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

But Black Mask retorted defiantly, "Wait, not everyone's here yet? What about the 'Court of Owls' you mentioned? Are they willing to be subservient to others?"

Before the formal meeting, Bain mentioned the past of the so-called Court of Owls to them, and when the true nature of this organization came to light, the group of old Gotham members were all astonished.

“You’re right,” Bain said in a low voice, “but… they’re here.”

As soon as Bain finished speaking, very light footsteps came from outside the container's iron door. The door was pushed open from the outside, and a figure wearing a gray tactical uniform and an owl mask walked in.

It is precisely "claws".

His movements were light and elegant, yet the aura he exuded made every ruthless villain present, accustomed to bloodshed, unconsciously tense up.

“You’re late,” Bain said.

“Bane, the court has asked me to tell you,” Claw said, seemingly ignoring Bane’s words, “that they are very unhappy about you contacting this bunch of scoundrels in private.”

"Rotten fish and shrimp!" Scarface shrieked. "Hey, did you hear that? That guy called us rotten fish and shrimp!"

Bain let out a low, cold laugh. "Hmph, what right do a bunch of good-for-nothing idiots hiding behind masks and playing big games have to point fingers at me? You can't even handle a butler and a few brats."

"Have you got it sorted out?" Claw countered.

“That’s because I haven’t personally taken to the field yet,” Bain said, unfazed by Claw’s sarcasm. “Soon, you will witness the rebirth of this city, and I will accomplish what you have spent centuries trying to achieve.”

Claw paused for a moment, then his chilling voice came from beneath the mask again: "But you still want to talk to us, don't you? You need us to help you completely destroy the image of 'Batman' in the hearts of Gotham citizens, don't you?"

Everyone present was puzzled, not understanding what Claw meant by those words.

But Bane raised a finger and said in a more conciliatory tone, "We can talk. But I have one condition: you have to kill Nightwing first."

The atmosphere inside the container changed instantly.

A group of people somehow joined in the commotion. Although they didn't hate Nightwing that much, they had all suffered at his hands.

"Yes! Kill that little bird!"

"Kill him, kill him!"

Claw stood in the center of everyone's attention, yet spoke slowly and deliberately:

"We can't kill him."

"What did you say?"

“I said, we can’t kill Nightwing. Because he’ll soon be surrendering to the Court!”

"Hahahaha!" Bain burst into laughter, a rare occurrence, but the laughter abruptly stopped. "At a time like this, are you still joking with me? 'William Cobb,' the most terrifying and ferocious claw under the court's command, tell me, what guarantee do you have?!"

However, Claws merely clenched his fists slightly and said calmly, "I vouch for him myself, because Dick Grayson is my descendant."

……

Gotham, a hidden basement.

This place is essentially the printing press of an abandoned newspaper. It was sold off by its original owner after the internet impacted print media. Only a handful of people in Gotham City can find this mysterious place, and the Riddler is one of them.

Since escaping from Arkham and regaining his freedom, he has returned to his own little world, enjoying the oppressive atmosphere of the eve of war.

Right now, the basement walls are covered with photos, newspaper clippings, and hand-drawn portraits. Each face is circled with a number in red pen and connected by different colored lines.

Batman, Robin, Angel of Death, Nightwing, Commissioner Gordon, the emblem of the Court of Owls, Bane, Mr. Freeze...

Each person's avatar belongs to a specific group; some belong to "heroes," while others belong to "villains," or more precisely, to "justice" and "evil."

The riddle-maker stood in front of the wall, biting the cap of his pen, trying to stick a portrait onto the wall.

The face in this portrait is rather rough, but the basic features are still there.

Black hair, standard Chinese facial features, and a pair of seemingly innocent eyes.

The following words were written neatly below the portrait:

"Eastern Buddhist monk".

Well, at least he's a person.

"Are you sure that guy really looks like that?" Two-Face Harvey Dent stood at the table behind the Riddler, absentmindedly toying with his signature coin.

Meanwhile, the killer crocodile was crouching in the corner, trying to hammer thumbtacks into the wall with its claws. However, the thumbtacks were too small and its claws were too big, and it only managed to hammer one out of more than ten.

Three eccentric individuals with vastly different personalities gathered together, certainly not to play cards or drink.

The riddle-maker pointed to his newly drawn portrait and said with dissatisfaction, "Two-faced man, don't underestimate my portrait skills."

"Besides, even the crocodile thinks my drawing looks like him! I reckon Mr. Freeze has already found that guy based on my drawing."

"Hmm... make the nose a little bigger," Killer Croc mumbled.

"So you spent half the night making this?" Two-Face asked sarcastically.

“Yes, this is the ‘Gotham World Cup’!” the Riddler exclaimed excitedly. “More than a dozen core participants, two camps, the ‘heroes’ led by Batman and the ‘villains’ led by Bane, oh, and the opportunists who haven’t yet clearly chosen sides!”

"Look, this is the current situation. Although the heroes are the fewest in number, I have high hopes for them because the strength of the Easterners is unfathomable..."

"Enough! What exactly do you want from me?"

The riddle-maker grinned. "Place your bets, Two-Face. Let's see who goes first. Or do you want to join in yourself?"

Two-Face stared silently at the Riddler, noticing that the Riddler's silly smile would remain unchanged for a long time to come. He sighed helplessly, trying to end the awkward standoff.

Let him raise the coin in his hand!

"Oh, coins? These are your chips?"

Silver coins tumbled in the air, reflecting the cold light of all the fluorescent lights in the basement.

The Riddler instinctively reached out to take it, but the Two-Face slapped his wrist away.

"No, I just intend to use this to decide the outcome of your absurd bet."

If it were a direct confrontation, he would kill Bane.

If it's the other way around, he'll join Bane in killing everyone!

The coin landed on the concrete, bounced twice, and finally rolled to the corner of the wall...

The coin didn't fall over; instead, it remained perfectly upright, wedged in the crack between the floor tiles.

"This……"

"This is really bizarre." The two-faced man chuckled, bent down to pick up the coin, put it in his pocket, and turned to leave.

"Wait, Two-Face! You're really not going to bet? You're missing out on so much good stuff!"

The two-faced man stood at the doorway, still not turning around.

“Nigma, all I want to do tonight is get away from the hustle and bustle of the world and be alone. If I have to say what I missed: it’s that I missed the chance to spend the night with a mentally challenged reptile and a chattering freak.”

With that, his hand reached for the basement doorknob.

"Wait, wait a minute!" the riddle teller cried hysterically. "There's one more riddle you haven't finished answering. Try again! Have you heard this riddle before: 'Some people's nightmare, some people's savior. My hand, cold and desperate, reaches out to that warm heart. What is it?'"

“I only heard one terrible poem,” Two-Face replied casually, then opened the door and disappeared at the end of the stairs leading to the ground.

The riddle-maker looked at the closed door and sighed to himself.

“It’s death, Harvey. The answer is death.”

"You missed... a grand death!"

Having said that, he picked up a new card from the table and pasted a new category line on a blank wall, titled "Neutral".

Then, he pasted the image of Two-Face in that area.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Will a Desperate Army Be Defeated or Victorious?

"Yes, this is the situation we are facing."

Inside the Batcave, Tim Drake solemnly recounted the story he had heard from Sebastian Clark.

This story takes place in Gotham City in the early 20th century, where a circus performer meets, falls in love with, and becomes entangled with a wealthy young woman by chance.

Like all clichéd love stories, the wealthy young lady's powerful father chose to separate the two lovers.

Heartbroken and bewildered, the poor boy is then seduced by the circus ringmaster, accepts a bloody and secretive job, and discards his past as worthless.

The poor boy's name is "William Cobb," and his clients are the "Owl Court."

“…William Cobb stole his own child. Yes, he got that rich girl pregnant and secretly raised the child without her knowledge. And Dick is his direct descendant. That circus is specifically for training Claws for the court. William Cobb and his family have served the Court of Owls for generations; that's their mission,” Tim said meaningfully. “If Bruce hadn't taken Dick away, Dick might already be a Claw by now.”

"Wait a minute!?" Wang Baixi, who might be a big fan of comics but not quite, couldn't help but complain, "You mean that idiot William Cobb is working for another group of powerful people in order to get revenge on them?"

“Alas, even among the so-called noble families, there are differences.” Joshua quietly took out a tablet, turned on the screen, and showed everyone several names. These were the people he believed to be closely related to the Court of Owls.

They may not be particularly famous or incredibly wealthy, because that's exactly what the Owl Court avoids.

They gnaw at the earth like maggots, parasitizing the world, and have no intention of announcing to the world: We are in Gotham.

“For a long time, this city was like a game of chess, with black and white pieces. The white pieces were us, the so-called upper class, who could move first and have a greater advantage,” Joshua lamented. “But the world doesn’t work that way.”

“In our time, the most frequently mentioned families were the Wayne, Kane, Cobblepot, and Elliott. But today, the Wayne, Kane, and Elliott families are not as illustrious as they once were, and the Cobblepot family has fallen into decline.”

"Black and white are not so immutable; what maintains order is the gray that lies between black and white."

"The Court of Owls is that gray one. And Grayson and his family are the 'Children of Gray'."

“Mr. Joshua is right. The court has predicted that the title of ‘Son of Grey’ will belong to Dick Grayson, which is why they are so obsessed with Dick. It’s not just about taking over Wayne Enterprises,” Tim nodded.

"So, you really think the Court of Owls has a way to brainwash Dick?" the Angel of Death asked.

Tim's expression was grave; he didn't know how to answer the Angel of Death.

He was genuinely worried about this happening. Most importantly, they had also joined forces with Bain.

“Please!” Wang Baixi stepped forward, trying to rally everyone’s spirits. “We’re gathered here not to be defeated by the Court of Owls and a drug-addicted bodybuilder! You are heroes… the hopes of all of Gotham rest on your shoulders. How can you believe that old man’s one-sided story!”

"If Dick's been brainwashed, bring him back. Beat him until he comes to his senses. Don't be discouraged by Batman and Nightwing's departures. For Gotham's sake, pull yourself together!"

“We’ve already lost to Bane once.” Tim’s eyes were filled with gloom.

"So what? As Sun Tzu's Art of War says: A defeated army will surely be pitiful, and a pitiful army will surely be victorious!"

Tim's melancholy vanished, replaced by great confusion.