Do zero ao topo, Batman destruiu meu sonho de ficar rico
De modo geral, se eu tivesse que atravessar para os quadrinhos americanos, eu esperaria evitar ao máximo os mundos de tom sombrio como os da DC. Se eu tivesse que atravessar para a DC, que ao menos não fosse para aquelas cidades de alto risco, tipo Gotham, de gente tão educada. Se eu tivesse que atravessar para Gotham — por favor, me dê um sistema, porque eu ainda quero continuar vivo. "Sistema Começando do Zero carregado com sucesso. Esforce-se para ganhar dinheiro, enriqueça trabalhando honestamente. Dizem que dinheiro move montanhas; enquanto você não estiver sem nenhum tostão, sempre terá oportunidade de continuar." Ma Zhaodi soltou um suspiro de alívio e esfregou as mãos. Pelo menos, naquele mundo tão perigoso, ele tinha um trunfo. Um mês depois. Uma silhueta negra de morcego abria as asas no céu noturno, atacando ferozmente; os integrantes que usavam o restaurante como fachada tiveram os ossos quebrados em questão de segundos. Ma Zhaodi ficou boquiaberto, vendo o restaurante em que trabalhava havia apenas um mês sumir com o vento, junto com o salário que ele receberia no dia seguinte. Cadê o meu chefe? Cadê o meu emprego? Cadê o meu salário de um mês? Batman, vai te catar!
Do zero ao topo, Batman destruiu meu sonho de ficar rico
Cold. Shaking...
A loud clanging echoed in his ears as the trembling of the ground jarred Ma Zhaodi's head, making the back of his skull ache dully.
"Sir."
Half-awake, half-dreaming, he seemed to hear a voice repeating beside him.
Who was it?
"Sir!"
Who was this voice calling?
Me?
"Wake up! Sir!"
A cold, damp air invaded his nostrils, carrying a faint metallic scent of blood and an unsettling sense of danger. It felt as though this chill could reach straight through his nose into his very soul, yanking his consciousness from the depths like a diver pulled abruptly from the sea. Instantly, his mind cleared.
He opened his eyes with a start, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling.
No, not a ceiling.
The ground was rocking rhythmically beneath him with that relentless clattering, while thick clouds streamed past the windows at breakneck speed. Rows of seats lined both sides; he was lying in the aisle between them.
He was on a train.
But why was he here?
As clarity returned, Ma Zhaodi braced himself on the cold floor and sat up. Empty train seats surrounded him, and a train attendant stood nearby.
"Sir, are you all right?"
Why was a foreign attendant asking him questions in English?
When did I ever board a foreign train?
No, this can't be right—I wasn't on a train at all...
He shook his head vigorously, trying to convince himself that all this was just an illusion.
Unfortunately, everything about this
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