Belland, Lower City District.

A faint mist drifted from the ancient Rhine River, shrouding this old and silent district. The overcast sky, thick with dark clouds, allowed not a single ray of light to pierce through. The entire area was like a reflection of hell.

This was the dark source of Belland—the shadow cast upon the earth by the city's thriving branches and leaves.

Chaos was the eternal theme here.

Even though all roads leading out of the city had been sealed, the Upper City had knights stationed on guard, and a curfew order was in effect, the edges of this district were still rippling with flashes of blades, flames, and streams of blood.

"Stop!"

Hoarse shouts and sharp wails shattered the deathly silence of a secluded spot. Frenzied thugs, brandishing weapons and blades, accompanied by flickering firelight, pursued a frail figure in the near distance.

"No... please don't come any closer. Spare me, please spare me!"

The man, emaciated and skeletal, scrambled away desperately. His entire body was covered in wounds, indicating the brutal torment he had already endured.

Whoosh—

The sound of an arrow slicing through the air shrieked abruptly. The man stumbled and fell to the ground. A sharp bolt shot from a crossbow pierced straight through his calf.

Blood gushed out.

"Spare me! I beg you, let me go! I never betrayed the Rat King—I’ve just decided to quit! I swear, I never betrayed him!"

The man's face was streaked with blood and tears as he whimpered, pleading humbly with the thugs for mercy and compassion.

"Spare you?"

The thugs slowly approached, their faces twisted in sinister expressions.

"Have you forgotten the rules of the Rat Gang? Back when we were making money, you were more enthusiastic than anyone else. Now that rumors have started circulating, you just want to walk away?"

"No, I haven’t—I swear I haven’t! I just don’t want to be part of this anymore. I don’t want to kill anymore. I want to... I want to be a good person."

The man struggled to crawl toward the group of thugs, knocking his head repeatedly to beg for mercy.

"We used to be coworkers, Swick. We drank together so many times! Please, for old times’ sake, let me go. I swear, I’m only quitting. I’ve never betrayed anyone!"

"Let you go? But if I let you go, who’s going to let *me* go?"

The thug called Swick lowered his cold, icy gaze and slowly raised the crossbow in his hands, aiming it at the man's forehead.

"If you wanted to be a good person in your next life, you'd better start earlier. Don’t wait until your hands are drenched in blood to say all this nonsense."

"No! I want to see the Rat King—I want to see him! I've done so much for him. He can’t treat me like this!"

The man screamed in terror and desperation, but it did nothing to change his fate. In his despondent expression, the bowstring grew taut and... fired.

The man instinctively squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for death.

Ding.

A crisp sound echoed through the air. The anticipated death never arrived.

The man opened his eyes wide in astonishment. Right before him, a pitch-black, ancient-looking cane stood upright, bearing the marks where the arrow had struck and scraped along.

Who?

Who could block a rapidly-fired arrow with nothing but a cane?

Everyone turned, stunned, toward the figure who had appeared out of nowhere.

He was dressed in a fine, pitch-black coat lined with gold. The intricate tailoring radiated an air of grandeur, yet the jagged edges of his coat hinted at something primal and bloodthirsty.

He was notably taller than the average, exuding an overwhelming sense of oppression. From beneath the brim of his broad, ornate hat, his face—a cold, chiseled visage bearing the distinctive sharpness of a northern Slav—curled into an eerie smile.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he greeted politely, pressing the brim of his hat as though he were a gentleman exchanging pleasantries.

"Did I just hear... someone say they wanted to be a good person?"

"Who are you?"

Swick immediately aimed his crossbow at this peculiar stranger. His thugs followed suit, raising their weapons and surrounding the man with fierce, predatory gazes.

"No need to be so tense, gentlemen. I'm just an ordinary passerby," the tall man in the formal black attire replied. He lightly tapped the ground with his cane, gesturing for everyone to relax, as if conducting a charming melody.

"You can call me... hmm, let me think. You can call me Bruce Wayne."

The grin on his face deepened, as if he had stumbled upon an amusing new thought.

"Yes, an ordinary citizen named Bruce. No superpowers, no tricks—Bruce. That name suits me perfectly."

"What do you want?"

Swick’s fingers tightened on the crossbow trigger. His voice was sharp and laced with distrust.

"Are you in cahoots with this coward?"

"No, no, no—I already said I’m just passing by,"

the "ordinary citizen" Bruce—who was, in fact, Moen—replied serenely, as if the drawn weapons around him didn’t exist. Instead of stepping away from danger, he casually brushed aside an approaching machete and, with an almost jovial familiarity, threw an arm around one thug’s shoulder.

"However, I *do* have a small question I’d like to ask this kind gentleman here."

"A question?"

Swick frowned. Under normal circumstances, he would have already dealt with anyone foolish enough to interrupt the Rat Gang's business. Simply kill them and toss the body into the sewers—problem solved.

But there was something unsettling about this man. Swick couldn’t quite figure him out, so his guard remained up. If talking could avoid unnecessary trouble, he was willing to entertain it.

"What question?"

"I was wondering—your boss, Rat King Sam... where exactly is he these days?"

Whoosh—

The sharp whistle of another arrow tore through the air, interrupting Moen mid-sentence.

He tilted his head slightly, pressing down on his hat. His eyes flicked toward the arrow now embedded in the wall right behind him, its shaft still trembling from the force. He sighed in disappointment.

"Why there is no one can just let a man finish his sentence?"

"Kill him!"

Swick shouted hoarsely, his eyes blazing in fury. "The boss said anyone asking about his whereabouts must be killed on the spot!"

"As expected of Rat King Sam, the man rumored to have a dozen hideouts, switching locations three times in a single night. Such extraordinary caution. Truly admirable," Moen mused aloud, patting the shoulder of the thug next to him.

"Don’t you agree?"

"Screw you! Die!"

But the thug clearly didn't share Moen’s sense of humor. With a snarl, he swung his machete straight for Moen’s neck.

"Honestly, I've always hated violence."

Moen sighed once again.

"But why is it that you people always force me into it?"

His fingers twitched.

Thunder.

In the horrified stares of all present, the thug closest to Moen suddenly had half his arm explode into a cloud of bloody mist.

In the crimson haze, the so-called "ordinary citizen" Bruce whistled nonchalantly as he bent down to pick up the machete that had fallen to the blood-soaked ground.

He weighed the weapon in his hand.

"Sigh, I’ve grown so used to Elizabeth. Every other weapon just feels like garbage now."

He shook his head in dissatisfaction. Then, flipping his wrist, he impaled the blade into the throat of another thug lunging at him from behind. His movements were so fluid, so casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"But I suppose this’ll do for now."

"Kill him! Kill him! Everyone, together!"

Swick bellowed, his bloodshot eyes filled with rage. He quickly reloaded his crossbow, aiming carefully.

Stay calm.

Stay calm.

He’s just one man! There’s no way he can take out all ten of us! If I can just hold my ground, this enchanted crossbow will turn him into a pincushion in seconds!

"Oh, by the way, can I ask you one more question?"

Just then, the so-called "ordinary citizen" paused, pulling the blade from his victim’s throat. He gracefully sidestepped the splatter of blood and turned his gaze back toward Swick.

"Ten divided by ten—what does that equal?"

Ten divided by ten?

Is this a joke for children?

"Of course it’s one," Swick answered instinctively.

"Is that so?"

Having received his answer, the ordinary citizen Bruce tipped his hat slightly and, ignoring the thugs closing in from behind, muttered softly, almost to himself,

"In that case... one it is."

In the blink of an eye, as the words faded, the man in Swick’s crosshairs suddenly vanished, leaving behind a faint afterimage.

Then came the screams—piercing, simultaneous screams—as gouts of blood splattered across the scene. It was as if a vivid scarlet flower of death had bloomed amidst the endless darkness of the night.