American comic book: After mastering resurrection, I became incredibly popular.

He stood up, paced around Wang Baixi's duty room a couple of times, and then looked back at him.

"I have plenty of other evidence, but the problem now is..."

"Could you help me get into Wayne Manor, or the Wayne Corporation building?"

Wang Baixi's mind was racing.

Obviously, this is a good idea.

The Wayne family would owe him a favor, Joshua would owe him his life, and the Wayne family's wealth would be enough for him to live a normal life in this place.

In addition, he could continue to try to resurrect Bruce Wayne. Although it's possible that his entire family would be resurrected and he wouldn't be among them, the possibility is still quite high.

"Should I go too?"

"Yes, you're going too."

Seeing that Wang Baixi was still hesitating, Joshua immediately said, "After this is done, I will give you 2% of Wayne Group's shares!"

"I……"

3%!

"hiss……"

5%!

“Talking about money hurts feelings!” Wang Baixi immediately stood up. “I did all this simply because I admire Mr. Wayne.”

“Yes, otherwise why would you have resurrected him?” Joshua gave a wicked smile.

Chapter Three: The Ancestor Returns

In the conference room on the top floor of Wayne Tower, Alfred Pennyworth stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the empty head seat.

Outside the window, Gotham's perpetually gray skyline stretches out.

Inside the window, there was a mess left behind by the recently concluded shareholders' meeting.

Scattered documents...

A half-empty coffee cup...

There were also chairs that several shareholders deliberately pushed over before leaving.

However, Alfred did not pick up the chairs that had been thrown to the ground because of someone's anger.

This was unthinkable before. Alfred Pennyworth was a man who would fold a napkin to the millimeter, but now he just wanted the chairs to stand upside down.

Yeah, Bruce's gone, who are we trying to impress by getting him back on his feet?

“Young Master Dick,” he said to a young man with his head down, “if you continue to be so downcast, we may have to deal with more than just the mess of the shareholders’ meeting.”

Bruce Wayne's adopted son, Dick Grayson, leaned against the edge of the conference table, his breathing heavy and irregular, as if he had just finished a chase only to find that he had chased the wrong person.

He hadn't shaved for three days. The stubble on his chin made him look ten years older than he actually was.

The black suit looked very inappropriate on him, as if he were protesting that he shouldn't be wearing it to his adoptive father's memorial service.

Nightwing's uniform was in his suitcase in his hotel room, but he hadn't worn it once in the past few days. He didn't know what to do with it. Go out and beat up a few robbers?

And then? Bruce won't come back. Yes, never again.

"I'm sorry, Afu."

“You don’t need to apologize, Master Dick.” Alfred finally turned around, his wrinkled face showing no sign of blame.

“I should have come back sooner,” Dick said softly. “At least I should have been here when he got into trouble, not in Brudhaven, that damn Bain…”

"That's enough." Alfred's voice was enough to shut Dick up.

The old butler looked at the young man in front of him.

The little boy who used to do somersaults in Wayne Manor since childhood is now a grown man who is half a head taller than him.

“Bruce made his own choice,” Alfred said. “You know better than anyone that he never lets anyone share his burdens, not even Paul or Tim. He even kept it from me. Do you think he would tell you that he decided to seek revenge after his homosexuality?”

“In this respect, you are infuriatingly similar to him; you both think that pushing everyone away is protecting them.”

Dick was about to say something when he was interrupted by a commotion outside the door...

"Sir, you can't go up directly..."

"Sir! An appointment is required here..."

"Sir! Your coat is still falling dirt off..."

Then, a strong male voice came through: "I said I want to see Alfred Pennyworth. If you think an appointment is important, fine, I'll make it now. The appointment time is now."

Dick and Alfred exchanged a glance.

Then, the meeting room door was pushed open.

The first person to walk in was an Asian youth in his early twenties, with a forced polite smile on his lips.

The man following behind him was completely different.

This man was burly, half a head shorter than Dick but at least three inches wider at the shoulders. He wore a tattered, 19th-century style coat covered in dried mud and grass roots, and his beard was smeared with dirt.

Alfred stepped forward, subtly placing himself between Dick and the visitors. "And who are you two?"

“You must be Mr. Pennyworth,” Wang Boxi said, raising his hands to show he was harmless, then bowing slightly. “Don’t worry, my name is Wang Boxi. I’m the caretaker of Gotham Cemetery and also a sorcerer. You know Constantine and Zatanna, right? We’re in the same profession.”

Then he turned to Dick and said, "You must be Mr. Bruce's adopted son, Dick, right? It's an honor to meet you, young master Dick."

Dick's eye twitched.

Why does his tone of voice always sound strange?

What is Bruce Dick?

“What a bizarre explanation…” Dick muttered, then his gaze swept past Wang Baixi and locked onto Joshua behind him. “How did you guys get in?”

“You know, in Gotham, psychopaths and people who are suspected of being psychopaths can do whatever they want.” Wang Baixi grinned.

Dick glanced at the two of them, and his intuition told him that these two guys were not related to any kind of danger.

"Oh? So who exactly are you people, and what are you doing here?"

“That is exactly what I wanted to talk about.” Wang Baixi stepped aside to let Joshua Wayne pass, then took a deep breath. “I am both saddened by the passing of Mr. Pennyworth and Mr. Dick, and I wish you both well.”

"what!"

“Sadly, all things are but straw dogs. Even though Lord Bruce was as powerful as a nation, he could not escape the fate of life and death.” Wang Baixi paused here, realizing his literary skills were quite limited, and simply skipped to the end, “But what is worth celebrating is that his passing is not the end. I dare to… bring back his ancestor, Joshua Wayne.”

silence.

A silence so profound it seemed to freeze the very air.

Dick's expression went through a change that can be precisely divided into three stages: first confusion; then vigilance; and finally relief.

He is now the most composed person in the world.

Alfred's expression remained completely unchanged. "Let me confirm. Sir, do you mean you resurrected a deceased person?"

"Yes."

"And this gentleman you resurrected is an ancestor of Lord Bruce?"

"Absolutely right."

Alfred nodded slowly. He didn't say "That's impossible," "You're joking," or call security.

He merely shifted his gaze from Wang Baixi to the man who had been standing behind him.

Then he froze.

It wasn't because of how tattered his clothes were, nor how comical the mud on his face was. It was mainly because of the man's posture. The way he stood there:

With hands hanging naturally at your sides, weight evenly distributed on both feet, chin slightly raised, and eyes looking straight ahead.

Alfred had seen Bruce adopt this posture countless times. At board meetings, at dinner parties, whenever Bruce was required to speak, Bruce would strike this pose.

They are exactly the same.

But Alfred is not one to be persuaded by posture.

“Sir,” he looked at Joshua, his tone still polite and restrained, “you say you are Joshua Wayne. I need to verify your identity. Could you tell me who the person in the painting hanging in the main hall of Wayne Manor is?”

Joshua said without hesitation, “The man in that painting is my father, Charles Wayne. He is wearing a dark blue coat, leaning on an ebony cane in his left hand, and holding a top hat in his right hand.”

The painting did indeed hang in the main hall. The clothing, posture, and background of the people in the painting were all correct. But these details were all recorded in the Wayne family's public historical records, and any con artist who had done their homework could recite them from memory.

“There’s a line of text under that painting,” Alfred continued, “what does it say?”

“No words,” Joshua replied quickly. “My father didn’t like having words engraved under portraits; he thought that was something nouveau riche did. A true gentleman doesn’t need labels on his face.”

Alfred remained silent for two seconds.

This detail is not found in any publicly available historical records. Indeed, there is no plaque or any written explanation beneath the painting.

“Very good.” Alfred nodded, then took a cell phone out of his suit pocket, swiped through it, finally found a neatly folded photo, placed it on the conference table, and pushed it toward Joshua.

This is an archive of an old photograph. The edges of the photograph are yellowed, and there are obvious creases and stains.

“This is the only photograph of Joshua Wayne preserved in the Wayne family archives. It was taken in 1858, and the person in the photograph does indeed look very much like you,” Alfred said calmly. “But sir, could you tell me where this photograph was taken?”

Joshua glanced down at the photo and then smiled.

That smile was complicated.

Is this him in the photo? Of course, he was thinner back then than he is now.

“This photo was taken at Madison’s Studio on Broadway when I was very thin,” Joshua recalled. “The photographer was a Frenchman named Louis Madison. He made me stand there for a full four minutes.”

"After the photo was taken, I gave Louis five dollars and asked him to develop an extra copy, which I then sent to my brother Solomon Wayne."

In an instant, Joshua's gaze seemed to travel through a century, overlapping with that of every portrait of an ancestor Alfred knew.

That look left no doubt!

Alfred took a deep breath and then made a decision.