150 - DC: Gotham Under Judgment (Patreon)

Chapter 150 The New Law on the Graffiti Wall

The bell marking the debate's end had not yet faded from the ears of Gotham's citizens when a silent storm began to gather.

Early the next morning, the first faint sunlight pierced the clouds, illuminating a very different Gotham.

Yesterday, the East Side's most conspicuous advertising wall had displayed Superman's imposing figure beneath an enormous slogan: "Believe in Heroes."

Overnight, however, thick black paint had been splashed across the hero's smiling face. In its place was a scrawled, angry line of white graffiti, the letters looking as though they had been scratched out with bones:

"Hope couldn't bring my brother back. Action can."

No name appeared beneath the graffiti, only a blunt, simple image: a bloodstained carving knife.

Signed: Malcolm.

It was like a signal.

The chain reaction spread wildly, like a virus.

At the mouth of the subway tunnel at Central Station, a public-service advertisement urging good behavior was covered by large blood-red letters: "The demons the law lets go, we will bring to account."

Beneath the oldest bridge in the Three Bridges district, a child's crooked chalk writing carried a chilling resolve: "If you will not carry out the sentence, hell has its own fire."

Someone even projected a question on a loop across the outer wall of Gotham Police Headquarters: "Ten years. Batman arrests them. Arkham releases them. Who is paying for this farce?"

Inside the Court of Shadows' headquarters, the aerial fortress towering above Gotham, Morris stood before an enormous floor-to-ceiling window, reporting to Gideon, whose back was turned.

"Sir, seventeen districts in Gotham have reported similar spontaneous acts of writing so far, from the slums to the financial district. At least thirty-two related phone videos are spreading wildly online. Our AI is doing everything it can to suppress them, but... it is having very little effect."

Morris's voice was as calm as ever, but careful listening would have revealed a trace of barely contained excitement.

This was more than an upsurge of public sentiment. It was a plague of thought.

Gideon did not turn. He silently looked down over the awakening city. Gotham's outline reflected in his black eyes like an enormous chessboard covered in cracks.

"Do not suppress it," he finally said, his voice perfectly calm. "Once the first crack appears in the dam, the flood cannot be stopped. Lies rest on people's willingness to believe. When that willingness falters, they collapse of their own accord."

A cold, satisfied smile curved his lips.

The seeds he had planted were sprouting.

At that same moment, on a seldom-visited cliff at the city's edge, Selene, the sleepwalker under the Court of Shadows' protection, stood barefoot before an enormous rock face, her eyes vacant.

She gripped a black charcoal stick tightly in her hand.

The previous night, endless fire and hammer blows had filled her dreams.

She had dreamed of the embryo of a blade surrounded by six black wings, repeatedly tempered, hammered, and shaped in flames hot enough to melt stars.

Now the vision from her dream was becoming real through her arm.

The charcoal raced of its own accord across the rough stone with a scratching sound.

There was no sketch, no hesitation. Every stroke was precise and forceful, as though an invisible deity were using her slender hand to inscribe heavenly commandments on a monument in the mortal world.

When the morning sun rose above the horizon and its golden light finally illuminated the entire rock face, everyone passing by or drawn there by the strange sight gasped.

The mural where Selene had once drawn the Spear of Destiny had changed completely.

The spear was gone.

In its place was an enormous black blade being forged with fire and hammers.

Intricate, imposing inscriptions were clearly visible along it: the opening words of The New Law: Chapter One.

"All who promise peace without removing the root of harm are accomplices."

On a distant hillside, Brise, the former guardian of the divine vault, watched the breathtaking scene with her hands clasped before her chest.

She did not pray. She merely whispered, almost under her breath, "We did not betray the gods... The gods forgot the mortal world first."

The storm swept through more than streets and dreams. It pierced the halls of order as well.

In the lobby of Gotham Police Headquarters, amid camera flashes and reporters' startled exclamations, the white-haired retired judge William Harding shuffled toward the reception desk.

"I... I have come to turn myself in." His voice shook. Tears and remorse covered his deeply lined face.

"Twenty years ago, in the dockworker family murder case, I accepted a two-hundred-thousand-dollar bribe from the mob and falsified crucial ballistic evidence. An innocent young man, Ricardo Fernandez, was wrongfully imprisoned as a result, and eventually... eventually he was beaten to death in a riot at Blackgate Prison."

An uproar filled the room.

"Judge Harding! Why are you only admitting this now?" A reporter thrust a microphone almost against his mouth.

The old judge's clouded eyes looked into the camera. There was not the slightest trace of performance in them, only ashes left after the burning of his soul.

"I listened to last night's debate... I did not sleep all night," he said shakily. "I saw that young man's face. I saw the despair in his mother's eyes. I knew I could no longer hide behind retirement and God's judgment... There is a man who made me... see my own mirror."

Meanwhile, a fishing boat flying a black feather flag quietly docked at a secret harbor on Themyscira's outskirts.

Four young, low-ranking Amazon priestesses avoided every guard and handed a jointly signed petition to a companion secretly waiting to receive them.

The petition contained a single request: that the council of elders grant all adult Amazons access to the complete Chronicle of the Judge's Reincarnations.

They wanted to see for themselves how many souls deserving death that man had executed, and how many innocent people he had saved.

Like rivers flowing into the sea, all the intelligence eventually reached Gideon.

Morris handed him an encrypted briefing.

"Sir, the latest developments: the UN Security Council has convened an emergency closed-door meeting to discuss whether Gotham's Court of Shadows should be designated a global threat organization. Inside Wayne Enterprises, a predictive-analysis project codenamed Mirror Eye has been secretly restarted, with the goal of modeling every possible move you might make next. Lastly... there is news from Themyscira."

Morris paused, his tone turning subtly curious. "Diana Prince has returned to Themyscira. But she has not destroyed any of the debate tablets you left behind. She has issued only one order: 'All minors are strictly forbidden to access or discuss any information concerning Gideon.'"

Gideon gave a very quiet, cold laugh, full of the indifference of someone who saw through everything.

"She thinks restricting information can stop ideas from spreading? Laughably naive." He slowly paced to a massive obsidian desk. "She says she wants to stop me, but her actions have paved my way. Prohibition is one of the strongest temptations there is. What she has done is plant a seed named Gideon in the heart of every Amazon."

He reached out and picked up a completely blank stone tablet that had already been prepared on the desk.

"She does not dare reject me completely, because her divinity is telling me that I am right."

Before he had finished speaking, a black flame purer than the abyss ignited at his long fingertips.

It gave off no heat, yet seemed capable of scorching the soul.

Gideon's fingertips moved slowly over the stone. The silent black flame left three deep marks.

The Edict of the Stricken Heart.

"Since they all want a spectacle, let us give them one."

That night, Gotham's darkness was deeper than ever before.

The first Edict of the Stricken Heart took effect.

In a heavily secured mansion in the wealthy eastern district, a rich businessman celebrated as a philanthropist died mysteriously at home.

He hung from the chandelier by his own tie, his face fixed in terror, as though he had seen the true face of hell.

On the wall, a line had been written in his own blood:

"You hid for eighteen years. I took only eighteen seconds to find you."

When the police investigated, they uncovered a shocking secret buried for nearly twenty years: the businessman was a serial child abuser who had long evaded justice, with dozens of victims.

More shocking still, the investigation found that a highly respected monk in Gotham had protected him for years, using religious charity to launder his reputation.

Coincidentally, that very morning, another group of anonymous informants had supplied conclusive evidence that sent the monk to jail on suspicion of sexually assaulting multiple followers.

Two birds with one stone. Evil uprooted completely.

On the cliff where the sea wind howled, Gideon stood before the newly painted mural, his black coat snapping in the gale.

He looked toward the distant lights of Metropolis, the symbol of hope.

He spoke quietly, as though announcing judgment to the entire world:

"You burn books and block images, thinking that will put out the fire of truth?"

"But you have forgotten that true law... has never been written on paper."

"It is written in blood."

As his words ended, a black feather slipped quietly from his clothing. The violent sea wind caught it, sending it spinning toward the depths of the fog-shrouded city.

Like a silent messenger, it heralded the next judgment.

The morning fog had not yet lifted when a sudden, piercing alarm shattered the peace of Wayne Manor.