Chapter 54
Gotham.
Night fell again under a dense layer of clouds, faint arcs of lightning flickering in the sky.
The wind carried the promise of rain, as if heralding a storm, while the heavy clouds hung over the city like a shroud of death.
By the roadside near Gotham University, the cold evening breeze brushed over fallen leaves scattered on the ground.
A tall figure cloaked in white walked steadily along the dimly lit path. Beside him was a woman in a red evening dress, leaning gently on his arm. Her fiery presence contrasted starkly with the somber, cold wind that seemed to blend them into a hauntingly vivid scene.
Bardi.
Pamela Isley.
They had reached the university dormitory.
Today was the happiest, most fulfilling day of Pamela Isley's life. Yet it was also the hardest, most reluctant moment she had ever experienced.
"Are you sure this is okay?" she asked softly, looking up at him. "I could stay in the dormitory, but… maybe we could find a hotel? I just want to spend more time with you, or we could watch The Mark of Zorro, or… anything. Anywhere. I just want to be with you."
Her voice trembled with both hope and hesitation, her moist eyes brimming with reluctance as they searched his face.
To Pamela, meeting Bardi felt like the greatest blessing of her life. He was everything she could ever dream of: gentle, considerate, mature, steady, handsome, and extraordinary. He even avoided stepping on the green plants she loved so much, taking care of her mood in the most thoughtful ways.
He was like a prince straight out of a fairy tale, while she saw herself as a mere Cinderella, hopelessly intoxicated by his presence.
"There's no need," Bardi said with a soft chuckle. He gently ran his fingers through her fiery red hair, his touch light and tender. "It's beautiful," he added.
Pamela's face fell, her disappointment plain as her eyes dimmed. "Why? Am I not beautiful enough? Is my figure not good enough?"
The desolate wind blew past, tugging at her loose, fiery hair, making it seem as though flames were dancing around her tense, desperate face. She longed to throw herself into his arms, to be held tightly by him.
"Focus on your studies," Bardi said, his tone calm but firm. "And put your effort into the plants you love so much."
His words struck her like a blow. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her expression crumbled into sadness.
But then, in the next moment, his follow-up words ignited a warm, fiery spark in her chest.
"I don't want just a fleeting moment. I want your future."
To Bardi, the true value of Pamela Isley lay in her inevitable transformation into Poison Ivy. She was destined to become a formidable force, and he couldn't afford to squander such potential on something as fleeting as physical gratification.
Every step of his plan was calculated, and he played her emotions like a master musician plucking the strings of an instrument.
To Pamela, he was the perfect Prince Charming. To Bardi, she was a seed he was carefully cultivating, ensuring she would grow into something much more valuable in time.
If he gave in to her now, she might consider it enough and move on. But leaving her wanting more, leaving her longing for him would keep her tethered to him, her desire for him fueling her motivation to seek him out again.
"I'll take care of the rest of your tuition and living expenses," Bardi continued, his smile calm and reassuring. "You don't need to work at the Carmine Hotel anymore. All I need you to do is focus on your studies and the plants you love so much."
Pamela blinked in surprise, her emotions shifting again. She hesitated for a moment before asking with a shy smile, "Is this… is this you taking care of me?"
Bardi tilted her chin up gently and leaned in, his lips capturing hers in another deep, lingering kiss. When they finally broke apart, her breath was shaky, her eyes glazed with emotion.
"Call it whatever you want," he murmured in her ear, his voice low and magnetic. "I want your future."
Pamela wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing herself close to him as her lips sought his once more.
When they finally separated, both their clothes were rumpled and disheveled, testament to their passion.
Bardi, however, was the one to stop things from going further. "Go back to your dormitory," he said, his tone steady but warm. "Study hard. Focus on the things you love. And, in the future, come and help me."
Pamela nodded reluctantly, biting her lower lip to hold back the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She didn't want to leave him, didn't want this moment to end.
"In the future… how will I find you?" she asked softly.
"Metropolis," Bardi replied with a confident smile. "Very soon, everyone in Metropolis will know my name. You won't have to look far to find me."
Pamela hesitated before stepping away, turning back to glance at him every few steps. Her heart ached at the sight of him standing there, tall and radiant even in the dark night.
"You look stunning in red. I like it," Bardi called out to her. "But I know you love green, so I've sent a green evening dress to your dormitory. It should arrive soon."
Pamela couldn't hold back any longer. She turned and ran straight toward Bardi, throwing herself into his chest. She collided with his firm frame and kissed him again, a deep, suffocating kiss filled with passion and regret.
When she finally pulled back, her voice was decisive: "After I finish college, I'll go to Metropolis."
Bardi looked at her with satisfaction, his expression calm yet meaningful. "No matter what happens, I'll be waiting for you."
To become Poison Ivy.
Pamela finally turned and left, her steps firm and resolute.
Bardi stood silently, watching her retreating figure as she entered the dormitory. Then he turned around.
In an instant, the gentle and composed expression on his face disappeared, replaced by cold indifference. A faint but chilling aura of murderous intent emanated from him.
He strode out of Gotham University. His white figure, stark against the dark night, moved like a ghostly presence, appearing suddenly and vanishing just as quickly.
Once outside the university and farther away, his steps suddenly grew heavier.
Boom!
With a single stomp, Bardi's white Martin boots cracked the ground beneath him, creating a massive, web-like crater.
He stood in the center of the crater, his white trench coat fluttering behind him in the night breeze. Dust and dead leaves scattered in the air, while the nearby streetlights flickered faintly. His tall, slender figure remained unmoving, stark white and impossibly clean against the shadowy surroundings.
The next moment, he vanished, launching himself into the air with immense force. He soared forty meters high, the height of a ten-story building, his white trench coat billowing as he moved through the night like a streak of light.
The cold wind lashed at his face as he rose and fell, leaping across Gotham's rooftops. His feet never touched the ground as he continued his swift, relentless movements, leaving cracked tiles and sunken corners in his wake.
The night deepened, the sky heavy with clouds. Thunder flickered intermittently above, as though teasing the rain that refused to fall. The only sound was the howling of the desolate wind.
Bardi's white trench coat fluttered incessantly as he flew through the city.
Boom!
Another leap, and the corner of a roof collapsed beneath his landing. The structure groaned, but its foundation held steady.
Inside the building, a lively banquet was underway. Guests sipped red wine and chatted merrily, their laughter filling the room.
Then came a thunderous crash from above. The ground beneath their feet trembled slightly as chunks of the roof caved in, steel and concrete debris scattering across the floor. Dust rained down, coating their fine clothes and drinks.
The room erupted in chaos.
"What the hell was that?" one guest yelled, brushing debris from his suit.
Suddenly, someone near the window gasped. "What is that?"
Everyone turned to see what he was pointing at.
Through the broken ceiling and the dim light of the night sky, they saw a white figure leaping gracefully through the air. Each jump covered dozens of meters, his form moving in and out of the shadows before disappearing entirely.
"My God! What is that?"
"Is that a person?"
"Is it… a ghost?"
"It's a ghost! A white ghost!"
"Ghost!"
The murmurs turned to panicked whispers. Some people trembled with fear, their imaginations running wild.
That night, many in Gotham caught glimpses of the white figure. The story spread quickly, evolving into rumors of a supernatural event. People called it "The White Ghost," and the legend began to grow.
Meanwhile, Bardi finally reached his destination: a large warehouse in a rundown industrial district.
He landed with a loud crash, his boots slamming into the ground and forming yet another crater. Dust billowed around him, his white trench coat flaring out dramatically in the swirling air.
He stood tall in the center of the pit, his pristine figure gleaming even in the shadows.
Bardi's cold eyes locked onto the closed doors of the warehouse. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, the trench coat trailing behind him swayed slightly, brushing against the ground as he walked.
Chapter 55
Gotham University.
As Bardi leapt across Gotham's rooftops, a Rolls-Royce Silver Spirit started up elsewhere in the city.
This Silver Spirit wasn't just any car, it was a symbol of status and authority. Even the Queen of England used it as her vehicle, as did the British royal family, European parliaments, and the prime ministers of Germany, Belgium, and Luxembourg. In this era, it was one of the most luxurious and prestigious cars in the world.
The Silver Spirit maneuvered skillfully through the streets of Gotham, crossing wide avenues before arriving at the Carmine Hotel. It pulled smoothly into the exclusive parking lot.
A middle-aged man in white gloves and a neatly tailored suit stepped out. This was the butler of the Falcone family, the same man who had been at Gotham Harbor earlier that day.
His forehead glistened with sweat, and his hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his gloves. He couldn't shake the memory of Bardi's display of power. The way Bardi had casually stepped on the ground, creating a massive crater, and then leapt tens of meters into the air, it was inhuman.
Even though his employer had explicitly instructed him to pick Bardi up, the butler hadn't been able to carry out the task. Bardi had simply leapt away into the night, vanishing over Gotham's rooftops.
The butler composed himself as best as he could and made his way to the seventh floor of the hotel.
The Carmine Hotel was not known for its height or grandeur, but rather for its Victorian-style elegance. It was a refined villa with a backyard, garden, and lush grass, offering a peaceful and safe environment. However, such luxury came at a steep price.
The seventh floor housed a sprawling hall with eclectic decor. Bright colors, crystal chandeliers, lace screens, intricate wallpaper, exquisite porcelain, and delicate oil paintings came together to create an atmosphere of opulence. The design was a perfect blend of artistic beauty and natural harmony, leaving an impression of grandeur and exclusivity.
In front of a large oil painting titled Gotham's Back, stood Carmine Falcone, the contemporary head of the Falcone family and the undisputed godfather of most of Gotham's underworld.
Carmine was not particularly tall, slightly stocky but strong. His demeanor resembled that of a shrewd businessman more than a gangster, yet his face carried an air of authority and ambition that made it impossible to mistake him for anything but the man in charge.
When he noticed the butler entering the room alone, his brows furrowed slightly. "Where is he?" he asked, his tone sharp.
The butler wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. Nervously, he stepped closer to Carmine, bent down, and whispered an explanation in his ear.
It wasn't that he hadn't gone to pick up Bardi, it was simply that Bardi had left Gotham University by leaping across rooftops. His superhuman movements had made it impossible to follow him.
Carmine's hands, clasped behind his back, tightened into fists as he listened. His eyes flashed with shock, and he muttered, "Really?"
But he quickly fell silent. There was no reason for the butler to lie to him.
The truth was even more unsettling.
A man impervious to bullets, capable of shattering the ground with a single step and leaping over high-rise buildings, how could someone like that even be considered human?
Carmine's composed expression darkened as he processed the implications.
He had been preparing to unify Gotham's underworld when this terrifying figure appeared. Ever since Bardi had retrieved Mike and the others, Carmine couldn't shake the feeling that Bardi was no ordinary person.
If Bardi only wanted money, that could be dealt with easily. Carmine could buy his loyalty with cash. If it was women he wanted, Carmine had no shortage of beautiful women to offer. But the possibility that Bardi might seek control of Gotham that was what truly alarmed him.
If Bardi became a threat, Carmine would have no choice but to eliminate him, no matter the cost. Poison, missiles, assassins, he would deploy every weapon in his arsenal. Wasting resources was far better than allowing someone to challenge his power.
For now, however, Carmine chose to remain cautious. He had already extended several gestures of goodwill toward Bardi offering him accommodations at the Carmine Hotel, commissioning custom clothing from a renowned designer, and secretly intercepting the seven mercenaries who had tried to flee.
Tonight's dinner was intended to probe Bardi's intentions.
Carmine needed to know whether Bardi could be turned into an ally or if he would need to be eliminated as an enemy.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
The sudden ringing of a telephone interrupted Carmine's thoughts.
--
Inside a warehouse in a rundown industrial area, seven large men sat bound in the center of the room, their expressions a mixture of anger and fear.
They cursed the Falcone family loudly, accusing them of betraying their word and capturing them after the deal was done, branding them as untrustworthy.
Around them stood over a dozen armed men dressed in black suits. They held pistols, M16s, and AK-47s, keeping a watchful eye on the captives.
Anton, a senior enforcer of the Falcone family, sat on a horizontal iron beam of an old machine, a cigar perched between his lips. He squinted as he spoke with a sneer, "The Falcone family doesn't care about you. Keeping you alive is only to show respect to the boss's guest. Whether you live or die is up to him."
Hearing this, cold sweat dripped from the foreheads of the seven bound men. They realized they were nothing more than pawns, offered up as a gesture of goodwill.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from outside the warehouse door.
Boom!
The ground shook. The lights hanging from the ceiling swayed violently, casting erratic yellow beams across the room.
Anton's smug expression turned serious. He stood up, gripping the Colt M1911 pistol that had been resting on his lap. His eyes locked on the sealed warehouse door as faint footsteps approached, gradually growing louder.
The footsteps stopped just outside.
And then—
Boom!
A deafening explosion blew the warehouse doors inward. The doors ripped apart like paper, sending shards of metal and clouds of dust swirling through the air. A violent gust of wind rushed inside, forcing everyone to shield their eyes with their hands.
Through the haze of dust, a white figure stood at the entrance, his trench coat billowing dramatically.
"Who is it?" one of the armed men shouted, raising his weapon.
The rest of the men in black immediately aimed their guns at the figure, their fingers hovering over the triggers.
As the dust settled, the figure became clearer.
"Stop!" Anton barked, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the figure matching the description.
The seven bound men, drenched in sweat, stared wide-eyed at the figure. One of them broke the silence.
"Boss! Help us!"
The others quickly followed suit, their desperate voices filling the warehouse.
"Help us, boss!"
"The Falcone family wants to harm you!"
"They captured us to threaten you!"
"We stayed loyal, boss. We wouldn't betray you!"
"With you leading us, Gotham will be ours in no time!"
Their groveling cries painted them as loyal martyrs, though they showed no dignity or shame.
Bardi stepped into the warehouse, ignoring their pleas. His cold gaze swept over the room.
"Carmine Falcone didn't even bother to meet me himself. Instead, he captures these dogs and offers them up to curry favor," Bardi said calmly, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.
He stopped walking, his posture relaxed but commanding.
Bardi had already deduced Carmine's intentions. A man like Falcone, on the verge of consolidating power in Gotham's underworld, couldn't ignore the threat posed by someone as powerful as him.
It was no surprise that Carmine's reaction was one of both caution and jealousy. There was no doubt in Bardi's mind that, if he remained in Gotham, he would face Carmine's full wrath in time. Cooperation wasn't truly an option.
Anton flicked his cigar to the ground and crushed it underfoot. "The boss just wants to be friends with you," he said, his tone measured.
Bardi responded with a slight nod, a faint, almost amused smile playing on his lips. He glanced at Anton before shifting his gaze to the seven bound men.
"Give me seven bullets," Bardi said suddenly, "so I don't stain my clothes."
The seven men's expressions turned from desperation to terror. They screamed and begged for mercy, tears and snot streaming down their faces.
Anton hesitated, confused. He hadn't been present at Gotham Harbor and didn't understand why the seven captives were so terrified or what Bardi intended to do with the bullets.
Still, he obeyed. He calmly removed seven bullets from his pistol and tossed them to Bardi.
Bardi caught them effortlessly, holding them briefly before letting them fall.
The bullets whistled through the air.
Puff. Puff. Puff. Puff. Puff. Puff. Puff.
Seven muffled sounds echoed in the warehouse as the bullets pierced the foreheads of the seven men. Blood dripped from their wounds as their lifeless bodies slumped to the ground, their faces frozen in expressions of pure horror.
For a moment, the warehouse was deathly silent.
The atmosphere turned chilling, the earlier tension replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread.
Anton felt sweat trickle down his back. His hands trembled as he watched Bardi turn and walk away, his white trench coat trailing behind him like a ghost vanishing into the night.
As soon as Bardi disappeared, Anton fumbled for his phone, his hands still shaking, and called Carmine Falcone to report what had happened.
The situation weighed heavily on Carmine's mind. One thought lingered above all others, how did Bardi know where the seven captives were being held?
--
Outside the warehouse, Bardi walked alone through the darkened streets.
He wasn't planning to establish his base in Gotham. His ambitions were set on Metropolis.
But perhaps it was time to make a bigger impression.
As he walked, his mind turned to his future plans. He thought about extracting the code of life, repairing his genetic flaws, addressing his vulnerability to magic, and solving the threat of kryptonite. Creating cells modeled after Doomsday would also be on his agenda.
Each problem loomed large, more complex than simply conquering the Earth.
Lost in thought, Bardi found himself in the city.
A nearby movie theater was just letting out, and a crowd of people poured into the streets, chatting excitedly.
Bardi's gaze flicked briefly to the theater poster. It was the film Pamela had mentioned—Zorro.
He didn't enjoy crowded places and didn't feel like walking through the noisy throng. Their chattering grated on him.
Instead, he turned into a quieter alley, preferring the solitude.
About two hundred meters ahead, he spotted a family walking down the alley—a father, mother, and child, chatting happily about the movie they had just seen. The dim light of the alley cast soft shadows on their cheerful figures.