Starting from scratch, Batman crushed my dream of getting rich

Chapter 606 Phantom Combat
"Time point. What time point?"

Ma Zhaodi pondered the system's prompts: "One is the point in time when the Riddler and the Joker are fighting each other, and the other is the point in time when Barry becomes the Flash, marking the origin of his heroic story."

What do these two have in common?
[The Batman who has just debuted in the main universe of the hyper-timeline, the Flash movie version whose stats are ten or even dozens of times lower than those in the comics, and the supervillains who haven't improved enough due to lack of training—they can certainly be compared to Gotham City in the mystery comics.]

"Then I should thank you."

Ma Zhaodi chuckled and said, "The two part-time jobs they found for me are so thoughtfully designed to keep me from getting punched into a pulp."

[Don't be so polite. You've proven the system's vision and your own abilities countless times. No matter where you are, you have the potential to be a menace—gold shines wherever it is.]

Ma Zhaodi's smile vanished.

It's not that I don't like to smile, it's just that I don't really want to give the system a friendly look right now.

He didn't waste any more time here, but instead threw two Samurai Blades (standard) at Clinton. These were two handguns he had bought during the Laughing Battle. Each of these handguns cost $10,000, and you needed to get an S rating in the system's simulation design system to unlock the purchase qualification.

The design has nothing futuristic about it, and its power is that of a well-loaded 9mm pistol. The reason it is expensive and difficult to buy is because of its only built-in feature—unlimited ammunition.

"Clinton, use these two guns!"

When Clinton saw Ma Zhaodi, although he didn't show any particular expression on his face, the tension in his muscles relaxed slightly, and he let out a long breath.

He casually caught the two pistols that Ma Zhaodi threw to him. Despite having seen countless guns, he couldn't immediately identify their models. But the moment he held them, he was certain that they were definitely standard-issue pistols with a very mature design.

As a seasoned gunsman, he knew how to use this gun at a glance. It had a smooth feel, a reliable structure, a stable center of gravity, and excellent craftsmanship. It was completely different from the "good-looking" guns made with low-precision tools in Gotham City. It was a standard mass-produced industrial product.

He was secretly astonished. Every detail on both guns was meticulously crafted, with no superfluous design. Clearly, the designers had poured a great deal of effort into them, and they were definitely capable of becoming world-renowned pistols like the Glock and Beretta series.

I've never even heard of this kind of gun before?
What are their names?

Using Ma Zhaodi's wheelchair as cover, he raised his two guns and exchanged fire with the thugs. The moment he pulled the trigger, the feel was smooth and silky, and its power and accuracy were absolutely excellent for a nine-millimeter pistol.

"How would I know their names? Which female thug have you taken a fancy to?"

"I'm asking what the gun is called!"

"The Samurai's Blade".

Sitting in his wheelchair, watching the thugs fall to the ground one by one after being shot, Ma Zhaodi judged that Clinton's skill in handgun shooting was about to break through to the advanced level and reach the master level.

"Either I'm mistaken, or their data started to expand after the cosmic convergence." He muttered to himself, "How can these people's talents be so outrageous?"

"How dare you call someone a gifted freak?"

The three-wheeled vehicle grumbled, "Why don't you even look down and see the cheats you're using?"

"Can that be the same?"

Ma Zhaodi, though unconvinced, retorted, "Don't I want to keep my little money for eating, drinking, and having fun? Isn't it all being spent on saving the world? Don't you understand the saying 'A workman must first sharpen his tools if he wants to do his work well'?"

In a few words and half a minute, all the thugs opposite him were lying on the ground. Clinton stopped firing and immediately reached for the pistol's magazine, but after pulling twice, he couldn't get it out: "Wait, how much ammunition do these two guns actually hold?!"

“This is a special technology,” Ma Zhaodi explained without changing his expression. “It’s hard for me to explain the specific details to you, just know that it has an inexhaustible supply of bullets.”

Clinton's pupils dilated in shock, and Ma Zhaodi's words were so outrageous that they had a ridiculous sense of humor, like "the savage villagers of a primitive settlement sharing their knowledge of nuclear fusion with you."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Just take it as fact.

Ma Zhaodi tossed him a bag of candy: "You can have one if you're injured. Try not to get entangled with thugs on the road. Quickly find our citizens and get a driver to take them out of Gotham City. It's urgent, so be fast!"

He wasn't sure what disaster was about to befall Gotham City, but he was certain that the Scarecrow's large-scale operation meant something big was going on. In addition, since there was no one in the houses he saw along the way, he concluded that the citizens of Gotham City in the Arkham universe had been transferred to a safe location.

So, those "very principled Gotham citizens" mentioned by Scarecrow are most likely citizens from their home Gotham who were transported to this universe. If they don't hurry up and send them out, he's worried that a large-scale death incident will occur.

Clinton wanted to ask more questions, but Ma Zhaodi didn't waste any more words with him. He pointed to a perfectly good motorcycle on the side of the street, indicating that Clinton should ride it to deliver the message, and then disappeared down the street in a flash.

His last words of advice drifted on the evening breeze: "Clinton, be careful."

"Tsk, can't even speak clearly."

With a hint of displeasure on his face, Clinton immediately put away his two guns, grabbed the candy, hopped on his motorcycle, and sped toward the Gotham Television Broadcasting Building.

The fastest way to form a group is, of course, through broadcasting.

"Stop fighting! Stop fighting!"

A familiar voice came from my ears.

Batman felt dizzy—he had just been punched three times, all on the head. Although he had developed a strong body with the ability to withstand blows that was comparable to an iron man during his long career as a vigilante, he suddenly realized that the imposter's fist was also an iron fist.

The opponent was as strong as a black bear and as agile as a cat. His reaction speed, fighting ability, and combat experience were almost on par with his own—no, that's not right, he was stronger than him.

The opponent's fighting style and mindset were extremely similar to his own—he knew very well that his fighting style was not from any particular school, but rather a unique fighting style created by him after integrating more than a hundred different fighting techniques.

Even this detail was copied by the other party.

Does he really exist?

In a daze, he subconsciously anticipated that the other party was going to take the item, and casually threw a batarang—even though the other party did not show any intention of reaching for his waist.

But so what? He didn't have any wind-up animation when he picked up the props himself.

The two men anticipated each other's movements, threw punches, and then landed in empty space, like two phantoms fighting.

Only when fists actually collide can one be certain that the other is a real entity, rather than a figment of one's imagination.

(End of this chapter)