Thomas Wayne.
Bruce Wayne's father, Martha Wayne's husband.
He was the former head of the wealthy Wayne family in Gotham, the former CEO of Wayne Enterprises, a former combat medic, and the "King of Gotham"—that unlucky fellow who was murdered alongside his wife in Crime Alley when Bruce was eight years old.
In the year Bruce was eight, the family went to see a Zorro movie. After walking out of the theater into Crime Alley, they encountered an ordinary thug—Joe Chill.
Thus, an impulsive robbery.
Two bullets.
Ended the lives of the Waynes, the bright rulers of Gotham. It was the death of Thomas and his wife that set their son, Bruce Wayne, onto the path of the Dark Knight.
To become Gotham's Batman.
This is considered a relatively constant event in the DC Universe, to the extent that in most parallel universes, Thomas Wayne must die. Of course, there are special universes where Thomas Wayne did not die. In the Flashpoint world and other worlds where Bruce Wayne died, he shouldered the responsibility of the Gotham vigilante and became Batman.
Because of this, saying he is the true "Old Bat" is also a correct statement. Compared to Bruce, Thomas is more violent and extreme, favors the use of handguns, and doesn't care in the slightest about the life or death of criminals. Of course, he is not a great Dark Knight like his son, but a Vengeful Knight filled with rage and hatred.
This point is evident from the fact that Old Wayne was able to struggle and become a King of Hell in this place despite having a mortal soul; his methods have far fewer bottom lines than Bruce Wayne's.
"Thomas! Thomas Wayne!"
Ian could naturally recognize the King of Hell in front of him at a glance. After all, every student visits the history museum in elementary school, and the story of how the murder of Bruce Wayne's father caused Gotham's leadership to change has even appeared in high school history textbooks.
The photos in them are very clear, and the textbook writers are extremely flattering toward this capitalist.
One look and you can tell they received plenty of money from Master Wayne... Every educated person knows this father of Bruce Wayne, but who could have imagined the master of this city would be Thomas Wayne?
At least Ian hadn't expected it.
The appearance of Thomas Wayne left Ian quite astonished.
This former head of the Wayne family, who was supposed to be lying in a grave, was currently sitting on a throne atop a high tower, watching Ian—who had entered Hell from the human world—with a smile.
It was as if he had long anticipated Ian's arrival.
"It is I. Perhaps you should call me..."
Thomas Wayne was just about to say something.
"Brother Thomas! I've talked about you with Sister Martha!" Ian directly snatched the conversation. Through his own efforts, he forcefully nudged his seniority upward.
This was strength.
It was also the truth.
How could Ian not have seen his Sister Martha in Heaven?
He had seen her!
By now, Ian had finished digesting the information of encountering Batman's father in Hell.
A capitalist like Old Wayne appearing in Hell wasn't actually anything to make a fuss about; after all, the final destination for almost all capitalists is this place.
Of course.
This isn't to say Thomas Wayne is a completely bad person.
He belongs to the category of bad people who aren't that bad.
He also possesses many good qualities.
"..."
Thomas Wayne was very familiar with this kind of look on Ian's face. He had seen countless people try to claim a connection with him both before and after death, but this was the first time he had seen one with such a pure purpose.
The other party wasn't after his money, nor his power in Hell—yes, Thomas Wayne was very smart; he could see that Ian simply wanted to take advantage of Young Master Wayne. This intention was pure and burning, and it could be seen very clearly within those eyes filled with desire.
A little boy who would be fifteen in just a few days.
Truly has a heart that wants to make Batman call him "Uncle"!
"Brother Thomas! I'm so happy to see you!" Ian felt his little scheme wasn't excessive; on the contrary, it was very reasonable. After all, he had called Batman "Uncle" for fourteen years and several hundred days.
Now, it was naturally time to let Batman call him "Uncle" for fourteen years! He had felt a bit surprised to see Thomas earlier, but now Ian felt this might be considered within reason.
Everything was God wanting Batman to call him Uncle! If not, why would Ian be here? Since this was God's will, Ian naturally didn't dare to violate it!
"..."
Thomas Wayne sensed Ian's emotions.
He fell into silence once more.
"This city is really beautiful!"
Ian had already learned to change the subject himself. He walked to the railing and looked down. Steve Jobs was still hawking the transparent iPhone 22 with many, many screens.
That phone could open up like a fan.
22-fold.
The aesthetics and appearance were both decent; Ian wanted to take one back when he left.
"I spent many years of effort to build it, and through it, I gained power comparable to many Demon Lords." Thomas Wayne also took great pride in his New Gotham.
A Hell where people could live and work in peace.
This was what Thomas Wayne had once wanted to turn Gotham into.
During his tenure, he provided a massive amount of aid to the many poor people of Gotham. It wasn't just a show; he truly helped the citizens, and there was no need to ask why the citizens were so impoverished.
The relationship between the poverty of the citizens and the Capitalist King was at most thirty percent. The remaining seventy percent was mostly due to Gotham's special status in the DC Universe.
At least Thomas Wayne's help for the poor wasn't just for tax deductions. Many of the policies Bruce uses to help the poor were also inherited from him, except both father and son were powerless against the corruption rooted in the city's bones. The DC Universe needs a chaotic Gotham; that is an absolute that no one can influence.
Many people only know Bruce Wayne and thus overlook Thomas Wayne's abilities; he is actually an existence with great capability and extraordinary wisdom. If one were to truly consider who has the skill and mind to build such a magnificent and harmonious city in Hell, then Thomas Wayne, this "King," is definitely a logical candidate.
Ian was also gradually digesting this information.
"It seems you and Crowley are similar—both are mortal souls who became post-natal demons." Ian could also sense that this city was the source of Thomas's power.
"Demons? I have something I want to talk to you about, and it involves me not wanting to be a King of Hell... Have a seat here." After giving Ian a deep look, Thomas led him into a luxurious office behind the tower. He pointed to the leather sofa opposite him, his tone indeed as gentle as if he were hosting an old friend.
Ian made sure to remember this point, especially the feeling of being "old friends." He needed to highlight this as a key point; this would be his confidence for communicating with Bruce Wayne using the truth in the future.
"The sofas here actually have seat heating?" Ian was like a country bumpkin entering a grand garden, curiously plopping down. He felt a comfort different from the sofas in the human world.
"Yes. For a sofa like this, you only need to seal a small imp inside, and it will even give you a massage within the seat." It was hard to tell if Thomas Wayne was joking.
He turned toward a wine cabinet even more extravagant than the one in Obadiah Stane's office in Marvel. At this moment, Ian truly felt the sensation of something inside the sofa giving him a massage beneath his butt.
"Not bad."
Ian's gaze turned toward the wine cabinet. It actually contained wines only found in the human world. One look and you could tell they were genuine smuggled goods; he didn't know if Commissioner Crowley had played a key role in this.
"What would you like to drink?" Thomas was pouring wine for himself. The cabinet contained Romanée-Conti, but most of it was Hell's finest vintage, as bright red as blood.
"Wine. Fine wine."
Ian answered without hesitation.
Thomas Wayne looked back at him.
"Children can't drink alcohol." Thomas Wayne didn't expect that after staying in Hell for so long, he would still retain some humanity, adhering to the rules a human elder should have.
This made Ian feel a bit uncomfortable.
"Are you telling a hell joke? I'm already in Hell. Of course I'm going to be a bad boy who drinks in secret, otherwise, people outside might think I don't deserve to wander in Hell."
Ian knew his mom couldn't chase him into Hell to smell if there was alcohol on his breath, and his dad's nose hadn't evolved to the point of smelling him drinking across dimensions just yet.
This was a rare opportunity to taste the forbidden, so Ian didn't want to let it go.
"You actually think you're just a bad boy." Thomas fell silent for a moment, but finally gave a light hand signal. A nearby Duke of Hell immediately brought over a glass of peach fruit wine.
He was like a new butler Old Wayne had found. With one look from Old Wayne, the Duke of Hell knew what he should do. The fruit wine this Duke of Hell gave Ian was still very low in alcohol content.
Ian took the wine glass and pulled a straw from his all-encompassing pants pocket. First, with a "germaphobic" touch, he wiped it on his clothes, and then placed the straw into the wine glass.
"Gurgle, gurgle~"
Ian took a light sip with the straw, his cheeks puffing out and falling back as if he were tasting fruit juice. The pink liquid swayed slightly in the crystalline glass.
Continuously decreasing.
Emitting a sweet, cloying aroma. Ian's cheeks puffed and fell with a regular rhythm, like a hamster stealing fruit juice, emptying the entire glass at a speed visible to the naked eye.
"Another one!"
Ian heroically slammed the empty glass onto the table. The Monkey King stole peaches in Heaven; Ian stole peach wine in Hell. Ian felt he was more or less a "Great Sage."
"Quite the glutton."
Thomas raised an eyebrow slightly, signaling with his eyes for the Duke of Hell to continue pouring. However, this time Ian directly snatched the wine bottle, stuck the straw in, and bowed his head to start drinking vigorously again.
"Er..."
The Duke of Hell had good professional standards, so he didn't let out a helpless sigh until he had walked out of the office. The sound was so soft it wasn't caught even by Ian's super hearing.
He continued to wait outside, ready to respond to Old Wayne at any time.
"Tastes good." Ian quite liked the taste of this wine. Who doesn't love peaches? From peaches that cost few bucks to "peaches" that cost few hundred a night.
Everyone likes them very much.
The atmosphere in the office was harmonious. In the quiet tower, there was only the "gurgle-gurgle" sound of Ian sucking wine and the sound of Thomas gently swirling his red wine glass.
"I'm very interested in the 'Indulgences' you've been declaring everywhere." Thomas finally spoke, his voice low and magnetic. He clearly had his own eyes and ears in the upper layers of Hell.
"Really?"
Ian held the straw in his mouth.
He responded inarticulately.
"I am willing to use everything I've built in Hell to exchange for your Indulgences." Thomas looked directly at Ian, his gaze deep, his tone carrying an unprecedented sincerity.
He didn't want to be a King of Hell in Hell.
"This place is too far from the human world. I definitely won't come often, so I actually want the Wayne family's industries in the human world—that is, a tiny bit of shares in the Wayne Group."
"I haven't been greedy since I was a kid, so I really only need a tiny bit. To lie back and collect money, and then use that money to support my enterprises so they can have faster and better development."
This sentence of Ian's was the truth.
Dirty and exhausting work should still be done by big capitalists.
He only needed to be the pure white lotus who quietly divided the money.
Because he had grown several days older, Ian actually no longer fixated on the Wayne family's wealth. His heart and mind were entirely set on tinkering with his "Ian is Greatest Technology Group."
That was the future of America, the Earth, the Solar system, and the entire DC Universe!
"Sorry, I can't make any decisions for Bruce. He is the master of the Wayne Group now." Thomas pondered for a moment and slowly shook his head in refusal.
However, this refusal was not grasped by Ian.
"I get it, I get it."
Ian nodded, a crafty look in his eyes. Unlike most high-intelligence groups, Ian could always hear the hidden meanings in others' words, even understanding what they wanted to express a step ahead of them. See, before Thomas could even react to his attitude problem, Ian had already pulled from his extra dimension—a whip and candles.
"??????"
The look in Thomas Wayne's eyes was more confused than ever before.
"What are you doing?"
He swallowed his saliva.
He displayed a forced-calm expression of bewilderment.
"Let's test Young Master Wayne's filial piety. We'll make some fake news; the headline will be: *Shocking! Founder of Wayne Group Captured and Extracted by Queen of Hell in Hell!*"
Ian waved the whip eagerly. After his intelligence improved, his thinking speed became active again, so this idea was quickly replaced directly by another one.
"No! For fake news, I'd have to write other sections of a Hell newspaper. I don't have the time to learn about Hell's daily life. Let's just film a movie directly!"
"Western style, Island style, Korean style... anything works!" The more Ian spoke, the more excited he got. From those short videos he posted on the internet, it wasn't hard to see he had the heart to be a Great Director of the Three Realms.
"??????!!!!" Thomas Wayne heard Ian's terms. This King of Capital who ruled a portion of Hell fell into a long silence.
He finally realized one problem—a character who could make his son create over eighty thousand response documents in a short period indeed possessed his own extremely unique danger.
"Let's film a movie! Believe me! I've filmed *Justice League: Assemble* and *The Death of Stocking Superman*. I already have very rich filming experience."
The youth enthusiastically emphasized his proposal to the King of Hell, Thomas, showcasing his super wisdom. He was firmly convinced that Bruce Wayne was surely a filial son.
"Please allow me to choose to refuse!"
Thomas Wayne's expression changed several times in succession. Finally, his logic overcame his desire to leave Hell. When he spoke, he still maintained his aristocratic etiquette.
This response was very decisive.
However.
...
Cold, shaking.
Thomas Wayne scrambled up from the ground, his head aching as if it were splitting open. His suit was covered in dust, his tie hung loosely around his neck, and his leather shoes were stained with some kind of viscous black liquid.
His consciousness wasn't fully awake yet, but his body was already enveloped by a certain formless chill.
"Where is this place? I remember I was killed." Thomas Wayne rubbed his eyes. Before him was a gloomy wasteland, the sky hanging low like a curtain that would never clear. The air was filled with the scent of sulfur and rot. In the distance came the wails of souls and the sound of dragging chains.
He looked down at himself.
The suit on his body was still neat, but the texture had become thin and light, like some kind of gauzy phantom fabric. This former King of Gotham's hands began to tremble slightly.
Not out of fear.
But because of the loss of control over his life that power brings.
He felt a sense of powerlessness he had never experienced before.
"You... are the one with the best quality and the best ass among this batch of souls to arrive in Hell." A raspy voice came from the darkness, carrying a cackle that didn't belong to a human.
"Who's there?"
Thomas looked around warily.
On a chair in the corner—which no one knew why was growing so abruptly in the wasteland—he saw a hunchbacked hell-imp wiping a Desert Eagle handgun. Its skin was like charred bark, its eyes were two glowing embers, and its mouth was split to its ears, revealing jagged fangs.
"Where is this place?"
Thomas asked in a low voice. His voice was steady, but his knuckles were already slightly white.
"You're in Hell." The imp grinned maliciously, casually tossing the handgun aside. Who knows why it was wiping a handgun just now when the handgun clearly looked useless.
"This is the end of all capitalists' lives. You will be punished here for all eternity." The imp licked its lips, as if it very much enjoyed seeing others in a state of panic.
Thomas's pupils contracted slightly.
"Impossible..."
He muttered to himself, his voice filled with the despair of being unwilling to believe this fact. "I still have children, a wife, and a city to look after..." Thomas's movements paused slightly, and then, as if he had realized something, a panicked expression appeared on his face.
"Am I really dead?"
Thomas Wayne began to pace in place anxiously.
"But my son is still so small!"
His tone was very worried.
"Tch—" The imp let out a piercing laugh and threw out a pitch-black metal collar, crudely snapping it onto Thomas's neck, causing Thomas Wayne's face to flush red instantly.
Bruised strangulation marks appeared on his neck.
"Wear this. Everything in the world of the living no longer has anything to do with you."
The imp grinned, mocking Thomas Wayne. "You're no longer some big tycoon of the human world. You're just a soul of a sinner in Hell that can be stepped on and killed in a whole patch just by taking a few steps."
The imp's words.
Caused Thomas Wayne to kneel directly on the ground, unwilling to accept it. The shackles on his neck appeared cold and heavy, as if they were constantly draining his will.
"Now, come with me."
The hell-imp dragged him fiercely.
Thomas Wayne was dragged along, the chain tightening until he couldn't breathe. He tried to break free, but the chain seemed bound to his soul; every struggle felt like it was tearing his life apart.
All these very subtle psychological activities could be seen on Thomas Wayne's face. His expression was truly rich, like the best expression management master in the world.
"Where are you taking me?"
Thomas asked through gritted teeth, his throat aching from the tightening.
"Your soul has been sold by a mysterious person—who is supreme, infinitely great, with ninety thousand layers of light, yet who temporarily hasn't thought of who else he has a grudge with in Hell—to the most wicked, terrifying, and sinister Lord Trigon. Lord Trigon wants you to participate in his Samsara Game."
"He wants to extract energy from your suffering." As it spoke, the hell-imp led Thomas toward a massive volcano. Surrounding the volcano were many "battery-like" crystals.
Many, many suffering souls appeared within them.
Their souls were being extracted.
Then, they were transported through pipes toward a far-off "soul-lit" city. The huge magma pool churned, the heat wave hitting his face, yet carrying a strange activity.
On the path up the volcano.
Countless souls were being dragged along. Among them, some were screaming, some were begging for mercy, and some were already numb, being led by chains like the walking dead.
"The air is filled with the scent of sulfur and despair." The hell-imp provided its own narration. It looked around, and Thomas Wayne also looked around at his fellow and non-fellow souls.
Countless imps were detaining countless pitiful souls and heading toward the crater. Each hell-imp had a face full of ferocity; those imps that truly didn't have faces had the word [Ferocious] carved into their visages.
All eighteen mainstream scripts were present.
This was truly a face full of ferocity—and ferocity from different nations. They cackled while waving whips and candles, constantly lashing and torturing soul after soul with candle wax.
"Move faster! Not having legs is no excuse! Even disabled ghosts have to walk faster for me!"
"You're all dead already. You've become ghosts. You've already come to Hell. Don't think about being slippery or playing tricks, because all the moves you're trying are things we finished playing with long ago!"
"A Prince? A King? Your dad is an African tribal chief who can give an order to produce a hundred thousand soldiers to avenge you? Hilarious! The powerful of the human world are nothing in our Hell!"
The imps crazily scolded those souls who weren't behaving. Especially that soul shouting that his dad was an African chief; its soul had become much thinner after being tortured by the whip and candles.
Wailing was constant.
"Hurry up!"
The hell-imp escorting Thomas Wayne was also lashing him. This former Old King of Gotham looked incredibly piteous, scrambling around on the ground in an attempt to dodge the whipping.
In the end, he could only submit, following the long queue forward. Countless souls formed long dragons, ascending the crater to be forged into those battery-like crystals.
The identities of these ghosts before death were all different, and their personalities varied. Some people shook their heads and sighed, some people wailed loudly, but there were still some hard-headed people who were in a state of shock and confusion.
"My dad is Darkseid! Even though I'm an illegitimate child, how do you dare hit me?"
"Don't hit! Don't hit!"
"Ouch~"
...
When these second-generation ghosts first entered Hell, many thought they could still return to the human world. As soon as they were lashed by the imps, they would immediately shout in anger and issue threats.
However.
After a session of the "Great Healing Technique."
These second-generation ghosts also quickly realized their situation. Having been beaten into enlightenment, they knew they were already dead and that no matter how glorious they were in life, they had now become a commodity.
Soon.
Thomas Wayne was also brought to the crater. Inside the volcano, the lava churned as if countless faces were appearing and breaking. Soul after soul was being forged into a suffering battery within.
"What are those?"
Thomas Wayne watched the souls that were being fished out continuously and then added to the "battery mountain" on the side. He was shivering, and soon his whole person collapsed to the ground as if having an epileptic seizure.
"Playing crazy won't work."
The hell-imp spoke with a "hehehe."
"If you didn't use an electric cattle prod on my ass, I don't think I'd be playing crazy." Thomas Wayne was collapsed on the ground, but he still tried his best to maintain his standards.
"Sorry, that actually wasn't an electric cattle prod." The hell-imp spoke with a hesitant tone, giving a response that made Thomas Wayne's face change drastically as he thought deeply and felt terror.
However, before Thomas Wayne could ask, he saw the hell-imp directly raise its foot and give him a kick.
Very light.
There was a very nervous feeling.
But Thomas Wayne still felt as if he had been struck by a great force, spinning thirty-six hundred degrees in the air over five thousand times before falling into the volcano's lava.
"Welcome to 'Hell Paradise.' You will begin your first round of games here." Just as the words fell, Thomas's face was also swallowed by the lava.
His outstretched hand was also quickly swallowed.
"I thought I would die, but I didn't." A voice rising from nowhere spoke, narrating the fact that Thomas had fallen into a bizarre space: [Hell Paradise].
This was an infinite cycle of land said to be built personally by Trigon. Every soul that entered would experience various rule-based anomalies, death games, and psychological torture until they collapsed.
"Hell Paradise, the Samsara Game. This is the stage where gods and demons toy with all living beings!" Thomas suddenly snapped his eyes open and found himself standing in the penthouse office of the Wayne Tower.
Outside the window was the night view of Gotham, the lights brilliant.
"Is this... a hallucination?"
[Welcome to the Rule-Based Anomaly.]
A cold voice rang in his mind.
[Rule 1: You must complete today's board meeting.]
[Rule 2: All directors are demons, but they will not admit it.]
[Rule 3: If someone hands you coffee, you must drink it.]
[Rule 4: Do not look in the mirror.]
Thomas took a deep breath and pushed open the office door.
In the board meeting room, twelve "people" in business suits turned their heads in unison to look at him. The arc of their smiles was exactly the same, and a red light flickered in their eyes.
"Thomas, we've been waiting for you for a long time."
One of the directors stood up and handed over a steaming cup of coffee. Thomas stared at the cup; inside wasn't coffee—but wriggling maggots and blood.
But he had to drink.
He took the cup and downed it in one go.
His throat felt as if it were being seared by sulfuric acid, and his stomach churned. But his expression remained unchanged; he simply wiped the corner of his mouth.
"Then, let the meeting begin."
The meeting lasted for "ten hours."
During these ten hours, the numbers on the financial reports would wriggle, crawling like living things. The skin on the directors' faces would occasionally fall off, revealing the rot beneath.
Whenever Thomas looked at the reflection in the glass window, he would see a charred version of himself staring back at him fixedly, but he also knew he couldn't show fear.
Because Rule 5 was hidden under the table.
[If you scream, the game is over.] And "game over" here meant that the true torture had only just begun; no reincarnator dared to challenge it.
Game over.
Meant undergoing a terrifying experience where, while conscious, one is dismembered and then used to assemble a physical doll; every part of the body would be insulted by different demons while simultaneously feeling it all.
Thomas knew he didn't dare to gamble. His psychological internal monologue continued to appear, finally settling on the thought: *Fortunately, I've seen many dangerous scenes already, so I can still endure this.*
Finally.
The meeting "ended."
Thomas stood up and walked toward the elevator.
The moment the elevator doors closed.
"Welcome back to Hell, sir."
The elevator plunged rapidly, falling toward the next round of games. In another cycle, Thomas found himself sitting on a speeding train. The carriage was filled with special "passengers."
They were all himself.
A young Thomas, a middle-aged Thomas, a Thomas just before death... countless "Thomases" turned their heads in unison, looking at him with hollow eyes.
[Rule for this round: Find the "only real" version of yourself, otherwise the train will travel forever.]
Thomas calmly observed every "self."
Suddenly, the train broadcast rang out.
"Welcome to the Hell Last Train. This train will head toward three stations: 'Fear,' 'Despair,' and 'Madness.' Passengers please do not disembark, otherwise you will be left in the 'Blank Space' forever."
"Next stop—Crime Alley." The train began to accelerate, the scenery outside changing rapidly—at these words, Thomas's breath hitched, his painful past recalling in his mind.
He saw Bruce, his face covered in blood, standing on the street with hollow eyes. He saw Martha, lying in a pool of blood, still holding a necklace in her hand.
He saw Gotham being swallowed by flames, the city wailing. Every frame of the imagery was like a knife stabbing into his heart, and for some reason, it just kept surfacing on his cheeks.
Finally.
In the bizarre imagery.
The train stopped.
The doors opened.
Outside was absolute nothingness.
He was pushed out.
"Daddy! Daddy! I want to drink milk~"
Outside.
A not-very-young Bruce opened a blood-red maw.
What else could Thomas do?
Sacrificing one's body to a demon was nothing more than this.
...
Thomas died time and again, and was resurrected time and again. He struggled for survival in the "Rule-Based Anomalies," bore the torture of memory on the "Death Train," was surrounded by whispers in the "Silent Library," and was forced to play out the scene of his own death in the "Crimson Theater." After every cycle, his image looked a few degrees more piteous.
Having experienced an unknown number of cycles, Thomas finally collapsed on the ground, unable to crawl up again. His soul was already tattered, and his will was on the verge of collapse.
But he still hadn't given up. He thought of Bruce, he thought of Gotham, he thought of the gunshot that night, and he spoke all his thoughts aloud with his mouth.
In the distance, a pair of eyes was watching him silently. That was Trigon, sitting on a high throne, watching coldly and then letting out a "jie-jie-jie-jie" laugh.
"Torture this person fiercely. Let his suffering increase." Trigon sat on his throne carved from countless souls, looking down at the projection of Hell Paradise. In the image, Thomas Wayne was being locked with chains to a torture rack made of flesh and bone, his limbs stretched to the limit.
Every breath felt like it was tearing his soul.
Yet his gaze remained firm.
"He has already experienced all the punishments of Hell." A nearby Duke of Hell spoke in a low voice. "Body consumed by fire, soul stripping, memory repetition, death cycles... he has endured them all."
"Is that so? What an interesting mortal."
A cruel smile curled at the corner of Trigon's mouth. Since it wasn't cruel enough, he manually stretched the corner of his mouth, making it expand significantly into something quite sinister.
"This mortal has successfully caught my interest. He actually has thirty-six abs. Interesting. Let him come see me." Finally, Trigon decided to see Thomas Wayne personally.
The chains clattered loudly. Thomas was dragged before the hall. His body was already riddled with holes and his soul tattered, but his spine remained straight and his gaze was still filled with persistence.
A cold rage settled within his grayish-blue eyes.
"Can't stand the sight of me? If you can't stand me, come hit me! I, Trigon, am just this malicious!"
Trigon sat on the throne, his six arms respectively hugging several enchanting demon ladies. He was like a fallen King Zhou, one in each arm, looking down at this mortal soul.
"I cannot defeat you, but my son can."
Thomas's voice was raspy, but his tone was firm.
"Little Bruce Wayne. Laughable, truly laughable. A bug-like existence. I could scare him to death with a single glance. If he has the guts, let him come directly before me and face my power!"
Trigon laughed loudly, his tone filled with disregard. The sound of his laughter shook the hall until dust fell.
"There is no need for my son to act. My son only needs to live well. The person you should be wary of is me. One day, I too will possess the power to defeat you."
Thomas Wayne declared loudly.
"Tell me, ant, what makes you as hard to swallow as a piece of moldy hard biscuit?" Trigon leaned forward and spoke in an extremely special translation-style tone.
Magma wine dripped by Thomas's feet, searing charred marks.
"It's family. It's kinship." Thomas Wayne's eyes flickered, for once carrying some truth. "I will finish all the suffering so that in the future, my child won't suffer. When I have the power to master all of Hell, then if my son unfortunately falls in the future, he will also be able to feel a familiar warmth."
At these words.
Trigon's six arms clapped simultaneously, like appreciating a good show.
"Excellent! I admire this quality in you!" He suddenly slapped the table and stood up. "Therefore, I have decided to reward you—I plan to marry you to the Batman Who Laughs."
"That Dark God of the Multiverse is very much worth my recruitment. Xiao Qian—no, it's Thomas, Thorus—damn it, this mouth is hard to use. Anyway, I, Trigon, have worried myself sick for you. You better thank me properly."
Trigon spoke earnestly.
"Who did you say?"
Thomas's face changed drastically.
"That is my strategic partner. Following him, you'll have endless blessings to enjoy. I can also use this to unite and attack Heaven, dragging Gabriel and Michael and all the rest to scrub toilets."
"Yes, I, Trigon, am just this powerful." Trigon rubbed his hands excitedly, giving Thomas a PUA speech. However, Thomas gritted his teeth.
"But I'm just a man!"
Thomas covered his face, but he still said these words.
"It's fine. The Batman Who Laughs likes men. With you, he can evolve into the Batman Who Laughs." Trigon chuckled lightly, as if discussing something quite ordinary.
"Oh, don't be like some country bumpkin Puritan! Laughs likes an old-fashioned gentleman like you who has... uh, been through the storms." Trigon spoke with a forced, exaggerated tone.
"No!"
Thomas finally lost control, making the chains clank loudly.
"You might as well kill me!"
He was roaring, screaming.
Trigon's face suddenly went cold, and he grabbed Thomas's chin.
"Think of your child, Thomas. If you refuse..." His nails sank into the other's skin. "I'll drag Bruce to Hell and make him marry Laughs in your place."
At these words.
Thomas's pupils contracted yet again.
The next second.
This most elegant capitalist of Gotham erupted with the crudest insults of his life.
"Go to hell! You disgusting, rotting, son of a bitch, lying, lowest maggot of Hell!! You piece of rotten meat that even a dog of Hell wouldn't want to bite!"
"You will be torn to shreds by the Emperor of All Laws! I swear to God, I'm going to kick your ass so hard. I'm going to... I'm going to shove my wife's high heels up your ass!"
Thomas himself didn't know how he was able to roar out such words.
The veins on his neck were truly sincere.
The entire hall fell into a dead silence.
Trigon's wine glass froze in mid-air. The succubi collectively let out a sound of drawing in cold air.
"Finished?"
The Demon God narrowed his eyes dangerously.
"Aren't you angry?"
Thomas Wayne inquired.
"How could I not be angry? I'm the giant baby of Hell!" Trigon suddenly erupted, his six arms smashing the throne simultaneously. Magma erupted from the cracks in the floor like champagne.
"Drag this champagne-spewing bastard to the dressing room!" This Demon God was jumping around in a rage, acting incredibly clownish. "I want to see him in a diamond-encrusted wedding dress!"
In any case, his image looked quite wretched.
All the demons trembled in fear.
"I won't agree! I never will! I love my wife! I will not marry a man!" Thomas Wayne didn't just have veins on his neck anymore.
He had veins all over his body.
"Go catch Bruce Wayne to see me!"
Trigon flew into a thunderous rage.
His six arms slapped the table simultaneously, again shaking the hall until dust fell. His crimson vertical pupils burned with the flames of rage as he issued a stern order to the nearby Duke of Hell.
"Very well."
The Duke of Hell bowed slightly and turned to leave.
"Wait!!"
Thomas suddenly looked up, his voice raspy and very dejected.
"I'll marry!! I'll marry!"
His fingers gripped the chains tightly, his knuckles white, as if trying to crush this last bit of dignity in his palm.
The hall fell into a brief silence.
Trigon slowly narrowed his eyes, crossing his six arms over his chest, looking at this former King of Gotham with great interest.
"For your child?"
"Yes."
Thomas's voice was low and raspy, as if it had been seared by the fires of Hell a thousand times over. His eyes were rimmed with red, and a single tear slid down silently, evaporating into mist on the scorching floor.
"Good."
Trigon smiled with satisfaction and signaled for the Duke of Hell to stand down.
"Put makeup on our bride! I, Trigon, will personally see him off to his wedding!" With a wave of his hand, a small imp stepped forward and directly led Thomas Wayne into the dressing room.
"My God! Is this damned corset trying to murder me?" Thomas was pressed before a dressing table while a demon tailor was measuring his waist with a barbed measuring tape.
"Endure it, sir," the tailor sighed. "Master Laughs specifically requested a wasp-waist design... Master Trigon suggested putting countless needles inside this wedding dress to prick your ass."
At this statement.
In the mirror, Thomas Wayne, forced to wear a lace veil, had his expression change continuously. He displayed an expression even more desperate than when he first fell into Hell.
From very early on.
Thomas Wayne had been very sincere.
Just as he was wondering how much longer this story would continue.
"Cut~"
A sudden human voice rang out. In the shadows of the hall, a floating black box descended slowly, landing steadily into the hands of Trigon on the throne.
The next second, a shocking scene occurred—Trigon's massive Demon God body suddenly shrank, his six arms disappeared, and his ferocious visage also slowly faded.
In its place was a good-looking little boy.
His golden pupils were filled with excitement.
The "Pinduoduo Director" had pieced together a good show.
"The play is over. Don't stand so close to me; you can't afford the fee for touching me." He pushed away two female succubi who still wanted to press close to him with a look of disdain.
Then, he pulled a bottle of holy water from his pocket and vigorously wiped the places the succubi had touched. After doing some cleaning work, the boy then pulled up the recorded imagery, checking the finished film with great interest.
"Hmm... the emotions were in place, the lines were good, but that last tear fell a bit too deliberately..." The boy rubbed his chin like a picky director.
It turned out everything was just filming.
The Hell hall was still gloomy, but the atmosphere had completely changed. The air was filled with the scent of sulfur and decay, but today, this palace symbolizing fear and torture had welcomed an unprecedented "ceremony." Another classic masterpiece by Director Ian was being scouted for locations in this place.
Ian believed this place would definitely become a popular check-in spot in the future.
"Hard work, everyone."
When Thomas Wayne walked back into the hall, all the demons in the entire hall looked over. The Greater Demons bowed in unison. That jailer who had once dragged him with chains and tortured him with instruments was now prostrating on the ground, his forehead pressed to the floor, apologizing with a trembling voice. One could tell he was scared out of his wits.
"Your Majesty! I wasn't paying attention before! I disturbed you, please forgive me!" The small imp was shivering because of his negligence; he had already found a place to cut up his electric cattle prod.
Thomas gave him a look.
And then.
He only waved his hand indifferously.
"Go collect your appearance fee."
This sentence of Thomas's was also addressed to the other demons. The next moment, the demons retreated as if they had received a great pardon, scrambling away, unable to believe they had just participated in torturing a King of Hell.
"The next one will be you seeing the end of your suffering and becoming a Dragon King descending upon the world." Ian was clearly not truly satisfied; he already had an outline for the second part of the plot in his mind.
This is the imagination and talent a famous writer possesses.
Endless, simply endless.
"..." Thomas Wayne's gaze turned to the boy in the corner who was buried in editing the film—Ian was sitting cross-legged on the ground, the straw of the fruit wine bottle in his mouth, his fingers sliding rapidly across the floating light-screen, occasionally letting out a "hehehe" bizarre laugh. He looked truly focused and invested.
To tell the truth, Thomas hadn't originally intended to agree to Ian's so-called "Big Smart" plan—well, the boy's original words were "big-big-big smart." He thought it was too ridiculous, but who told Ian to show him a photo of Martha having afternoon tea with Old Kent?
The wealth of a son versus a warm wife.
Which was more important?
Thomas only had a capitalist's accurate scale in his heart.
"Bruce isn't someone who is easily fooled." Thomas took a deep breath, sat down beside him, and pulled a silk handkerchief from his suit's inner pocket, wiping away the remaining "injury makeup" on his face.
He spoke in a low voice.
His tone carried a hint of helplessness.
"I'll add ten billion worth of special effects. You have to believe me. I can even deceive ghosts and gods; a little Batman will surely be handled with ease." Ian continued his operations without looking up.
"Hmm... the emotions are in place here, the pacing is tight, and more special effects can be added—more blood... a sea of corpses and mountains of bones!"
His finger drew a brilliant special effect light-trail on the screen, his tone as relaxed as if discussing tomorrow's breakfast. He was full of confidence—and it was a confidence backed by super wisdom.
It wasn't a case of "mysterious self-confidence."
"You underestimate Bruce's wisdom too much." Thomas Wayne recalled his previous filming process and only felt that this could definitely be called his "black history."
He didn't think such an absurd story could fool his son.
To this.
Ian also gave a crooked-mouth smile, getting more and more practiced at it.
"Even if Uncle Bruce sees through my plan, it doesn't matter. Then he'll think you've fallen into my hands, and he'll be more panicked than if he thought this movie was a documentary."
"Do you know what 'reputation' means?"
"I am reputation! No matter the situation, it's a win-win for both of us." Ian spoke about his "Winning Theory"; he never cared who would lose, as he himself would just keep winning.
"I hadn't even gotten close to Damian before, and Uncle Bruce put the whole city under martial law. His misunderstanding of me is very deep, but this kind of misunderstanding is exactly what we can use."
It must be said that Ian still had some self-awareness, though this self-awareness wasn't much. His words still fully displayed his belief that Batman was making a mountain out of a molehill.
"..."
Thomas opened his mouth.
He felt it was hard to refute the logic Ian had expounded. However, regarding the point that Damian couldn't be approached by Ian, as a grandfather, he still felt Bruce Wayne hadn't done well enough.
He should have sent Damian to an alien school in the Alpha Centauri system to study abroad. Only that could ensure Damian wouldn't be led from the "crooked path" he had started to walk onto a "wicked path" by the boy in front of him.
"When are you returning to the human world?" Thomas Wayne realized Ian could always find unshakeable logic, so he smartly didn't make any evaluation of Ian's indignation.
Old Wayne chose to change the subject.
This trick had always worked well on Ian.
"I originally came to find a psychiatrist, but now my car and trash can are lost; the workload has tripled directly." Ian let out a sigh, feeling quite helpless.
His mouth still didn't stop, continuously drinking the fruit wine. His super physical fitness gave him invincible metabolic ability; even if he secretly poured some whiskey into the fruit wine, he wouldn't get drunk.
"I can help you find people." Thomas Wayne adjusted his suit cuffs, pulled a silk handkerchief from his inner pocket, and again slowly and methodically wiped away the remaining "injury makeup" on his neck. Those carefully designed bruises and bloodstains gradually faded under the holy-water-soaked handkerchief, revealing the iconic cold visage of the King of Gotham.
"You have that kind of skill?"
Ian, who was squatting on the throne editing video, suddenly looked up, his tone surprised. He had thought Thomas Wayne was just a small, isolationist feudal lord of Hell.
He didn't expect there would be quite a few lackeys outside?
Otherwise, how would he find people in Hell?
While Ian was guessing, Thomas Wayne also proved that he had guessed correctly. See, a smile unique to a capitalist appeared on Thomas's lips.
He pulled a gold-embossed business card from his suit's inner pocket.
The card glowed slightly in the sulfurous mist, with three lines printed on it in Gothic font:
Hell Human Resources Co., Ltd.
CEO: Thomas Wayne.
*Let every soul realize its maximum value.*
...
"Where do you think I find the souls in those 'suffering batteries'?" He lightly tapped the ground with the tip of his leather shoe, and the floor tiles of the entire hall suddenly turned transparent.
Below.
There were countless networks crisscrossing, transmitting intelligence, and souls.
"I have a specialized human resources department to go through those small houses where souls live to screen targets. Many powerful lords in other Hells also send me commissions."
"And I can always find the kind of fallen soul they need." Living up to being the Old King of Gotham, he again showcased divine power, causing the surrounding space to transform into a warehouse.
Countless neatly arranged crystalline cages were gathered all around.
A soul warehouse.
The souls here weren't used to "generate power."
But for soul trading.
In the end, Old Wayne had started up the old business his ancestors had crossed the sea to build in Hell. Ian didn't expect Thomas to have beaten him to utilizing those jail cells.
As expected, the thinking patterns of capitalists are very consistent.
"Great minds think alike." Ian gave Old Wayne a bit of a boost. He walked forward to check and saw that within the tens of thousands of small cages were all sorts of souls.
They were sinners among sinners. These souls, dressed in clothing from various eras, were repeating the sins of their lives. There was a miser from the Victorian era counting gold coins that could never be finished, a Wall Street stockbroker screaming at a screen that was continuously plunging, and even several figures wearing superhero costumes pounding on the walls in their stalls.
They were super-scammers who used superhero costumes to trick people into sex, causing twenty thousand people in a certain island nation to be infected with AIDS. However, Ian felt they perhaps shouldn't have appeared in Hell.
"Wow! You even classified them?" Ian's pupils reflected this soul-matrix warehouse. It seemed Old Wayne had even gotten the technology for those hell-stalls.
He didn't know if he had bribed Commissioner Crowley or flattered Lucifer.
"Naturally."
Thomas snapped his fingers, and a holographic projection operation interface appeared on the ground. "Divided by the Seven Deadly Sins. Souls from the Gluttony district are best suited for driving kitchen equipment, the Greed district is responsible for financial calculations, and souls from the Pride district have the highest price—they are the souls the other great demons of Hell love most to buy for 'cosplaying' as Lucifer."
"I'm a businessman; I generally don't ask them why they want to do such things." Thomas Wayne spoke eloquently, fully utilizing the wisdom a capitalist should have.
He was developing really well in Hell.
"I dare to ask, I dare to ask. Tell me, which great demons bought the Pride souls?" Ian's gossip-heart was second only to Madison's, so his eyes looked very bright.
"Sorry, customer information is an absolute secret. Even if Lucifer comes... I generally have to be beaten for ten minutes before I'll speak." Thomas Wayne was a person of standing, after all.
He didn't brag too much, just a little bit.
"I don't believe it. Unless you let me watch next time you're being beaten." Ian could sense the aura of his own kind, so he sensed at least three minutes of lies in Old Wayne's words.
"..."
Thomas helplessly uncurled his fingers from his tie, wanting to let his breathing become a bit smoother. There were no tie pins in Hell, but the fingers of demons were actually quite useful.
"The room you wanted is ready."
He changed the subject again.
"Oh, oh, okay."
Ian pulled out his hand and checked his crayon watch. It was linked to the most accurate time on Earth, so Ian knew clearly when he should fall asleep even in Hell.
"Are you really planning to sleep in Hell?"
The look Thomas Wayne gave Ian was very strange. He still remembered how he felt when he first entered Hell; although it wasn't as exaggerated as the performance in the "big movie" just now, an ordinary person would definitely find the environment here hard to endure. Never mind sleeping, even breathing feels like a form of pain.
"Good habits help me grow taller." Since it was time to transmigrate again, Ian didn't mind sleeping anywhere and everywhere once more, but having a bed was naturally excellent.
Seeing this situation.
Thomas Wayne didn't try to persuade him further.
He called for the Duke butler to have the butler take Ian to the guest room.
See.
Two Dukes of Hell floated over carrying a suspended chair. Ian let out a cry of surprise and jumped on. The chair immediately extended eight spider legs, carrying him toward the palace.
"I have spider legs too, but they're cooler than this."
Facing Ian's self-promotion.
The Dukes of Hell also hurriedly offered flattery. Soon, they escorted Ian to a grand hotel in the city. The moment the door automatically opened, he was hit with a bizarre fragrance that was a mix of sulfur and lavender.
Ian gave a whistle.
"Cool!"
The entire room was like a fairy tale scene stuffed into Hell.
The breathing walls were covered with eyeball wall-lamps that blinked in unison whenever Ian passed. Tentacles hanging from the ceiling automatically wove into a hammock. The best part was that "living massage bed," composed of three hundred and sixty-five demon hands. Each hand's nails were polished round and smooth, and they even wore different colors of nail polish.
One look and you could tell they were women's hands.
"Respected guest."
The headless hotel butler spoke from his abdominal cavity.
"These massage therapists have all undergone professional training."
He hadn't finished speaking.
Ian had already performed a fish-dive onto the bed. Hundreds of hands immediately got busy; some kneaded his shoulders, some pounded his legs, and three particularly agile ones were serving him tea and water.
The hotel butler was also very sensible and hurriedly took his leave.
"It even has sleep massage... not bad."
Ian was enjoying himself.
He narrowed his eyes comfortably, like a cat having its chin scratched.
However.
When the massage reached below the waist.
Ian seemed to realize something. He suddenly sprang up like he'd been electrocuted, hanging directly from the ceiling.
"Get lost! That place doesn't need a massage!"
He let out a panicked voice, truly like a cat with its fur standing on end. Ian's thinking speed was very fast; he realized why the demon butler's eyes were ambiguous when he left earlier.
Damned massage bed!
It even provides improper massages!
Seeing Ian's anger, the hands immediately retracted as if they were frightened.
"Good thing I reacted fast, otherwise I'd have been 'taken care of' clearly by the hands of Hell tonight." Ian lay back down, issuing a stern warning to these hands.
He wasn't a saint, but he also didn't want his "first time" to be lost in cross-species communication. Checking the time again, Ian found the hands had pointed to that special moment.
*Dong~*
When the bell to transmigrate to the Marvel world rang, Ian was being held up by twenty-seven demon palms while doing a high-difficulty Pilates move. He suddenly rolled his eyes and entered a dormant state instantly like a robot with its power pulled, yet his body remained suspended in mid-air in a "flying style" yoga pose.
This massage chair is decent when it's being proper.
As for when it's being improper—how to put it? Ian doesn't like it, but he believed he might have found the most suitable birthday gift for his second brother, Jordan.
***
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