Chapter 2364: Gotham Music Festival (66)_1

As the two cars drove side by side, Peter saw a man sitting in the driver's seat of the opposite car, wearing yellow and black Armor. He had some impression of him; it seemed like he was Deadpool's cousin or someone like that.

Peter greeted him, and to his surprise, the man actually responded, albeit with a tone of resignation.

"Good evening, Spider-kid, tell your buddy to stop sending me messages. I don't need so many greetings!"

The man's voice sounded much older than Deadpool's, indicating a not insignificant age difference. Just as Peter was about to ask, Deadpool let out a scream of agony.

"No! Cousin! I need to keep my arms and legs intact for Disney to make my action figures! I didn't mean to leak your contact information!"

Peter opened the Spider App and discovered that the group had already had a discussion about it. It was Deadpool, who, taking advantage of his good relationship with Spider-Man, liked to hang out on the Spider App forum. One day, he posted a photo with Deathstroke, Captioning it with "Cousin and I went on a slaughtering spree, heads rolling and blood splattering all over."

On the bar counter behind them was a business card of Deathstroke, which Deadpool forgot to blur. As a result, a bunch of Spider-Men deciphered Deathstroke's contact details.

The Spider-Men didn't know what Deathstroke did for a living; they just heard he was Wade's cousin, so they kept sending him greeting messages.

If they had any proper business, it would have been okay, but there wasn't any. Most messages were like "Hey Wade's cousin, good morning! I'm Spider-Man, Wade's best friend. Come hang out sometime!"

Unfortunately for him, Nick often caught this bunch working in Battleworld, where they could send messages across the cosmos. In no time, Deathstroke's inbox was flooded with junk mail, blocking his actual work inquiries.

Deathstroke had intended to wage an information war in response, but his idea of replying with tens of thousands of emails from a burner account backfired when every single one was answered, resulting in the server renters blacklisting him overnight.

Deathstroke felt the need to teach these chatty youngsters a lesson offline, to show them that excessive talking comes with consequences.

With a flick of the steering wheel, Deathstroke's car executed a drift, prompting a scream from The Flash. The car swayed violently from side to side, causing Peter's head to slam against the adjacent window.

"Ouch!"

As they slowly regained stability, Peter made a sour face and said, "It's not like I'm the one who annoyed him..."

"Deathstroke holds grudges," said The Flash. "Our universe's Robin suffered a lot because of him, Batman even warned them not to mess with Deathstroke."

Clutching his forehead, Peter said, "I can't be responsible for other Batmans. They'd better fend for themselves."

The Flash sped up again and soon noticed many cars following them, each with strangely dressed people, all seemingly coming from the branching road off the bridge they had just passed. He turned his head to look in that direction and saw an island standing alone in the sea with towering buildings brightly lit, planes taking off and landing, and numerous helicopters circling.

"What's that place over there?" mused The Flash. He didn't point it out to Peter, as Peter wasn't a local either, but surprisingly, Peter seemed to know. He said, "Bruce told me it's 'Black Island', a special entertainment center built in recent years."

"Special? What's so special about it?"

"It's a lawless zone, or you could call it international waters. The world's top assassins, mob members, and brokers — everyone skirting at the edge of the law — they all gather there. It's their stronghold, their place for accepting contracts, exchanging information, and a den of iniquity."

The Flash clicked his tongue, saying with some emotion, "So close to Gotham, aren't they afraid Batman will swoop in and wipe them out?"

Peter displayed an awkward expression.

The Flash looked puzzled and turned to him.

"It seems the island was actually built by Batman."

The Flash's eyes bulged as he asked, bewildered, "Built by Batman?! What... what's he doing building a place like that???"

"Probably for the money," Peter replied as he turned his head away. "I thought the same as you at first, but soon he convinced me—unless you can eliminate all the rich, there will always be mercenaries and assassins in the world."

"Most top assassins are quite wealthy. Instead of letting their money flow elsewhere to further crime, it's better for Batman to use it for charity and saving lives. After all, even if there's only one selfless person left in this world, we'd all agree that it would be Batman, right?"

The Flash was at a loss for words.

He waved his hand and said, "Don't repeat anything about the Batman of this universe ever again. I feel like my brain has been polluted."

Then, after a moment's thought, he added, "This is too... I mean... Huh... it's weird, not really, he's actually making money off assassins to fund charity! He's actually able to make money from assassins! And even use it for charity!... That's so Batman."

"You should say that's so Wayne."

"Who else could be the richest man in the world?"

"Indeed," Peter agreed.

The White Can flew over Black Island.

```

When he tested the New Armor, he had actually seen the island, but his vision was drawn by that mysterious ship. Now, looking back, he wanted to go ashore to investigate.

One could tell that most of the buildings on the island were newly constructed, adhering to Gotham's typical style of light pollution. There were neon lights and glass curtain walls everywhere, with the tallest building displaying a huge Wayne logo.

White Can stopped in front of the bridge and walked onto the island, yet none showed objection to his Iron suit because most people there were dressed in bizarre outfits.

The colors of Gotham were dark, making the neon signs appear even more dazzling. A light rain in the evening had left the streets wet, reflecting the illusionary streetscape, blurring the distinction between sky and water.

Walking into a narrow street, drones flew overhead while the large bar signs continued changing colors. White Can pushed open the door, and the camera turned towards him.

White Can let out a cold laugh and snapped his fingers at the camera, instantly extinguishing its light.

He approached the bar and unobtrusively surveyed the situation. There was a drunken man by the window, whose build suggested extensive training, and the scars on his arm, likely from bullets, hinted at a glorious past.

The two playing pool were skilled; they seemed accustomed to combat in desert terrains. The bartender watching idly didn't have the look of a typical pretty boy found in bars; White Can estimated that he might even be bulkier than himself.

It looked like a tough-guy bar. White Can snapped his fingers at the bartender cleaning glasses behind the bar, who flicked his head at him. White Can noticed a screen beside him displaying the menu.

The moment White Can focused on the menu, he gasped in shock. Was this priced in US dollars? Surely this wasn't in Hong Kong dollars?

Seeing that a basic martini cost 300 dollars, White Can realized this was an outright mob bar.

But having come this far, dressed in such eye-catching Battle Armor, fleeing upon seeing the menu would disgrace him. He intended to travel the cosmos for a while longer and couldn't afford the reputation of a coward.

White Can ordered a 600-dollar Negroni straightaway. He repeated to himself, a 600-dollar Negroni, 1996, Gotham East Coast.

Just by selling 10 drinks a day, the bar could net a profit of 5800 dollars. 5800 dollars in 1996—that's without even mentioning any devastating virus.

After finishing his drink full of thoughts, White Can left the bar. The impact of the alcohol was far less than that of the prices. He stumbled into an even narrower alley and saw a flamboyantly dressed woman soliciting on the upper floor.

Without looking, he knew what this was about. However, it appeared that prostitution wasn't a legal business here, as the woman seemed very concerned about the cameras, constantly checking for patrolling drones.

No Stark would resort to solicitation when you couldn't make your way through the cover models, but to fully investigate the pricing at this place, White Can still signaled for a price.

The woman first gestured ten and then made a sign for money. White Can truly wanted to curse. The flesh trade here dared to ask for 1000 US dollars—in 1996 US dollars, to repeat.

White Can remained incredulous; he left the alley and found a bigger bar—more accurately, the largest on the island, located on the central street in a free-standing three-story building, ablaze with lights.

The Negroni here cost 1000 dollars.

Sitting at the bar, White Can started to ponder whether this cosmos had already experienced a major economic crisis. But if the US dollar had already inflated to this point, it was unscientific that World War III hadn't started yet.

Upon seeing the ordinary Scottish whiskey priced at a staggering 60,000 dollars, White Can began to contemplate the possibility that a colossal planet loaded with gold collided with Earth, incidentally not affecting its rotation, yet miraculously bringing at least a hundredfold increase in Earth's gold reserves.

What's more outrageous was that people were actually buying it.

Looking around, White Can noticed that no one here was weak. Most were dressed in various Armors and masks, and their weapons didn't seem to be just for show.

He listened carefully, hearing the man beside him who had just opened a bottle of 30,000-dollar liquor say, "This DBI thing is weird, isn't it? Killing two ordinary people and assigning the job to us, I'd almost believe their Agents were wiped out."

"Shut the hell up. I thought I was seeing things when I saw that informant. The guy was practically broadcasting that he was a cop."

"They're offering a hefty sum, so there's definitely something fishy. Has anyone taken the job?"

"Haven't heard, but plenty are curious to check out the scene. After all, there's a bounty. Who knows—might be an easy job."

From their conversation, White Can deduced they were likely hitmen and Mercenaries. No wonder this group made easy money and spent like there was no tomorrow, without knowing when they might die. It was too easy to gouge their money.

It seemed they were here for assignments, and the pricey drinks probably included an entrance fee, a way to screen the clientele.

But White Can couldn't help but wonder, which genius thought to build a platform to round up all these hitmen in one place to fleece them?

Just back in his office, Beihan sighed with relief. After arranging for a complete nanny team to take care of Aisha through his assistant, he opened his emails from the Battleworld test software and received Shiller's reply.

As he read through the details, Beihan's eyes gradually widened. After staring for half an hour, Beihan slammed his laptop shut decisively.

He couldn't look any further. Beihan felt as if the devil named Greed was gradually seizing his heart.

```