American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 263 The Year of the Mask
The edge of Gotham's Upper East Side.

This is the end point of urban planning, but also the beginning of disorder and chaos.

A meat processing plant is nestled here, forgotten for who knows how many years.

But tonight
This is the Russian Hammer Gang leader.
— Miki Ivanov's temporary palace.

In the factory's spacious main workshop.

The former slaughter line has long since stopped operating and is covered in dust.

A few makeshift incandescent lights swayed overhead, casting a pale halo that illuminated the crowd gathered around a few dilapidated wooden tables.

At the center of the crowd was a burly man who looked like a Siberian hamster.

He wore a tight-fitting floral shirt, the open collar revealing thick chest hair and a gruesome knife scar. One foot was on an overturned oil drum, and he waved a half-empty bottle of vodka in his hand. His rough, hoarse voice drowned out the noisy laughter and clinking of glasses from his men.

"Hahaha! Did you see that, brothers!"

He gulped down a mouthful of wine, the amber liquid dripping down his stubble. "Falcone? Ah? That old 'Roman' who never dies!"

His era is over!

Mickey slammed his hand on the table, making the empty bottles on it rattle.

"Now! It's the era of the Hammer Gang! It's us! We've reclaimed what rightfully belongs to the strong!"

He was referring to the two routes that had been snatched from the brink of the Falcone family's collapse.

A highly profitable smuggling route.

One route was for arms dealing in Eastern Europe, and the other for contraband in South America.

"The boss is right!" A henchman with a mohawk and a double-headed eagle tattoo fawned over him, refilling his drink. "The boss is right! From now on, the Upper East Side, no, the entire East Side of Gotham, will have to defer to the Hammer Gang!"

"boom--!"

There was a muffled sound.

"You damned Japanese devil!" The obsequious man was kicked to the ground. Mickey, his eyes glazed with drunkenness, slurred, "When did you, a lowly handyman, become someone who pours my drinks?"

He glanced contemptuously at the man curled up on the ground, "Remember this! If it weren't for me, you would have been chopped up by those Fukushou gang members by now."

“Those Chinese people hate you to death.”

"Hahahahaha!"

Mickey's mockery provoked an even more unrestrained burst of laughter.

"What did you call yourselves... 'Yakuza'? And what happened? You were hacked from one end of Chinatown to the other by that man in the suit named Ye Jinzu. The Lucky Hands Gang, just by hacking you down, went from a nobody gang to the 'Lucky Hands Triad'!"

Damn those Russian hamsters!

Damn it. Who knew that big guy in the suit could be such a good slasher?
The man cursed inwardly, but dared not show it on his face. He forced a fawning smile as he got up and stubbornly handed the glass of wine he had poured back to Mickey: "That...that's still not as good as one of your fingers, boss!"

"That's right!"

Mickey finally accepted the glass with a smug grin. He surveyed his men, mostly of Eastern European descent and with fierce expressions. The alcohol blurred his vision, but it also inflated his confidence to the extreme. "The Falcone men are like a bunch of headless chickens, just running around aimlessly!"

"And we! We're the ones wielding the hammer! Rules? Ha! The only rule in Gotham is who has the harder hammer!"

He raised his glass and roared, "To the new masters of the Upper East Side! To everything we're about to have! Cheers!"

"Cheers! To Boss Ivanov!"

"For the Hammer Gang!"

"Ula!"

The enthusiastic response almost lifted the roof off.

The air was thick with the excitement of building on the ruins of others.

The crowd boasted wildly about the future territory, discussing how to divide up the remaining lands left by Falcone, as if the underground crown of Gotham was already within their grasp.

No one noticed.
In that corner of the workshop, piles of abandoned machinery and dusty canvases cast large shadows, in that deepest darkness...
A few faint, almost non-existent reflections silently watched this boisterous revelry.

The revelry was in full swing, and no one noticed the chill that was silently spreading in the shadows, or the force that was about to strike and shatter this false celebration...

“——Buzz!”

The continuous roar of the old diesel generator outside the factory suddenly stopped without warning.

The few flickering incandescent lights in the workshop suddenly flickered a few times before going out completely, plunging the entire space into complete darkness.

Loud music, boastful bragging, the clinking of glasses...

All sounds seemed to be swallowed by darkness, leaving only sudden curses and heavy breathing.

"Damn it! What the hell is going on?!"

Miki Ivanov, his mood spoiled, spoke in a drunken, irritable voice in the darkness, "Sergei! Igor! You two idiots, go check on that damn generator!"

A muffled response and the sound of someone groping to stand up came from the corner.

Two dark figures stumbled toward the workshop door, their footsteps sounding particularly clear in the silence as they gradually faded into the distance.

Time crawled slowly in the darkness and in the waiting.

Every second felt like it was being stretched out.

I do not know how long it has been
The remaining people in the workshop held their breath and listened intently, but there was no sound outside except for the eternal wail of the Gotham night wind.

Sergei and Igor were like two pebbles thrown into the deep sea, leaving no echo whatsoever.

"What the hell is going on..." Mickey sobered up considerably, a chill running down his spine. "Pavel! Take three men! Bring all the fucking weapons! Go see what's going on outside!"

The four people who set off in the second batch seemed much more cautious.

Four burly men, each armed with a pistol and a short-barreled shotgun, stood back to back, forming a small perimeter, and slowly moved toward the gate.

One of them cautiously pushed open the slightly ajar iron gate and peeked out—

"Ugh—!"

A very short, piercing scream suddenly broke the darkness, followed by deathly silence.

It was too fast for them to even struggle, let alone fire a gun.

"?!"

This time, everyone remaining in the workshop, including Miki Ivanov…

They all felt a cold sweat soak their backs.

"Get your weapons! Everyone! Stand back to back! Form a circle!"

Mickey roared, his voice trembling slightly.

He suddenly pulled a large-caliber revolver from his back waist, and the rest of his men hurriedly raised their guns as well. The dozen or so men huddled together, their gun muzzles trembling as they pointed into the boundless darkness in all directions.

"call--!"

Until a faint hissing sound came from above.

Everyone instinctively looked up.

Then, in the darkness high above, as far as the eye could see, a dark shadow silently drifted down from the ventilation duct opening beside the high beam.

It landed lightly in the center of the workshop.

He stood there, facing Mickey and the others, like a director visiting a theater, examining the script he had created himself.

A few stingy rays of moonlight struggled to seep through the stains on the high window, barely outlining the silhouette of the person.

He was tall and slender, hidden beneath a large black trench coat.

However, what is most eye-catching is the mask on its face.
The skull face, carved from ebony, has bottomless eye sockets that emit an ominous, cold light in the extreme darkness.

He stood there quietly, without saying a word.

Forcibly suppressing the metallic taste rising in his throat, Mickey managed to squeeze out a few distorted growls:
"You...you f***ing, are you a human or a ghost?!"

This roar was almost like a signal.

The Russian men, realizing what was happening, instinctively raised their weapons.

The click of a shotgun being chambered, the soft sound of a pistol safety being released.

More than a dozen gun barrels, from various angles, were all aimed at the motionless black figure in the center of the workshop.

A thick killing intent mixed with the smell of alcohol swept towards that figure.

But in the next second, all movements froze.

Especially when they are in sight.
Inevitably, I bumped into the bottomless eye sockets of that ebony skull mask.

A fear originating from the most primal and deepest instincts of life emerged.
Like a frog lurking in the grass, firmly locked onto by the vertical pupils of a snake.

Or perhaps it was a deer drinking water in the forest that smelled the scent of a predator in the air.

Although my brain was frantically alarming and screaming as it opened fire.

But the body completely betrayed the will.

Their muscles were stiff as iron, and an invisible force held them firmly in place.

The finger on the trigger, which only needed a tiny bit of force to fire the deadly bullet, was now completely unable to pull back even a fraction of its weight.

“I can’t open it… Mickey… my hand… it won’t listen to me!” a man roared. “I can’t move after I see him!”

These words seemed to express the sentiments of everyone.

After the words were spoken, an eerie silence once again enveloped the workshop.

Only heavy, chaotic, and desperate breathing could be heard, along with the faint sounds of some people's crotches gradually becoming wet and emitting a fishy, ​​foul odor.
This proves that these thugs who were just boasting about conquering Gotham...
still alive.

But the one who created all of this, the owner of that ebony skull mask, was always the one who...
But there wasn't even the slightest movement.

"Then don't... don't look at his face!" Miki Ivanov was the first to barely break free of his fear and regain his senses. He roared with all his might, "Close your eyes! All of you, close your eyes and just shoot! Don't worry about hitting your own people!"

The instinct for survival overcame the eerie intimidation.

He tried to break this desperate stalemate in the most ruthless way.

But the black-masked figure, who had been standing still, moved. His movements were faster than Mickey's visual perception could capture.

Without a running start or any warning, Mickey only saw a blur before the black trench coat had already covered several meters and stood silently in front of him.

Adrenaline is secreted wildly under extreme fear.

Almost instinctively, fueled by years of street brawling, Mickey roared and swung the heavy iron hammer, which he had been holding tightly in his left hand and never let go of, down at the skull that was right in front of him with a whooshing sound!

This hammer blow was unleashed in fury!

Especially when it was uttered by a burly man the size of a Russian hamster, filled with rage!

It's powerful enough to smash skulls and shatter brick walls!

Even when faced with this potentially fatal blow, Black Mask remained unmoved and did not dodge.

He simply raised his right hand casually.

The hand, gloved in black leather, spread its fingers and casually met the oncoming hammer.

"Oh!"

A sound that didn't sound like metal clashing.

The hammer stopped.

All kinetic energy and sound were absorbed.

The enormous impact vanished without a trace.

The ferocity on Mickey's face froze, slowly transforming into utter horror.

He tried desperately to take back the hammer, but the hammerhead seemed to be cast into the other's hand, remaining completely still.

Even under his incredulous gaze, the black-masked man's five fingers simply clenched slowly.

"Crack...squeak...bang—!"

It was accompanied by a loud bang.

The steel hammerhead, forged by himself using refined iron through countless hammer blows, was visibly twisted and deformed in the palm of that hand, breaking inch by inch!
Until it turned into fragments and metal powder that fell down in a flurry.

Mickey's mind went blank, and his hand, gripping the bare hammer handle, limply loosened.

And at that very moment.
"Om-!"

The few incandescent lights on the workshop ceiling flickered a few times and then lit up again.

The stark white light illuminated everything inside the workshop, leaving nothing hidden.

But this also plunged Mickey into even deeper darkness.

The bright light stung Mickey's eyes, causing uncontrollable tears to well up and blur his vision.

But even in this vision distorted by terror, he could still clearly see countless figures pouring in through the open warehouse door behind the black mask!
They were all wearing various simple masks.

They weren't carrying guns, or perhaps they wouldn't need to use them under this person's leadership.

Grasping baseball bats, steel pipes, and machetes, they pounced on the Hammer Gang members, who were still in a daze and terrified, like wolves among sheep.

"boom!"

"what!"

"Crack!"

"Hey!"

The dull thud of flesh being struck, followed by a short, agonizing scream.

The crisp sound of bones breaking broke the silence.

His usually fierce and ruthless subordinates couldn't even muster a decent resistance. Under this cruel light, they were easily knocked down and kicked, left only to curl up on the ground, groaning in pain.

In just over ten seconds, the once arrogant and boastful Iron Hammer Gang...
Apart from Mickey, no one else was standing.

dark
At least it provides a sliver of self-deception.

But this sudden light revealed to him the entire process of how his men were ruthlessly crushed and utterly defeated.

The light shone brightly, yet it only illuminated the dead end.

And the hand that had just crushed the steel also precisely gripped Mickey's throat.

An irresistible force easily lifted this burly, bear-like Russian man off the ground.

His legs kicked weakly in the air, and his face quickly turned purplish-red due to lack of oxygen.

He tried futilely with both hands to pry open those iron-like fingers, but couldn't budge them an inch.

Lifting the struggling strongman to a height that required him to look up, the black-masked man's empty eye sockets seemed to be enjoying the ugly state of his dying man.

Then, a hoarse voice came from under the mask:

"The Romans are getting old..."

"The Falcone family... is doomed to perish."

The voice paused, carrying a cold, judgmental tone.

"but you……"

"...Not worthy."

"Crack——!"

Before Mickey's eyes could even flash with the last fear or pleading, the black-masked man twisted his wrist around his throat with a sudden twist!
Miki Ivanov's last struggle abruptly ceased.

All the light in his eyes vanished.

His head was tilted to one side at an extremely unnatural angle, and his body weight was completely resting on the hand that was still gripping him.

The man in black mask released his grip, letting the still-warm body fall to the ground.

"Pfft."

The limp body crashed onto the cold concrete floor, and then fell silent.

Only the dark figure standing silently in the light took off its gloves, revealing a hand underneath that appeared to be withered from burns.

He sneered and threw the glove at Mickey.

The morning light of the second day.

It brought no warmth to this rusty, marginal land.

Especially when James Gordon, who had just rushed over from the hospital, led the GCPD detectives and pushed open the slightly ajar factory gate.
Everyone instinctively held their breath.

"vomit!"

A young detective finally couldn't hold it in and bent over, letting out a suppressed retch.

The pale dawn light shone through the broken glass of the high window.

Like a searchlight, the beam slanted into the empty workshop, illuminating a meticulously arranged scene of hell.

In the center of the workshop.

At the very front of that slaughter line that had long since stopped operating.

A massive, heavy body, as heavy as a beast, was hanging from that heavy metal hook.

Miki Ivanov's massive body was hanging upside down.

His head slumped limply to the ground.

All the blood rushed to his upper body, and his face, swollen to a deep purple from extreme congestion, was so distorted that it was unrecognizable. He lay helplessly facing the cold cement ground.

Gordon stood there, staring at the upside-down corpse.
Or rather, he was staring at the blood-stained wall behind him.

On the wall that was originally covered in dust, several huge and grotesque words appeared to have been scribbled in blood.

The dark red brushstrokes flowed freely:
Order originates from fear.

—The Year of the Mask, a grand opening.

Gordon's face was expressionless, but his bloodshot eyes, which had kept him awake all night because of his best friend's accident, betrayed the anger he had suppressed to the extreme.

He could guess Mickey's cause of death without needing a medical examiner's report.

That extremely unnaturally crooked neck said it all.

He also knew perfectly well that this was no ordinary gang fight.

This is a ritual, a declaration.

Just like Harvey.
A meticulously planned, cruel drama that plunged him into the abyss.

"Take photos and collect evidence."

Gordon uttered each word as if it were being squeezed out from between his teeth: "Put the body down."

Upon receiving their superior's orders, the detectives naturally sprang into action.

The red and blue police lights rotated silently outside the factory, casting flashing spots of light onto the blood-red declaration on the wall, as if playing an eerie prelude to this 'grand opening'.

Gordon slowly walked forward, but then stopped not far from Mickey's body.

He looked up, his gaze falling once again on the line of text.

"The Year of the Mask..."

He gritted his teeth and repeated the word in a low voice. He couldn't help but take out his phone from his trench coat pocket, turn on the screen, and the number he knew by heart was already lying quietly in his contact list.

But his finger hovered over the dial key, seemingly hesitating about something.
-
PS: There will be one more update today.

Incidental note:

There are two Triads in Gotham.

One is the Lucky Hands Gang, led by Ye Jinzu, also known as the Lucky Hands Triad.

One is the New Dragon Gang, led by Tony Lee, also known as the Neon Dragon Triad. (It was powerful in the early 20th century; in this book's setting, those remaining are remnants.)
(End of this chapter)