyes are only on Gotham."

Bruce said self-deprecatingly, "It's because I'm narrow-minded."

is it?

Seeing the self-deprecating sarcasm on Bruce's face, Clark didn't say anything more.

He simply looked down at his hand, which was covered in oil and grass clippings, and naturally stretched it out, leaving it exposed in the air between them.

“I am Clark Kent.”

His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear, carrying a simple certainty:

"What about you, the man who dreams of traveling the world in the future?"

"."

Looking at the hand suspended in mid-air, Bruce looked up and met Clark's eyes, which held no hint of a joke. The mockery on his face slowly faded, and after a few seconds...
He barely twitched his lips, revealing a shallower, more genuine smile, before stepping forward to grasp the oil-stained hand.

"Bruce Wayne."

"I am currently traveling around the world."

Bruce paused, his gaze sweeping over the surrounding farmhouses, barns, and the gradually clearing outlines of farmland in the distance. The slight arrogance in his tone softened considerably.

"This is my first stop."

"I train myself by farming in the fields."
-
"Bruce, what can someone as cowardly as you protect?! Have I been too lenient with you, only letting you farm?"

"Charge!"

"Quack! No! Teacher!"

As the tractor drew ever closer, Bruce was terrified, his mind racing with a series of thoughts.

Three minutes ago.

The morning light was already a bit too bright, and he squinted as he parted ways with Clark.
He turned around and headed to the tool shed to think about what work he should do today: continue farming, chop wood, or help Mr. Jonathan manage the farm animals.
Can.
He had just reached the center of the courtyard when he stopped in his tracks.

The teacher stood at the door of the tool shed, backlit, so his expression was not visible.

But Bruce could feel a gaze fixed on him.
Unlike his usual gentle demeanor, this time his gaze was icy and heavy.

"Bruce."

Even the teacher's voice was completely different from usual; it lacked its usual lazy tone, and every word was spoken with force.

Bruce straightened his back instinctively: "Teacher."

But then Locke raised his chin and pointed to the old-fashioned tractor parked at the other end of the yard.

"Today's warm-up."

"Start with it."

"?"

Is this a lesson to teach me how to drive a tractor?

Bruce was stunned, but before he could fully understand what those words meant.

"Boom—Rumble!"

In a flash, he saw Locke straddle the tractor, and as a plume of black smoke billowed from the exhaust pipe, the diesel engine roared to life, the dull thud sending shivers down his spine!

then
The mud-covered steel contraption began to turn, its tracks kicking up bits of dirt and grass, and accelerated toward him.

The vibrations from its crushing of the ground could even reach directly beneath him!

The metal crossbeam at the front of the tractor, used to hang farm implements, gleamed coldly in the morning sunlight, drawing ever closer to his chest.

The pungent smell of burning diesel fuel mixed with the rising dust made his throat itch.

The roar almost drowned out everything.

Looking at Locke's expressionless face in the driver's seat, Bruce had only one thought in his mind: Am I still dreaming? Are these all my nightmares?
But there was no time for him to continue his whirlwind of thoughts.

The tractor still doesn't have a speed reduction function.

"Snapped--!"

With a roll, Bruce dodged the tractor's impact.

The tracks rolled over the spot where he had just stood, carving two deep trenches into the solid mud. Grass clippings and clods of earth flew up and clattered against the nearby fence.

He rolled to the side to avoid the impact, but his knees and elbows slammed into the hard ground, kicking up a cloud of dust that choked him and made him cough twice. Before he could even regain his footing...
"Is all you can do, Bruce?!"

The teacher's voice pierced through the engine's roar, no longer gentle as before, but lashing out like a cold whip.

"Crack!"

With a nimbleness that belies its bulky size, the tractor suddenly reversed, its tracks roaring again as it adjusted its direction and aimed at him once more!
"Bruce! You'd be a winner if you could just bend down and crawl under it!"

"?!"

Are you kidding me?! You want me to crawl under the tracks?!

Bruce's pupils contracted, and his throat tightened.

Fortunately, his body reacted faster than his mind, allowing him to leap to the side and back again.

The cold metal beam approached again, the tracks almost grazing his side, the wind it generated stinging his cheeks.

"look at me!"

Locke's voice remained unwavering, even carrying a cruel calm as he maneuvered the tractor, pressing forward once more, giving Bruce no chance to breathe:

"Your enemies won't give you a second chance! Bruce! Charge! Charge head-on! Or do you not even have the courage to face them?!"

"What can someone like you protect?!"

The roar of the engine made Bruce's eardrums buzz.

The tractor once again filled his entire field of vision.

Moreover, this time, their retreat was blocked by a pile of scattered farm tools.

He had nowhere to retreat.

The teacher's gaze was like two awls, fixed firmly on him.

"Charge!!!"

"Could the darkness of Gotham be any gentler than this?!"

The sound exploded like thunder in his mind, which was almost filled with a deafening roar.

Bruce clenched his teeth so tightly that he could even taste the blood from his own bitten lips.

He watched as the steel behemoth, a symbol of absolute power, drew ever closer.

The feeling that had been suppressed in my chest suddenly exploded!

He let out a low growl that was almost a roar, not rushing to the side, but tensing all his muscles to face the cold metal beam.
Charge forward!

"Om-!"

In a flash, the deafening roar and the looming shadow of steel vanished. Bruce's momentum faltered, and he staggered a couple of steps before regaining his footing, his knees buckling.

Locke stood in front of him, less than a meter away, his face still expressionless, only his eyes were frighteningly sharp.

The tractor returned to its original position, lifeless and showing no signs of having been used.

With his mouth agape, Bruce gasped for breath, his chest burning.

Cold sweat trickled down his temples, mixing with the dust he had just stirred up, making his face feel itchy and sticky.

He could hear his heart pounding wildly in his ears.

His clenched fist was still trembling slightly uncontrollably.

Just now……

He almost...

A feeling of exhaustion, as if he had survived a disaster, made his limbs twitch slightly.

He raised his hand to wipe his face, trying to calm his breathing.

It's approved...

That last test should count as passing the teacher's spot check, right?
He looked at Locke, about to speak.

Can.
“Very good, Bruce.”

Locke spoke first, his tone flat, "It's over."

ended?
Bruce had just breathed a sigh of relief.

Then Locke raised his right hand, palm up, and a ball of yellowish-brown mud material materialized out of thin air, slowly spinning. He then casually tossed the thing aside.

Throw it into the muddy ditch that the tractor tracks had just run over.

The muddy water seeped into the ground as soon as it touched it, as if it were alive.

"Whoosh—!!"

A muffled roar exploded from the mud pit!

Amidst the churning mud, a colossal creature suddenly rose up from within!

A large amount of mud, grass roots, and gravel fell down, revealing its outline.
A mud giant, nearly two meters tall, made entirely of haphazardly piled-up black mud, barely resembling a human figure.

Its limbs were abnormally thick and strong, and it had no facial features, except for two sunken cavities where it should have been the head.

The heavy body thudded into the mud.

"."

Looking at the mud-covered man who reeked of earth, Bruce's initial feeling of relief vanished.

He stood there, forgetting to catch his breath.

"What I mean is, the warm-up is over."

Locke's voice rang out again, still flat and monotone:
"This is your next task."

"Fight him."

Lying sprawled in the mud, Bruce stared blankly at the sky.

It was inhaled through the mouth and nose.
It also smelled of damp soil and rotten grass roots.

The mud giant had just punched his crossed arms, so hard that he felt like his bones were about to break. Now both arms were numb and painful, making it difficult for him to lift them.

Mud and water covered half of his face and dripped down his hair.

He turned his head away, spat out the mud from his mouth, and felt a metallic taste in his throat. He didn't know if it was from a cracked lip or internal injuries.

Watching Locke turn and leave, his figure receded further and further into the distance in his blurred vision.

What kind of training is this?
A voice screamed in Bruce's head, filled with grievance and lingering fear, and a hint of... humiliation at being treated with such contempt.

This is practically an attempt to kill him!

but.
The teacher's last words before leaving were more devastating than a mud monster's punch, striking him squarely in the heart:

"Bruce, is your revenge merely the wailing of a child?"

It wasn't a roar, nor was it mockery; it was just a straightforward, descriptive tone, as if stating a perfectly obvious fact.

But it was precisely this matter-of-fact tone that pierced through all his grievances and reached straight to his soul.

He suddenly closed his eyes, his hands trembling slightly.

revenge……

After that night, after those ruins, the only thing that kept him alive was...
In the teacher's eyes, it was just... a child's crying?

A tremendous absurdity gripped him.

If what he pursues with all his might is so vulnerable in the face of true power, then what is the meaning of his existence?
When Bruce opened his eyes again, he looked at his muddy hands and the messy ground around him.

Tractor track tracks, deep pits trodden by mud giants.

Pure oppression.

The power of irrationality.

There's nothing fancy about it; it's all aimed at you, to crush you.

The moves he used to practice on sandbags and dummies in the basement of Wayne Manor, those self-righteous 'combat skills,' were utterly useless in the face of this most primitive and savage power.

Crush...

The teacher was shattering my naive imagination about 'power' and 'fighting' in the most direct way.

His chaotic thoughts began to settle, and his grievances were replaced by a cold clarity.

Gotham...

He remembered the alley where his parents lay in a pool of blood.
That kind of evil never listens to reason, never gives you time to prepare.
It's like the fist of this mud giant, abrupt, fierce, and with a destructive malice, slapped directly in your face.

The enemy will not show mercy just because you are unprepared.

Think about the darkness of Gotham; it's far deeper and more unscrupulous than this training ground.

He needs to prepare in advance, take precautions, and guard against any possible 'evil'.
any
A surprise inspection of him.

Yes
A thought flashed through Bruce's mind.

The teacher was conveying that kind of 'unfounded, pure malice'.
Manifest it in a way that he can bear, forcing him to see, feel, and endure until he adapts, so that he will not be defeated in the future.

Supporting his almost broken body, Bruce sat up from the mud.

The pain in his arm made him gasp, but he didn't lie back down.

If Gotham itself is a quagmire tainted by 'pure evil,' a place that even light cannot completely purify...

If law and order are already riddled with holes there, and there's no way to salvage the situation...

So perhaps...

We must confront, counterbalance, and even expel that kind of 'pure evil'.
It requires someone who understands it, can immerse themselves in it, and can also master it...

Rise above all evil people.
Born of darkness, yet steadfastly upholding the light…

Looking in the direction where Locke disappeared, two words became clear in Bruce's mind.

—The necessary evil, the Dark Knight.
-
In the afternoon, the sun is just right.

I noticed the young man with obvious abrasions and bruises on his bare arms and listened to him talk about his insights from the morning's training.

"Did I run you over with my tractor this morning?"

Locke wanted to say those words, but they stuck in his throat and lingered for a long time before he could utter them.

Can he say he regrets it?
I should have come and taken a look this morning, otherwise I wouldn't have missed the battle between Fengyuan and the jeep.

Is this really the time to be thinking about this?!
Looking at the young man's miserable appearance, Locke paused for a moment and remained silent for a while.

"Bruce..."

Meeting Bruce's ardent gaze, he called out his name and said carefully:
"Would you like to take a hot shower first? Would you like something to eat?"

"There's an apple pie baked this morning in the kitchen, or... I can make you some hot soup?"

"?"

Seeing the teacher's slightly uneasy gaze, avoiding his burning stare, and hearing his almost gentle, tentative inquiry...
Bruce's taut jawline only made him look more angular!

He took a deep breath and bowed.
"Teacher! Please continue to guide me at the same intensity as this morning! Don't test me!"
-
P.S.: There will be 2 more chapters this morning.
One more chapter, plus an extra chapter.

P.S.: The concepts of Hell and demons in DC Comics, as well as the Sparda twins from Devil May Cry, are listed in the works-related section. You can check them out if you're interested.

(End of this chapter)