Chapter 3: Is Someone Really Fighting Over a Pauper?

Ma Zhaodi wandered aimlessly through the streets of Gotham. Strangely enough, he had been walking for two hours and hadn’t encountered a single mugger. He even wondered if he’d somehow ended up in a fake Gotham.

“Hey, friend.”

Just as this thought crossed his mind, a man wearing sunglasses, a mask, a hood, and a sweatshirt stopped him on the street.

Finally, he thought, he’d come across one. Tonight’s chance for his first bit of luck depended on this moment. Although begging didn’t really count as honest labor, at least it might buy him something to eat—and he could save the money in his system for later.

The next second, the man pulled a pistol from his waistband and aimed it at Ma Zhaodi, his voice fierce and shrill: “No nonsense. Empty your pockets. Give me everything you have.”

His voice was loud enough that a few passersby turned their heads, then hurried away from the scene.

Staring down the black barrel, Ma Zhaodi found himself unable to utter the words he’d planned to ask for money. Damn it, the criminals in Gotham really started at a higher level—the first move was always pulling a gun. If he’d just drawn a machete, maybe Ma Zhaodi could have kept a bit of courage to speak.

He dared not look directly at the muzzle, and instinctively glanced at the top right corner of his field of vision—the rapid health recovery and save point were still there, ready to be used at any moment. That gave him a semblance of calm.

Seeing him hesitate, the man’s voice grew louder, nearly hysterical: “I said, empty your pockets! Give me everything!”

The pistol jabbed forward, nearly touching Ma Zhaodi’s head. He shrank back a few steps, then froze, trembling as he reached into his coat pocket.

He pulled out two empty, inside-out pockets—cleaner than his face.

"Cleaner than his face"—because Ma Zhaodi felt he’d been in Gotham long enough for stubble to start appearing on his cheeks.

“Are you messing with me?”

Ma Zhaodi could sense the mugger’s temper rising fast. Though terrified, his survival instinct made him explain: “It’s not my fault I’ve got no money. Do you think I enjoy being broke?”

“Who are you calling broke?!”

Seriously, how could those two words trigger PTSD in someone? Even he didn’t react that badly. Ma Zhaodi cursed inwardly, oddly feeling a bit calmer. He reached for his pants pocket. “Here, look. My pants pockets are just as empty.”

The man’s gaze followed his hand. Unable to see clearly in the night with sunglasses on, he had to lift them with one hand. “I’m watching you. Don’t try anything.”

And then he saw Ma Zhaodi, doing nothing suspicious, pull out two more empty, inside-out pockets.

His voice was tinged with tears: “You must be hiding something! Take off your clothes! Let me search!”

Ma Zhaodi offered no resistance. He immediately removed his coat and raised his arms.

If you find a single coin, I’ll call you the God of Wealth on the spot.

The man searched for a long time, but of course found nothing. He sat on the ground in near despair, ignoring Ma Zhaodi, lost in thought. After a while, he buried his head and began to cry.

Ma Zhaodi put his coat back on and sat beside him, comforting him: “It’s alright. Everyone has bad days. If you really don’t want to go home empty-handed, I can give you my coat.”

“Who wants your damned coat?!”

The man slammed his pistol against Ma Zhaodi’s arm, making it sting. He raised the gun at Ma Zhaodi: “What would a broke loser know?! You won’t even survive the night!”

“I know you’re a novice—first time doing this. I’ve been wandering these streets for ages. Every mugger can see I’m penniless, my pockets cleaner than my face, but you didn’t notice.”

The man’s hand trembled as he held the gun, tears in his eyes turning to anger.

“You go mugging at night wearing sunglasses, a mask, and a sweatshirt—but you didn’t wear gloves, didn’t disengage the gun’s safety, and the gun might not even be real. After controlling me, you didn’t drag me into an alley; you made too much noise, attracting attention; you kept shoving the gun too close, and when I reached into my pocket, your attention left your gun hand completely—you gave anyone a chance to grab it.”

“You—”

“Your emotions are unstable, your robbery incomplete, and thieves never leave empty-handed. You could have taken my coat and other clothes, but you didn’t. After failing, you could’ve left immediately, but instead you sat here and cried.”

“Shut up!”

The man swung the pistol at him again, but this time Ma Zhaodi dodged.

“I know you’re desperate, but don’t be. Nobody roams the streets robbing strangers without a reason—something must have happened. Maybe I can help.”

The man didn’t want to talk anymore. He put away the pistol, wiped his tears, and as he took off his sunglasses, Ma Zhaodi saw bloodshot eyes, dark circles, and a mind on the edge of collapse.

“There are already enough madmen in Gotham. No need for another,” Ma Zhaodi said behind him. “You’re out robbing, so you need money. You use a fake gun, so you probably have decent morals and education. Those dark circles mean your money problems have been bothering you a long time. You must need a substantial sum.”

“You can’t rob a bank—that’s the domain of supervillains and gangs. I wouldn’t recommend it. Wandering the streets is a gamble, and so is finding me. If you tell me, maybe I really can help.”

The man hesitated, then turned and slowly sat back beside Ma Zhaodi.

“You’re not from Gotham—I’ll trust you this once.” He removed his glasses and stared blankly into Gotham’s night sky. “I don’t have any other options anymore.”