Chapter 108 Battle of Living Hell (Part 1)_1

In the early morning, sunlight streamed into the bedroom at Wayne Manor. Bruce sat up in bed. Alfred stood outside the door, and Bruce asked him, "What time is it now?"

"Nine o'clock, young sir." Alfred said.

Bruce was somewhat surprised. He walked to the window and opened the curtain to verify. Indeed, the sun was already high in the sky. Since returning to Gotham, this was the first time he got up so late.

Butler Alfred looked pleased. As Bruce was having breakfast, Alfred stood aside with a smile on his face.

"Alfred, what's up with you? Why do you seem so pleased?" Bruce asked.

"Because young sir, you seem to be quite pleased these days." Alfred replied.

Bruce was stunned. Was he pleased? He touched his face and then tried to recall his recent behavior.

Due to Shiller's shrewdly devised student internship program at Gotham University, Bruce recently had been so busy that had very few hours to sleep. He had to manage traffic with other students during the day and had to juggle between the hospital and the prison at night, carefully coordinating the placement of mob members.

He suddenly realized that he had spent more time as Bruce than Batman.

Usually, within Wayne Manor, he would not hide his true nature - rarely smiling or making small talk. Although he was very close to Alfred, he had very few emotional fluctuations.

But recently, due to having to pretend to be the laid-back playboy for long periods of time, his demeanor started resembling the facade of the playboy more and more. He was no longer always stern and would even occasionally joke around with Alfred.

This change in behavior sent a warning signal. Since Bruce had returned to Gotham, he had never naturally woken up at nine in the morning, suggesting that his vigilance was relaxing.

Psychologically, this was very normal. One's sense of self plays an large part in determining who they ultimately become. Bruce was just eighteen and had just started university. When he fully committed to being a jovial, socially adept billionaire for the stage, he was unable to clearly distinguish the boundary between this alter ego and his true self.

After another busy day, Bruce was in his home bathroom. He turned on the faucet and scrubbed his face with cold water.

The curtains next to him billowed gently in the evening breeze. The cold lamp light above his head caused his reflection to cast a dark shadow below.

Bruce leaned over the bathroom counter, looking at his reflection in the mirror. The reflection had a pair of blue eyes, but the top-down light caused his eyes to be shrouded in the shadow of his eyebrows.

"Who am I?" he asked.

"Who am I?"

"Who am I..."

His voice echoed in the empty room. The sound bounced off the walls and returned to his ear, as if another him was posing the question back to him. Vaguely, it seemed as if he could hear an answer, but he couldn't be sure.

A reflected echo can't provide an answer. Bruce was well aware of this.

He reached out to wipe away the condensation on the mirror and inspect his eyes, but in the end, he didn't proceed. His face and eyes were hidden under the fog on the mirror surface. He then straightened his body and looked down at his reflection with a sense of superiority.

"I am Batman."

"I am Batman..."

His lips began to droop. He was not wearing his mask, but when the shadow climbed onto his face, it was as if his face was once again covered by the black mask.

The shadow covering the blue eyes became denser. In the end, only his deep voice echoed in the desolate manor. He said, "I am...Batman..."

Bruce stepped out of the bathroom. In his pitch-black bedroom, he did not turn on the lights. He walked to the door, opened it and continued to tread the dark corridor. Standing by the staircase, he noticed Alfred standing downstairs, cleaning the old telephone with a piece of felt cloth.

Ever since Bruce returned, he invented a new mobile communication device, a cell phone, and had never used that telephone again. The old-style dial telephone was already outdated; moreover, its ring would render the manor even more desolate.

But Alfred cherished that telephone. Bruce had never seen a speck of dust on it. Today was no different, but Bruce could hear Alfred humming a tune, a jazz tune, full of nostalgia of the previous era, reminiscent of the cheerful and lively mood of immigrants when they first discovered the Golden Coast.

Bruce watched Alfred's back and closed his eyes in pain. He tightened the grip on the railing - the old wooden handrail creaked. Alfred turned back and noticed Bruce standing at the top of the staircase. Before he could ask anything, Bruce retreated back to his bedroom like he was trying to escape.

Upon closing the bedroom door, he was panting heavily, as if that short distance had worn him out more than a run of several kilometers.

A tumultuous wave of emotion welled up in his heart. It seemed as if something was constantly stimulating the emotional system in his brain.

It had been a long time since Bruce experienced such an intense emotion. After the gunshot on a dark night long ago, Bruce's emotional world lost half of his emotions. All the joy, happiness and excitement had long since faded away.