The warden's suicide didn't surprise Bruce in the slightest—after all, Bruce had already known the warden wouldn't survive.
The moment Bruce said he had called the police, the warden's fate was sealed.
As a prison warden, not many people knew exactly what he had done behind bars, but he knew it better than anyone.If he actually ended up in prison, what awaited him could be a treatment far more brutal than others would receive.
The way he treated others—those people would return the favor in kind.
He had long grown used to being high and mighty; how could he possibly endure such pain and torment?
As for calling the police, Bruce never intended to trouble the already overwhelmed officers.
Perhaps if the warden had lived, Bruce could have learned more about those involved in this matter. But in Bruce's eyes, the warden's death was for the best.
It also served as the perfect warning to the rest of them.
Bruce pulled a Batarang from his utility belt and hurled it, embedding it into the Da Vinci painting Salvator Mundi behind the warden.
That painting, however, was already splattered with red and white stains—now joined by Bruce's Batarang.
As for the warden's final words, claiming he wouldn't be the last—
Bruce had long understood the truth.
Whether it was the experience stored in the bat in his mind, or his own judgment—everything he had witnessed in this city confirmed that those people would never truly vanish.
All Bruce could do was suppress them as much as possible.
The evil in this world could never be completely eradicated.
Bruce walked out. During his earlier fight with Kingpin, Kingpin had torn off Bruce's cape—which conveniently played into Bruce's plan.
The entire suit was composed of nanobots. How could the cape be anything else?
Bruce needed to buy time. He needed to lull those helping Wilson Fisk into letting their guard down, making it easier for him to extract the information he needed.
That was also one of the reasons Bruce didn't stop the warden from committing suicide—he already had the list that man possessed.
As Bruce stepped out of the warden's office, the same guards he'd seen earlier were standing at the door, weapons in hand, clearly hesitating.
They had definitely heard the gunshot from inside the office.
They also knew Batman was currently inside the prison, but couldn't be sure whether the gunshot came from him.
Back when Batman had quelled the chaos in New York, everyone came to understand that this was no comic book character. He was fully capable of killing.
Some guards had once claimed Batman was just a normal human—easily taken down with a bullet. But once they actually confronted him, they realized just how overwhelming the pressure he exuded truly was.
Bruce carefully observed the guards in front of him.
Even in a place like this, filled with scum, there were still a few who had managed to stay true to themselves.
"Hands up."
But now that something like this had happened in their prison, they couldn't just stand by.
Even if the man before them had once been president—it wouldn't matter.
Bruce slowly raised his hands—but in the next second, two smoke bombs slipped from his fingers.
"That's more like it. What bat doesn't have a PhD in smoke bombs?"
The LEGO Batman in his mind spoke enthusiastically to Thomas upon witnessing the scene.
On the other side, the real Batman, who was reading a book, shook his head in exasperation when he heard that line. What PhD in smoke bombs?
He didn't believe any Batman actually held a degree. They'd probably just attended lectures in every major across multiple universities—without ever completing a systematic education or earning a diploma.
Simply put, Batman was probably just a high school graduate. Even though many of his skills and knowledge were at the highest level, he still lacked academic or professional certification.
Cough, cough!
"Where's Batman?"
"Where is he?!"
The smoke bombs completely disrupted the guards' vision. They couldn't even open their eyes, let alone try to locate Batman. They couldn't even make out their colleagues' faces beside them.
Even the braver ones who forced their eyes open couldn't spot Bruce's figure.
In contrast, Bruce moved effortlessly in this environment, like a fish in water, easily finding the guards who had colluded with the warden.
Of course, the ones Bruce targeted were only those involved in the warden and Wilson Fisk's scheme. Other guards may have had shady dealings too—
But that wasn't Bruce's concern right now. Others would deal with them in due time.
Bruce moved through the smoke like a dancer, and every time he shifted positions, he appeared in front of another guard—delivering a punch straight to the face, instantly knocking them out.
When Bruce finally emerged from the smoke, he removed the full-face mask that had been covering him.
This wasn't over. There were still others who needed to be dealt with.
Bruce resumed his operation within Clinton Penitentiary, quickly locating every guard and prisoner involved in the incident.
Only after subduing everyone did Bruce begin walking toward the cell where Wilson Fisk had originally been held.
"Officer Hill, you can bring your team to Clinton Penitentiary now."
Bruce sent the message to Hill.
As for himself—he had already reached Wilson Fisk.
Despite the brutal beating he'd taken, Wilson Fisk had managed to regain consciousness in such a short amount of time. One had to admit—he'd trained his body to the absolute limit.
"Batman."
Though he still couldn't move his body, he could clearly see Bruce approaching. Gritting his teeth, he spat out the name with hatred.
Bruce didn't bother with threats. He simply walked over and pulled a coil of extremely tough rope from his utility belt.
Even though Fisk's body was massive and heavy, Bruce had no trouble turning him over.
He wrapped the rope tightly around Wilson Fisk's body, making sure it couldn't be shaken off easily.
"I'll come out again. I'll keep coming."
Kingpin clearly hadn't realized what kind of treatment was awaiting him next.
Bruce didn't waste any words either. He walked straight up to Kingpin and brought a heavy chop down on his neck.
Just as Wilson Fisk had regained a bit of consciousness, he once again slipped into unconsciousness.
Bruce had no intention of letting someone like him continue living in a regular maximum-security prison.
He always found a way to manipulate the system — getting inmates to work for him, turning the prison into his own empire, and maintaining easy access to the outside world.
What Bruce wanted now was to make sure he could never do that again — to turn him into someone who could only exist, not live.
Maybe it was inhumane, maybe even cruel — but to Bruce, this was the only way.
At least this way, Bruce could ensure that other people's families and friends wouldn't suffer because of him.
And so, Bruce dragged Wilson Fisk's limp body step by step out of Clinton Penitentiary.
He threw him directly into the front passenger seat of the Batmobile.
As the Batmobile pulled away from Clinton Prison, it passed right by Hill and her team's patrol cars.
"Should we…" one of the junior officers asked Hill, not finishing his sentence, though Hill understood what he meant.
"Should we give him a Good Citizen Award, or a Medal of Bravery?" Hill replied with a wry smile.
The young officer was left speechless. After all, they really had no idea what they could give the Bat.
That Bat had even sat in the president's seat — though it was during wartime — still, it was a position most of them never dared to dream of.
"So let's just focus on doing our own job properly. There's no need to overreach."
But when Hill actually arrived at Clinton Penitentiary and saw the state of things, she couldn't help but furrow her brow. What she saw was far beyond what she had imagined.
She had expected the place to be a mess, but she never imagined the warden would have committed suicide.
And then there were the dozen or so guards who had been knocked out cold by Bruce — their noses shattered.
"He really left us a wonderful little mess to deal with," Hill muttered, tugging at her hair in frustration.
The warden was dead. So many guards were incapacitated.
It was already shaping up to be a massive scandal.
Especially considering how the American public already harbored deep resentment toward the privatization of prisons. Once the news got out, Hill could already picture the media storm that was about to erupt.
But just then, a notification interrupted Hill's thoughts. Seeing the familiar bat symbol, she really wanted to drag that guy out and give him a good smack.
But when she opened Bruce's message, she finally let out a sigh of relief — at least he hadn't dumped everything on them. He had already taken care of the initial investigation and evidence collection.
"Looks like we'll need to bring in a new warden and a fresh batch of guards," she muttered.
Meanwhile, Bruce had already returned to the Batcave with Kingpin in tow.
As he dragged Wilson Fisk into the Batcave's medical bay, a call came in.
"Are you okay?" Jessica's voice came through the receiver.
"I'm busy. I'll talk to you later."
Bruce replied coldly, then ended the call and continued dragging Fisk toward the med bay.
Wilson Fisk, once so high and mighty, was now a completely broken man.
He didn't even resemble the man who used to sit in prison enjoying steak. He was now just a pitiful, broken dog with his spine shattered.
Bruce laid Fisk on the operating table and looked at his unconscious face, muttering to himself:
"Each hemisphere of the brain is divided into four lobes. The frontal lobe is the largest, taking up about a third of the brain. Removing it causes people to lose many functions, including most of their personality."
"This is an extreme and inhumane procedure. Even the harshest psychiatric institutions today wouldn't do this to their patients."
"And in the past, this surgery had a very high mortality rate."
"But you won't die — because I'll be precise."
Bruce felt no guilt about the procedure he was about to perform on Fisk.
Even if this method crossed the boundaries of the law, even if it was a form of personal vengeance — Bruce didn't hesitate.
In fact, one could say this act of Bruce's would mentally destroy the once-feared king of New York's underworld.
Back at Aunt May's home, Jessica shrugged helplessly at her.
Aunt May didn't say much. After all, this kind of thing happened often. Once the Bat got busy, he'd only contact them for what was absolutely necessary — everything else, he simply ignored.
"I think he might need my help right now," Jessica said, even though she hadn't heard any chaos on Bruce's end. But as his assistant, she was used to supporting him remotely from the Batcave during operations.
Hearing Jessica's words, Gwen quickly stood up too.
She wanted to see if there was anything she could do to help the Bat.
"Wait."
Aunt May stopped them both and quickly went into the kitchen.
Jessica suddenly caught a familiar scent — a very specific kind of bread.
Looking toward the kitchen, she saw Aunt May pulling a large loaf of bread out of the oven and wrapping it up.
"Take this back with you. At least try to get Bruce to eat more."
Smiling, Aunt May handed the wrapped bread to Jessica.
"I'll make sure he finishes the whole thing," Jessica replied confidently, accepting the red date bread from Aunt May and nodding firmly. She was determined to get Bruce to eat it.
Gwen, however, noticed a flicker of unease in Jessica's eyes when she saw the bread.
She wasn't sure what kind of bread could make Jessica react like that.
It wasn't like Aunt May's cooking was bad. While it might not match up to gourmet restaurants, it was definitely above average.
But the moment Jessica realized the bread was for Bruce, her unease turned into a kind of mischievous glee.
That only made Gwen even more curious.
Still, she chose not to ask about it — for now.
(End of Chapter)
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