"Mr.... Bruce."

In silence, stifling atmosphere of the bar, Rat King Sam slowly lifted the blood-streaked head in his hands and presented it before Moen.

The elderly woman's face, frozen in an eternal snarl of rage and despair, was painted with crimson streaks that flowed like bloodied tears across her leathery skin. Her visage, now a grotesque shell of its former beauty, betrayed no trace of the allure that once captivated even the highest of nobles. All that remained was the bitterness and hatred she carried to her grave.

Rat King bowed low, his posture respectful and solemn.

"What you wanted—I’ve brought it to you," he said.

"You’ve done well, Sam. Very well indeed," Moen murmured. He lightly patted Sam’s shoulder, a faint, satisfied grin curving his lips.

With deft fingers, Moen flicked a crystalline card through the air toward Sam.

"An unregistered account with the Imperial Bank. One billion. If you don’t believe me, feel free to send someone to confirm it."

"There’s no need, Mr. Bruce. Of course, I trust you," Sam replied.

As he accepted the card, a flicker of greed flashed in his eyes before vanishing. Without another word, Sam straightened himself and retreated behind Moen. Like before, he concealed his dwarfish figure in the shadows, burying himself in the darkness.

"Alright, everyone. My demonstration was over. Now it’s your turn to give me an answer," Moen said, his tone calm and unhurried. Habitually, he adjusted his top hat and smiled at the gang leaders seated around the room, their silence bordering on a palpable unease.

Though his words were soft and soothing, the undercurrent carried a weight that was unmistakable.

The windows and doors were shut tight, yet an unexplained chill swept through the room, leaving a cold trace on the skin.

The leaders shifted their gazes, flickering nervously between Moen and the shadowy figure of Rat King standing behind him. Their faces were pale as paper, their eyes betraying fear and indecision.

The equilibrium had been shattered.

Before, when this terrifying man acted alone, they’d at least harbored a slim hope of standing against him if they banded together. But now...now that Rat King had evidently pledged his allegiance to Moen, all such ambitions crumbled.

With Moen’s enigmatic and unfathomable strength combined with Rat King’s infamy for ruthlessness and cunning throughout the entire Lower City District—not to mention the unknown number of crossbowmen under his command—they knew the outcome of resistance. Should there be a confrontation, none of them would leave this place alive.

If survival was their priority, there was only one conceivable answer to give.

—Damn it. If only I’d acted first! At least then we could’ve taken the money and had something to show for it. Now it’s all gone to Rat King...

Regret was etched on every face like a scar.

But after a brief, oppressive silence, one by one, these gang leaders—lords ruling the Lower City District streets—surrendered their pride. Slowly, reluctantly, they bowed their heads, possibly for the first time in years.

"Mr. Bruce," came the murmured greeting, spoken with strained reverence.

"Excellent. It seems you’ve all made the right choice," Moen said, his gaze sweeping across the room.

In the dim light, their expressions were obscured, their eyes inscrutable. Were they genuinely yielding to him? Or were they simply biding their time, harboring hidden thoughts and schemes?

It didn’t matter.

Moen fetched a bottle of fine liquor that he’d set aside earlier and pulled out several small glasses from behind the bar. One by one, he filled them to the brim himself.

"Let’s celebrate," he said, raising a glass first, smiling politely. "Let us toast this most momentous occasion."

Strangely, no one moved to join him.

Though the glasses gleamed with crystal clarity and the wine’s aroma was rich, the gang leaders regarded the drinks with dread as though staring down their doom. Their fear was justified: they had all watched as Moen discreetly dropped a white pill into each glass—except Rat King’s.

"Mr.... Bruce, what did you add to the wine?" one leader stammered, his voice trembling.

"Nothing much," Moen replied nonchalantly. "Just a precious potion I bought at great expense—something that’ll cause your entire body to rot and dissolve if you ever betray me. So considerable, isn’t it?"

Considerable?

More like terrifying.

The leaders stared at the glasses, visibly chilled by his words. None dared raise one to their lips.

They all understood that drinking the wine would signify the final surrender of everything that defined them—their freedom taken, their futures shackled to this man’s whims.

But refusing to drink? That was tantamount to forfeiting their lives.

Freedom or life—a devil’s choice.

Hesitancy flickered in every pair of eyes.

"...Hah."

Suddenly, their host’s quiet chuckle broke the tension.

"Relax. I’m joking," Moen said with an amused smirk. "The pills are fake, nothing but peppermint candy. I heard this wine mixes well with mint—it softens the taste. Thought I’d give it a try and lighten the mood."

Casually, he threw one of the same white tablets into his own drink, swirling it until it dissolved. Without hesitation, he downed the glass and then smacked his lips appreciatively. "Not bad," he remarked.

"..."

Not a single person laughed at his so-called joke.

After enduring another stretch of weighted silence, Moen arched an eyebrow at their continued reluctance. His smile faded.

"Well? Aren’t you going to drink? Or did you just try to embarrass me?"

"We’ll drink... we’ll drink!"

The leaders exchanged glances, beads of sweat clinging to their brows. Finally, they lifted the glasses with trembling hands. But at the final moment, one faltered, voice shaking:

"Mr. Bruce, are you certain it’s just peppermint candy?"

"Well," Moen answered, his expression cryptic. "Why don’t you guess?"

…

In the end, under the suffocating pressure of impending death, every single gang leader drank.

The wine did, indeed, carry a faint minty tang.

Yet once the seed of suspicion had been planted, no amount of evidence could erase it. Doubt would take root and twist their hearts. Was it truly harmless candy? Or deadly poison? The answer now lived only in their imaginations.

And so, unwilling to gamble against a fifty-fifty chance, they resolved to tread carefully.

In their own minds, they all knew they had just gained a master.

His name: Bruce Wayne.

This time, none of them had offered their leashes willingly. Yet, through his calculated machinations, Bruce had looped a collar tightly around every one of their necks.

"Impressive tactics, Mr. Bruce," Rat King voiced his admiration. The wine in his own glass had already disappeared down his throat without hesitation.

He felt the heavy weight of several resentful glares, cast his way by those gathered. From this moment on, he would automatically be seen as Moen’s top confidant, the only one spared from drinking the cursed "candy." To them, should Rat King falter or lose favor, he would be torn apart piece by piece.

"You're too kind," Moen said with a small, knowing smile.

"Watching television dramas once in a while really helps with inspiration."

"Television dramas?" Rat King asked, puzzled.

"Never mind," Moen replied curtly, his attention shifting elsewhere.

Dong—

The bell from a distant clock tower tolled, marking the arrival of midnight. The long night showed no sign of ending—or perhaps, it was only just beginning.

"So, what will you do now?" Rat King inquired deferentially.

"Hmm, what to do..." Moen tapped his fingers against the table, deep in thought.

Then, withdrawing his gaze from the unseen horizon, he turned to address the scene before him.

Nine gang leaders stood in two rows within the dimly lit bar, their demeanors submissive.

Beyond the door, in the dark, quiet streets, countless enforcers from their respective factions waited silently, bodies hiding within the shadows but numbers undeniable. Each one awaited orders from this man now firmly in charge.

"First things first," Moen said, adjusting the hem of his tailored suit. His calm footsteps began echoing upon the wooden floors as he moved deeper into the heart of the shadowed underworld.

"Start by finding something for me."

"And secondly..."

His cold grin sharpened as he looked in a specific direction. An aura of malice flickered about him like a silent storm.

"Let’s send everyone a little ‘welcome gift.’"