American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 268 The Night of the Red Rose.

The door to the top-floor office slid open silently.

The thick cashmere carpet swallowed all of Dior's footsteps, and silence filled the air.

Just as they approached the main area of ​​the club, a slender figure leaned against a pillar, as if she had been waiting for a long time.

"Yo"

Selena Kyle leaned against a cool marble pillar, a well-tailored black dress tightly hugging her feline-like supple body.

His azure eyes swept over Dior, a hint of mockery in them.

“Our busy ‘King’”

Her voice had a slightly husky, magnetic quality, like a cat purring in its throat, "On this beautiful afternoon, you've finally decided to move your esteemed backside from your throne?"

"Is this huge Iceberg Club too small for such a big shot like you? Are you in such a hurry to 'go home'?"

Dior didn't stop walking, but merely glanced at her sideways, his tone remaining calm: "So, this afternoon, Miss Selena, after finishing your work, didn't you go back to your 'cat's den' and instead stayed here with me?"

"Ha~"

With an irritated, elegant eye roll, Selena extended her slender finger, clad in a black lace glove, and casually pointed towards the gray sky of Gotham outside the window.

"The dogs outside are practically flying off their feet. I've been living on an iceberg for the past few days, okay?"

With her delicate face, she spoke in rough words, her tone carrying a hint of complaint, yet she also acknowledged that this place was indeed a rare haven in Gotham at the moment.

Dio nodded, accepting the explanation, and walked towards the exit.

"Hey!" Selena couldn't help but speak when she saw he was really about to leave, her voice tinged with urgency, "You're leaving already? You've only been here a short while..."

Dior didn't even turn his head, his words concise and to the point:

"go home."

"go home?"

Selena was taken aback, somewhat caught off guard by the answer. At this hour? Gotham's nightlife hadn't even begun.

Her eyes darted around quickly, and her long legs, clad in stilettos, took a few strides, catching up with Dior in just a few steps.

Like a slippery snake, she casually draped an arm over his shoulder, her body softly pressed against him, her long thighs almost brushing against Dior's crisp trousers.

The voice was slightly warm:
"Going home is great... Do you want to bring your older sister along?"

Dio stopped in his tracks expressionlessly, turning his head to look at the female thief who was practically clinging to him. There was no allure in his scarlet eyes, only a calm indifference that saw through her tricks.

He raised his hand and, with two fingers, rather ungently removed Selena's arm from his shoulder.

“Autumn has arrived,” he stated calmly, as if stating a perfectly natural fact. “The farm is about to harvest the wheat.”

He paused, as if thinking about something, and then added:

"If you want to come and harvest the wheat together, then come along."

"..."

Celine's alluring smile froze instantly, and her lips twitched uncontrollably a few times.

Harvesting...harvesting wheat?!
Looking at Dior's handsome face, which was utterly serious.
She did not doubt the truth of that statement.

Because when she saw the King enter the club from afar at noon, she had keenly noticed a tiny, inconspicuous bead stuck to the shoulder of his expensive suit…

Golden, plump ears of wheat.

Watching Dior stride away again, heading straight for his private elevator without a backward glance, Selena stood there, her expression shifting strangely several times.

Ten thousand acres.
"Haha, definitely next time," Selena chuckled sheepishly.

Dior didn't answer, he just pressed the elevator button.

The elevator doors slowly opened, revealing his calm profile.

Gotham's cold, rainy nights felt like a nightmare from which there was no end.

The leaden-gray clouds hung low, letting dampness and chill seep into every crack in the brickwork.

However, as Dio's car crossed the Three Gates Bridge and left the cursed city's borders, passing through what seemed like an invisible dividing line, the unreserved Kansas sunlight dispelled the gloom and coldness clinging to him.

The sun generously shone on the vast cornfields.

Each swaying leaf is edged with a dazzling light.

The air was filled with the warm scent of dried hay, mixed with the sweetness of soil and ripe corn.

He changed into a slightly worn shirt and jeans.

On the edge of the field, Clark was wielding his harvesting tools when he saw Dio. He grinned broadly and waved vigorously.

Dio walked over, naturally picked up another tool from beside the tractor, and without saying a word, the two of them tacitly began harvesting the last cornfield.

"Hey"

Clark nudged Dio with his elbow. "Let's see who can cut over there first! The loser has to husk all the corn we harvest today!"

“We’ve long since entered the age of mechanization. Who still peels corn by hand?” Hearing Clark’s childish competition, Dio glanced at him and said speechlessly, “Only someone like you who still dreams of being a perfect Boy Scout would come up with such a primitive competition.”

Um.
If we ignore the fact that he quickened his movements a bit.

For a moment, only the swishing sound of sickles cutting through corn stalks could be heard in the fields.

Golden corn stalks fell in swathes.

Dior and "the world" worked in perfect harmony, their movements highly efficient.

Clark was initially able to keep up with his Kryptonian physique, but as Dio and "The World" fought harder and harder, they were already half a body length ahead of him.

Clearing his throat, while Dio was focused on a dense field of corn in front of him, Clark subtly moved his feet, creating a barely perceptible breeze.

The harvesting speed suddenly increased significantly, catching up with the gap and even slightly surpassing it.

Dior's movements came to an abrupt halt.

He turned his head, his scarlet eyes locking onto Clark with pinpoint accuracy.

There was no surprise in his eyes, only undisguised contempt.

He didn't even bother to speak, but his eyes clearly conveyed a message:
"Cheating. Childish."

Clark's smug expression froze instantly, replaced by an awkwardness at being exposed.

"So-so," he said with a forced smile, his speed returning to normal, "just a little bit faster..."

Dio snorted and ignored him, continuing to focus on his farm work.

His lips seemed to curve upwards for a moment, but then quickly disappeared in the bright Smallville sunlight.

The last bundle of corn stalks was loaded onto the trailer.

Clark straightened up and instinctively wiped non-existent beads of sweat from his forehead with his thick arm.

He gazed at the neatly manicured field before him, a deep sense of satisfaction on his face. He turned to Dio, his voice tinged with genuine nostalgia:
"Speaking of which, it's been a long time since we've done farm work together like this, just the two of us."

Dior's lips twitched.

Was this what he wanted to do?
All I did was forget to bring the sundae I promised to God when I returned from Gotham last time.
That little rascal actually dared to grab the ledger, throw a tantrum, and threaten to force me to finish all the farm work that was supposed to be his.

However, Dio naturally wouldn't say such a shameful thing about his own people; he simply snorted and turned his attention to Clark:

"And you, Mr. Tights. Why aren't you following your superhero mentor in the red tights who flies around in the sky, back to being a vigilante in Metropolis?"

Clark pushed up his black-rimmed glasses, letting the sunlight shine on his gentle smile.

“The crime rate in Metropolis has been exceptionally low these days, and there’s hardly anything major that would require Superman to step in. Mr. Blake said he’d keep an eye on the city for me today, so I can go home and get to work without worry.”

Looking at the setting sun sinking towards the horizon, the warm golden light reflected in his eyes, and Clark seemed to see his mentor and friend, Captain Comet, giving him a thumbs up.

He exclaimed sincerely, "Mr. Blake... he's such a good man."

"hehe."

Dior responded with a cold laugh, clearly unconvinced by the assessment.

But then, the ease on Clark's face vanished, and he turned to Dio, a barely perceptible worry in his blue eyes, his tone becoming serious:
“Dio… but the situation in Gotham doesn’t sound very good.”

Turning his head, Dio looked at Clark with a scrutinizing gaze: "Why do you say that?"

Clark sighed.

He looked toward Gotham, and despite the great distance, the shadow of that city always seemed to stretch across space and reach him.

"I occasionally fly over Gotham when I'm on patrol."

“If I see gang fights or obvious violent crimes down there, I will go down and stop them. Indeed... I have stopped them many times and saved some people.”

Clark's voice lowered, "But the results were still minimal."

He recalled the hateful gazes hidden in the shadows, the numb and desperate looks in their eyes even after being rescued.

"Once, after I prevented an attack on a cargo terminal, a director named Gordon approached me and thanked me sincerely."

"but"

Clark's voice lowered, mimicking the old sheriff's hoarse tone, "He said, 'Superman, thank you. But this fire... can't be put out by just pouring water on it.'"

Clark looked up and repeated Gordon's words, which sounded like a curse:

"Its oil depots are the rotten heart of Gotham."

"Leave, go back to the sunshine. Other cities need you more. Here... I'm enough."

The fields fell silent, save for the rustling of the wind through the corn stalks.

The setting sun cast long shadows of the two brothers.

Dio listened quietly, his face showing no surprise.

He understands Gotham's deep-seated problems better than Clark does.

Gordon also saw it clearly; it was indeed a malignant tumor that could not be eradicated by absolute power.

"Keep your misplaced compassion to yourself, Clark," Dio's voice was calm, yet carried an undeniable certainty. "That's my territory."

It was not a request, not a discussion, but a declaration.

Upon hearing this, Clark's eyes shone with trust.

He smiled sincerely and said, "Of course I believe you, Dior."

"Perhaps, compared to the paths Bruce and I chose... you are the one who can truly bring... well, 'another kind of light' to that dark city."

Dior neither agreed nor disagreed with the assessment, but simply shifted his gaze to the wisps of smoke rising from the farmhouses in the distance, steer the conversation in a completely different direction.

"Rather than worrying about that decaying city..."

He said casually, "I suggest you think about what birthday gifts you should prepare for Salafir and the God this year."

"The two of them have been hinting and suggesting for months, they've been waiting for this for a long time."

He unusually offered an extra explanation, since it involved important family rules.

Because all four of them share the same birthday.

So they would take turns exchanging gifts…

The process is extremely cumbersome.

Clark gave a mysterious smile, tinged with a hint of smugness, and patted his chest, which was covered in bits of grass: "I was ready all along!"

"You were prepared all along?"

Dior raised an eyebrow slightly, a hint of surprise in his expression.

Given Clark's personality of only rushing to buy gifts at the last minute, this is quite unusual.

"Of course!"

Clark was full of confidence, then as if he remembered something, he added, with an older brother's admonition, "But don't let those two kids down, they're very picky, especially Shen Du."

Dior scoffed, offering no reply, his eyes clearly saying, 'Do you need to tell me?' The setting sun cast a golden glow on their figures.

The silhouettes of farmhouses in the distance appeared peaceful and serene in the twilight.

The shadow of Gotham is temporarily kept outside the borders of Kansas; at this moment, they...
They were just two ordinary people discussing their younger brothers' birthday gifts after working in the fields.

Twilight in Gotham.

Like a dirty rag soaked in cheap alcohol and rust, it slowly wipes away the outline of the city.

Today, this dim scene was ignited by a piece of news.

It exploded in every shady corner!

It burns every nerve that clings to the shadows for survival.

The message spread rapidly through encrypted lines, whispers in underground bars, and the hoarse shouts of messengers on speeding motorcycles—

Mario Falcone!
The Roman's son
The nominal heir to the underground Roman Empire in Gotham has made his statement.

He was presiding over the Falcone family's iconic Upper East Side property in an almost frenzied manner.
——White Rose Restaurant.

This is not just a place, but a symbol.

The White Rose was once the place where the Falcone family and political and business elites mingled and made countless dirty deals amidst the glitz and glamour of their clothes; it was a combination of power and elegance.

Now, Mario's choice of this location speaks volumes about the madness and determination behind it.

He would settle things here, under the watchful eyes of his family's past glory, with the masked challenger.

His words, emanating from the restaurant, were like a splash of boiling oil on a city already ablaze with sparks, carrying undisguised violence and cruelty:

"I will skin that masked coward alive!"
The word emanated from the restaurant, which was still dimly lit and had a few cold-faced bodyguards standing guard at the entrance in an unusually quiet manner, and was clearly transmitted to every dark corner where people were listening.

The entire Gotham underworld held its breath at that moment.

The old guard is watching and speculating whether this is the Falcone family's last gasp or a deadly trap that has been laid in advance.

The emerging hyenas are restless, anticipating a fight between the two tigers, so that whoever falls can feast on fresh carrion.

And all those who know the name 'Black Mask', and who have seen or heard of the chilling fear brought by that skull mask, are waiting.

We await to see whether the being hidden behind the ebony will accept this humiliating and blunt challenge and step into the White Rose Hall, which may be filled with executioners.

He will still respond to this hysterical challenge from the heir of the old dynasty in his own more bizarre and unconventional way.

Outside the White Rose Restaurant.

The usual cold rain in Gotham patiently and persistently pounded against the reinforced bulletproof windows.

The glow of the neon signs spread across the wet asphalt street like hazy tear stains.

Several black sedans with their engines still running stood silently in the rain, their windows blacked out, but the interiors were vaguely visible to be filled with solemn-looking Falcone family gunmen dressed in dark coats.

Their presence made the air in this area seem to freeze.

Inside the restaurant, however, lies a completely different world.

In stark contrast to the cold and damp outside, this is a magnificent isolated island.

The crystal chandelier illuminates every inch of the space as if it were daytime, with light dancing and reflecting on the gleaming marble floor and silver tableware.

A complex and expensive atmosphere permeated the air.

The earthy aroma of fresh truffles and the rich, woody notes of aged Bordeaux wine.

However, the whispers, smiles, and elegant attire that once accompanied these atmospheres have long since vanished.

Instead, there was a suffocating tension.
The restaurant had already been cleared out.

There were no real guests; instead, there were dozens of the most elite core henchmen of the Falcone family.

Everyone was dressed in suits, maintaining a semblance of decorum.

But their stiff posture, shifty eyes, unnatural bulges under their armpits and lower backs, and the occasional glimpse of the cold metal of a gun butt flashing from under their suits all ruthlessly revealed the true nature of this 'banquet'.

As for the absolute star of tonight.
Mario Falcone sat in the very center of this stage, a place where luxury and danger intertwined.

He occupied the table in the restaurant alone, the one with the best view and the most prestigious position.

His custom-made dark black suit fit his still-good physique perfectly, and the fabric gleamed with a high-end sheen under the lights.

On the long table in front of them, covered with a pristine white tablecloth, lay a top-quality tomahawk steak that would amaze any gourmet, alongside a bottle of expensive Romanée-Conti.

But Mario seemed completely uninterested in these delicacies and wines.

He didn't touch the knife and fork, or even glance at them.

He simply lowered his head slightly and slowly, again and again, used a clean white silk napkin to wipe the exquisite silver goblet in his hand.

His movements were focused and gentle, as if he were performing some kind of sacred ritual.

He is waiting.

Waiting for that "coward" wearing the skull mask.

Waiting for a scenario where only one side can walk out of this door alive...

The Last Supper.

The cold rain outside the window continued to patter gently.

It's like playing a monotonous and cold background soundtrack for an upcoming drama.

However, the sound of rain was quickly drowned out by another sound!
First came the roar of engines approaching from afar, not just one, but dozens!
Those old but obviously crudely modified trucks and vans, with their blinding xenon headlights blazing, brazenly broke through the rain and night of Gotham, stopping abruptly one after another outside the blockade set up by the Falcone family with an undisguised defiant attitude.

Immediately afterwards, Mario Falcone, along with all the thugs in the restaurant who had their ears perked up, clearly heard...
From the end of the street, brightly lit by car headlights, came a series of heavy, uniform footsteps that seemed to tread on everyone's heart.

Boom...boom...boom...

It wasn't the chaotic running of a mob; it was more like an ancient legion advancing, with a disciplined and ruthless force that crushed everything in its path. Every step was precisely placed in the gaps between the sounds of rain, sending chills down one's spine.

Inside the restaurant, the thugs, who had initially feigned composure, instinctively gripped the weapons hidden beneath their suits, their sharp eyes replaced by panic.

"boom--!"

With a loud crash, the restaurant's brass-adorned door was shoved open from the outside with absolute force, slamming heavily against the interior with a painful groan.

The wind and rain outside rushed in, bringing a damp chill that ruffled the white tablecloth on the dining table and caused the crystal chandelier to sway violently.

Right there in the open doorway, where light and shadow intertwined, that figure stood.

Black mask.

His tall figure remained motionless, enveloped in a large black trench coat.

The ebony skull mask on his face reflected an eerie luster under the dual illumination of the stark white car headlights outside and the dazzling chandeliers inside. His unfathomable eye sockets resembled two vortexes, devouring all light and hope.

He didn't come in immediately, nor did he speak; he simply stood quietly at the doorway, as if Death were surveying his territory.

he came.

There was no massive army charging in; his mere presence was enough to turn the tables and transform the meticulously arranged "banquet hall" into his own domain.

There was no hesitation.

The instant the black-masked skull face came into full view, the Falcone family's on-site commander, a burly man with a scar on his face, roared out the order at the top of his lungs:
"Fire!!!"

In an instant, a barrage of gunfire erupted inside the restaurant!
The muzzles of pistols and submachine guns spat out frenzied flames, bullets raining down on the black figure at the doorway.

The expensive wallpaper was torn apart, and the crystal pendants hanging from the chandelier were shattered.

Let the sawdust and plaster powder fly everywhere.

The scene that was expected—the black mask being riddled with bullets—did not occur.

Just as the gunshots rang out, behind the black-masked figure, in the rainy night illuminated by car headlights, it was as if the gates of hell had been opened, and countless figures roared out!

They were wearing all sorts of clothes.
Oil-stained work clothes, faded jeans, and even ill-fitting cheap suits, with all sorts of rough, simple, and even ridiculous masks on their faces.

Cardboard graffiti, rough plastic, or even a simple piece of cloth with two holes cut out.

Lacking sophisticated equipment, all they held were steel pipes, machetes, wooden baseball bats, and some crudely made, low-quality handguns.

But in their eyes burned something chilling.
A burning passion that disregards life and death, abandons fear, and borders on madness!

A fanaticism akin to that of a martyr!
They used their own bodies to form a moving wall of flesh and blood without hesitation, rushing to stand in front of the black-masked man!

Blood splattered in the air, and those at the forefront fell like felled wheat, their bodies torn to pieces by bullets.

Warm blood splattered onto the gleaming floor, the pristine white tablecloth, and even the silver cutlery in front of Mario Falcone.

But the group from the Masked Company did not retreat, nor did they show any signs of disorder!
They felt no pain, nor the fear of impending death.

The men behind, expressionless, stepped over the still-warm corpses of their comrades, their feet soaked in blood, and roared with fervent shouts as they continued their desperate charge forward!

"For a new world!"

Bury the old order!

The chaotic and frenzied roars drowned out the gunfire, merging into a savage war song.

This scene sent a chill down the spines of even the seasoned Falcone family gunmen, who were used to street shootouts, and their hands gripping their guns began to tremble slightly.

The bullets they fired were indeed reaping lives, but they couldn't stop the advance of this frenzied wave.

They weren't facing a group of thugs after profit or territory...

This is a group of fanatics who have been completely brainwashed by a certain belief!

They are a group of evil spirits that crawled out from the darkest corners of Gotham, eager to drag everything into destruction!

It still stands quietly at the door.

The black-masked figure stared blankly at the bloody slaughterhouse before him.

It was as if he were watching a grand performance that had nothing to do with him.

Bullets occasionally grazed his trench coat, but he didn't flinch.

That's all.
On the path paved with the lives of his followers, step by step, treading on thick blood and broken limbs, he walked toward the center of the restaurant, toward Mario Falcone, whose face was finally beginning to turn pale.

He stopped in front of Mario, looking down at him.

There was no interrogation, no mockery, and not even a trace of emotional fluctuation.

Then, with practiced ease, he pulled out a short but unusually heavy metal rod from under his trench coat.

The next moment, a sickeningly loud cracking sound, accompanied by Mario's uncontrollable screams, echoed one after another in the luxurious restaurant!
Concise, efficient, and without any redundancy.

His limbs were broken so easily.

Mario slumped down next to the chair like a lump of mud.

Black Mask didn't even glance at his work.

He straightened up and looked around the restaurant, which had now turned into a scene of carnage.

"this era……"

"……it's over."

That concludes the announcement.

He walked out of the restaurant's main entrance, a symbol of the Falcone family's former glory and authority, with such dignity, into Gotham's still cold, rainy night.

Behind them, all that remained was devastation, corpses scattered everywhere, and shattered dignity.

When the GCPD's piercing sirens finally came from afar and belatedly pierced the night sky, the White Rose Restaurant had already been transformed into a magnificent tomb.

Black Mask and his army, which seemed to have sprung from hell, had long since vanished without a trace into the unfathomable darkness and intricate alleyways of Gotham.

Only the restaurant with its red-stained white roses remains.

And a few words on the wall.

The past is dead.

(End of this chapter)