American comics: Praising the sun, starting from Gotham!

When the bubble of dimensions bursts, the weight of reality presses back down.

Xiu En's first reaction upon landing was to gag.

"This is absolutely the worst delivery experience I've ever had."

Xiu En patted his chest.

"Next time, even if I have to swim back by myself, I will refuse to ride on Miss Zatana's coattails."

On the sofa to the side, the great magician was slumped over in a ball, completely losing his composure, and the top hat that was always kept perfectly straight was now squashed at one corner.

"Shut up... Tin Man, I only accept French cuisine as compensation for emotional distress, otherwise I'll turn you all into rabbits."

The hall door was pushed open, and Alfred walked in carrying a silver tray that seemed to be perpetually kept at the perfect temperature, a perfect smile on his face.

"Welcome back. It seems everyone's fashion sense has undergone a unique transformation this time."

The old butler's gaze swept over the restrained yet still evident metallic sheen on Xiu En's body, as well as the unfamiliar wear and tear on Bruce's armor. There wasn't much surprise in his eyes, only the relief of seeing a naughty child finally come home for dinner.

But behind Afu, there was a one-eyed man with his arms crossed, leaning against the shadows, which made Xiu En's relaxed nerves tense up slightly.

Or rather, I got a little excited.

Orange and black tactical armor, a half-mask, and two longswords that reeked of blood even when sheathed.

Death Knell, Slade Wilson.

A legend in the mercenary world, the kind who charges the highest price.

"Does it seem I'm late, or that I've arrived at the perfect time?"

Deathstroke looked at Xiu En up and down with great interest using his only eye.

"Mr. Pennyworth said the bats might be lost in some kind of magical trick, and besides Zatana, I'm option B."

Bruce took off his helmet, revealing a slightly tired but still in control face. After all, if it were Alfred, this would make perfect sense.

"Afu?"

"Considering that you and Young Master Xiu En have been out of contact for more than 168 hours, sir."

Alfred was pouring tea.

"To avoid having to dig the graves myself when I go to collect their bodies, I think it's necessary to hire a professional to assist with the search or... cleanup."

"Of course, it seems to be intact now."

Deathstroke shrugged and pointed to a tablet computer lying to the side, which displayed a complex analysis of magical fluctuations.

This is indeed evidence that he was working.

"However, according to the contract, even if the target appears automatically, the intelligence fees and lost work fees incurred during the search process must still be paid, Mr. Wayne."

Shuen had already moved closer to Deathstroke and even somewhat rudely tapped the carbon armor on the other's shoulder with his knuckles.

"The workmanship is good, even more pleasing to the eye than the clown's gaudy purple suit."

He silently estimated in his mind how much this outfit was worth, or whether he could patch up the extra metal patch on his body that he didn't know where it came from and change his look.

"I don't recommend you try to take my gear, kid."

Deathstroke's hand hung naturally near the hilt of his sword, an instinct of a tactical mastermind.

"Although I don't take on jobs that lose money, if the price is right, it's not out of the question to give you a comprehensive physical strength test."

"Then I need to see your warranty card first."

Xiu En grinned.

"By the way, was your eye also stolen by that unscrupulous vendor in the system? If so, you might need to apply for workers' compensation."

Bruce rubbed his temples, feeling a bit of a headache. What was this feeling of escaping one danger only to fall into another?

Fortunately, this is his home turf.

"Send the bill to Wayne Enterprises, Slade."

Bruce glanced at Deathstroke.

"Also, forget everything you saw here, especially the part about Shuen."

"As long as the money is there, I'll be blind."

Death Knell shrugged.

"Except for the one that's already blind."

Zatana rolled over on the sofa, uttering a dreamlike complaint: "Could someone please start running the water in my bathroom first... I want to add rose essential oil!"

Afu pressed the red button on the center console. Before the long string of zeros from the Deathly Bell's transfer notification had even finished, the huge main screen pulled everyone back to reality before they could even catch their breath.

The screen was divided into more than a dozen sections, each of which was screaming, exploding, and burning.

Countless psychopaths dressed in green question mark bodysuits are recklessly ramming the doors of the Gotham City Police Department like a tidal wave, carrying explosives powerful enough to blow up half a block.

"Edward Nigma".

Bruce squinted at the thin figure standing on top of a police car, loudly reciting riddles, in the center of the screen.

"He thought I was dead?"

"Or perhaps he misses you too much, sir."

Afu took away the tray of cooled black tea and replaced it with a pot of highly effective energizing drink.

"After all, for Mr. Riddler, if you don't come and solve his riddles, it's like God forgetting to add a signature to the new day, so he decided to destroy this stage without an audience."

"But there's an even more interesting variable here."

Shuen pointed to the bottom left corner of the screen, where a group of men wearing old-fashioned double-breasted trench coats and wielding Thompson submachine guns were riddling several of the Riddler's henchmen who were trying to throw Molotov cocktails.

They were like a group of unpaid private security guards, firmly holding the flank of the police station.

The old man leading the group held a cane, the rubies inlaid on it reflecting a cold light in the firelight.

"The Romans."

Deathstroke did not show much surprise.

"Carmine Falcone. It seems the prison food doesn't suit his taste."

"He escaped from prison when the Riddlers attacked the city and brought together the scattered gangs."

Afu pulled up a map of underground forces, where the previously fragmented color blocks were being rapidly swallowed up by the deep red representing the Falcone family.

"In his words, now that the meddlesome, tight-fitting pervert is gone, someone has to come out and teach these arrogant new-generation lunatics what rules are."

"So this is what happened during the week I was away?"

Bruce watched as the mob boss handed bullets to Gordon on the screen, and the Riddler on the other side went on a crazy blasting of buildings, but no one cared about the answer. His temples throbbed.

A hint of amusement flashed in Deathstroke's eyes.

"If you intend to continue being like the dead who haven't returned yet, I'd be happy to take on Falcone's job and clean house for him. Of course, I'll also consider it if the Riddler offers a higher price."

Hugh crunched on a piece of some unidentified metallic residue he'd pried from a tire seam of the Batmobile, mumbling his assessment: "I like the one in the green shirt. He seems like a lot of talkers. If you grabbed him and locked him in a box, he'd be a noise generator that never needs a battery change. As for that old man… the rotten smell he gave off reminded me of canned food that'd expired half a century ago."

He straightened up, feeling full of energy from the five years he had just been granted.

"so?"

Shuen turned his gaze to Bruce.

"Should I go and gag that green-skinned guy?"

Bruce took a deep breath, put on his helmet, and his voice returned to that processed, low growl.

"No, Xiu En, let me do it."