American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 212 Dio: Gotham is truly a land of talent.
Unlike the 'happy and harmonious' atmosphere of the farm.

The iceberg at this moment:
The space was once filled with languid jazz music and the sound of ice cubes clattering.

It was enveloped in a tense silence.

Oswald Copport was impatiently tapping on the table, his small eyes scanning the empty conference room before finally settling on the figure opposite him.

Dior slumped lazily into his executive chair.

Today he was dressed casually, a stark contrast to Copeport's traditional suits, and his eyes were half-closed, as if he had little interest in what was about to begin.

"My King"

Cobbler broke the silence first, his voice barely audible, "Before we begin this... 'talent recruitment' performance, shouldn't you first explain why we need extra manpower?"

"Our profits, although they have experienced explosive growth for some time."

"But are you going to start hiring thugs now?"

"Cobert" interrupted the penguin's swaying. Dio didn't even bother to lift his eyelids and said casually, "Short-sightedness is a common problem among businessmen, but I don't want it to become the label of the Iceberg Club."

"What we need to establish now is 'order' and 'network'."

“Every new member is a piece on the chessboard of the future. They may be insignificant, but at crucial moments, they can block the opponent’s retreat.” He gently shook the list in his hand. “Or are you more content to guard your little patch of land and wait for some clueless ‘newcomer’ to take you all down one day?”

"."

"Your Majesty"

Coppert's face darkened. "I don't want to see some piece of trash arrested for being stupid in the Black Gate's dungeon one day, dragging down the entire club."

"Being caught only proves..."

“This is the incompetence of the selectors.” Dio lifted his eyelids, a cold glint flashing in his crimson pupils. “My standards are very simple.”

“Either you have the ability, or you have leverage over others. As for the risks?” A cruel smile curled at the corner of his lips. “Any risk is just entertainment in the face of absolute power.”

"Or are you starting to doubt my abilities, Copport?"

Invisible gunpowder smoke filled the air.

Copeport's cheek twitched, and he immediately realized that he had lost the verbal battle again.

Dior's arrogance was based on his power and network of connections.
His prized "business philosophy" proved far too passive in the face of the opponent's almost barbaric expansionist expansion strategy.
“I’m just reminding you, Your Majesty the King,” Cobb took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure, “the waters are deep, and not all fish can be caught in our nets. Some… might turn around and bite through our nets.”

"Then let's make the fish that bit the net into sashimi for tonight."

Dior responded casually, tossing the list he was holding onto the table.

"let's start."

Upon hearing this, Lark, who was standing to the side, immediately bowed slightly and smoothly placed the two prepared detailed information files of the applicants in front of Dio and Coppe respectively.

Cobbett, his face dark with barely suppressed rage, grabbed the folder, roughly flipped it open, and scanned the first page as if he were examining a list of potential traitors rather than reading a resume.

Dior, on the other hand, was quite the opposite.

He didn't even touch the beautifully bound document in front of him, but simply waved it casually, as if shooing away an insignificant flying insect.

Lark silently retreated to the door and pressed the internal communicator.

The first applicant was brought in.

He was a burly man with tattoos on his neck.

His eyes held a mixture of tension and feigned ferocity.

However, as soon as he finished his brief self-introduction according to procedure, Copeport couldn't wait to start asking a barrage of questions.

He was clearly trying to regain control of the interview process and assert his authority as the 'founder'.

Dior kept his eyes half-closed the entire time, as if listening to a dull concert.

It wasn't until Copeland asked the third question that he lazily lifted his eyelids and glanced at the burly man who was sweating a little from the question.

"enough."

He casually interrupted Copperfield, looked at the applicant, and skipped all the framework Copperfield had set, "Tell me, if you were asked to 'convince' Old Duco, one of Maroni's men in the next block, to take over the underground liquor supply channels for that piece of land, what would be the first thing you would do?"

"."

The burly man was taken aback, clearly not expecting this.
Are you not going to act anymore?
Aren't we a club?!
So he stammered and tried to apply some old-fashioned,江湖 (jianghu) style:

"I...I'll take a few brothers to 'talk' with him first..."

Dior's lips curled into an undisguised disdainful smile, a cold smile that carried a piercing sarcasm.

"Take a few brothers along for a 'talk'?"

He slowly repeated the other person's words, his voice like a viper's hiss, "Very standard street thinking, unfortunately, outdated and stupid."

“Your resume says you spent five years on the periphery of the Falcone family, dealing with ‘tricky’ issues.” Dio’s tone was calm, but every word was piercing. “But as far as I know, the person in charge of the Falcone East District during that period was ‘Iron Hand’ Tony, and what he hated most was the ‘Cartel,’ that infamous Latin American drug cartel.”

"And what about that tattoo you got from who-knows-where? Do I need to remind you where it belongs?"

The burly man's face turned deathly pale instantly, and he instinctively tried to hide his hands.

Dior gave him no chance to catch his breath, his gaze dissecting like a scalpel: "Not only is your resume falsified, but even your seemingly impressive 'qualifications' are pieced together at the last minute."

"The dragon on the neck? The lines are rough and the colors are gaudy; it's no more than two months old."

"Anyone who didn't know better would think you were one of those triad members."

With each word he spoke, the burly man's back hunched over a little more, and fine beads of cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

Let me guess.

Dior leaned forward slightly, exuding an invisible sense of pressure. "You probably have two children waiting for you to eat at home, and a wife who loves you very much and irons your shirts perfectly before you leave the house."

"But...you're unemployed, aren't you?"

“In Gotham, you know very well what it means for a pillar of society to lose their job. So you have no choice but to bite the bullet and find a tattoo parlor on the street to pretend to be a ‘veteran’ who you are not at all, hoping to try your luck here, even if it means starting from the bottom.”

The man's shoulders slumped completely, all pretense stripped away, leaving only the embarrassment of being seen through.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Upon seeing this, Yun Que immediately stepped forward, preparing to ask this 'loser' to leave.

However, Dior raised his hand to stop her.

He changed the subject, his tone tinged with pity:

"but……"

"I admire your courage to stand here. That courage is better than many of those useless barkers."

He paused, as if making a trivial decision:

"There's a shortage of a waiter at the parking lot entrance to guide guests. The salary isn't high, but it's enough for you to support your family. Go report for duty there."

What a twist!

The man abruptly raised his head, his eyes blazing with unbelievable elation. He almost incoherently expressed his gratitude, "Thank you! Thank you! Your Majesty! I will do my best! I will..."

At Hibari's calm prompting, he excitedly stumbled out of the room.

The door was closed, isolating it from the outside world.

Cobbett couldn't hold back any longer and lowered his voice, saying, "What's this all about now?"

"What we need are stable, reliable, and capable personnel."

"Not the kind of 'good citizen' who even fakes their tattoos!"

He had clearly seen through the man's true nature long ago, and his questioning earlier was just an attempt to have some fun interrogating Dior and regain some face, but he didn't expect Dior to pull this stunt.

Looking at Cobblestone with a leisurely air, Dio said slowly, "Have you forgotten what I said again, Cobblestone?"

He held up two fingers and gestured elegantly: "I gave him a way to survive and his family a guarantee. Sometimes, a small favor can win people's hearts more than any threat."

"The parking lot is one of the most well-informed places, a melting pot of all sorts of people. It's a good place to have someone who is grateful, eager to prove themselves, and deeply empathetic to the hardships of those at the bottom of society working there."

"He is the ear and eye I placed there."

Dio tapped the table lightly and concluded, "There's a method to making use of waste. If we just throw it away, we'll get nothing."

"But if placed in the right position, it can generate value."

“That’s what you call ‘business,’ Coppert, not like a miser who only stares at a few coins in the safe.”

"."

Speechless after hearing these words, Cobblestone's mind drifted to another thought.
Why did this guy talk to me so much today?
This is not right.
Shouldn't you usually just glance at me and tell me to shut up?

Cobbet stared at Dio, as if trying to find a flaw in that handsome yet indifferent face, but he still couldn't see anything.
He could only grab his cane to cover up his embarrassment.

Dio stopped looking at him and tapped the bell on the table: "Continue."

"boom-!"

The door was pushed open again.

The person who came in this time was a thin, middle-aged man.

He was wearing an ill-fitting old suit, his fingers nervously twisting together.

However, with an almost morbid excitement, he began to describe his expertise:
"...I can use wild dogs. They can all become my weapons."

"This method is silent and leaves no trace; the police will never be able to find it..."

Dio didn't look up; he was simply flipping through the documents that Lark had just handed him, doing so very quickly.

The records were exceptionally detailed, even clearly stating:

[At the age of 16, he was sentenced to 20 years in Blackgate Prison for controlling seven stray dogs that attacked and killed a fisherman at the East Wharf. He was recently released.]

Upon seeing this, a glint of light flashed in Copeport's small eyes.

He seemed intrigued by this 'unique' skill, leaning forward and opening his mouth as if to ask something.

If we can train wild dogs, what are some good methods for training birds?
Unfortunately, Dio didn't even give him a chance to make a sound, casually waving his hand away.

"Go down."

Three words, cold and without the slightest hesitation.

The man froze, his prepared speech stuck in his throat, and the excited expression on his face instantly turned to astonishment.

"Why...why? My ability is very useful! I can..."

Dior finally raised his eyes, his pupils devoid of warmth, filled only with pure contempt.

She couldn't even be bothered to look at the man.

"In Gotham..."

"You can use guns and ammunition, you can use machetes and iron bars, you can use trucks to blow things up, you can even use poison..."

Dior's tone carried a condescending, admonitory quality.

"But you used wild dogs to kill people?"

He curled his lips into an extremely disdainful smile, as if even mentioning the matter would lower his status.

"Shameful."

These two words were like a final judgment, utterly crushing the man.

His face turned from red to pale, his lips trembled, but he could no longer utter a single word.

In Gotham's underlying logic, this contempt for methods and style is more lethal than any criticism.
The lark stepped forward silently, this time even skipping the 'please' gesture, simply using a cold look to signal the other person to leave.

The man was led out as if his bones had been removed.

After the door closed, Copperfield frowned, seemingly wanting to express his dissatisfaction with Dior's selection criteria, which were entirely based on personal preference.

But recalling the description of 'wild dogs killing people', he subconsciously pursed his lips and finally said, "...It is indeed a bit low-class."

Dio ignored him, casually tossing the overly detailed document into the wastebasket at his feet, as if it had been contaminated with something unclean.

then
The bell on the table continued to ring.

"Ding--!"

The next applicant came up quickly.
Compared to the previous ones, this one looks much more normal.

A well-fitting suit, neatly combed hair, and a constant smile on his face.

However, Dior did not speak this time, and leaned back lazily in his chair again.

Kobe's eyes lit up with delight!
really
This guy finally realized that the Iceberg Club can't do without his professional insight!

It's clear that she's handing the reins of the interview back to herself!
He felt a surge of excitement, cleared his throat, and resumed his boss-like demeanor.

She then picked up the resume, which looked fairly neat, looked at the ever-smiling man, and posed a question to probe him:

"If, and I mean if, an important guest in the private room you're in charge of complains that our drinks don't taste right, how would you handle it?"

The man's smile remained unchanged as he quietly watched Cobblestone.

“Keep smiling in silence? That’s an excellent solution.” Cobblestone paused for a moment, then nodded, trying to justify himself. “Arguing with guests would only put us at a disadvantage.”

"So, the next question is: What is your most proficient skill? What are your core strengths?"

"."

Copeland waited a few seconds, but when he didn't get a reply, he frowned.

Thinking the other person hadn't heard him clearly, he raised his voice slightly and repeated the question.

The man remained smiling and silent.

Copport looked a little embarrassed.

He forced himself to speak, almost enunciating each word clearly, and asked for the third time, "Sir! I'm asking you! What are you good at?"

But what he received in return was that unchanging smile.

Just as Copport was about to slam his fist on the table and stand up, Dior finally made a move.

He didn't even change his posture; he just waved his hand casually.

"Drag him away." "He's having a mental breakdown."

"?!"

mental illness?
Copeport was stunned, his mind not quite processing it for a moment.

He quickly looked down and began to look at the resume that he hadn't even read carefully before.

Skipping over the seemingly glamorous packaging, I finally spotted a line printed in tiny font in the health status section in the corner:

[Arkham Asylum, three years of hospitalization]

"Who brought him in?"

Cobbet looked at Lark and said with a dark face.

The lark, however, remained unfazed, bowed slightly, and explained in a low voice:

"Wasn't this something you specifically requested before? That you wanted His Majesty the King to broaden his horizons so that I could properly select some 'special talents'."

"..."

Copeport felt a lump in his throat, opened his mouth, but couldn't utter a single word.

He did say something similar, but it was just to annoy Dio. Who knew his subordinates would be so 'efficient' in their execution, actually managing to pull people from Arkham's doorstep for interviews?
"Ding--!"

The table bell rang continuously.

The two then interviewed several more applicants.

There was someone skilled at using barber tools to kill, someone who claimed to be a martial arts master from the East, and someone who immediately tried to sell Dio his army of rats.
These bizarre and outlandish performances made Dior's impatience almost tangible.

He glanced at Cobblestone beside him, his tone carrying an almost astonished mockery:

"Gotham... truly has a wealth of talented people."

"Oswald, you actually managed to select such a group of talented people."

"."

"Please understand."

Cobbler forced a smirk. "Perhaps Blackgate Prison has been tightening its parole process lately, resulting in a sharp decrease in the number of 'graduates,' and their quality is... uneven."

"Perhaps next time we can go directly to Black Gate to 'purchase' a batch."

"Control quality from the source."

Dior didn't reply, but merely glanced at the lark standing quietly to the side.

Hibari immediately understood, and her professional instincts made her say, "Next..."

However, as soon as she spoke, she suddenly realized that she had overstepped her bounds as the nominal boss, and her voice stopped abruptly, like a bird being strangled.

A faint blush rose to her cheeks, and she looked at Copeport somewhat shyly, her expression awkward but clearly conveying a sense of invitation.

after all
In name only, this penguin is his boss.

Seeing Lark's hesitant expression, a trace of sadness flashed across Copport's face.

He felt like an outdated piece of furniture, left in the same place, reminding everyone that times have changed.

He could only wave his hand helplessly.

The door was pushed open.

The person who came in this time was a man who was about thirty years old.

He was wearing a slightly worn but neatly made dark gray suit. He wasn't very tall, but his steps were steady.

He had an ordinary face; the kind of face you wouldn't notice if you threw him into a crowd.

Those eyes were calm and composed, yet they concealed a deep chill.

He made no unnecessary movements, simply standing quietly in his designated spot, his gaze calmly meeting the scrutiny of Dio and Copperfield.

Compared to those monsters and demons before, this person is surprisingly normal...

This is really abnormal.

Copeport roused himself and prepared to speak.

However.
Dior was faster than him.

His bright red pupils, like those of a predator locking onto its prey, focused on the silent man.

Dior didn't even look at the resume Lark handed over; he went straight to questioning:

Tell me, what are you best at?

The man's gaze remained unwavering, calm as still water, and he nodded slightly.

"Usually, we deal with large, noisy, and... well-hidden animals in the slaughterhouse."

"What's your name?"

"Arnold Edgeson."

“Great, you’re hired. Go to the door and find Rocman. He’ll take you to your lounge. We’ll discuss the rest in person.”

"."

Is it really okay to say that to my face?
Copeport was practically gritting his teeth, but he held back from lashing out.

Patience! Oswald! Patience!
One day, this arrogant kid will understand that running the Iceberg Club is inseparable from me, Copport!

The door closed again, followed by a brief silence.

The next applicant was brought in.

Dior picked up the new resume that Lark handed him.

His gaze swept over it, and his brow twitched slightly: "It says here that you... were in a vegetative state for many years? And then you woke up to find that you could generate electricity?"

The man standing there was about thirty years old, with somewhat disheveled hair, but his eyes were unusually bright, one could even say...

It's too bright.

He nodded vigorously, his tone filled with eagerness:
"Yes, your Majesty!"

"I was in a coma for eight years, and when I woke up, this is how I am! This is the power that God has given me to serve you!"

Dior raised an eyebrow slightly.

For some reason, the person in front of me
The way he looked at himself was filled with undisguised fervor.

He could even clearly sense that this fervor was not feigned, but rather a pure worship that came from the depths of his soul.

This was quite rare in Gotham, a place rife with corruption, and it piqued his interest for once.

"what can you do?"

"Electrify! My King!" The man seemed to be ignited, his voice rising in a blaze, "For example..."

"Zi——!!"

Before he finished speaking, blinding arcs of electricity suddenly erupted from his body!

The crackling of electric light illuminated the dimly lit office.

If Welfare Dior's estimate is correct, it should only be enough to numb people; the only thing that's impressive is the visual spectacle.
After all, look at Coppa Italia.
He was startled by the sudden flash of lightning, and, still shaken, looked at the lark beside him, gesturing with his eyes:
Where do you find such talent?

Hibari leaned closer and whispered an explanation in a voice only the two of them could hear:

“This person was the first to submit his resume not long ago, and he was very proactive. He said... he had long admired His Majesty the King and had come specifically to pledge his loyalty.”

Copport: "..."

Watching the man whose electric arcs were gradually subsiding, yet who was still staring at him with fervent eyes, Dio stroked his chin with interest.

"very good."

He made the decision again, his tone playful, "You're hired. Now go to the door and find Rocman; he'll take you to your private room."

A near-distorted smile spread across the man's face.

He nodded vigorously, his eyes still burning with fervor, though his lips trembled as if he wanted to say something, but he ultimately suppressed it.

After bowing almost at a 90-degree angle, he turned and left excitedly.

After the door closed, Dio seemed to be in a good mood. He turned to Cobblestone, whose face was ashen, and said apologetically, "Mr. Cobblestone..."

"Gotham has a lot of talented people."

just
Dio wanted to take back his words as soon as he finished speaking.
Because the next batch of applicants will be another bunch of mediocre people.
There was a skinny man who boasted that his thieving skills were unparalleled and that he was the king of Gotham's thieves; and there was a self-proclaimed psychology professor who couldn't even decipher the expression written all over Copport's face.
Dio's patience was almost completely exhausted, and he didn't even have the interest to mock Coppa. He just mechanically waved for Lark to clear the people away.

until
The last person was brought in.

This was a tall, well-proportioned woman, her entire body shrouded in an inconspicuous dark combat uniform, with a special mask covering most of her face, revealing only her eyes.

Copport pursed his lips and muttered under his breath:

"Playing tricks... it's better to just show your mouth. At least then you can see what your teeth are like and determine if it's a biteer."

Hiding one's head and revealing one's tail is never a good thing.

To be honest.
He instinctively distrusted this deliberate attempt to conceal his actions.

Ignoring him, Dio began his silent assessment from the moment the other man stepped into the room.

The evaluation results indicate that...
Very valuable.

She is about 1.75 meters tall, similar in height to a lark.

Her wrists hung down naturally.
But the cuffs of the combat uniforms there seemed to have been specially reinforced, vaguely outlining the shape of some kind of curved blade.

Ignoring Copport's complaints, he spoke directly:
"Skandar Savage".

"Where are you from?"

"Brazil." The woman's voice came through the mask, slightly low, with a South American accent.

"You're used to close-quarters combat? Judging from your stance, your center of gravity is very stable, and your footwork leaves room for explosive movements."

The woman's eyes flickered a few times.

But they quickly returned to calm, neither admitting nor denying it.

"Prefers a bladed weapon on the wrist?"

She nodded slightly, this time readily agreeing.

"Interesting." Dio's lips curled into a smile, and he leaned forward slightly, asking the most crucial question, "What is your ability?"

He could clearly sense the extraordinary aura emanating from this woman.

That wasn't murderous intent, but rather a kind of indifference towards life.

She...has seen a lot of death.
Perhaps they manufactured many as well?

The woman paused for a second, seemingly considering her words, before finally giving a seemingly simple answer that contained endless implications:

"I... am very difficult to kill."

They are very difficult to kill.

These five words are priceless in Gotham, a place rife with desire and death.

The next moment, Copport and Lark only felt a blur before their eyes.

Dior's figure, which had been sitting a few meters away, vanished in an instant.

Almost instantly, he appeared in front of that woman!

The speed is so fast that it exceeds the limits of human vision!

You say you're hard to kill?

Dior's deep voice rang out almost against her mask.

"Hmm." Even faced with such incredible speed, the woman's eyes only showed a hint of surprise at first before she regained her composure and nodded.

"how to prove?"

"It will be all right."

Her answer remained brief.

"very good."

Dior nodded, and then
There was no warning.

"boom--!"

A dull, loud bang exploded in the room!

The powerful impact, seemingly from nowhere, made the air behind the woman vibrate.

She was thrown backward as if hit by a truck, her feet leaving the ground.

It slammed heavily against the reinforced wall behind it, making a dull thud that made your teeth ache.

Copeport was so startled he almost jumped out of his chair.

His fat face was covered in sweat.

Is this guy crazy?!

They started testing at will—no, they started killing people?!
However, just as Copport's heart was about to leap out of his throat...
The woman who had collapsed in the corner used her hands to support herself on the ground. Her movements were somewhat slow, but she still managed to stand up again with remarkable stability.

She patted the dust off her combat uniform and took a few light breaths through her mask, as if this alone could alleviate the pain that would shatter an ordinary person's internal organs.

Those amber eyes remained calm, staring directly at Dio, as if the thunderous blow just now was merely an insignificant collision.

Seeing her stand up again so nonchalantly, even with a touch of composure, the scrutiny in Dior's eyes was finally replaced by admiration.

He nodded, finally revealing a hint of satisfaction at having found a suitable tool:

"You're hired too, Ms. Savage."

(End of this chapter)