American comics: Damn it, I’m surrounded by those who worry about their fathers!.

Chapter 988 Bruce and Rorschach's First Contact!
The rain in Gotham washed over the ancient stone walls of Wayne Manor, blurring the lines between the manor's interior and exterior.

For Rorschach, infiltrating this place was not difficult.

The Pharaoh gave him an instrument for precise positioning.

Rorschach simply needs to follow the instrument's prompts to move forward.

The heavy rain and the carefully planned path provided him with the best cover.

The manor’s vast shadows swallowed Rorschach’s figure. He walked through the meticulously trimmed but eerie bushes, avoiding several sensor blind spots, and finally arrived at the unassuming paneled wall of the study.

Rorschach then pressed on several barely noticeable bumps.

"Crack!"

With a soft sound almost completely drowned out by the rain, the panel slid open silently, revealing the deep, downward-sloping stone steps behind it.

The secret passage carried the distinctive, damp, musty smell and dusty odor of the underground.

Rorschach stepped into the darkness without hesitation.

However, just as he stepped completely into the secret passage and the panels behind him were about to close!

"do not move."

A deep voice came from the shadows deep within the secret passage.

Batman blended completely into the deeper darkness behind the corner, as if he himself were part of this ancient building, waiting there all along.

Rorschach didn't even notice the flow of any energy.

The other party was like a stone statue that had stood there for thousands of years, only to be activated the moment he stepped into the trap.

Upon hearing the voice, Luo Xia froze on the spot.

His mask obscured his expression, but his taut muscles betrayed his vigilance.

"who are you?"

Batman's voice rang out again, "Why are you here? Who sent you?"

He then took a step forward, his heavy boots echoing dully on the stone steps, completely blocking Rorschach's path.

The Dark Knight's figure emerged fully from the shadows.

Now that Gotham is rife with people who oppose "Batman," Bruce has increased his vigilance and spotted the other party the moment he entered the manor.

Rorschach made a muffled sound that was hard to understand, and then said to him, "I am Rorschach, and I have come here to seek your help."

"help?"

Batman frowned, feeling a sense of unease about the man in front of him wearing a strange ink-stained mask and a tattered coat.

"say clearly."

Batman's voice grew even colder, and he slightly adjusted his stance, ready to subdue this dangerous intruder at any moment.

Rorschach seemed to realize the powerlessness of language.

He stopped his futile attempts and then reached into the inside pocket of his dirty coat.

Bruce's eyes were sharp, watching his every subtle movement, his muscles tense, ready for any possible weapon.

But Rorschach pulled out not a gun, but a more filthy and worn-out notebook.

The hard cover was badly worn, with curled edges and dark stains that had seeped into the paper, some resembling dried blood and others like old grease.

He handed the well-worn diary to Batman.

Luo Xia said in a hoarse voice, "After reading this diary, you should understand."

This diary is the original Rorschach's diary, which records the truth about the fragile peace of the Watchmen universe.

Luo Xia knew that the man in front of him understood everything after reading the diary.

Batman did not immediately take the diary.

His sharp gaze scrutinized the diary, then the unchanging ink on Rorschach's mask.

Finally, Batman reached out and took the diary.

As my fingertips touched the rough, cold cover, an indescribable aura wafted over me.

Bruce didn't open the diary on the spot; he simply held it in his hand and fixed his gaze back on Rorschach.

Bruce stared at him for a moment, then opened the diary and began to read.

As Bruce read the diary entries detailing the events that had transpired in the Watchmen universe, his expression shifted constantly, while a storm raged within him.

"Clap!"

After a long while, Bruce closed the diary, suppressing the intense emotions within him.

"Alfred."

Bruce took a deep breath and whispered into the air.

A moment later, Alfred Pennyworth appeared at the entrance to the secret passage in the study.

"Young Master?" Afu's voice was steady.

"Take this guest to the guest room, the one at the end of the west wing."

Batman's gaze never left Rorschach. "Make sure he stays there."

"Understood, Master."

Afu bowed slightly and turned to Rorschach, "Sir, please come with me."

Rorschach seemed to want to say something, his throat bobbed, but in the end he only let out a muffled nasal sound.

Watching Rorschach and Alfred leave, Bruce headed towards the Batcave and immediately contacted Peter using encrypted communication.

The scene recorded in the diary was too unbelievable, so he had to inform his godfather.

the other side.

Rorschach followed behind Afu, dragging his feet, leaving the cold, dark passageway and passing through the magnificent yet oppressively empty corridors of the manor.

The light from the crystal chandelier spilled onto the gleaming marble floor, reflecting his ragged figure, which seemed completely out of place in this opulent setting.

With a creak, Afu pushed open a heavy, carved wooden door.

The room features soaring ceilings, a huge four-poster bed draped in dark curtains, floor-to-ceiling windows offering views of a neatly manicured but rain-blurred garden, a separate fireplace, and even a small living area.

To Wayne Manor, this might be the most unremarkable guest room, but to Rorschach, the space was breathtakingly large.

Luo Xia stood at the door, frozen.

He looked around the empty room, so spacious he could hear his own heartbeat echoing within him, and after a moment, he hoarsely squeezed out a few words: "It's too big. I don't need such a big room."

Afu maintained his perfect butler demeanor, turning slightly to the side: "I'm sorry, sir, this is indeed the smallest and simplest guest room in the manor."

Rorschach did not speak again.

He nodded and slowly walked into the room.

Afu didn't say much, but bowed slightly: "Please rest well. If you need anything, you can ring the bell."

He pointed to a delicate brass bell on the bedside table, then gently closed the door.

The moment the door closed, Luo Xia felt as if his last bit of strength had been drained away, and he slid to the ground, leaning against the cold door panel.

He curled up, hugging his knees tightly with his arms, and buried his head deeply.

The spacious area did not bring him any sense of security; instead, it felt like an invisible cage, squeezing him from all sides.

All the pressure, mixed with a deep-seated self-loathing, coiled around his heart, tightening ever more.

Then he suddenly raised his head, his gaze fixed on the door leading to the bathroom in the corner of the room.

He practically crawled on his hands and feet and burst through the door.

The bathroom was also excessively spacious.

A huge white bathtub, and gleaming tiled walls.

Rorschach ignored all of this.

He staggered to the huge sink, took off his hood, and a black face was reflected in the mirror.

He frantically splashed water on his face, as if the cold water could wash something away.

Then he grabbed the soap from the sink and scrubbed his bare skin almost self-destructively.

Rorschach's eyes were bloodshot, filled with pain, anger, and self-hatred.

Because he betrayed the spirit left by the first Rorschach, cooperated with the Pharaoh, and became a tool of the kind of people he hated most, all for a vague goal that even he himself began to doubt.

The Pharaoh was the person the original Rorschach hated most, yet he chose to cooperate with the Pharaoh.

I am such a filthy person!
Rorschach kept rubbing until his arms were covered with fine bloodstains, until the cold water stung his wounds, and until he was exhausted.

He finally slumped down and pressed his forehead against the cold mirror, his body trembling violently from the cold and pain.

He remains trapped in this enormous room, trapped in this filthy collaboration, trapped in his own body.

at the same time.

A thick, dark shadow enveloped a slum in Gotham's East Side, the air thick with the acrid stench of rotting garbage. Erica Manson, the "Puppet," was wrapped tightly in an ill-fitting gray waterproof trench coat she'd salvaged from the spaceship's emergency pod.

Her husband, in a "mime," walked silently half a step behind her.

The mime's tall, thin body was wrapped in a similarly worn-out work jacket, and his face covered in paint looked even more eerie and unpredictable under the lights.

The two had just escaped from the spaceship that had jumped between dimensions and stepped into the city called Gotham.

Hunger and a sense of unease stemming from the unknown drove them to push open a heavy wooden door.

A thick whiff of cheap tobacco smoke, the sour smell of sweat, and the foamy aroma of cheap beer quickly billowed out from inside.

The tavern was dark, filthy, and filled with smoke.

Several greasy wooden tables were crowded with men and women dressed in strange clothes, their faces painted with exaggerated paint.

The members of the Jokers are drinking and arguing.

Erica and the mime pushed open the door and entered, and instantly all the noise seemed to be paused.

Dozens of curious eyes were focused on them.

"Hey! Look who's this clown who ran away from their circus?"

A burly man with an exaggerated grin painted on his face, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth, was the first to attack.

He pushed the woman away from him, stood up unsteadily, and asked Erica, "Honey, did you just come from a junkyard fashion show?"

"Where's that man over there? What kind of weird stuff is painted on his face? Who is he trying to scare?"

Another tall, thin man, wearing a crooked green wig, pointed at the pantomime and said, "This is the Joker's territory. Are you trying to infiltrate our gang dressed like this? We don't accept trash here."

The tall, thin man made a shrill sound, and the laughter around him became even more unrestrained.

Erica felt a spasm in her stomach, and a surge of offended anger welled up inside her.

Suppressing her annoyance, she asked the tall, thin man, "Who's your boss?"

“Our boss is the Joker, but it won’t be easy for you to see him. If you keep me company, I might introduce you to him.”

After the tall, thin man finished speaking, another burst of laughter erupted.

Amidst the laughter, the pantomime, like a silent stone sculpture, its painted eyes, in the dim light, sharply scanned every laughing face, finally settling on the burly man with yellow teeth who had first provoked them.

The burly man felt a little uncomfortable under the gaze of the mime, but the alcohol and gang arrogance made him even more cocky.

He picked up an empty wine bottle, staggered over to the pantomime, and almost pressed his face against the paint: "What are you looking at? Can't you understand human language? You bastard!"

As he spoke, he raised the bottle, as if to smash it.

In that instant, the pantomime came to life.

His right hand rose with lightning speed, thumb raised, index finger extended straight out, and the other three fingers bent.

A clear, unmistakable, universally recognized "pistol" gesture was steadily pointed at the burly man's forehead.

Deafening laughter erupted again in the tavern.

"Hahaha! Who does he think he is? Air Gunman?"

"I was so scared! Haha!"

"Pull the trigger! Pull it! Let's see if your air bullet can blow my head off! Hahaha!"

The burly man with yellow teeth laughed so hard he was doubled over, spitting everywhere, completely ignoring the comical gesture.

The corners of his mouth, covered in mime paint, turned down very subtly.

Then, at the very moment when the burly man's laughter reached its peak, his index finger, the finger that represents the "trigger," suddenly snapped inward!
"boom!"

The sound wasn't loud; it was even somewhat muffled, like tapping a watermelon through a thick cloth.

But the effect is terrifying!

The burly man with yellow teeth abruptly stopped his annoying, maniacal laughter.

His smile froze instantly, replaced by incredulous horror.

Right in the center of his forehead, a clear, circular hole with scorch marks on its edges appeared.

Fresh blood mixed with a grayish-white paste gushed out from both the front and back of the hole.

"Oh!"

Then, the burly man's massive body seemed to have all its bones removed, and he crashed backward.

Time seems to have frozen.

Instantly, the painted smiles on the faces of all the clown gang members froze, turning into comical yet terrifying masks.

Everyone stared wide-eyed at their companion on the ground, who was still twitching slightly and whose forehead was constantly oozing red and white substances, their minds going blank.

Air gun?
Did they really blow his head off?!
Fear, like a cold, venomous snake, instantly coiled around everyone's heart.

The red-haired woman who was closest let out a short, extremely sharp scream, then covered her mouth tightly, her body trembling violently.

Erica also took action.

She didn't look at the fallen bodies, nor at the terrified mobsters.

Erica's gaze swept across the entire tavern in an instant, locking onto all potential threats.

The two blocking the doorway, the bartender reaching for his shotgun behind the counter, and the tall, thin guy pulling out a dagger from the corner.

She didn't even take any "weapons" out of her trench coat.

She simply made a very discreet gesture with her right hand at her waist, and a thin, almost imperceptible silver light flashed between her fingers.

"Hey!"

The sound was so faint it was like tearing a thin sheet of paper.

The bartender, who had just lifted the shotgun off the counter, suddenly stopped.

A very thin line of blood ran straight down from the center of his forehead, across his nose, lips, chin, throat, chest, and down to his waist and abdomen.

The bartender's eyes were filled with confusion, as if he hadn't yet understood what was happening.

The next second, his body silently split open along that perfect line of blood!

Internal organs, blood, and shattered bones poured onto the bar and the liquor cabinet behind it with a splash, the strong smell of blood instantly overpowering the aroma of alcohol.

Erica then gripped the metal wire in her fingers and continued her attack.

"Hey!"

A gang member at the doorway tried to draw his gun, but his upper body slid down at an angle, the cut as smooth as if it had been laser-cut.

The tall, thin man who rushed in from the corner with a dagger had both legs severed at the knees. He screamed and fell to the ground, blood gushing from the cuts.

A heavy oak table, along with two gang members trembling behind it, was effortlessly cleaved in two.

The body, sawdust, and broken bottles were mixed together.

The red-haired woman who tried to crawl under the table, along with the heavy wooden table she was hiding in, was cut in half vertically.

Her scream was cut short halfway through, and her two halves of her body fell to either side with expressions of disbelief.

The massacre took place in silence, with only the grating sizzling sounds of flesh being cut open, bones being severed, and objects being dismembered, along with the dull thuds of blood splattering, entrails slipping out, and corpses falling to the ground, weaving together a concerto of hell.

The overwhelming stench of blood, almost tangible, seeped into every corner, assaulting the survivors' nostrils and threatening their nerves.

The entire process probably lasted less than thirty seconds.

Using only a thin thread, she instantly killed the clown gang members in the bar.

Finally, Erica deftly flicked her finger, and the deadly silver light retreated back into her fingertip and disappeared.

The entire tavern has been completely transformed.

The lights were still dim, but what they reflected was no longer the noisy chaos, but a deathly silence like a slaughterhouse.

Tables, chairs, bar counters, wine cabinets, human bodies... everything was covered with horrifying cut marks.

Severed limbs, mangled bodies, fragments of internal organs, and broken furniture, mixed with wine bottles, were soaked in the rampant flow.

The air was heavy, as if filled with lead, with only the "drip-drip" sound of dripping blood and a few faint, negligible groans remaining.

The pantomime stood still, without moving an inch.

He watched indifferently as Erica completed this "massacre," as if the carnage before him had nothing to do with him.

Erica stepped through the sticky pool of blood and walked to the tall, thin man with broken legs who had provoked her first.

He wasn't completely dead yet; his eyes were wide open, filled with pain and fear, and a hoarse, leaking sound came from his throat.

Erica crouched down, moving very gently, as if afraid of disturbing something.

"Cuckoo..."

The tall, thin man seemed to want to say something, but only blood foam came out.

Erica leaned close to his ear and clearly uttered a few words: "Where is the boss you were talking about, the Joker? We want to talk to him."

(End of this chapter)