American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 264 The Dead
Iceberg Club, top floor.

The Gotham sky sparingly bestowed a long-awaited ray of sunlight.

The pale morning light struggled to penetrate the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, only to be softly neutralized by the luxurious warm yellow lights inside.

Dior remained nestled in his large leather sofa.

A thick ancient book lay open in his hands, but his scarlet eyes did not fall on the pages; instead, they were fixed on the huge screen on the wall.

On the screen, the female anchor of the Gotham Daily News was broadcasting in her unchanging, professional tone:

“...Distinguished prosecutor Harvey Dent suffered severe burns in an explosion caused by a leaking gas pipeline at 3 a.m. yesterday.”

"It is understood that he is now out of danger."

Harvey Dent?

Dior raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes.

He remembered that man.

At a recent Christmas charity luncheon, amidst the glitz and glamour and the insincere atmosphere of clinking glasses, only that person walked towards him with a wine glass in hand, his eyes burning with a flame that futilely tried to defend the dignity of the law in the filthy quagmire of Gotham.

An idealistic knight of light.

But the armor's luster has long been worn down by the harsh realities of life.

Dior vividly recalled that face, half of which was sculpted with integrity and determination...

As for his other half, he had already seen it at that time.
In Gotham, the city's unique tragic shadow had already been foreshadowed.

"Preliminary police investigation has ruled out any intentional acts and reminded the public to pay attention to gas safety during winter..."

Dior's lips curled into a cold smile.

It wasn't a smile; it was more like a silent mockery after seeing through all the despicable tricks on the chessboard.

In Gotham's East Side, a place where all sorts of people mingle.

Such a coincidental gas explosion just happened to send a prosecutor who had blocked too many people's path to wealth to the gates of hell.

This script is far too poorly written.

"Click."

A soft sound of a door opening interrupted Dio's thoughts.

Rocman appeared at the doorway, his steps slightly hurried than usual, his face grave.

He held two photos, still warm from printing, that had just come out of the encrypted fax machine. He strode up to Dior and bowed respectfully.

“Your Majesty,” he said in a low voice, “we just received this in the encrypted fax machine…”

He placed the two photographs side by side on the low table in front of Dior.
The contents of the first photo are quite shocking.

Inside the abandoned workshop, the body of a burly man was hanging upside down on a rusty metal hook, his head tilted unnaturally.

“Mickey Ivanov,” Rokoman whispered, “the leader of the Hammer Gang, a small gang based in the East District.”

The second photo is a close-up of a wall.

The slogans on it were painted with some kind of dark red liquid, and they looked grotesque.

"The Year of the Mask..."

Dior's gaze lingered on those words for a moment, his crimson eyes unconsciously narrowing slightly.

"Grand opening..."

He read the rest of the words softly, a hint of amusement in his tone.

He then pushed the two photos back to the center of the table, as if they were just two insignificant playing cards.

He looked up, his gaze falling on Rocman's serious face, and began to speak with interest:
"It seems there are new actors who can't wait to get on the Gotham stage, even at the cost of burning down the original set."

As he spoke, Dio gave Roccoman a look.

Rocman immediately understood, and took out a large, meticulously framed map of Gotham City from his pocket, slowly unfolding it on the wide table in front of Dio.

The map was already marked with different colored inks and crystal pins, indicating the intricate spheres of influence and information networks.

Dior lowered his eyes and swept them over the map that carried Copport's ambitions.

Um.
I took it from Coppa.

He first looked at an area slightly to the lower right of the center of the map.

Uptown Diamond District.

The Iceberg Club is located here, the prominent heart of his power and the strongest base of his control.

The finger then slid to the left, landing on the adjacent Upper West Side.

"Chinatown...Robinson Park."

That area was clearly outlined by dark green lines, like a country within a country, separate from the Gotham map.

It is self-contained, not allowing outsiders to enter, and not seeking external assistance.

The Chinese community there is self-contained, rejecting all interference from outside forces and not seeking help from anyone.

The underground kingdom that region is ruled by a gang called the Lucky Hands Triad.

As for what lies beneath their iceberg.

That is the old town of Gotham at the very bottom of the map.

That area is where the city originated and where City Hall and Gotham Police Department headquarters are located today, marked as a complex gray area.

Finally, his gaze slowly moved upwards, landing on the most chaotic and hottest area.

— Upper East Side.

That area was once the territory where the Falcone family held absolute power.

But at this moment, the markers on the map representing the Falcone forces have faded and been divided by several vibrant colors representing emerging powers, like a magnificent pavilion that has been completely devoured by a swarm of termites.

This land is now a piece of meat fought over by wolves, and is in complete chaos.

It was the very stage where the Masked Company had just staged its bloody opening show.

"Jingle Bell--!"

The phone rang abruptly, breaking the silence of the top floor.

A look of understanding flashed in Dior's eyes.

He slowly picked up the receiver, not yet bringing it to his ear.

Even from a distance, Gordon's voice, brimming with suppressed rage, pierced through the air:
Did you receive the photos?

The sheriff's voice was hoarse, carrying a sense of exhaustion and impatience from the smoke and fire.

Dior held the receiver a little further away, his tone slightly teasing and playful: "Mr. Gordon, so irritable so early in the morning? Looks like the quality of GCPD's coffee has dropped again."

“I’m not in the mood for jokes, Dior!” Gordon practically growled, his voice distorted slightly with agitation over the phone. “Harvey Dent!”

"He's in trouble! But it wasn't some gas leak accident! Absolutely not!"

Dio raised an eyebrow slightly, finding Gordon's conclusion, which he had only just reached, almost absurdly boring.

"Isn't this an obvious fact, Sheriff?"

He said softly, "A prosecutor who was investigating some sensitive cases happened to experience an 'accidental' explosion at his residence..."

“When did coincidences in Gotham become so cheap?” “Yes! Obvious revenge!” Gordon’s voice suddenly rose, filled with a near-hysterical rage, “But it’s fucking obvious.”

"Those idiots sitting in their offices!"

"They sent people to pressure me, ordering me to stop the investigation! To classify it as an accident! They told me... they actually told me to just let it go like this!"

A dull thud came from the other end of the phone as a fist slammed heavily onto a hard object.

And Gordon's heavy breathing.

Even through the telephone line, Dio could feel the powerlessness and rage that almost tore the sheriff apart.

"They really made me understand... Harvey's sense of powerlessness!"

Gordon gritted his teeth.

Dio listened quietly, not responding immediately to Gordon's anger, but letting the suppressed breathing spread across the telephone line.

Only after Gordon's breathing had calmed down a little did Dio say calmly:

"So, Sheriff, you called me..."

He said in a subtle tone, "You want me... to seek justice for your 'Knight of Light' lying in the hospital bed?"

As he spoke, Dior's gaze fell once again on the two photographs on the table.

The smile on his lips deepened.

"Or have you finally realized that in this city, some 'order' can only be established and maintained in another way?"

Gordon remained silent for several seconds on the other end of the phone.

When he spoke again, his voice was calm:

"Don't give me that nonsense, what I want to say is..."

“What Gotham News didn’t report was…” He took a deep breath, “the person who died in last night’s ‘accident’ was Elliott… Edward Elliott.”

Dior was somewhat surprised.

“Elliott?” he repeated, his tone clearly surprised. “The Elliott family, one of the so-called ‘Four Great Families’?”

"What was he doing going to Harvey Dent's place in the middle of the night?"

“I don’t know, that’s why I said this is full of questions.” Gordon’s voice was dry. “The scene was destroyed too thoroughly. Maybe we can only wait until Harvey wakes up… if he can still wake up.”

Dior leaned back on the sofa, letting out a soft, ambiguous chuckle:

"But don't you already have the answer in your heart, Sheriff?"

There was another brief silence on the other end of the phone, then Gordon almost gritted his teeth and forced the name out from deep in his throat:

"...Masked Company".

His voice was filled with conviction and disgust.

"Besides this group of lawless, masked lunatics, who else has the guts to go up against both the prosecutor and members of the four major families at the same time?"

"They don't care about the rules, they don't care about the consequences! They're just showing off! They're writing with blood!"

Dio listened patiently, waiting for Gordon's anger to subside before slowly saying, "More than their madness, Gordon, I'm more curious about something else right now..."

Who exactly is this so-called 'black mask'?

"He can get your bosses, those old foxes sitting in city hall who usually only weigh the pros and cons, to so decisively suppress a major case involving the attack on a prominent prosecutor and the death of a core member of one of the four major families..."

"This means he is not just a madman who popped up on the street."

"He must possess...or represent some kind of power or identity that makes those people have to be wary of him or even compromise with him."

“I wish I knew,” Gordon chuckled bitterly on the other end of the phone, a sound tinged with helplessness. “If I really knew who was behind that mask, things wouldn’t be so difficult…”

Dior raised an eyebrow but said nothing more.

His thoughts raced across Gotham's intricate network of power, familiar names flashing before quickly fading away.

Until
“You said…” Dio slowed his pace, his tone speculative, “is it possible that Black Mask, or rather, the person behind Black Mask, is…”

Richard Theonis?

"Theonis?"

Gordon's tone faltered slightly, tinged with confusion. "Why do you say that?"

"The logic is very simple."

Dio said methodically, "As a representative of the emerging power, the Theonis family has long been dissatisfied with the fact that established families like the Falcone and Elliott control most of Gotham's resources and influence."

"You saw the almost undisguised conflict between Richard Theonis and Edward Elliott at the luncheon earlier."

He continued to unravel the mystery:
"The Theonis family is the most direct beneficiary of eliminating Edward Elliott."

"The market share and political influence vacated by the Elliott family are enough to make the Theonis family, which is actively venturing into the medical and biotechnology fields, very rich."

"This motivation is sufficient."

“Harvey’s meeting with Elliott was just a coincidence that provided Theonis, the Black Mask, with an opportunity.”

Gordon on the other end of the phone was also seriously considering this possibility.

After a long pause, he slowly spoke, his tone complex:

“That makes a lot of sense… Your analysis… sounds very reasonable. But…”

However, Gordon's voice carried an almost absurd helplessness, revealing a crucial piece of information:
"Richard Theonis himself... recently passed away due to a car accident."

"..."

A dead person?
“Yes. Richard Cionis himself.” Gordon’s voice carried a weary, businesslike quality, as if he were reading a report unrelated to him. “Scene investigation, autopsy report…”

"All the procedures have been completed, and the conclusion is that it was just a simple accident. He was driving under the influence of alcohol and crashed off the dock. Even his family did not raise any objections."

"The family business, Janus Group and a series of cosmetics-related industries, has now been inherited by his wife and son Roman Cionis."

"..."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, but Gordon could sense that the young man on the other end was not convinced by the official conclusion.

Dior frowned slightly.

Gotham's official conclusion... He never believed in that stuff.

He then remembered something else.

In his previous report, Rocman mentioned a slogan that members of the Masked Company would shout fervently during operations.

The past is dead.

An ideology publicly declared dead, and a prominent figure who happens to die unexpectedly...

The subtle connection between the two was something he couldn't ignore.

After a moment of silence, Dior's voice rang out again, but without the previous teasing tone:
"Anyway... you can continue your 'investigation' in your own way, Chief Gordon."

“I will have Rocman provide you with some… ‘favors’ when ‘necessary’.”

"However, don't rush in before I figure out just how 'hospitable' this new neighbor really is."

Dior lowered his voice and said coldly:

"I don't want to see Gotham's last reasonably competent police chief hanging there to dry in some slaughterhouse the next morning."

(End of this chapter)