Bat-wisdom belongs to the absolute peak of DC.
Bruce Wayne's brain RPM was faster than a racing engine, but by the time his intellect parsed the information, it was already too late—his wisdom had reached a conclusion that his pride refused to accept.
Daylight in Gotham isn't exactly bright, yet it still couldn't illuminate the grim, ashen face of the Gotham freak. On the communicator in his hand, Ian Kent's clumsy voice continued to drone on.
"Big brother Thomas is truly too enthusiastic! Even without drinking fake wine, he insisted on becoming sworn brothers with me. For your sake, Uncle Bruce, I turned him down three times... but in the end, Big Brother Thomas made such a scene, rolling around on the floor, that I really had no choice. I had to accept his ridiculous request and swear brotherhood with him."
"Uncle Bruce becoming Bruce the Great-Nephew... to be honest, it feels a bit awkward for me to say it too." High-EQ Ian sensed that Bruce's emotions were off.
Consequently, he began to express his "understanding" to Bruce. Regarding seniority, he was willing to accept a "to each their own" arrangement; the fact that he called Bruce "Uncle" wouldn't stop Bruce from calling him "Uncle" in return. This was what you called the tolerance and concession of an elder.
"?????????" Bruce's face turned into a black sun. His fingers tightened on the armrests of his wheelchair, making the high-grade carbon fiber emit an overburdened "creak."
"I do not want to know what you are talking about." Batman's voice wasn't just deep; it was filtered through gritted teeth. He truly wished he didn't know the fact that his old man was in Hell.
However.
It was too late.
Bat-wisdom had already helped him understand everything. His brain, like Ian's, had a mind of its own, even if that mind produced thoughts the host refused to acknowledge or admit.
"I'm serious, Big Brother Thomas is so passionate, he even said he wanted to give Gotham to me." Ian chatted away, every sentence containing at least a grain of truth.
The more Bruce Wayne listened, the more his head throbbed. He snapped the emergency brake lever on the wheelchair clean off. His breathing became heavy as Ian continued to babble on the other end.
Every word was like a pacemaker, slowly squeezing Bruce Wayne's heart. Ian's vocabulary possessed a terrifying lethality that far exceeded the Joker's. At this moment, Bruce Wayne realized that the Joker he dealt with in Gotham might just be the uncolored Joker card in the deck.
The true "King" was in Metropolis! Bruce's finger hovered over the end-call button, his knuckles white from the strain. Three seconds later, he chose a more direct method—the entire communicator was smashed against the ground. It shattered into pieces amidst the cries of a heavily injured criminal who shouted that Batman didn't know how to be thrifty.
*Ding, ding, ding~*
Batman's backup phone rang. It was a message from "Honest Ian," who wanted to prove his truth-telling nature. It contained a photo and a video that served as ironclad evidence.
It was a photo of Thomas Wayne and Ian with their arms around each other's shoulders, along with a ten-second video clip that, when played through an earpiece, allowed him to relive his father's familiar voice.
"Bruce, my boy, you should listen to your Uncle Ian more in the future~" Thomas Wayne had a hand on his shoulder and was smiling at the camera, addressing a Bruce Wayne beyond the lens.
Batman's eyes stared fixedly at the figure in the video. His fingers clawed into the wheelchair armrests, knuckles turning even whiter from excessive force. The Thomas Wayne in the video was lifelike, right down to the smile lines at the corners of his eyes—it was a relaxed smile that had never appeared in his childhood photo albums.
The Gotham King's expression and inner turmoil were incredibly complex—a mix of joy at seeing family again, and a profound sense of unease and terror. His gaze was involuntarily drawn to the hand on Thomas Wayne's shoulder. Just as Ian predicted, Batman's uncontrollable wisdom had begun its analysis.
Bruce Wayne felt that even if his father didn't blink, he was definitely being threatened. Thomas might be forced to get along with Ian for some reason.
This was the true source of Bruce Wayne's unease, the kind of thing that would keep him awake even after taking ten sleeping pills. He knew deep down that no one who asked Ian for a favor could escape being taken advantage of.
This was scarier than Ian actually liking to blackmail people. It was an unsolvable problem.
"Clark Kent!"
No one knew why he was silently screaming Superman's name in his heart. To prevent Ian's scheme from succeeding, Bruce Wayne—even though his face was the color of a tomato and his hands were shaking with rage—did not reply to any of Ian's messages. He knew that was exactly what Ian wanted.
*Crunch~*
The Bat-freak used his Bat-freak hand to exert Bat-freak strength, crushing his backup phone into scrap. The phone twisted and deformed in his palm, the screen shattered, the circuit board sparked, and it finally turned into a pile of junk metal. At that moment, Bruce Wayne made a secret vow to prevent Ian from ever meeting him in person for the rest of his life.
His unwanted Bat-wisdom was still telling him the fact he didn't want to accept—that brat always had a trick up his sleeve to make him actually call him "Uncle Ian" with his own mouth.
Bruce Wayne felt his personal Hell was descending. He didn't move or speak. In the alley of the street, there was only the low hum of the wheelchair's engine.
However.
A criminal's voice broke the silence.
"Batman, if you don't want the phone, you can give it to me. I'll recycle it on the platform of Ian's Great Technology Company. The second-hand price is much higher than your company's recycling price. Instant payment, privacy cleared, worry-free and convenient. High prices for smart digital goods and gold luxury items, with a recycling bonus of up to 1280 dollars."
"Limited time flash sale, an additional 200 dollars off on top of the event base. Official inspection, buy and sell with confidence." Hugo Strange lay on the ground, offering earnest advice.
Even having both legs crushed couldn't stop his concern for Batman. Of course, this was the ultimate case of poking a sore spot. Batman reacted as if his sensitive skin had been touched.
*Creak—Creak—Creak—*
Bruce Wayne remained silent, slowly turning his wheelchair to aim at his old rival on the ground once more.
*Creak—Creak—Creak—*
The wheels rolled over Hugo Strange's legs again and again. The sound of bones splintering echoed in the alley as he provided Hugo Strange with a complimentary upgrade to the "comminuted fracture" package.
It couldn't be helped. Dealing with old rivals was always more violent than dealing with Gotham's novice criminals; after all, old rivals didn't have "beginner protection." Batman knew Hugo Strange could always fix his own legs.
"Oh~ Batman~ this silent rage is perhaps why I can never truly replace you..." Hugo Strange was a psychologist at Arkham Asylum, obsessed with studying Batman and skilled at manipulating others to achieve his own ends. He had posed as Batman many times to satisfy his own desires.
Therefore.
His current idol was Ian Kent—the boy whose secret identity he had also investigated and whom he realized was a much more successful "Batman impersonator."
Now.
Hugo Strange wanted to dance on Batman's nerves. He had successfully gotten Batman to crush his legs, and then he began to apply psychological suggestion to the Dark Knight.
"Look, look, when we are frustrated, we are no different... Now, I am just like you. When I go back, I'll get myself a wheelchair too." Yes, this was why he wanted his legs broken—because Batman was currently in a wheelchair.
"360 mph? You're still too conservative; I can do better than you!" Hugo Strange looked at his broken legs with satisfaction, already using his [Gotham Universal High Intelligence] to construct a wheelchair design. He felt he was one step closer to surpassing Batman.
"Shut up!"
Bruce Wayne was long accustomed to Gotham's various villains. He had even endured Ian's "baptism," so this old rival's mental attack didn't have much of an impact.
The person on Earth who understood mental attacks best was, first and foremost, that bratty boy, followed by the Joker. Having mentally ranked them, Bruce Wayne knocked his babbling opponent unconscious with one punch. After sending Hugo Strange back to where he belonged, he began to frantically shift his attention.
It couldn't be helped. Bruce Wayne really didn't want his Bat-wisdom to start doing unnecessary work once things quieted down, so he drove his throne-like wheelchair into a frenzy of daytime action in Gotham.
This was absolutely unprecedented.
Many villains were caught off guard by Batman's inverted schedule.
Screams echoed across the Gotham docks.
On this day, a terrifying legend of the Wheelchair Bat began to rise. Some said Batman no longer used the Batmobile but roamed during the day in a wheelchair capable of crushing bones.
The legend spread rapidly through black markets, bars, and slums, becoming a new symbol of fear. Meanwhile, new Gotham urban legends began to circulate in Blackgate Prison.
Legend had it that Batman in an electric wheelchair would repeatedly run over criminals until they could recite the complete history of Gotham's development and curse Superman's whole family a hundred times as ghost things. Since Batman had temporarily shut off his Bat-wisdom, he didn't realize that the photo was just the beginning.
His decision not to look at messages and simply crush all his backup phones caused him to miss the chance to stop an even greater "crisis"—a cinematic revolution brewing on the internet.
A documentary titled *The Fall of the King* was being uploaded to the [Documentary Section] of the [Superhero Popularity Center]. The distribution rights were snapped up on the spot for 300 million dollars by a user named [I want to be richer than Bruce Wayne]. It seemed Green Arrow really liked staying active online when he had nothing to do.
The revamped [Superhero Popularity Center] now had a video channel, with [3D Section], [Domestic Section], and [Documentary Section] categories for users to upload self-made videos.
The [Domestic Section] had the heaviest auditing workload; after all, it was a legal site. However, since the Fall of Heaven's Gate, a user named [Batman Love Me One More Time] had been uploading ten million "Batman's Poignant and Sadistic Love" fan-made illegal videos every day. It was suspected that some Archangel's divine power was being used where it shouldn't be.
Naturally, Ian knew nothing about this. He only discovered that even the Black Box couldn't track the user's IP, and banning the account didn't work. He had met a worthy opponent.
After tinkering with his phone for a bit, Ian continued his grand meeting. The joy of being a boss lies in holding meetings; if you don't hold meetings, why be a boss?
Putting aside the fact that his employees loved working twenty-four hours a day, he was already much better than most bosses. At least he didn't occupy employees' off-hours for meetings; he only used their work hours—again, the fact that the angels loved working twenty-four hours a day really had little to do with Ian.
They always felt that working a bit more would earn them more Angel Points. Ian had advised them to rest for at least half an hour, but their reactions made Ian want to name them all Rickshaw Boy No. 1, No. 2, No. 3... When it came to experiencing the mortal world, the angels still had a long way to go.
Inside the New Heaven Technology Factory.
Ian's Manipulation session was like a cult scene. Behind him was a giant holographic screen scrolling the words "Strive! Struggle! Persist! Transcend!" The background music was an AI remix of the *Fate Symphony*, the tempo deliberately stretched so every drumbeat felt as heavy as a heartbeat.
Ian picked up the microphone again. His voice was low and powerful.
"Angels!" he began. His voice instantly pierced through the entire factory.
"Who are you?!"
There was no answer, only a silent wait.
"I ask you—who are you?!"
Ian's voice suddenly rose, almost roaring. This time, angels responded in unison: "We are the Light of New Heaven!"
The angels suppressed their sense of shame and shouted as Ian requested. They had certainly grown; regardless, their skin was sure to be much thicker after walking out of this factory.
"No! You are not light; you are merely angels fallen into the mortal dust!" Ian waved his hand sharply, not playing by the rules. He turned back and pressed a remote. The holographic screen instantly switched to faces of weary humans—programmers, cleaners, delivery riders, and construction workers.
"Look at the products in your hands! The quality is up, but the production speed isn't enough. I put aside my self-esteem and relied on 'eating the soft rice' of a junior to open up sales markets for everyone's products."
"And the result? The result is that you have failed my hard work and sacrifice; you have failed New Heaven."
"I heard some people are starting to get lazy, feeling that the work is too hard. But compare yourselves to them—are you really working hard? You don't have to be exposed to the sun, you have air conditioning while working, there are branded near-expiry snacks in the lounge, and the water you drink is radiation-free mineral water I bottled for you from my own dimension."
"Isn't this far happier than most humans? Angels, you can't just love your work when you have divine power! Look at your hands! That isn't light—that is responsibility! That is a mission! That is—the ultimate pity for humanity! Every microwave you build is one more poor person who can use a microwave."
"And the Tech Department over there—though there's a temporary lack of equipment and raw materials, that's not a big problem. Humans went from eating raw meat to technological prosperity. As angels, great angels, how hard can it be to hand-build a few F-35s? I promised my grandfather I'd deliver ten F-35s to him by the end of the year!"
"If you can't build them, how can my grandfather get his kickbacks? If my grandfather can't get kickbacks, how can I get the rebates he gives me? The future of America—no, I just finished history class—I should say the future of Earth relies on these ten F-35s. Be good, come build these F-35s once you're done hand-crafting the nuclear reactors."
"I know your divine power has recovered a tiny bit... yes, I have spies everywhere in the factory. You wouldn't believe how fast you betray your own kind."
"I finally know why humans have these 'wonderful qualities' that are so great for capitalists." After the stick, Ian gave some "carrots" to encourage them.
"We want every product to become a gift from God! Let every phone carry the will of an angel! Let every pair of headphones play the hymns of Heaven!"
"Struggling isn't a choice; it's destiny!"
"Fighting isn't a slogan; it's breathing!"
"Persistence isn't a virtue; it's instinct!"
"Effort isn't a virtue; it's existence itself!"
"From today on, we have only one goal—to let every corner of the world, every family, every soul, use the products of New Heaven Technology!"
"This is the expression of your love for humanity! God is watching us!" Ian spoke with deep sincerity, asking everyone to recite the corporate slogan once more.
The five hundred angels were all fired up by him.
"If you don't work hard today, Lucifer will come to laugh at you to your face tomorrow!" This was a real slogan; after all, in a great enterprise, slogans are never just empty words.
Lucifer was very willing to take on this part-time job.
"Lucifer..."
Michael stood at the very back of the angel formation, pure white radiance flowing in his palms, appearing very restrained. This great Archangel lowered his eyes, appearing submissive but with his knuckles clenched tight.
His nails were almost digging into his palms.
Ian's inflammatory speech still echoed in his ears. Every "service upgrade" slogan was like a thorn pricking his dignity as the Archangel. He scanned the brainwashed Angel Streamers in front—their faces beamed with fanatical smiles as they vied to say they would work harder.
This situation made Michael feel miserable. They, as a high-order race, were actually doing this? In the past, he wouldn't even have imagined such a scene.
However.
Having fallen into the mortal world, everything had changed.
Even he could only passively accept reality. Michael roared in his heart. He once commanded the heavenly host, and now he was reduced to a salesman for this tech cult? No, he would fight back. Within Ian's rules, he would use more extreme means to climb to the top—not by divine power, but by calculation.
"Bottom of the performance rankings? Never!"
Michael wanted to prove himself. Even without divine power, he was still the most outstanding angel. It couldn't be helped; who told him he could clearly sense a few hints of God's aura on Ian?
The other party's claim of having afternoon tea with God was indeed true—he hadn't had afternoon tea with God his entire life. Perhaps the current ordeal was God's trial for the angels.
Michael pondered, already having a better plan for how to increase his popularity. A boss? No! As the most powerful angel in Heaven, he had a better solution!
With that thought, Michael was full of confidence. As Ian's speech neared its end, an angel stepped forward quickly, his face covered in a fawning smile he had only recently learned.
"Lord Ian, the greatest beneath God, the first batch of shipping data for the 'Gratitude Series' appliances is out! The shelves at Walmart were cleared by people in almost three seconds!"
"Your 'buy an appliance, get eggs free' strategy is indeed powerful." The Sales Department angel held a tablet, which Ian took into his hands. On the screen, housewives were frantically grabbing microwaves printed with his smiling face in the supermarket; one old lady even used her cane to knock over a nearby shopping cart.
"Well done!" Ian snapped his fingers.
The Sales Department angels collectively received [Little Red Flower] medals—which could be used to exchange for points. But the angels' most direct feeling was that their "glory" seemed to be recovering a bit faster.
"Which products are currently selling?" Ian had many startling designs that surpassed the era, so he wanted to know how much the world felt the "Gospel of his Wisdom."
Upon hearing this, the Angel Sales Supervisor cleared his throat. "The feedback for the first batch of 'Gratitude Brand' microwaves is excellent. The high-power version that starts only after praising you for 30 seconds is the best-selling appliance."
"Next is the Loyalty Bracelet—the children's smartwatch for the new era. It features positioning, calling, and homework reminders. But every night at 9 PM, it automatically plays Ian's bedtime stories."
"And the heated massage sofa that requires writing a 500-word praise on the armrest—I see the efficiency at the furniture store is also very good. It can indeed be used in new energy vehicles, combined with the 'pious believers can unlock deep-throttle mode' plan you mentioned before; it should also harvest quite a few high-horsepower coupe users for you."
...
The Angel Sales Supervisor's report was very detailed. Ian began to learn the Dragon King's crooked smile again.
"I sell a microwave for only ten dollars; what do other companies have to fight me with?" He felt his smile wasn't "evil" enough, so he manually pulled at the corners of his mouth.
Now that his mouth was pulled to his ears, he was truly a Dragon King.
"Lord Savior Angel, I have a new product proposal here as well." The angels in the Creative Department didn't seem very useful to Ian, but they did give him a small surprise.
Several angels clumsily pulled out their product design. It was a heated flushing toilet where every time the user said "Thank you Ian for granting me smoothness," the seat would heat up by one degree. When washing the buttocks, one also needed to give thanks to Ian for making the user's butt pure.
"..."
This was truly the student surpassing the master. Ian didn't particularly like the divine power harvested in such an atmosphere, but it wasn't impossible to try releasing a niche product.
"Next, focus on new energy vehicles. I found the *true* new energy last night... You guys design the car navigation first. May I guide every driver in the correct direction."
"By the way, over at the farm, I want people all over the world to be able to eat genuine one-dollar fried chicken. Speed up the research on how to modify 'Pious Chickens'."
"Use more of that tiny bit of divine power you've recovered!" After guiding the production direction, Ian remembered the preparations he promised God and hurriedly left the factory.
The remaining angels resumed production with fervor. Black angels, white angels—as long as they worked, they were all good angels. Even Michael returned to his livestream room.
"Family! Microwaves from the New Heaven Factory, ten dollars! Can you hear me? Ten dollars! Add one dollar, and while your microwave is running, you can listen to the songs we sing for you!"
"Limited to ten thousand units; grabbing one is a reward for the soul!"
"Now I want to recommend this 'Praise Sofa.' Only by sincerely praising the boss of this company for thirty seconds can you activate the massage chair mode!"
"True comfort is the reward of faith!"
"No, I'm really not a shill. I'm just recommending things I'm using to my family. Order now and get a signed copy of my photobook~"
...
The livestream sales model had arrived in this world, led by Ian and starring the angels. With their outstanding looks, they were naturally suited for this profession.
Michael listened to the activity in the surrounding livestream rooms and sneered. He didn't plan to join this track because his Archangel wisdom had allowed him to discover a "bug" in the human world.
"Family, I want to tell you something..." He turned on the microphone, his voice cool and firm, yet at the last moment, it took a gentle turn.
"Actually, I am a girl."
Michael used his only bit of divine power to fix his gender on a realistic level. He had already investigated; "edgy female streamers" who pushed boundaries received the most tips and support.
Now, with a surge of divine power investment, he would become the leader among them and harvest even greater rewards. He had the most perfect face, more beautiful than any stunning visage. Using this face to be a "boss" was a stupid idea. Using this capital, cross-dressing to become a female streamer was the real way to grasp the lifeblood of humanity!
"Everyone, don't panic. Really, really, the bump here... how could I be a man in women's clothing?" It was clear that Michael had truly lived his second life.
*Mica-la* was officially online.
...
Walmart, Carrefour, Sam's Club.
In front of the shelves of various common supermarkets, crowds moved like a tide.
"Mom! That TV looks so clear! You can even see people's pores!" A little girl in a faded coat tugged at her mother's hem, her face flushed red.
"Can we buy that one?!" the girl pleaded, looking at her mother.
"Gratitude price, 99 dollars?" The mother stared at the price tag in disbelief, her fingers trembling slightly. The old TV broke three years ago, and they had been listening to the news on a radio given by a neighbor.
High taxes, six children, three jobs a day, the cost of various insurances—all of this had left the family exhausted. Even in this era, it was hard to hope for any spare cash. The eldest daughter even had to work-study at school.
Fortunately, there was a kind rich kid at the middle school giving out low-interest lunch bags, so the middle children weren't malnourished. This mother had wanted a new TV for a long time.
However.
The reality was that even with hard work, the money couldn't even support the home. Who could have thought? A new 4K high-definition TV now only cost 99 dollars. If there wasn't enough money, one could even use the "Praise Loan" launched by the manufacturer!
"Okay! We'll buy one! And that microwave over there, the electric kettle... Oh, there are even 'Gratitude Brand' sanitary pads!" She finally had the confidence to respond to her youngest daughter's craving.
"Honey, let's go check out." This housewife felt the same as most consumers—when penniless, being able to get high-quality goods at low prices felt unreal. Like pizza falling from the sky.
A long line formed at the checkout, everyone's cart piled with shiny "Made in New Heaven" products—washing machines that played hymns, smart rice cookers that said "Ian bless you." As long as the discount was big enough, these people didn't mind having to listen to a speech to boot up or praising a stranger.
Not to mention the free eggs. People all over the world are the same. You should know, eggs—a daily necessity—would become a rarity for a few months every year in America.
"This price is practically giving it away!" a college student excitedly held up a newly bought "Loyalty Brand" laptop. "The specs are higher than a flagship, and it's only 199!"
His friend looked down at the manual. "You just have to write a 100-word praise diary every day and save it on the desktop... but whatever!" He grinned. "The thesis is made up anyway; what's a few more lines of rainbow farts?"
The acceptance of young people was a few notches higher. In a dilapidated apartment, the little girl and her mother carefully moved the new TV onto the coffee table. The moment the switch was pressed, the screen lit up with a soft golden light.
[Please say the activation code: Thank you for Lord Ian's gift.]
The mother cleared her throat: "Thank... thank you for Lord Ian's gift?"
*Ding! Authentication successful!*
The TV suddenly played cheerful music, and a voice announced today's special offer: Watching *Ian's Wisdom Lectures* for ten minutes grants one free day of premium channel member service.
"We have a new TV! And we can watch cartoons on the paid channels!" the little girl cheered, throwing herself into her mother's arms.
The mother stroked her daughter's soft hair, her eyes misting up. She didn't know who Ian was, but at this moment, she sincerely thanked this stranger.
On the other side.
Retired teacher Robert frowned at the newly bought "Piety Brand" smart air conditioner remote. He squinted his eyes, but couldn't find the temperature adjustment button anywhere.
"Forget it, try the customer service—" He dialed the 24-hour hotline on the manual. The old teacher had lived on this land for many years; he thought he'd have to wait half an hour, but the call was answered in seconds.
And the person on the other end wasn't an man, or an man pretending to be a girl.
"Hello there~ This is New Heaven, Ian's Greatest Tech. Customer Service at your service~" A female voice, sweet as honey melting in the sun, came through.
"I hear your breathing is a bit heavy. Is the air conditioner being disobedient?" The other party clearly wasn't using a voice changer; the voice was truly honey-sweet and had a way of soothing the heart. She even joked around.
"You... can remotely know what problem I've encountered?" He was a bit alert. He began to worry frantically about his information being collected by mysterious Big Data and used for illegal activities—the daily life of an American conspiracy theorist.
"Of course not! There are no surveillance cameras in the air conditioner, and it won't connect to the internet to transmit data. I just understand you. Please trust our professional training." The customer service representative spoke in a playful tone.
"Come, I'll teach you how to turn off the night mode in three steps. By the way... would you like to hear a bedtime story? I know you haven't been sleeping well lately."
This service was so good it made the retired teacher feel he wasn't living in America. He never thought a customer service rep talking about how to use a product could make a customer so happy.
Ten minutes passed. Not only did the old teacher learn all the functions, but he also chatted with the girl about work pressure, his deceased wife, and the cat he kept that always liked to scratch the sofa. The customer service was very good at listening and knew how to comfort people.
"Now please press the little heart on the remote, yes, the one with my new boss's smiling face printed on it..." The representative chuckled and gave the lonely old man a suggestion.
Robert complied. The air conditioner immediately blew out warm air with the scent of gardenias.
"My goodness!" He widened his eyes in surprise. "You really understand me! My late wife loved this scent most." The old teacher looked incredulous. He suddenly realized that he might have been out of touch with the times for too long.
Technological development might not be such a bad thing.
"Of course I understand you~ You signed the authorization letter, so I understand your wife too. If I don't understand you, no one will understand you anymore." The representative's voice was as gentle as if she were coaxing a child. "Our service tenet is 'thinking what you think'! By the way, the temperature in your hometown is going to drop tomorrow, remember to switch the mode to—"
"Wait!" Robert interrupted suddenly. He spoke bashfully. "Do you... provide paid chatting services? You know, the kind where we just chat occasionally."
The old teacher was clearly embarrassed saying this. It wasn't because he was an old pervert, but because lonely people always want someone to listen to their troubles.
Today's society is too cold. Neighbors might live together for several years without exchanging more than a few words. And American neighbors aren't as enthusiastic as he thought they'd be when he immigrated from Germany. When it comes to complaining about your life, neighbors will only comfort you on the surface and call you very rude behind your back.
Even when going to the hospital for treatment and telling the doctor about your pain, the doctor would charge an extra fee for mental damage. American society is like that—warm on the surface, cruel underneath.
There's a reason why [Paid Chat] phone services are flourishing in America today. This wasn't the country the old man wanted to build when he participated in the atomic bomb project. But what could he do? He could only choose to quit the original research institution and become a physics teacher at a university.
His resistance was meaningless. That was also the reason for his current downfall.
"Want to chat with me more?"
In response to the old man's request, a cheerful laugh came from the other end of the phone. "No need to pay~ Based on the questionnaire you filled out, I already understand your situation. You'll have a lot of time to chat with me in the future~"
The customer service representative even knew the old man only had about three years left to live, but she was professionally trained and didn't say it. Retired teacher Robert didn't know that at this moment, the Customer Service girl on the other end of the phone was crossing her goat hooves and using her tail to hold a pen, ticking off names on a "Premium Customer" list.
In the customer service center behind her, hundreds of demons wore headsets, saying the most intimate words in the gentlest voices—the electronic screen on the wall scrolled through the service rules set by Ian.
[Rule 1: You can contact the deceased relatives of customers. Use all your strength to make every customer feel that you are his long-lost soulmate.]
The customer service was an outsourced service Ian used—outsourced to the demons of Hell. Of course, the customers didn't know this; they only knew they received high-quality customer service.
This was actually a win-win employment direction for the demons as well. Perhaps the only one hurt was Master Wayne. In a dark monitoring room in Gotham, Master Wayne was unhappy.
"These customer service reps..." Bruce Wayne's fingers tapped on the keyboard in a nearly violent rhythm. His black cape draped on either side of the wheelchair like a pair of broken wings.
The Batcomputer hummed, and the holographic screen flashed with countless communication link analysis diagrams. However, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find the communication path. All customer service phone terminals were "Unknown."
Bruce frowned as the wheelchair rolled over Batarangs scattered on the floor.
"It's impossible to have absolutely no trace! Unless it's truly from Hell—" He rolled the wheelchair back and forth in the Batcave, his voice muffled and stifled, and his pupils behind the mask flashed continuously.
Alfred elegantly set down a tea tray. "Master Bruce, would you like to try the old-fashioned method?" He pulled out an antique rotary dial phone. "Just ask that 'Uncle Ian' directly?" The old butler was also joking.
After all, nothing is more joyful than knowing your friend is doing well. Even if it's Hell... then again, isn't Gotham just another kind of Hell? It was truly reasonable that his Master was flourishing in Hell.
"You ask him." Bruce's knuckles turned white, but he still chose to compromise. Of course, he certainly wouldn't call personally to ask Ian how he did it. This required a middleman to avoid things that would keep him awake at night.
The call was connected surprisingly quickly. The old butler coughed lightly and repeated Bruce Wayne's question. Upon receiving a response, he thoughtfully covered the mouthpiece and whispered toward the wheelchair.
"That child asked... what did you ask?" Isn't this just a modern version of plugging one's ears while stealing a bell?
"Ask him how he established this connection with Hell." Batman's voice was still that gravelly rasp, but his tone carried a hint of helplessness. Alfred perfectly repeated the question, even retaining the gritting of teeth from the original sentence. Ian's exaggerated gasp came from the other end.
He gave an answer. The old butler's expression froze for a second, looking very strange.
"What did that fellow say?" Batman couldn't help but ask.
The old butler hesitated for a moment before giving the answer. "He said... don't ask. If you must know—it's Wayne Tech."
The Batcave suddenly became terrifyingly quiet.
Alfred witnessed the miracle of human body temperature—his Master's skin turned a visible tomato-red from his neck to the tips of his ears, and the wheelchair armrests groaned from metal fatigue.
"M-Master Bruce? Your gloves are smoking... oh, no, Master Bruce, don't cry! You haven't cried in so long... wait, can I go get a camera?"
That day, Batman seemed to return to his youth, like a child. Inside the Batcave, a "red temperature" and spiritual energy erupted at the same time, and the entire underground base was instantly thrown into chaos.
Meanwhile, Ian was sitting on the roof of his Hellcat, enjoying a Metropolis afternoon. The car drifted to a stop in front of the church. He originally wanted to discuss more details with God.
However.
The unexpected happened.
Ian saw his eldest brother, Jonathan, walking out of the church. He was beaming with joy, clutching a statue of God in his hand. Ian was also a person with Super-Intelligence, so he had a flash of inspiration and was now as stiff as his great-nephew/Uncle Batman had been before.
"Oh! No!"
Ian's super-brain was telling him: things were bad!
An Old-Timer was a lazy bum! He wanted to use the ready-made belt!!