Hisany years ago…
“Huhu! I want pizza! I want pizza!”
The boy’s voice echoed in the alley, carrying the shrillness and stubbornness characteristic of a child.
Bruce Wayne walked in front, shouting incessantly, his footsteps fast and hurried, as if escaping something.
If you looked closely at his eyes, you would find that what was hidden in them was not excitement, but fear.
The family of four turned from the chaotic street into this quiet alley.
The father, Thomas Wayne, walked at the very back, wearing glasses, his face as gloomy as the sky before a storm.
The mother, Martha, was wrapped in an expensive coat, her high heels clicking crisply against the stone road.
The child in front was still shouting about pizza, and her temples were throbbing.
“What would it matter if you just bought him a pizza?” Martha’s voice was sharp, laced with impatience.
“We must be frugal.” Thomas Wayne said with a gloomy face, enunciating every word, “We have to pay the lawyer fees…”
“What?” Martha stopped abruptly, turned around, her voice rising several octaves, “Are you saying I can’t even spend a little money now?”
“You should know our current situation!” Thomas Wayne also raised his voice.
The two of them started arguing like this in the alley, their voices bouncing between the cramped walls.
Bruce kept walking in front, still shouting about pizza, but his shoulders were trembling slightly.
“Bang.”
The sound of a gun being cocked.
Crisp, short, like a needle piercing a balloon, instantly puncturing all the arguing.
Thomas Wayne and Martha turned their heads at the same time.
Their eldest son, Young Thomas Wayne, stood a few steps away, holding a gun, the dark muzzle pointed directly at them.
“Dear Mom and Dad,” Young Thomas Wayne revealed a faint smile, “Raise your hands. From now on, Bruce and I won’t listen to another word from you.”
“What are you doing? Young Thomas Wayne, I am your mother!” Martha’s voice was trembling, but it was more of anger.
Her fear and anger were mixed together, and her whole face was twisted.
Young Thomas Wayne’s eyes were cold and calm, as if looking at two strangers.
Mother, father the father who indulged the mother in squandering the family fortune, the mother who beat and scolded the children at every turn.
If this continued, the entire Wayne family would be dragged down.
Young Thomas Wayne could not allow it.
Young Thomas Wayne was preparing to shoot, when Bruce pounced, grabbing his brother from behind.
“Brother, I can’t do it!” Bruce’s voice carried a crying tone, “I’ve changed my mind, I still don’t want Mom and Dad to die!”
“Bruce, what are you doing? Our plan…” Young Thomas Wayne’s arms were tightly restrained by his younger brother, and the muzzle deviated.
Young Thomas Wayne’s calmness finally cracked, he tried to break free, but Bruce used all his strength to hold him, refusing to let go no matter what.
And their parents, the two adults who were just blaming each other, were now rushing towards them with a mixed expression of fear and anger.
It was too late.
A final thought flashed through Young Thomas Wayne’s mind: As expected, even my brother would betray me.
A gunshot rang out, not from his gun.
It was another, duller gunshot from not far away.
Thomas Wayne and Martha fell one after another.
Young Thomas Wayne pushed Bruce away, Bruce fell to the ground, his head hitting the stone slab, and he passed out.
Young Thomas Wayne already knew roughly what his brother’s fate would be, sadness wanted to stop it, but it was too late.
However, just at this moment, another hand, a child’s hand, steadily caught the bullet in its palm.
Young Thomas Wayne looked up; he didn’t know when, but a boy had appeared in front of him.
About the same age as him, standing there, as if he had been there from the beginning.
“Oh, hey, hello there, Young Thomas Wayne.” The boy’s tone was as casual as if he were just saying hello.
Young Thomas Wayne stared at him with wide eyes, his mind blank.
“My name is Kal-El.” The boy opened his palm, and the deformed bullet head fell from his fingertips to the ground with a crisp sound, “I want to change this World. And you are my designated partner.”
Young Thomas Wayne opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Another bullet flew over, the butler’s bullets were still coming, Kal-El waved his hand casually, as if swatting a fly, the bullet hit his palm, the bullet head flattened into a piece of scrap metal, and rolled into the drain in the corner.
“Oh, right,” the boy turned his head to look in the direction the bullets were coming from, “Could you ask your butler to stop shooting suddenly? Although it can’t kill me, it’s very noisy.”
Young Thomas Wayne stood in place, looking at the boy before him who caught bullets with his bare hands, looking at the unconscious Bruce on the ground, looking at his parents lying in a pool of blood in the distance, and then he slowly put the gun down.
In a tree not far away, an owl watched all of this; Young Thomas Wayne saw the owl in his peripheral vision.
“The Gotham concert will be held as scheduled next week.” Owlman’s voice remained low, and through those blue spherical goggles, his expression at this moment could not be seen, “Do you want to enter as Ultraman, or as Kal-El?”
Ultraman leaned back in his chair and answered almost without thinking: “Definitely as a normal person, you know, I’ve never been able to appreciate the music from your place.”
“We can arrange some that you like—”
“No, this is not the time to discuss this.” Ultraman waved his hand, interrupting Owlman, “Don’t just think about your tourism and economic indicators all day long.”
Owlman did not retort.
He was wearing that uniform inspired by an owl, standing in the dim light of the laboratory, silent like a statue.
The mind hidden under those blue goggles was running fast, but on the surface, he was just waiting for Ultraman to say the truly important thing.
“I have a more significant discovery.” Ultraman’s tone changed, no longer the casualness of small talk, but lowering his voice, solemn and serious, “I have the ability to go to other Worlds.”
Owlman was silent for a second.
He wouldn’t feel shocked; he had already quickly digested the information, and he was waiting for more information.
“Then are we executing the Earth shrinking plan? Carrying a shrunken version of Earth to other Worlds.”
“No.” Ultraman shook his head, “This plan is temporarily put on hold. I am still in the exploration stage… The original parallel Universe exploration plan will proceed as scheduled. If a suitable backup World is found, then use your backup plan.”
Owlman nodded without asking further questions.
He never questioned details on matters Ultraman decided; he only needed to know what to do next.
“So,” Owlman spoke again, his tone unchanged, “You’re really not planning to attend the music festival as Ultraman?”
Ultraman rolled his eyes.
“Can you stop trying to use my identity to drive traffic for your Gotham music festival? You’ve fallen into the money pit, Thomas.”
Owlman was unmoved; he even blinked behind his goggles.
Economic base determines the superstructure; this core concept was something he heard during a casual chat with Ultraman many years ago, and it had since become his core tenet for governing Gotham.
He was indeed controlling Gotham now, but the means of control were no longer pure violence and fear those were too low-level.
What he controlled were economic lifelines, cultural industries, tourism, and real estate development.
Gangs still existed on his turf, but they now had to register for legal business licenses first.
The starting point of all this was the words that boy named Kal-El said to him many years ago.
Sometimes Ultraman would wonder if he had been too talkative back then.
He hadn’t been transmigrated for long, the memories in his head were still fresh, and seeing Young Thomas Wayne, he couldn’t help but spout a bunch of theories about social governance.
As a result, the originally gloomy and cold-blooded Owlman was forcibly twisted into the economic fanatic who treated tourism as his lifeline.
“Jester asked me to tell you that he has been suffering from a lack of inspiration recently.” Owlman changed the subject, “He might come to chat with you.”
Ultraman’s expression stiffened for a second.
Jester the inverted version of “Joker” in this World.
According to the original setting, he should have been an anti-hero, working against Owlman in his crazy way.
But because of a flash of inspiration from Ultraman back then, Jester and Owlman had now reached a strange cooperative relationship, jointly building Gotham City.
The content of the cooperation was quite bizarre: Jester was responsible for eliminating some excessive criminals, and Owlman was responsible for Gotham City’s cultural and entertainment industry.
It had indeed advanced rapidly in recent years, but the price was that Ultraman had to be dragged away by Jester to “chat” from time to time.
“Chat” was a word used by Jester on him, which usually meant at least three hours of philosophical debate plus improvisation.
Ultraman shook his head helplessly, putting the Jester matter aside for now.
His ears twitched, his super-hearing automatically filtered out sounds from other rooms in the building, precisely locking onto a coordinate very far away, but very clear, it was Lex Luthor’s voice.
In this World, Lex Luthor had a full head of hair and possessed an ability called Zansha similar to the Shazam of the main World, he could summon lightning by shouting a specific word to gain power.
More importantly, Lex Luthor had an even more terrifying ability: killing super-powered beings and absorbing their power.
Ultraman had once thought about inviting him to join his team.
But Lex Luthor’s personality was too terrible cruel, arrogant, and without bottom line.
He had chosen to oppose Ultraman without any hesitation.
If it weren’t for Lex Luthor still being useful at certain key plot points, Ultraman would have torn him apart with his own hands long ago.
Now, Lex Luthor was talking to Superwoman, Superwoman the inverted version of Wonder Woman, was also not a good person.
The voices of the two were clearly transmitted to Ultraman’s ears through his super-hearing; they were plotting something.
Ultraman listened to their conversation and already had a rough idea of their so-called plan.
Owlman stood quietly to the side, watching Ultraman’s expression change.
He knew what Ultraman was listening to.
He didn’t ask; things he should know, Ultraman would tell him.
Things he shouldn’t know, asking was useless.
This was the tacit understanding they had formed over many years.
Ultraman retracted his thoughts, putting his attention back to the present.
He stood up from the platform and took one last look at Metropolis outside the window.
That battle suit with the U-shaped emblem on the chest shimmered with a dark luster under the cold light.
“Leave a ticket for the music festival for me.” Ultraman said.
Owlman nodded, turned, and walked into the depths of the laboratory.
His black silhouette merged into the shadows of the corridor, leaving only a low response.
“Of course, the best seat.”