Chapter 253: The Joker Is The Only Hope!
The young Batman is not as wise and suspicious as the middle-aged Batman.
So, he probably only thought of more than ten thousand possibilities, then stopped thinking, and selected the one he felt had the highest probability as the key focus.
Inside the Batcave.
Time seemed to remain frozen even after Ian left.
Bruce Wayne, this Dark Knight who had just experienced blindness and regained his sight, was still firmly bound to the heavy chair with rough aircraft carrier arresting cables.
Industrial tape sealed his mouth tightly, allowing only muffled whimpers from deep in his throat.
His brand-new blue eyes, just “hot-swapped” back, flickered with shock, anger, humiliation, and a contemplative emotion trying to analyze the situation in the dim light.
“Crackle, crackle~”
The Batcave was now a mess, as if it had been through a great battle, surrounded by damaged equipment sparking electricity, the air filled with the smell of burning and a heavy pressure named “unknown.”
“Mmmph—! Mmph! Mmmph—!”
He struggled fiercely, trying to make more noise or find a chance to break free, but the specially made arresting cables and professional binding techniques made all his efforts futile.
Batman can defeat anyone.
But it’s hard to defeat himself.
This binding technique was, in a way, a “boomerang” of his own skills. Sweat mixed with dust and blood from the previous explosion slid down the forehead of this King of Gotham.
“Young Master?”
At that moment, from the communicator that Ian had thrown on the ground—its screen cracked but still stubbornly working—came Alfred’s slightly anxious voice.
“Young Master Bruce? Are you okay? Please respond! That voice earlier… didn’t seem like you. That… ‘visitor’ has left now?”
The Butler Hero’s sharpness was as keen as ever.
Even through the distorted voice from the communicator, he caught the traits in Ian’s fake voice that didn’t belong to Bruce—the incongruity hidden beneath the imitation.
“Mmph! Mmmph~! Mmmph—!”
Bruce, like grasping a lifeline, made even louder sounds to convey information, but his sealed mouth could only produce louder but meaningless nasal and throat noises.
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the communicator.
Just as a trace of despair rose in Bruce’s heart, Alfred’s voice rang out again. The butler was as reliable as ever, his tone carrying a tone of sudden realization and certainty.
“I understand, Young Master. You’re saying you can’t move freely right now, your mouth is sealed, the intruder may have left, but the situation is still unclear and you need me to come down and support immediately, right? Hold on, I’m coming right now.” No wonder the title Butler Hero includes the word “hero.”
This ability to decipher Batman’s “baby talk” fully showed he was extraordinary too. Of course, it might also be because he knew Batman so well.
Watching Batman grow up from a boy.
In terms of understanding Batman, the Butler Hero actually knew him better than Batman’s biological father, fully qualifying as Batman’s second father in the human world.
“Mmph!!!” Bruce responded with almost grateful force, his tense body relaxing slightly. Alfred really understood him!
He stopped making sounds to conserve energy, his chest only rising and falling slightly due to worry and unease. At this moment, the mind of this paranoid patient uncontrollably replayed the image of that three-headed, six-armed figure with erratic thinking and unpredictable behavior, as well as the strange sensation from the eyes forcibly “installed” back.
A while later.
Perhaps only a minute, but endlessly long for the trapped Bruce. Accompanied by the door opening, the Batcave’s hidden elevator finally made a slight running sound.
“Young Master, are you okay?”
Alfred’s figure hurried out. He didn’t even set down the silver tray he was holding first, his gaze locking immediately onto Bruce bound to the chair.
Seeing Bruce unharmed, the butler breathed a slight sigh of relief.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward, placed the tray aside, then reached out without pause, carefully but firmly tearing off the industrial tape from Bruce’s mouth.
“I noticed a smashed human-shaped gap on the door… what happened?” The butler glanced back, his expression full of confusion.
“Hiss—”
The tape leaving his skin brought a stinging pain, but Bruce ignored it and immediately gasped for air.
“That guy is a madman. He hasn’t even learned how to use resonance to phase through objects. Or maybe he thinks physically passing through objects counts as mastering 【 phasing 】 skills.”
As expected of DC’s intelligence lead, Bruce Wayne—he had already built a mental model of Ian in his brain after brief contact.
“Young Master, are you alright?” Alfred didn’t quite understand what Batman was saying. He asked with concern while quickly inspecting the ropes binding Bruce, looking for a way to untie them.
“I… I’m fine.”
Bruce’s voice was unusually hoarse from the prolonged sealing. He moved his finally freed jaw, gazing complexly at Alfred’s busy figure.
“Alfred… untie me first.”
Bruce felt his balls were about to lose circulation.
“Okay.”
Alfred said no more, focusing on finding the key knots. The Butler Hero’s movements were skilled and precise, clearly prepared for all tools and possible situations in the Batcave. A few minutes later, with the last lock released, the heavy arresting cables clattered to the ground.
“That damned monster!” Bruce stood abruptly from the chair. Due to poor blood flow, his body swayed slightly, but Alfred steadied him immediately.
“Young Master, who invaded the Batcave?” Alfred asked gravely, his confusion even greater than before. He looked at Bruce’s bloodstained battle suit and those somewhat unfamiliar eyes.
His heart was also very uneasy.
“It was Parallax.”
Bruce steadied himself with Alfred’s support, took a deep breath, trying to suppress his churning emotions with reason, his voice low and hoarse: “I made a mistake, Alfred. A possibly very serious mistake… I released a… monster who’s been locked in the Speed Force for who knows how many years.”
“Or a deity?”
His tone was very serious.
“A deity?!”
Alfred was stunned.
His grip on Bruce’s arm tightened unconsciously. In this era shortly after Superman’s appearance, the word “deity” brought a subversive shock.
After all, not so many bizarre entities had emerged yet.
Even the Amazon Princess was still hidden in the mortal world. Seeing Alfred’s reaction, Bruce felt his own statement was too alarming. He frowned and corrected himself, his tone full of deep uncertainty: “Perhaps… a human. A human from the future.”
This was also a guess after deep thought.
“A future human?” Alfred’s brows knitted together. “A speedster like the Flash from Central City? Can they really… travel through time?”
“Theoretically… yes.” Bruce pulled away from Alfred’s support, moving his stiff and sore limbs, his gaze sweeping over the wrecked Batcave.
“But the monster I encountered… is different.”
Bruce recalled that glimpse of essence he had spied.
His expression grew even more grave.
Alfred pondered, offering a guess more in line with Batman’s thinking: “Young Master Bruce, the monster you encountered… could it be the situation you once worried about—a future dark version of Barry Allen, the Flash? After all, you’ve said the Flash’s broken family is his biggest weakness.”
It was clear.
The Butler Hero had participated in many of Batman’s analyses and plans regarding other superhumans.
“No.” Bruce shook his head firmly, his tone absolutely certain. “Barry’s mind is smart… but he couldn’t research technology like that.”
The technology in question was naturally the outrageous “biological organ hot-swapping.”
He paused, then pointed to his now perfect eyes—which even felt sharper than before—and continued analyzing, his voice still low with a bubbly rasp.
“That guy… gives me the feeling he’s been trapped in the Speed Force, a place beyond time, for too long, causing severe mental issues—erratic thinking, chaotic logic, unpredictable behavior. This… is very dangerous.” Batman had already labeled Ian a madman.
How to put it—mainly, he lacked a lot of information and couldn’t think from Ian’s perspective, or he would realize Ian was actually very logical and rational.
“The kind of danger that threatens the world…” Alfred’s expression turned solemn: “Then, Young Master, should we activate… ‘that’ plan?”
He meant the contingency plan for extreme, uncontrollable superhuman threats, including some unconventional, even cruel methods.
Bruce hesitated, then shook his head, not choosing to act decisively: “Observe a bit more. I can’t make a solid conclusion yet.”
He walked to a pile of rubble, manually pulling usable wires and components, skillfully assembling a simple detection device.
“The opponent used my usual binding method for high-risk criminals, and seems familiar with the Batcave layout… perhaps, in the future… he knows me.”
This was why Bruce hesitated.
This speculation sank Alfred’s heart.
A speedster from the future who knows Batman, with immense power and unstable mind… this combination reeked of disaster.
“Young Master,” Alfred didn’t press for more intruder details, instead focusing on Bruce himself, his tone full of unquestionable concern, “Do you really not need to go to the hospital for a check? I see a lot of blood on you, especially around your eyes…”
“I’m fine.” Bruce cut off the concern without looking back, focused on assembling the parts in his hands. Soon, a makeshift detector from scraps, with exposed wiring, took shape.
Batman connected this machine to a monitor with only half a screen left.
Then, he picked up an equally crude helmet, put it on his head, his tone complex: “But I do need to check my condition.”
As Batman’s ambiguous words fell.
The instrument emitted an unstable hum, the half-screen stubbornly lit up, flickered with snow after a few spots, then displayed a real-time scan of Bruce’s brain activity.
“As expected…”
Bruce’s expression changed abruptly the instant he saw the screen. Those newly installed, sharp blue eyes stared fixedly at the screen, pupils dilating wildly.
At this moment.
Alfred immediately sensed something unusual.
“What is it, Master?” He stepped forward, asking urgently.
However, Bruce didn’t respond. He just stared intently at the display screen with his new eyes, as if burning the image into his mind.
The scan results clearly showed that on the surface of his cerebral cortex, extremely fine but discernible—mysterious electric arcs—occasionally flashed by!
That was residual Speed Force energy!
Clearly, when he activated the machine to spy on the future, it wasn’t just his eyes that overloaded.
His consciousness, his brain, had strayed into the raging Speed Force field at that moment, suffering effects far beyond just losing his original eyes.
Speed Force energy, like a subtle virus or imprint, had infiltrated his neural network!
No one could say what consequences this unknown situation would bring—not even Batman, who noticed something wrong immediately, felt a chill.
…
Meanwhile, in the 21st century, at the Hall of Justice.
Due to the drastic and ongoing timeline shifts, the Justice League founders left at the hall were in poor shape. Wonder Woman Diana sat in a corner, her once athletic figure now unusually bloated, trying to control her restless divine power with Amazon meditation.
But with little effect, her face quite grim.
“Why do jellyfish look somewhat refined and handsome to me now? Hmm? Would octopuses be even prettier?”
Aquaman Arthur stared blankly at a large aquarium with glowing jellyfish. Iridescent scales on his arms and neck shimmered faintly in the dim light. His lower body hadn’t turned into a tail yet, but his pants felt uncomfortably tight, as if they might tear anytime.
“Huh? You think you’ve got it bad? I can’t even tell if I’m white, Asian, or black now—damn, why blue and purple too!” Cyborg Victor was in the worst shape; the Apokolips Mother Box tech on his body was continuously degrading and peeling away, exposing more human tissue.
The body parts once maintained by Mother Box tech were now almost entirely replaced by other mismatched parts; Cyborg had become a true assembled corpse.
Ian was masterful at this tech—he’d played with assembled corpses multiple times in the Marvel Universe. Since the effects hadn’t fully manifested, Cyborg was still somewhat cyborg.
Just that his system blue-screened occasionally, requiring full effort to maintain basic functions. By comparison, the Flash Barry Allen was the least affected. His Speed Force not only hadn’t weakened but felt more abundant, with speed and stamina seemingly improved.
He checked his reflection in the hall’s mirror-like metal walls, pinching his suddenly overly developed, explosive thigh muscles.
“This feels… like overusing and training frog legs for fitness? What’s going on?” But what puzzled and exasperated him more was his battle suit.
His classic red suit had somehow become indescribable, aesthetically disastrous—a big yellow battle robe that looked like Ollie-vomit colors.
Even more outrageous, on the chest and back were cute, muscular blue kangaroo patterns! The kangaroo held a box, looking eager to jump.
“This aesthetic… what parallel universe disaster is this…” Barry was near tears, feeling his reputation and fashion sense ruined.
At that moment, the Hall of Justice main console blared an alarm.
“Guys! Something’s happening in Gotham!”
Barry shouted immediately, trying to rally his teammates.
But Diana just lifted an eyelid, waving weakly. Arthur kept staring at the aquarium. Cyborg was busy stabilizing his system.
Alright… looks like I’m going alone. Barry sighed, adjusted to the bouncy “frog legs,” and became a shit-yellow lightning bolt to the console.
The color made him deeply uncomfortable, but soon the Flash’s attention was drawn to the screen showing live surveillance footage from Gotham.
However, the scene stunned Barry. It wasn’t the usual bank robbery or gang fight, but a… seemingly utterly miserable protest march.
In the footage, dozens of oddly dressed people—all uniformly “miserable”—limped down the street holding signs.
They were all Gotham villains familiar to the Flash.
Among them, some were missing arms or legs, fitted with crude mechanical prosthetics; some had faces wrapped in bandages, exposing only dazed, pained, terrified eyes.
Even more extreme, some had obvious animal parts sewn on—like cat-eared, fox-tailed, or crab-clawed orc-like beings.
All famous Gotham villains, face people, now utterly wretched, bandaged up, on IV stands or wheeled in chairs.
Most eye-catching were their banners and flags.
They featured Batman’s image, but not his usual Dark Knight look—instead, he was drawn in papal robes, triple crown, sitting on an ornate papal chair.
The obviously AI-styled image had a huge red X slashed over it in bright red spray paint!
“Gotham can’t be without Joker! Support Joker taking power! Joker is our only hope!”
“Down with Bat tyranny! Tear down Arkham Imperial Palace!”
“Gotham doesn’t need a madman king!”
The group shouted hysterically, like a band of frail, sick, and elderly resisting a tyrant, with Joker as their angelic savior riding one on the images.
“This… what the hell?!” Barry stared at the “disabled” protesters and the twisted, accusatory banners on screen.
He was completely dumbfounded.
Gotham’s chaos, due to the timeline shift, seemed to head in an even more absurd and… miserable direction? What on earth had Batman done to them?
