Chapter 67: Gears turning

Chapter 67: Gears turning

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Harleen wasted no time finding a lawyer to handle all the necessary paperwork. With the funds she had secured, she paid for the full repair of the apartment and even proposed constructing an additional floor. It was an investment, one that ensured they had a solid base of operations, something more than just a place to sleep.

Meanwhile, across Gotham, Penguin was no longer focused solely on maintaining his monopoly in the arms market. He had shifted gears, becoming increasingly active in the public eye, delivering speech after speech. His presence in the city was impossible to ignore, and with each passing day, more and more people were beginning to fall under his influence. It was an astonishing transformation—one that made Gotham's citizens forget his past as a villain.

America had a history of electing leaders with criminal backgrounds, and Penguin was playing into that sentiment perfectly. Many people had been to prison, and they saw themselves in him. They believed that someone who had experienced the justice system firsthand would be the one to reform it.

They weren't wrong to assume he would push for improved conditions in Gotham's prisons, nor were they wrong to assume he had ambitions beyond simple public service. With each speech, each carefully crafted promise, Penguin's approval ratings soared.

Far from the political battlefield, Orm was making moves of his own. His Seven Seas Gang had firmly taken control of a key piece of Gotham's real estate—Port Adams. The very place he once tried to submerge now belonged to him. It was more than just a strategic location; it was the bridge between old Gotham and the new Gotham that would rise in the future.

He had heard about his brother's decision regarding Atlantis, but Orm had his own plans. The land behind him would soon bear the mark of Atlantis, and it would be his responsibility to guard it. No matter what happened, he would protect them, as he always had.

In another part of the city, Ivy had returned to her sanctuary—the Gotham Botanical Garden. The rare plants she cultivated had always commanded high prices, meaning research funding was never an issue for her. Despite this, her latest projects had stalled. It wasn't a matter of resources or knowledge. The real problem was something deeper, something she couldn't quite understand.

There was an unfamiliar feeling growing inside her, a strange emotion that shouldn't exist. It gnawed at her, left her restless, and made the empty space in her chest ache in a way she hadn't felt before. Only the sound of a familiar bell—one she wouldn't admit to missing—could soothe the unease creeping through her mind.

While Ivy was struggling with emotions she refused to acknowledge, Damian had successfully returned Pandora to the Batcave. There was no doubt that Batman would get answers from her. He always did. Dean knew this better than anyone. There was nothing he needed to do except wait. Eventually, he would get the answers to his lingering questions—why the snake and chicken talismans had ended up in Pandora's hands.

But Dean wasn't in a hurry. The magic box was now in his possession, and that changed everything. It was the key to the next major event, the single most crucial piece in the unfolding mystery. Without it, all conspiracies and hidden plots would collapse. He held the advantage, and as long as he kept it, the game remained in his hands.

As everything progressed in an orderly fashion, Dean's attention remained fixed on the movements of one particular group. It wasn't just Penguin who was gathering allies—Gotham's defeated villains had begun to find one another.

In the dim glow of a hidden meeting place, frustration ran high. Hamilton Hill, once Gotham's mayor, could no longer contain his rage. His voice, filled with desperation and anger, echoed through the room as he confronted a group of figures wearing owl masks.

"How much longer do I have to wait?" he demanded. "I don't have time for this! The latest polls show Cobblepot already has 53% support, while I'm barely holding on at 45%! If we don't act now, I'm done!"

Silence filled the room as the masked figures stood motionless. The remaining members of the Court of Owls had retreated into the shadows, gathering in one of the few sanctuaries that had yet to be discovered by Batman. They were cautious, hiding from the very city they had once controlled with ease.

One of them finally spoke, their voice calm yet firm. "Hamilton, the Court must remove all traces of exposure. This is different from before. An outsider has disrupted Gotham's balance and revealed our existence. He does not abide by Gotham's rules, nor is he bound by them."

Hamilton's frustration deepened, his grip tightening as he slammed his fist against the table. "So what? You think Batman is going to let me walk away from this? He's just one man! Bats are nocturnal creatures too, aren't they? The Court isn't afraid of him—so what's stopping you now?"

Again, silence. Then, a voice crackled through a communicator, cutting through the tension. "The Court does not fear the light, nor do we fear Gotham's Dark Knight. But our enemies extend beyond bats and Wayne. The Court has a greater mission. Hamilton, do what must be done."

And just like that, Hamilton understood. He had been abandoned.

The Court had chosen to protect itself rather than risk exposure. To them, a temporary defeat meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. They did not mourn losses the way heroes did. When one member fell, another simply took their place. It was the way of the Court. Survival, above all else.

But Hamilton refused to accept that. He wasn't like the others. He knew the truth—once he lost the protection of his position as mayor, he was done for. Batman wouldn't hesitate to throw him into Blackgate, and the Court wouldn't lift a finger to help him. He wasn't just fighting to win an election anymore; he was fighting to stay out of prison, to avoid a fate worse than political disgrace.

"No… I haven't lost yet," he muttered to himself, his breath uneven.

Leaving the meeting behind, he returned to his private residence, dismissing everyone until he was completely alone. He needed time to think, to weigh his options. Standing before the wide floor-to-ceiling windows of his high-rise apartment, he stared out at the cityscape, his eyes filled with indecision.

His gaze eventually drifted toward the large stove in his room. Hanging above it was a mask—an owl mask, the same one he had worn to Court gatherings. He turned away for a moment, but something inside him made him stop. He hesitated, then turned back, stepping toward it.

Slowly, he reached out and removed the mask from its place. He held it in his hands, staring at it for what felt like an eternity. His fingers curled around it, his mind racing. What was he waiting for? He had already made his choice during the last gathering. He hadn't worn the mask then. He had chosen to stand apart. Hadn't he?

"The Court of Owls won't help me," he whispered. "I refuse to sit back and wait for my own downfall. If no one will save me, then I'll save myself. There is only one option."

A slow, deliberate breath escaped his lips as he stepped toward the stove, holding the owl mask over the open flames. Without a second thought, he let go, watching as the fire consumed it. The edges curled, blackening as they crumbled into ash.

Then, before the flames could fully devour it, he reached in with his bare hands, grabbing what remained. The heat seared his fingers, but he didn't flinch. He didn't feel the pain.

With steady movements, he lifted the burning remnants and pressed them against his face. The charred remains of the mask clung to his skin, its last embers fading into darkness.

Standing before the mirror, he looked at his reflection. The man who stared back was not Hamilton Hill. That man was gone.

In his place stood something else.

Something new.

Hamilton stared at his reflection in the mirror, his breath slow and steady. The mask he now wore was no longer the cold, emotionless face of an owl. That identity was dead. What he had created for himself was something entirely new—something darker.

The mask was completely black, devoid of any symbols or designs. It reflected nothing, absorbing all light like a void. As he gazed at himself, a slow, eerie chuckle escaped his lips.

That chuckle soon grew into laughter, but then, just as suddenly, his amusement turned into bitter sobs. The weight of everything—his failures, his abandonment by the Court, his loss of power—rushed through him all at once. But the moment of weakness didn't last long. His sorrow twisted into rage, and his fingers curled into fists. His shoulders trembled, his body tense with emotion, yet the mask on his face remained unmoving, locked in a permanent, unreadable expression.

The silence in the room was broken by a faint whisper, one that didn't come from Hamilton himself. Three ghostly figures materialized before him, their wailing voices emerging from the hollow eye sockets of the mask. These weren't mere hallucinations—these were souls, echoes of the dead, clinging to the mask, bound by their hatred and unfinished vengeance.

They whispered their pain, their anger, their thirst for retribution. Their voices overlapped, merging into a chaotic chorus of suffering, but Hamilton did not shrink back. Instead, he raised a hand, pressing his fingers to the cold surface of the mask.

"Shh… be quiet," he murmured. "You're not the only ones who want revenge. I understand your pain. I understand your hatred. And I promise you this—I will find others who feel the same."

His voice was steady now, filled with a certainty that had been missing before. The laughter, the crying, the hesitation—all of it had vanished. Hamilton was no longer a desperate man clinging to a crumbling life. He had been reborn.

He was Black Mask.

With his purpose clear, he turned away from the mirror, his long coat billowing behind him as he strode toward the door. He had no time to waste. The Court of Owls had abandoned him, but Gotham was filled with others who had been discarded, others who had lost everything and had nowhere else to turn. He would find them. He would gather them. And he would make sure that Gotham remembered his name.

---

Across the city, another war was brewing, one that had gone unnoticed by those watching the political stage.

The Mafia had been in disarray ever since the fall of their previous boss. Their once-powerful network had collapsed, and their influence was slipping away day by day. The worst part? Other criminal organizations had taken advantage of the power vacuum.

The Mud Gang, a brutal and opportunistic group, had been harassing the remaining Mafia members relentlessly. Without a strong leader to protect them, the Mafia had become easy prey.

"Damn it! Those Mud Gang bastards are at it again!" one of the remaining Mafia members shouted, ducking behind a broken-down car as bullets rained down on their hideout. His knuckles were white as he clutched his weapon, frustration clear in his voice. "They never would've dared to pull this crap when he was around!"

One by one, Mafia members fell, their bodies hitting the ground before they could even return fire. Their enemies weren't faring much better. The shootout was chaotic, blood staining the pavement as both sides suffered heavy losses.

But even in the midst of the chaos, there was still one man who refused to believe this was the end.

"No! The boss will come back!" a scarred man declared, lunging forward and slashing the throats of two enemies with his knife. His voice was filled with conviction, his movements driven by sheer desperation.

"I can feel it! The evil he carries—it's still here! You're all fools if you think he's gone for good. Black Mask will never die!"

His words carried a strange, unsettling certainty. He wasn't just trying to rally the others—he truly believed it. And in that moment, as if summoned by the sheer force of his conviction, something shifted in the air.

The gunfire that had been suppressing the Mafia suddenly ceased.

But the silence wasn't comforting. It was unnatural.

A chill ran down the backs of those still standing, and a growing sense of unease spread through both the Mafia and their enemies alike.

Then, without warning, the gunfire resumed—but this time, it wasn't coming from their enemies.

The remaining Mafia members turned in horror as their own people suddenly turned their weapons on each other. Confusion erupted, but there was no time to react. The same men who had been fighting for their survival just moments ago were now gunning down their allies, their faces twisted in blank expressions.

It was as if something—or someone—had taken control of them.

And then, out of the shadows, a lone figure emerged.

Dressed in black, his masked face void of all emotion, Black Mask stepped forward, his boots clicking against the pavement as he surveyed the carnage before him. He walked with the confidence of a man who owned the battlefield, as if he had orchestrated this bloodshed from the very beginning.

"The local gangs really don't understand the rules," he mused, his voice cutting through the silence. "Mud Gang, did you really think you could just take what was mine?"

Across from him, a Mafia member with a bald head and a grin full of madness stood up, wiping the blood from his blade.

"I knew you weren't dead, Boss," Victor Zsasz said, his tone filled with eerie excitement. He ran his fingers across the fresh scars on his arms—new tally marks for the lives he had just taken. "I felt it."

Black Mask turned his gaze toward him, amused. "Zsasz… aren't you afraid? A man who came back from the dead is standing right in front of you."

Zsasz twirled the knife in his hand, unfazed. "I don't care who's under the mask. I only recognize the mask, and so does everyone else." He turned to the other mafia members. "Hey, who do you think he is?"

The response was instant.

"Is that even a question?"

"Zsasz, have you lost your mind?"

"He's Black Mask!"

Hamilton could feel the heat of their gazes, the raw loyalty, and the hunger for power in their eyes. He had experienced this feeling before—the intoxicating sensation of control, of bending others to his will.

A slow smile crept across his lips, though it remained unseen beneath his mask.

"Very good… very good," he murmured with satisfaction, his voice dripping with approval.

Zsasz twirled his blade between his fingers. "So, Boss, what's next? Should we go after the Mud Gang? Wipe out the scum who tried to take our turf?"

"No, that would be a waste of time. Internal conflicts like this are meaningless. What we need is unity—strength through numbers. First, we reclaim the Mafia. Then, we expand."

Black Mask's expression didn't change, but his tone was laced with amusement.

Zsasz tilted his head, running his fingers along the fresh scars on his arm. His blade twirled between his fingers in anticipation. "You always have a plan, Boss. Who are we recruiting?"

Black Mask didn't answer immediately. He took a slow step forward, his boots clicking against the concrete, his masked face unreadable. The Mafia members who remained stood silently, waiting for his word. Even those who had been skeptical before now saw something undeniable in him—power.

His voice darkened as he took a step forward, the weight of his presence suffocating.

"I need to find others—others like me. People who understand what it means to lose everything and rise from the ashes."

He turned toward Zsasz, his voice calm yet filled with unmistakable menace.

"It's time to build an army."

"I need someone with brains," he finally said. "Someone with vision. The kind of person who understands what's coming and has the resources to make it happen." His voice was calm but carried the weight of command. "I have someone in mind."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the darkness, disappearing into the shadows. Zsasz grinned as he followed.

---

The Pure Land of the North, a desolate factory on the outskirts of Gotham, was a forgotten place. It had once been a hub of industrial activity, but now, it was a wasteland of rusted machinery and abandoned warehouses. Most people avoided it. Those who knew what had happened there—the grotesque experiments, the frozen corpses—never spoke of it.

But for one man, it was the perfect hiding place.

Inside the factory, the air was deathly cold. Frost clung to every surface, turning metal beams into icy sculptures. The dim lighting flickered as blue light pulsed through the dark corridors, casting eerie shadows along the walls.

At the heart of it all stood Mr. Freeze.

Victor Fries was no longer a man in the traditional sense. The body he had once possessed—the weak, fragile form that had suffered under the weight of time and circumstance—was gone. Now, he was something more.

His entire being radiated subzero energy. His suit was no longer just armor—it had become his body, a fusion of technology and raw cryogenic power. Where there had once been skin, there was now only glowing blue energy, flickering like an eternal froststorm. He did not shiver. He did not feel pain. He did not feel at all.

The experiment was complete.

He flexed his fingers, watching the cold mist curl around them. His transformation was absolute. He no longer needed to fear heat, because heat could no longer harm him. His pain was gone. His weakness had been erased.

Yet, as he stood there in the silence, there was something missing. He had gained power, but lost something in the process. Something… important.

A sound broke the stillness.

Footsteps.

Someone was here.

He turned sharply, his glowing red visor locking onto the intruder. A dark figure emerged from the shadows, moving with the slow, deliberate confidence of a man who feared nothing.

Black Mask.

Freeze's visor flickered as he recognized the voice.

"Hamilton?" His voice was hollow, distant, as if spoken from the depths of an ice cavern.

Black Mask chuckled, stepping forward. "Not anymore, Professor. That name died when I put on this mask. You may call me Black Mask."

Mr. Freeze regarded him for a long moment, scanning him with cold, calculating eyes. "So, you are another man who has shed his past to become something else."

Black Mask spread his arms. "We all evolve, Victor. Some of us by choice, others by force. But in the end, evolution is necessary. You understand that better than anyone."

Mr. Freeze's gaze flickered toward his own hands, where blue energy pulsed beneath the armor. "Yes," he murmured. "I do."

Black Mask's tone remained smooth, persuasive. "I hear you've been… improving yourself. No longer a man of flesh and blood. Tell me, how does it feel?"

Freeze looked at him. His next words were spoken without hesitation, but they carried a weight that made the air even colder.

"The cold freezes everything," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Including emotions."

Black Mask's fingers tapped against his mask, his amusement evident. "Fascinating. So, what about her?"

For the first time, Mr. Freeze hesitated.

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—an almost imperceptible flicker, but Black Mask caught it instantly.

"You still hate him, don't you?" Black Mask stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The man who took her from you. The man who destroyed everything you were fighting for."

The air temperature dropped. Ice crystals formed on the walls.

Black Mask smiled beneath his mask. He had him.

"Hahaha, it's a very interesting idea, isn't it?" His tone was almost playful, but there was something sinister beneath it. "If you want to make him an eternal specimen, why not cooperate with me? I can give him to you."

Mr. Freeze's fingers clenched, the blue energy within his armor flaring.

"I will control him," Black Mask continued, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "I will make him kill Gordon. I will make him kill Robin. I will make him kill Batman. And through it all, I will ensure that he remains aware. He will know exactly what he's doing, but he won't be able to stop himself. Imagine the pain. Imagine the horror."

He leaned in slightly. "And when he finally breaks—when he loses everything, when he has nothing left—then he will be yours."

The silence stretched between them, thick with anticipation.

Then, finally, Mr. Freeze spoke.

"…Deal."

A cruel smile tugged at the corners of Black Mask's mouth. "Wonderful."

He turned away, walking toward the exit, his voice echoing through the frozen air.

"Welcome to the new Gotham, Professor."

Far away from the cold wasteland of the factory, another figure lurked in the shadows. Unseen, unheard, but always watching.

A figure that understood the delicate balance between light and darkness.

A figure that knew that for every great evil, there must be an equal good.

"Righteous energy and black energy are always in balance."

Hidden deep within the city, he observed Gotham from the darkness, his eyes locked onto the swirling chaos unfolding below. He watched as justice moved, as villainy schemed, as the chessboard of fate was rearranged once again.

He did not interfere, not yet. Instead, he simply waited. He tilted his head upward, his eyes reflecting a single image.

An image of Earth.

The game was far from over. It was only just beginning.

"The world needs more heroes."

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