American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 261 Black Mask.

Gotham, the iceberg.

Dior's body sank deep into the wide, throne-like chair, as if he had merged into the deep shadows.

He lowered his head, his eyes reflecting the broken lights of the city outside the window.

"Bang-!"

The silence was broken when a figure appeared silently at the doorway.

Dior then lazily shifted his gaze from the neon lights outside the window.

That look was a silent consent.

"His Majesty."

Only then did Roccoman dare to step forward and put his leather shoes on the expensive carpet.

He said in a low voice, "About Gamora Island..."

However, he was interrupted by a very subtle gesture just as he got started.

Dior simply waved his hand.

Rocman noticed the impatience that flashed in those red eyes, and he immediately stopped the long prelude, like a well-trained soldier presenting only the most important spoils of war to the king.

"Intelligence indicates that this island nation is completely different from the peaceful image it presents to the outside world. Its ruler, Kezan Gamora, is an out-and-out tyrant."

He paused slightly, as if organizing the most effective words, "He's a madman..."

"A morbid obsession with superhuman powers."

"In fact, the entire island is essentially a living test site devoid of any ethics."

"He is conducting all sorts of horrific cybernetic modifications and forbidden technological experiments on his own people, attempting to mass-produce superpowered weapons that only obey his commands."

As he spoke, Rocman shuddered.

An invisible chill permeated the air, intertwining with the flickering flames in the fireplace beside them, creating an eerie contrast.

Ironically, for those desperate superhumans outside the world, that cursed land became a 'paradise' for outlaws.

"Kazan welcomes any individual with superpowers, no matter what bloody sins they bear. As long as they step into his territory, they can be transformed into his 'honored guests'."

"As for the black diamond you mentioned, we were unable to obtain any useful information."

Upon hearing this, Dio narrowed his eyes slightly and asked, "Do you have any photos? From the island?"

"Uh, no, Your Majesty."

Rocman's head drooped even lower, almost disappearing into the shadows. "These messages are coming from countless chaotic channels."

"It was pieced together bit by bit from the drunken ramblings of sailors, the whispers of black market merchants, and the conflicting reports of intelligence brokers."

"We compared and compared repeatedly, eliminating those parts that were too absurd..."

He seemed to want to be more persuasive, or perhaps to ease the suffocating silence, and hurriedly added a few examples: "For instance, there are rumors that the trees on the island devour living people, and that Kazan can kill people with his shadow... These are obviously nonsense."

"But the core information, especially the testimony of the survivor who narrowly escaped from the island's laboratory, points from multiple independent sources to the dark conclusions I just reported."

Dior pondered for a moment, then suddenly said:

"Seeing is believing, don't you agree, Rocman?"

"..."

He swallowed hard, feeling his blood run cold.

Fine beads of cold sweat appeared on his forehead, and the back of his shirt clung tightly to his skin, leaving it icy wet.

Am I going to be sent abroad alone?!

Is there something he hasn't been doing well enough lately?
Was it because the cash flow wasn't fast enough last time, or because the suppression of Copport wasn't thorough enough?
That tone...

This is clearly an attempt to exile him, this troublesome man who knows too much about internal affairs, to that distant, one-way hell to silence him!

Rocman opened his mouth, but couldn't utter a single word.

What is this guy thinking now?
Dio gave him a strange look, seemingly puzzled by his overreaction.

Then, as if he had thought of something, his tone returned to its usual indifference, and he uttered a completely unexpected name:

What do you think of the 'electric arc'?

Rocman could almost hear the dull thud of his heart returning to its place.

He took a deep breath and nodded hurriedly, "Of course. Mr. Jeremy is not only a superhuman, but also... his loyalty is beyond question. He is undoubtedly... the most suitable candidate."

“Very good.” Dio’s voice was light and airy. “Go and call him here.”

Roccoman felt like he had been granted a pardon and was about to connect to his pager when he heard Dio's voice again.

"Wait, there's more."

Dior gazed out the window at the deep night, as if he could see through the distance to some inconspicuous corner downstairs in the club. "Bring that new guy, codenamed 'Black Canary,' over here too."

Black Canary, Dinah Drake.

The woman who was caught up in the vortex with Selena Kyle on the night of the Gotham blackout.

Unfortunately, when she and Skandar Savage returned to the martial arts school that held all her youth and sweat, all that remained was a charred ruin licked away by flames.

The peace and heritage of the past were reduced to ashes and heavy debts overnight.

Now, with the sympathy of Scandal Savage and Selena, she has chosen to temporarily reside on the luxurious behemoth that is the Iceberg Club, trying to raise a meager hope of rebuilding the martial arts school by working for Dio.

"Yes"

Rocman lowered his head deeply and pressed the pager button.

Summon the two designated pieces with the simplest commands.

Only then did he once again blend into the shadows of the corner.

The office fell silent again, with only the ever-present neon lights of Gotham outside the window casting flickering shadows on Dior's profile.

However, the silence did not last long, as an inconspicuous encrypted communicator on the table began to emit a low and continuous hum.

Dior glanced at the caller ID.

He picked up the receiver lazily, not even giving the other person a chance to speak first.

"Sheriff Gordon, calling so late at night, is it to reserve a ticket to the Iceberg Club party?"

However.
But on the other end of the phone came James Gordon's almost roaring voice, barely containing his anger.

Even Roccoman, who was standing to the side with his hands at his sides, could vaguely hear the irritation that even the electric current couldn't filter out: "Dio! Control that damn penguin under your command! Is he crazy?! He actually dared to send people to hijack a military train transporting supplies through Gotham! How dare he!"

Gordon's voice was filled with rapid breathing after strenuous exercise, clearly indicating that he had just gone through a fierce battle.

"Luckily! This time I was in charge, and I fought my way back from his men!"

"If it were the military, you could expect to see National Guard tanks rolling into Gotham Street first thing tomorrow morning!"

Dio was silent for a moment.

To tell the truth
Are tanks and artillery useful in the quagmire of Gotham?

but…

A more direct thought flashed through his mind.

Has Gotham's arms business really gotten this hot lately?

How could Oswald actually take such a risk and try to source goods from the military?

"Gordon, relax."

Dior's voice carried an infuriatingly dismissive tone, "Perhaps it's just a misunderstanding. You know, Gotham's nights have been very foggy lately, and the light is poor."

"Coport might have just misread the markings on the container, mistaking the military's olive green for the color of some new, unruly cargo owner."

"Misunderstand?"

Gordon almost laughed in exasperation on the other end of the phone, his voice filled with absurdity, "Dio! You better pray this is a misunderstanding!"

"In short, I've already taken the pressure off you from above!"

"Tell your fat bird to tighten its neck! Those masked 'Masked Company' guys on the Upper East Side are giving me enough headaches lately, don't make things worse!"

“You might need to get a good night’s sleep, Mr. Gordon.”

Suppressing his impatience, Dio used a perfunctory tone to finally calm the sheriff who was on the verge of exploding, until the other party, with a belly full of pent-up anger, slammed down the phone.

All that could be heard through the receiver was a busy tone.

“Rocoman,” Dio’s lips twitched, “Do you think penguins have good eyesight?”

However, Dior did not wait for Roccoman's reply.

Seemingly not expecting any answers, she continued to herself, "And, she even dared to expand her 'recipe' without permission..."

He raised his eyes, his scarlet gaze landing on Rocman.

"Bring that thing over here. We should also check if our dear Mr. Penguin's recent 'eating' record is healthy."

Rocman immediately bowed and walked briskly to the hidden compartment embedded in the wall.

He skillfully entered the password, and with a soft hiss, the hidden compartment slid open. He took out a thick notebook with a plain appearance but sealed in special leather, held it with both hands, and respectfully handed it to Dio.

Taking the ledger that contained part of the pulse of Gotham's underworld, Dio leaned back lazily in his chair and, in the dim light streaming in from the window, turned to the first page.

Every clear and cold record on it represents the flow and cost of Oswald Copport's 'toys'.

He flipped through the pages quickly, his initial gaze carrying a condescending scrutiny, his eyes revealing a knowing understanding that he had anticipated this.

The names listed above are more like an index of Gotham's chaotic ecosystem, mostly characters who have been mired in the Gotham mire and are not considered respectable figures: the All-American Gang, the Black Gate Gang, the Blood Gang, the Free Men Gang, the Jade Tiger Gang, the Street Demons, the Dockside Wild Dogs Gang, the Masked Society...

There are also some low-level Japanese yakuza groups trying to re-establish themselves in this dark foreign land. Their transactions are cautious and stingy, revealing the desperation of a stray dog.

Although their names sound impressive, they are nothing more than a rabble that occupies a few blocks and will fight to the death for petty gains.

However, it must be said that these gangs, large and small, that roam the streets and alleys like weeds, with frequent but scattered transactions, are precisely Copport's stable source of income.

Continue scrolling down
The taste of the list seems to have finally improved. The Lucky Hands Triad's orders are more organized, and the weapons they require are of higher quality.

Despite being weakened, the remnants of the Neon Dragon Triad, defeated by Lucky Hand, seem to be trying to maintain their past dignity, purchasing equipment that emphasizes stealth and precision.

Next came the Russian mafia, both large and small. These descendants of polar bears have always had a big appetite, and entries for heavy firepower and explosives began to appear on the transaction records.

However, these are still minor issues.
What truly intrigued Dior were these strings of names before him.
The Sicilian Five, who once ruled Gotham's underworld with deep roots, and even the Sullivan family, who were subordinate to Falcone.
I could almost picture Copport's short, stout figure in my mind.

How did he navigate among these seasoned shrewd businessmen, bowing and scraping while meticulously recording every profit in his ledger?

“No wonder it’s called ‘Penguin’,” Dio sneered. “A keen sense of smell, a voracious appetite, and it always knows where to find carrion and fish.”

He casually continued turning the pages.

Until the frequency of a gang name that had appeared before suddenly increased.

Almost every day, new transaction records are added, firmly attached to the ledger.
At first, it was just a few scattered strokes, mixed in with many gangs, and not very noticeable.

But the further you flip through the pages, the more frequently this name appears, almost every day.

The items traded gradually evolved from pistols and ammunition to assault rifles, sniper equipment, high-performance explosives, and even some high-end toys that could only be obtained through special channels.

The steadily increasing amount of each transaction and the high frequency of purchases indicate that this organization not only has a continuous and substantial cash flow, but is also undergoing rapid and dangerous expansion.

Kamen Rider Company?

Dior paused for a moment as he flipped through the pages.

Gordon's frustrated roar on the phone just now
"The Masked Company is already giving me enough headaches."

Is that fat penguin just incompatible with Gordon?

He had just robbed an arms dealer, incurring Gordon's wrath, when the supplier, "Masked Company," became another source of trouble for Gordon. It's hard to say whether Cobblepot was simply having a run of bad luck, or whether Gordon was just naturally at odds with anything related to penguins.

However, this thought did not last long.

The heavy solid wood door of the office was pushed open silently, and a figure walked in with a somewhat oppressive aura.

John Jeremy, codename 'Arc'.

He was wearing a seemingly ordinary but well-tailored suit, but there was an undisguised fervor in his eyes.

He stood in the center of the room and bowed deeply to Dio, like the most devout pilgrim looking up at a god, almost touching his forehead to his knees.

"God, you have summoned me."

He said, his voice trembling slightly.

Dio lifted his gaze from the ledger and fixed it on the fanatical believer. Without exchanging pleasantries, he cut straight to the point, his voice carrying a solemnity as if bestowing a sacred mission upon him:
"Jeremy, there's a mission that requires you to set off immediately."

“An island far from Gotham… located in the western Pacific Ocean, called Gamora.”

He paused briefly, observing the glint that flashed in the other person's eyes, before continuing, "That place is shrouded in ignorance and tyranny, but it also contains... the opportunity for evolution."

"I need a pair of eyes, the eyes of my most loyal followers, to see the truth there for me."

"Your abilities will be your best disguise and weapon."

"Let's go now, don't delay!"

Overwhelmed by this barrage of words, Jeremy felt no discomfort. He straightened up abruptly, slamming his right fist heavily against his left chest, right over his heart, with a dull thud. "Serving you is my greatest honor, God! I'll depart immediately!"

He didn't even ask for any details.

The dangers, return date, and purpose of the mission...

In the face of absolute loyalty, none of these things matter.

He bowed deeply again, turned around without hesitation, and strode out of the office with an indomitable spirit.

"."

“Rocoman, remember to inform him of the mission's precautions.” Dio said helplessly, “Don't let him fly over there cluelessly and get himself killed.”

“Yes,” Rocman nodded.

Almost the instant Jeremy left, another slender figure leaned against the doorframe.

Dinah Drake, now the fourth member of the Secret Trio—Black Canary.

She seemed to have timed it perfectly, not wanting to spend another second with that dangerous, flirtatious man.

"Boss, you wanted to see me?"

Diana yawned gracefully, stretched her slender waist, and seemed somewhat uninterested.

Leaning back in his chair, Dior's tone became indifferent, even somewhat perfunctory: "Are you settling in well here?"

Nodding, Diana said cheerfully, "It's great~ The salary is generous, and it only deals with some clueless street thugs, nothing difficult. Plus, I can chat with Selena to pass the time."

Dior nodded, seemingly quite satisfied with the answer.

"That's good. You can go now."

"."

A genuine look of surprise flashed across those beautiful blue eyes, and Diana couldn't help but ask, "...You called me here just to ask this?"

Being rushed to the top floor so late at night, just to ask how I feel about my work?
Dior shrugged, his expression matter-of-fact. "Yes."

The black canary stared at him for two seconds, seemingly trying to find some other intention in that handsome yet flawless face, but in the end she only saw a bottomless calm.

She took a deep breath, suppressing the absurd feeling of being mocked, and forced a professional, fake smile: "Okay... well, goodnight, boss."

So, completely bewildered, she turned and left.

The solid wood door closed silently behind the black canary.

This shut out her deep confusion.

Silence returned to the office, as if the brief and strange summons had never happened.

Dior's gaze returned to the open ledger on the table, focusing on the frequently appearing name—Masked Company.

“Rocoman,” he said calmly, “this ‘Masked Company’… what kind of entity is it? I’m a little unfamiliar with it.”

Theoretically speaking.
Dior was confident that he had woven a sufficiently detailed intelligence network regarding every corner and every undercurrent in the shadows of Gotham.

A monthly summary, presented personally by Rochman, should encompass all noteworthy developments.

It is highly unlikely that a rapidly expanding force that has engaged in such frequent and large-scale transactions with Copport could have appeared out of nowhere and only now come into his view.

Upon hearing the question, Rocman stepped forward and said awkwardly, "This is... a new force that has only just emerged this month. As is customary, the comprehensive summary and reporting of underground intelligence will take place tomorrow."

"Your subordinate," he paused slightly before continuing to explain, "dared not overstep his bounds."

He knew the king's character all too well.

Dio Kent had an almost obsessive demand for order and rules, especially in the procedures he personally established.

The intelligence gathering is scheduled for a fixed date, and that date is fixed, as unchangeable as the alternation of the sun and moon.

Submitting the report early will not only fail to earn praise, but may also invite cold scrutiny and questioning—why are you so impatient? Are you intimidated by the "speed" of this new force and have developed unnecessary panic?

It seems to be within its rules
Any form of 'impatience' is a sign of weakness and uncertainty.

Therefore, Rochman has always held himself to the highest standards, especially when faced with such breaking information.

He always remembered a proverb that Dior had once taught him in an almost didactic manner, and at this moment, this maxim resonated silently in his heart, becoming the cornerstone of his code of conduct:
"The sky may fall, but I shall remain unmoved."

(If the heart is pure as ice, one will not be alarmed even if the sky falls.)
He firmly believed that only by maintaining absolute composure and proceeding step by step could he gain a foothold in the presence of this unpredictable monarch.

Even the most important matters must be presented at the appointed time, in the most perfect and comprehensive manner.

"."

Dior remained silent for a moment, a look of speechlessness crossing his eyes.

I appreciate order and process, but I also know the importance of timing, especially in the ever-changing quagmire of Gotham.

“Tell me,” he broke the silence, “what kind of existence is this?”

Rocman breathed a sigh of relief and immediately bowed, saying:
"'Masked Company' is a force that emerged in the East District of Upper East about three weeks ago."

"Its most notable feature is that all senior members, and even core members, wear various masks in public to conceal their true identities."

"Their leader always wore a plain black mask with no distinguishing features, hence the name 'Black Mask'."

He paused slightly, seemingly organizing his thoughts for the more impactful message to follow.

“This person’s style of doing things is extremely radical. He openly declared that ‘his past identity is dead’ and put forward a highly inflammatory idea—‘to build a new order on the ashes of the old world’.”

He called on his followers to 'bury' Gotham, a city they saw as already rotten.

"As for the speed and manner of their expansion," Rochman said cautiously, yet with an unusual precision, "...to a large extent, it is due to the recent external environment. The chaos has provided them with an excellent breeding ground."

"The war between the Luther Group and the Falcone family has intensified, with financial attacks, disruption of overseas supply chains, and the defection of key politicians..."

"Falcone, the 'Roman Empire' that has dominated Gotham for decades, is also in unprecedented chaos, with its territory out of control and its cash flow on the verge of collapse."

"This caused many of the second- and third-rate gangs under its control to suddenly lose their protection and stable source of income, leaving them in a precarious situation."

"It created an atmosphere of fear and unease throughout Gotham's underworld, with everyone living in constant fear."

"It was on this soil of chaos and despair that the 'Masked Company' was able to rapidly absorb a large number of small and medium-sized gangs that had nowhere else to turn, and expand like a snowball."

"However, their methods of integrating and annexing other gangs are not simply violent clashes or bribery, but more like... a kind of almost eerie bewitchment and coercion."

“Many small gangs have joined his ranks almost entirely and willingly.”

"As a result, even more perplexing urban legends have circulated about the 'Black Mask' himself."

"It is said that he possesses a kind of... inexplicable 'persuasiveness'."

"He didn't even need much coercion or lengthy speeches; he only needed to gaze at his opponents with those eyes hidden behind the mask to make many originally unruly gang leaders give up resistance and choose to submit in a very short time."

"Furthermore, after surrendering, these people all showed extreme loyalty, like puppets whose souls had been ripped out, serving their cause with fanaticism."

"Furthermore, his energy seems inexhaustible. Intelligence suggests that he can plan operations and personally participate in frontline fighting for several days without sleep, yet he shows no signs of fatigue."
-
PS: I reorganized and checked the settings again, and I have to say Gotham is really scary. Just the number of underground gangs alone is so large that it makes my head spin.

(End of this chapter)