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Bruce left with determination, but the old man still insisted on giving him a cigarette, saying, "I give every newcomer a free cigarette. It might just save his life during a crucial moment, and it could potentially increase my clientele. If the pain becomes unbearable for you, come see me. The Doctor welcomes every patient."

With the cigarette in his grip, Bruce walked stiffly back to his truck, tucking the cigarette into his pocket idly. He sat motionless on the seat until the rain began falling over Gotham again.

Homeless now, Bruce could only stay in his truck. It was his only sanctuary, providing scant warmth but at least it sheltered him from wind and rain.

Sitting in the driver's seat, Bruce found the words of the old man echoing in his head, words that seemed so absurd and utterly illogical, it was as if the old man were joking.

But the old man wasn't joking. He truly considered himself a doctor, committed to finding solutions for his 'patients', believing he had the ability to cure them. In his view, relief from pain was a form of healing.

Was this absurd? Perhaps so, but to some extent, it was also reasonable.

In the past few days, Bruce had come to understand deeply the importance of labour capacity. It was the only hope for everyone here.

Only those who could work could survive here. If they were unable to lift a finger, all that was left for them was to wait for death.

To regain their capacity for labour, they would try any methods available, including using drugs to relieve pain.

There were two ways to cure diseases: to treat the symptoms or the root cause. Bruce did not agree with this slow form of suicide to alleviate symptoms, but neither could he question why these people chose not to treat the root cause.

Because what he held in his hand were two crumpled dollars, he couldn't even afford the hospital registration fee.

If he had to sustain himself solely on his own, then 'best laid plans can still go awry' would no longer merely be an idiom expressing sighs of resignation; it becomes the flash of lightning on a perfectly good day.

On the day the lightning struck, many had already died. Their death sentences were only handed out on the fifteenth day of the lunar month, but they'd already perished at the beginning of the month.

Lying in the seat, Bruce gradually succumbed to the hazy pull of sleep. Except this time, his dreams kept free falling, vacillating between the descent and sudden awakenings.

The grip on his spear slowly loosened. The dual torment of the body and mind plunged him into the profound depths of his dream. Consequently, he didn't hear any mischievous sound.

When he got up the next day, Bruce stretched lazily in his seat. He felt slightly better; the symptoms of stomachache had disappeared, his strength had recovered somewhat, and the temperature had risen, relieving him of the cold.

Bruce felt as if luck was turning, but this sensation didn't last long. Ten minutes later, he discovered that the truck wouldn't start.

Upon checking, Bruce found that the lock on the petrol tank had been forced open.

The petrol he had full from last time had been stolen. He had slept too profoundly last night and hadn't heard a sound.

Now the problem was, if he wanted to eat, he wouldn't have enough money for petrol. And if he wanted to refill the petrol, he wouldn't have enough money for food.

If he didn't refill the petrol, he wouldn't be able to work today. And after finishing today's food, he still wouldn't have money for tomorrow's food. However, if he didn't eat, his gastroenteritis would likely worsen, and his body would weaken further.

After weighing the pros and cons, Bruce decided to refuel. He had to ensure sustainability, rather than living from meal to meal.

Finally, he arrived at a gas station. With the spare money, he filled up the tank again and even managed to change the lock. And just like that, he was penniless again.

With petrol in the tank, he could get back to work. As long as he could work, he would earn money. With money, he could eat the next day. Everything would get better.

With this mindset, Bruce embarked on his journey again.

Just like the previous days, he arrived at the mob's warehouse, started loading goods, and business was especially good that day. He loaded a truck full of goods, earning a tip of two dollars. Once he delivered these goods to the distribution point, he would earn another ten dollars—enough for the next three days' meals.

Bruce felt that he made the right choice. Instead of impulsively using the money for food, he would have been worrying about tomorrow's meal.

As usual, he got onto the overpass and then began the long process of traffic congestion.

However, even during traffic congestion, he was able to move every five minutes. Although the twenty-kilometer journey took several hours, he still managed to complete it.

Today, however, the flow of traffic was like a solidified sculpture — stationary. Seeing the sun above his head and only half of the elevated road covered, Bruce, like the other drivers, got out of the car to investigate the situation.

It turned out that a refrigerated truck carrying dense ice raw materials had a leak. The leaked materials had frozen the back half of the overpass. They were now waiting for professionals to handle the situation. If the professionals were unable to come, they wouldn't be able to deliver the goods today.

They waited on the bridge until two in the afternoon when Bruce received the notice that professionals had arrived, but they weren't professional enough. They needed to call for more qualified specialists who wouldn't arrive until tomorrow. The entrances to the overpass had been sealed off. The unfortunate vehicles trapped on the road could only wait until the next day.

Standing on the overpass, Bruce could distinctly feel that the sunlight here was better than that on the ground. Although it wasn't exactly bright, the view was wider. However, his mood wasn't as broad.

He felt angry, frustrated, and regretful, but didn't know who to blame.

After asking around, Bruce discovered that the driver of the material transport truck had been driving all night without sleep. Today, while checking the valves, the driver had been negligent. As a result, the raw materials had completely leaked out halfway through the delivery.

As the first professionals to arrive said, these materials were not recoverable. Meaning, the driver's small oversight saddled him with a debt of at least 300,000 US dollars. Bruce now realized that 300,000 dollars were not just a few meals for him.

The majority of the drivers dared not leave their trucks. They had all experienced what Bruce had in the past, perhaps just stepping away to use the restroom or grab a bite to eat, only to return and find their fuel stolen. If the road was blocked, they had no choice but to stay where they were.

Some children came up to the overpass to sell food. Many truck drivers bought from them, but Bruce didn't because he simply had no money.

After going hungry for another day and night, Bruce felt his body rapidly depleting its reserves of fat. But surprisingly, his spirit was somewhat improved. He was no longer tormented by the omnipresent sensation of hunger.

The next day, after the road had been cleared, Bruce drove to the distribution point. But when he went to settle his accounts, half of his earnings had been deducted.

The reason was that his day-long delay caused him to miss the previous shipment. The next one had become more expensive, and the mob had to recoup their losses from their drivers.

By this point, Bruce had no energy left to argue with the mob. All he wanted now was to collect his money to buy some food, because his body was signaling that he was at risk of hypoglycemia if he didn't eat soon.

With his handful of dollars, he found a roadside bakery and bought two cheap bags of white bread, two baguettes, and some cookies that were easy to store. He put them all in his truck. He also overpaid a newspaper boy for a few bottles of purified water and added those to his stash in the truck.

There were no good sources of meat available, so he had to buy processed sausages. But they were mostly made of offal and didn't meet hygienic standards. Yet, Bruce had to make do. Without replenishing his fat stores, his body temperature would drop even more quickly.

The biggest issue now was vitamins. It was hard to preserve vegetables and he had no place to cook. Bruce had to quickly find a more stable living situation.

After stocking up on food, Bruce felt somewhat reassured. As long as he could save up some money, he could rent a better place to live. Once he had a stable place to stay, his journey through the slum could properly begin. The next step was to get out of the East District with his own strength.

But that's Gotham for you. Just when you begin making plans, something unexpected happens.

After nightfall, Bruce planned to find a place to park. But when he started his truck, he noticed that the controls were a bit off. It seemed that the steering system was not responsive.

Bruce tested it for a while and found that indeed, something was wrong with the truck. He had to crawl under it to attempt repairs. But after inspecting it, he realized that this was not a new truck as he'd believed.

Although its exterior looked sharp, a look at the internal structure told Bruce that this was a second-hand vehicle assembled from various old parts.

He had suspected the mob wasn't generous enough to give him a good vehicle to drive for free, but the deterioration of the internal parts was worse than he had imagined.

The next day, Bruce went to the mob who had a decent attitude and were willing to fix his truck. But after the repairs, not even a full day had passed before the tires caused problems again.

Bruce found out the mob's repair method was to take faulty parts from one vehicle and put them in another, leaving the rest to luck.

In other words, successfully installing them was considered a job well done. With the first batch of trade school students yet to graduate, most people relied on intuition to repair trucks.

Bruce knew that this was not a sustainable solution. He needed good parts to keep the truck running on the road instead of breaking down halfway through a job, but he didn't have the money to buy good parts.

Bruce realized that all the problems he faced in the slum could ultimately be boiled down to two words: no money.

Being broke is just that, being broke. Wanting to buy something and being a penny short still means you're broke. A penny can stump a hero — and that's no exaggeration. Even more so for Bruce, as he only had a penny to his name.

At that point, a group of people sought him out, claiming they had come to solve Bruce's money troubles.

Looking at the leading brute, Bruce asked, "You say you can lend me money. What about the interest?"

The brute waved his hand and said, "We don't talk about that here. We just tell you how much to pay us back each time. Here, the minimum loan is 300 dollars. For the next year, you pay us back 50 dollars a week."

Bruce didn't even have to think about the figures to recognize this as usury. Seeing his lack of interest, the brute put his arm around Bruce's shoulder and said:

"Our terms are very generous, believe me. Those who demand thousands from you in one go are just extorting money."

"Look, you get 300 dollars when you need it, and after that, you only need to pay us back 50 dollars a week. Fifty dollars is not hard for you drivers. Maybe you can even save a few dozen a week for personal expenses."

Seeing that Bruce still wasn't accepting, he added, "Alright, if you prefer the traditional way, we can do that. We'll loan you 300 dollars, and you pay us back 800 dollars next month."

Bruce knew that 800 dollars was a substantial amount in the slums. Not to mention 800 dollars, even 80 dollars was a large sum to him at this point.

Bruce turned to the brute and asked, "What happens if I can't pay it back?"

The man chuckled and said, "Don't worry. The mob is short-handed right now. You'll have a place to go, especially since you're a looker."