American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 276 Gotham Explodes! A Hell of Utter Chaos!

Black Mask is dead.

The news swept through every dark corner of the city on Christmas Eve with the speed of a nuclear explosion.

“He… is dead!”

"He died in the final battle with the Falcone family! His head was smashed to pieces!"

What began as incredulous whispers quickly escalated into an uncontrollable uproar and frenzy.

Underground radio stations, encrypted channels, street thugs...

All information nodes were frantically transmitting, repeating, and amplifying this earth-shattering news.

That monster wearing a black mask, dragging Gotham into a new hell with madness and cruelty, that seemingly invincible 'Masked Company'.
He... just died like that?!
An almost suffocating silence enveloped the underworld, a bewilderment born of utter shock.

But this silence couldn't last even a second.

What followed was a frenzy ignited by more primal desires and fears!
With Black Mask dead, the 'Masked Company' he maintained through his personal charisma and reign of terror was gone.

That black fortress, a fusion of terror and personality cult, ceased to be a fortress the moment its head was blown apart; it became a massive, still convulsing corpse.

It has lost its only absolute core.

Those madmen, ambitious individuals, and outlaws, all wearing various masks and forcibly mixed together, immediately revealed their true nature.

In their struggle for leadership, high-ranking officials began to suspect and blame each other almost instantly upon learning the news, and some even drew their guns on each other.

The lower and middle-level members were at a loss. Some wanted to avenge their "master," while others began to plunder the gang's treasury and supplies. Some even went so far as to tear off their masks, take weapons and intelligence, and try to join a new force or simply start their own gang.

Meanwhile, the other predators in Gotham, who had long been itching to act...
Those hyenas, sharks, and vipers who tremble between the two giants, Falcone and Black Mask, or who, like Copport, secretly lurk.
We've finally got this golden opportunity!
They smelled the strongest, sweetest scent of blood.

Pairs of reddened eyes suddenly lit up in their respective dark lairs, and then they poured out in droves!

Fight for it!

A frenzied battle!
The vast territory left behind by the Mask Company, the contraband network it controls, the protection money routes, the smuggling channels...

Every inch of land and every business line has become an unclaimed piece of fat in everyone's eyes!
Gunfire erupted in every district of the city. It was no longer the back-and-forth battle between the two camps, but a complete and utter melee with no rules or objectives!
A gang had just seized a street from the remnants of the Masked Company, and before they could even open the bottles of celebratory wine, another group stabbed them in the heart from behind.

Two families fought a bloody battle for control of a casino, leaving corpses strewn across the neon-lit entrance and staining the cold steps crimson.

Fighting was no longer confined to the night; in broad daylight, the streets became battlefields.

Burning car wrecks became new roadblocks, shop windows were shattered, and a dazzling array of goods were scattered all over the ground.

Gotham, a city already riddled with problems, has fallen into a situation far beyond what anyone could imagine.
Even the king's imagination deep within the Iceberg Club!
order?

rule?

camp?

All these concepts were shattered in the face of absolute chaos.

Everyone is fighting for themselves, for insignificant immediate gains, or simply to survive tomorrow.

The Falcone family was also caught off guard by this sudden and all-encompassing chaos.

Before they could even savor the victory of killing Black Mask, they found themselves caught in a chaotic barrage of attacks from all directions.

This is no longer a war that can be controlled.

This is a sweeping... apocalyptic carnival.

No one can remain unaffected, and no one can be the sole winner.
?
"Oh ho ho ho ho ho!"

A burst of somewhat manic laughter shattered the tranquility of the Iceberg Club's rooftop observation deck.

Oswald Copperfield, the penguin, was walking in with a light, almost dancing gait that seemed disproportionate to his size.

His fat face glowed with excitement, and his small eyes gleamed with an almost greedy ecstasy.

He wasn't even holding his usual cane; instead, he was waving a freshly printed financial statement around like a conductor's baton.

"Look! Look who's here! Our great 'King' His Majesty!"

Copperfield's voice trembled with excitement, and he even gave an exaggerated and awkward bow to Dio, who was standing quietly in front of the huge French window with his back to him.

Dior did not turn around.

His red eyes seemed to see the flickering flames of the city outside the window.

Copport showed no displeasure at Dior's complete disregard.

He strode to the center of the room, held the report high, and slammed it down, making the paper rustle.

“My King! Can you see it? Can you hear it? Can you feel it?! Outside! The whole of Gotham! Is burning! Is burning for Oswald Copport’s feast of riches!”

He took a deep, blissful breath.

It was as if the air was filled not with the smoke of gunpowder, but with the scent of banknote ink.

"Look at these numbers! This beautiful curve!"

He waved the report around and began to recite, in a strange tone, sentences he had somehow dug up from some classic novel.

"This golden torrent did not originate from the blessings of the stars."
Rather, it originated from the strings of war that I plucked with my fingertips!

Look at those ignorant masses fighting amongst themselves below the stage.

And I, only I! am the sole director of this grand drama and… the ultimate beneficiary audience!

After he finished reciting, he turned his smug gaze to Dio's motionless back, his eyes filled with anticipation.

He was waiting for the other person's reaction, even if it was just a hint of annoyance at his boasting.

He needs it so badly.

He needs to prove his worth and...victory in front of this king who has always been superior to him.

"Arms! My arms are being snapped up like candy! Prices? Hahaha, now I call the shots! Those bloodthirsty fools are willing to part with their last penny for an extra magazine of bullets! Falcone? The remnants of the Black Mask? Those nameless fry? They're all working for me now! Using my bullets, they consume each other's lives, and then obediently send their hard-earned money into my treasury!"

He opened his arms wide, as if embracing the entire burning Gotham:
"Chaos? Oh yes, my dear king, chaos is terrible."

"But for truly intelligent people, chaos... is a ladder!"

"It is the fastest ladder to the pinnacle of power and wealth!"

“And now, I, Oswald Copport, stand at the top of these steps!”

He stared at Dior's still composed back, his tone carrying a hint of barely suppressed smugness:

“Tell me, my esteemed King, my noble partner! I am Oswald Copport!”

"In this catastrophe for everyone... am I the only winner?! Am I?!"

After a long silence.

"Aren't you feeling pretty smug, Oswald?"

Dior finally spoke, his voice as calm as an undercurrent beneath the ice.

The reaction was like a bowl of fine shaved ice, silently poured over Copport's boiling smugness.

Copport's exaggerated smile froze for a moment.

Dio slowly turned around, his red eyes, like two cold flames in the dim light of the room, falling on Copport's slightly trembling, fat face.

"Since you've made so much money..."

His tone remained calm as he said, "Then this year, let's add ten percent to your 'venue management fee' and 'security deposit' on top of the existing amount."

Copport's lips twitched.

This was a sudden awakening from the frenzy of exorbitant profits in the arms industry, like waking up to find oneself standing on the edge of a cliff.

He got so carried away that he ran to this protector to brag about how much gold he had picked up, forgetting who granted him the mining rights to most of the gold mines, and even the 'safe zone' he was standing on.

but……

So what?

A sly glint flashed in Copeport's small eyes.

He quickly adjusted his expression, showing no displeasure at being manipulated. Instead, he shrugged and shouted in an even more exaggerated, even slightly mocking tone:
"Ten points? My dear king, you are insulting this feast! You are insulting my ability to make money, Oswald Copport!" He pounded his chest with a dull thud. "Fifteen points!"

"It's settled then! Hahahaha!"

He burst into an even louder, more deliberate laugh.

It was as if he was trying to cover up his earlier lapse in composure by increasing the amount of tribute he was offering.

And he tried to regain a little bit of the initiative in the conversation—look, I wasn't forced to pay, I gave it to him voluntarily!
After laughing, he didn't linger, as if afraid that Dio would make any more demanding demands. He quickly waved his hand, turned around, and walked towards the door with Lark.

Seeing this, Lark bowed slightly and then followed Copport and turned to leave.

The observation deck was quiet again.

Dior stood still.

Faintly, one could still hear his reprimanding voice, growing fainter as he walked away in the hallway outside, yet still maintaining his imposing manner:

"Lark! Raise your head! Remember! We and His Majesty the King are... equal partners!"

"You shouldn't bow to him! It makes us look subservient!"

"."

Dior snorted coldly, ignoring the tactless man's meaning.

He turned his gaze back to the window, to the night sky that was about to be tainted by fire and smoke.

He had to admit he'd anticipated the chaos, but the scene before him was a picture of hell.
This situation has completely detached itself from the chessboard and has become nothing more than a frantic battle.
For the first time, an unexpected seriousness appeared on his usually confident face.

Black Mask is dead.
He made his death quick and clean.
The fire that remained burned too brightly and too wildly.
It no longer follows any logic or rules, becoming purely an outlet for desire and violence, which severely impacts the order system he was about to meticulously construct, centered around the 'iceberg'.

"Bang bang bang!"

A crisp knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Enter."

Dior spoke instinctively, his tone tinged with impatience.

Without even turning around, he continued, "Rocoman, what bad news is it now?"

However.
The response he received was not Roccoman's calm and respectful male voice.

A soft female voice, tinged with a hint of timidity yet striving to maintain composure, faintly sounded from the doorway:

"Diego, it's me."

Dior paused slightly, then turned around.

Standing in the light and shadow at the entrance was Elana Falcone.

This former heiress of the Falcone family has now been spun out of the family quagmire by him under the guise of 'faking her death,' and secretly placed on the top layer of the iceberg. Nominally, she serves as his secretary, but in reality, she is more like a canary carefully kept in a golden cage.

She was dressed in a well-fitting business suit that accentuated her beautiful figure, but a trace of paleness remained on her face, and her beautiful eyes couldn't completely conceal her unease.

This still reveals her current thoughts.

Elana held a tray with a steaming cup of black coffee on it, just the kind of coffee Dior was used to.

You look...very tired.

Elana said softly as she stepped carefully onto the soft floor.

"I just... brewed a cup without permission."

Dior looked at her and the cup of coffee, the seriousness in his red eyes fading slightly.

He didn't reprimand her for intruding, but simply asked, "Where's Rocman?"

“Mr. Rochman… is still down there dealing with the influx of intelligence from all sides. He said… the situation is very chaotic and needs time to sort things out.”

Elana answered honestly, her hands clasped nervously in front of her.

Dior nodded, his gaze returning to her, the scrutinizing look causing Elana to involuntarily lower her eyes.

"So, you didn't come to me just to deliver a cup of coffee, did you, Elana?"

Elana nodded and took a deep breath.

After mustering her courage, she finally met Dior's gaze:

"I...I heard some news about the current situation of the family..." Her voice trembled slightly, but she quickly suppressed it, "Is it really that chaotic outside?"

"How is Alberto?"

Seeing the genuine expectation in Elana's eyes, Dio did not answer immediately.

He simply picked up the cup of coffee, took a sip, and let the bitter liquid slide down his throat.

He then put down the cup and looked at Elana's pale face.

“The situation outside is indeed chaotic, but it’s still under control. You don’t need to worry about it, Elana.” He even slightly curled the corners of his mouth, trying to make a reassuring expression, but to Elana it seemed particularly distant and perfunctory. “As for Alberto…”

“He is safe. I promised to keep him safe. He is not currently in the heart of the conflict zone. You can stay here without worry. I will handle everything.”

The light in Elana's eyes dimmed; she didn't want this kind of comfort that felt like she was being treated like a child.

She longed for more concrete information, for a genuine sense of concern, even...

It's something more. Something that can bring her a sliver of warmth in this cold cage.

But Dior's high wall of reason and calculation gently blocked all her expectations.

She lowered her head, her long eyelashes concealing the disappointment in her eyes. In the end, she only sighed softly and replied gently, "...I understand, Diego."

She turned around, a hint of indescribable loneliness in her eyes, and silently left the observation hall, her figure appearing particularly frail in the light and shadow at the entrance.

Dior gazed thoughtfully in the direction she had gone.

He wasn't entirely oblivious to the canary's thoughts, but in the face of the larger chessboard of Gotham, personal emotions seemed so insignificant, and might even become a weakness.

"Jingle Bell--!"

The phone on the table rang urgently, breaking the silence in the room.

When he answered the phone, James Gordon's familiar voice immediately came through, still omitting the most basic pleasantries:
"Dio! Black Mask is dead!"

Dio didn't even flinch, his tone flat as he said, "It's common knowledge, Sheriff. You called just to repeat what was broadcast?"

"No! I mean..."

Gordon's voice suddenly rose, filled with disbelief, "Black Mask is fucking dead!"

"His body! We found it! In the ruins not far from the scene!"

Dio's lips twitched slightly, and he was about to question whether this was just another of Black Mask's clever escape tactics.
Gordon didn't give him a chance to interrupt, continuing at an extremely fast pace:

"His head was blown to pieces, and his body was burned beyond recognition, unrecognizable..."

"But if the first time was the case that someone in higher up tampered with the report, altering it!"

But this time…

"Dior!"

“We conducted the most detailed DNA comparison and cross-checking of dental records! From sealing off the crime scene to sending the samples to the forensic office, and finally to the release of the test report, I personally oversaw the entire process!”

“I watched them check and confirmed it! He… he is exactly the Richard Theonis we suspected, the one who was supposed to have died in an accident!”

"..."

Dior remained silent.

All the surrounding sounds seemed to fade away in an instant, and Gordon's rapid breathing on the other end of the phone became indistinct.

Black Mask is dead...

He initially didn't believe the news at all, convinced it was just another self-directed and self-acted escape stunt.

but……

Richard Theonis?
This man, whom they had previously speculated was most likely the former CEO of Janus Company who faked his death and then disguised himself as the man in black to stir up trouble…

His body has now been confirmed to be Black Mask?
What does this mean?
This means there are only two possibilities now.
Richard Theonise's Black Mask is truly dead.

He was either physically erased by himself or by some unknown enemy.

The second type
Dior's expression grew increasingly cold in the flickering firelight outside the window.

Black mask...

What exactly does he want to do?
He completely erased himself, and the identity of the Black Mask, from the chessboard.

then…

In the darkness when everyone thought he was out of the game, what was he planning?
(End of this chapter)