MTLNOVEL Chapter 68: Chapter 68: Trap
Chapter 68: Trap
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In the long-lost consciousness space, Dean stood before the mysterious new pond, its surface eerily still, reflecting the vast emptiness around him. He had spent a long time observing it, trying to understand its purpose.
"The first pool I had was a built-in mixed pool from the start. Then, after encountering Manaphy, I unlocked the Pokémon-specific pool. And now, after recovering the talisman, I assumed this would be a magic-focused pool…"
Dean muttered to himself as he turned toward the massive 4K screen floating in front of him. Unlike the other pools, which had symbols, icons, or shimmering options to choose from, this one only displayed a simple text box—a blank space awaiting input.
"The result is a new type of pool, one with customizable labels. So, I can type whatever I want?"
A grin formed on Dean's face as he leaned in, already thinking about all the possibilities. This was new. This was different. The previous pools relied on randomness, drawing unknown items from vast categories, but this one… this one could be controlled.
Dean quickly tested it out. He typed in "car." Instantly, the dimmed extraction button on the side of the screen flickered to life, glowing brightly. However, right beside it, a number appeared:
[100 Points Required]
"A hundred points for one tag?" Dean crossed his arms. "That's a bit expensive… but at least it's better than getting random junk."
An idea sparked in his mind. If this pool allowed him to specify what he wanted, maybe he could take advantage of it. He quickly erased "car" and instead typed "Bumblebee."
A notification instantly popped up:
[Only labels can be customized. Specific items cannot be accurately located.]
"Tch." Dean clicked his tongue. "Figures. That would have been too easy."
Still, he wasn't about to give up just yet.
"I just want something sleek, something powerful. A fast, smart, and tactical car—like Batman's Batmobile. So, let's see if I can just use 'tags' instead of specific names…"
He deleted the previous text and typed:
[Transformation]
[Car]
Immediately, the extraction button lit up again. But this time, the cost jumped to 200 points.
Dean's eyebrow twitched.
"…Wait a minute." He squinted at the numbers.
He added another label—[Police].
[300 Points Required]
"…So it's not a fixed cost. The more tags I use, the more points I have to pay."
Dean frowned, rubbing his chin. If the cost increased like this, then each additional label cost another 100 points, stacking exponentially. This meant that while adding more filters could narrow the results, it also drained his points faster.
He had 500 points available—earned from his past battles, recovering Pandora's Box, and Orm's daily financial contributions. But even then, using too many labels wasn't cost-effective.
"Sometimes, the more you try to control fate, the more you lose." Dean sighed.
Still, this new system was worth a shot. If he could at least influence the outcome a little, it might be better than gambling with a completely random draw.
"Fine." He cracked his knuckles. "Let's do this."
He pressed the extract button.
The screen erupted with light as a circle of colorful blocks appeared, each containing a black silhouette of an unknown object. The selection wheel began to spin rapidly, its images flashing faster and faster as upbeat, arcade-style music played in the background.
"…Wait a second." Dean's eye twitched.
The spinning icons, the flashing lights, the music—it was all too familiar.
"This is just a glorified slot machine, isn't it?!"
As soon as he realized the trick, a bad premonition hit him. The selection continued to spin at high speed, cycling through silhouettes of sports cars, motorcycles, armored vehicles…
Then, suddenly—
The wheel slowed down.
Dean held his breath.
It passed over a sleek police cruiser.
It passed over an armored SWAT van.
It passed over a high-tech futuristic vehicle.
Then it stopped—
—on something that did not look like a car.
BOOM! BOOM!
Two fireworks exploded beside Dean as golden rain poured down. The screen flashed brightly, and in front of him, a pillar rose from the ground, presenting his prize.
Dean squinted.
"…What the hell is this?"
A belt sat atop the pillar, gleaming under the artificial light. A sleek red device, with a handle on the side and the word "Accel" imprinted on it. A USB-like memory stick labeled "Acceleration" was already slotted in place, glowing with energy.
Dean's eye twitched.
[Name: Accel Driver]
[Type: Other]
[Quality: ★★★]
[Attribute: Mechanical]
[Special Effects: Transformation, Acceleration]
[Description: Senior Superintendent Ryu Terui's transformation device, used to become Kamen Rider Accel. The "Acceleration" memory appears freshly inserted, as if it was snatched during transformation.
PS: Can you do it?]
Dean stared in silence for a good ten seconds.
"…This is a joke, right?"
This was not what he wanted.
"I asked for a car that transforms, not a belt that transforms me into a car."
But even as he complained, his hand instinctively reached forward, gripping the Accel Driver.
It was warm to the touch, heavy and powerful. Dean swallowed, a strange excitement bubbling up inside him despite his disappointment.
"…I mean." He hesitated. "I guess if I can't drive the Batmobile, I might as well become one."
" And looking on the bright side, at least I didn't draw the Transformed Police Car Purley,"
With a sigh, he stored the Accel Driver into his system warehouse, deciding to push aside any thoughts about it for now. There were more pressing matters to focus on, and he welcomed the chance to distract himself. Returning to his desk, he reached for a snack, ready to enjoy a rare moment of peace, but just as his fingers brushed the wrapper, he heard fast, heavy footsteps approaching.
Gordon strode toward him, his face tense and serious, making it clear that something urgent had happened. Without hesitation, he said, "Dean, come with me."
Frowning at the sudden urgency, Dean asked, "What's going on? Was there a major crime? A school shooting or a racially motivated massacre?"
He wasn't joking. In Gotham, these were among the worst types of crimes, and he needed to be prepared. But Gordon shook his head. "No, it's not that severe, but the social impact is far greater. Did you check your phone?"
Dean raised an eyebrow, but Gordon didn't wait for a response. Pulling out his phone, he turned the screen toward Dean, revealing a half-burned villa, smoke still rising from its remains.
"The fire department got a call this morning," Gordon explained. "A fire broke out at Mayor Hamilton's residence. The initial investigation suggests it was arson. After two hours of high-pressure water cannons, they finally put it out. But when firefighters searched the wreckage—"
Dean felt a chill creep up his spine.
"They found a charred body inside."
Gordon's voice was grave as he delivered the final blow. "The forensic examiner confirmed it… It's Mayor Hamilton."
Dean's grip on the desk tightened. Hamilton was dead?
Now?
His mind immediately processed the situation. This wasn't right. It was too coincidental, too convenient for someone.
"Do we have any suspects?" His voice remained calm, but his thoughts raced.
"Yes," Gordon nodded grimly, swiping to a different screen on his phone. "Nearby security cameras captured a suspicious individual entering Hamilton's residence. Shortly after he left, the villa erupted in flames. The evidence overwhelmingly points to him."
Dean's eyes narrowed. That was fast.
Something didn't add up.
Crossing his arms, he said, "The investigation moved a little too smoothly, don't you think?" His voice held a sharp edge as he let out a dry chuckle. "Since when did Gotham's police force become so efficient? I smell a setup."
Gordon sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. "That's exactly why I need you on this, Dean."
Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a case file and handed it over. Dean flipped it open and immediately spotted something that made his stomach drop.
Name: Ryan Richards.
A red mark stood out on the document, a familiar symbol Dean knew well. It was a Penguin-affiliated gang sign.
His expression darkened as he shut the file sharply, the paper crinkling under his grip. "This is a frame-up." He didn't need to think twice.
"Penguin's support rate has already surpassed Hamilton's by a full five percent. The other candidates combined barely hold two percent. He's practically guaranteed to win. There is no logical reason for him to risk killing Hamilton now."
Gordon understood this too, but logic alone wasn't enough to overturn an accusation in Gotham. Here, things didn't have to make sense; they just had to be convincing.
"You know how this works, Dean," Gordon said firmly. "If Penguin wants to prove his innocence, he needs to provide solid evidence."
However, Gordon's expression darkened further as he stepped aside, gesturing toward the window. "And that's not what worries me most."
Dean followed his gaze and froze. Outside the police station, a massive crowd had gathered.
They weren't shouting. They weren't rioting.
They were silent.
They simply sat there, filling the streets, blocking traffic, and surrounding GCPD headquarters.
Each person held up a sign.
[CATCH THE PENGUIN!]
[IF PENGUIN DOESN'T DIE, WHERE IS THE LIGHT? WHERE ARE THE KNIGHTS?]
[GOTHAM NEEDS THE LIGHT KNIGHT!]
(T/N: Another nickname people make for him)
[GOTHAM NEEDS THE DEMON COP!]
Dean felt a chill run through his veins. These weren't just angry protesters, these were his supporters. ⁸And the way they looked at him…
It wasn't admiration.
It was worship.
"This was my mistake, Dean."
Dean turned toward him, seeing the guilt in his face, his hands gripping the window sill.
"That day at Port Adams, you shook Gotham to its core. Your face was everywhere. You exposed the Court of Owls. The public clung to you. You became a symbol. Then, during the groundbreaking ceremony for New Gotham, you stood next to Bruce Wayne, in front of thousands of cameras. Your popularity skyrocketed, even surpassing Harvey Dent's in public discourse."
"I was proud of you, Dean. I thought Gotham finally had a new beacon of hope, something beyond Batman. But I was blind."
Gordon's voice shook slightly.
"This wasn't natural. Someone was engineering this. Someone used me, used Gotham, to manipulate the public. They built up your fame step by step, guiding it toward this exact moment.
They didn't want to help you, Dean.
They wanted to destroy you."
Dean let Gordon's words sink in. His jaw tightened as he took a deep breath.
"No, Gordon," he said, shaking his head. "This isn't your fault. This is on me."
He turned back to the crowd below, his eyes burning with realization.
"I've enjoyed the benefits of my reputation. Now, it's time I take responsibility for it."
He hadn't realized it before, but now it was crystal clear. The Court of Owls had orchestrated this. They had pushed him toward this exact moment, piece by piece. And now, with Hamilton's death, they were forcing his hand.
---
A smirk tugged at the corner of Dean's lips. His gaze sharpened, his spine straightened, and resolve burned in his chest.
"They think this is enough to take me down?"
"They must be dreaming."
---
"They think this is enough to take me down?"
"They must be dreaming."
Although he said this and put on a confident front, deep down, Penguin felt an unsettling weight in his chest. Trust was fragile, and in Gotham, it was practically non-existent. Could he really trust Dean? And more importantly, could Dean trust him?
These were questions that had never needed answering before, but now, with the noose tightening around him, Penguin found himself genuinely uncertain.
If Dean truly believed that he was incapable of change, that he was irredeemable, what would he do? Would he turn his back on their uneasy alliance and bring him to justice? Or would he trust his instincts and stand by him despite the accusations?
The very thought sent an involuntary shiver down Penguin's spine. He gritted his teeth, suddenly furious at himself for even letting doubt creep in.
"No. This is exactly what they want."
The Court of Owls was poisoning his mind, planting doubt where there had once been certainty. They wanted him to turn against Dean, to believe that the Light Knight was just another pawn of the system.
With a sharp breath, Penguin slapped himself across the face, forcing himself to focus. "Enough." He wouldn't let them win.
"The real question isn't whether Dean trusts me."
He stared at his reflection in the dim light, his fingers tightening around his umbrella.
"It's whether I trust him."
A slow, grim smile crept onto his lips.
"Gotham's Light Knight… don't disappoint me."
---
The GCPD strike team, led by Gordon and accompanied by Dean, had sealed off an abandoned construction site where the arson suspect, Ryan Richards, was believed to be hiding. According to intelligence reports, he had sought refuge in an unfinished building yet to undergo reconstruction.
The entire area was surrounded by officers, their weapons primed and ready. Floodlights illuminated the skeletal framework of the half-built structure, casting eerie shadows against the stormy Gotham skyline.
Dean stood slightly behind Gordon, his expression unreadable, while his fellow officers stole glances at him. Some looked at him with awe, others with admiration, and a few even with envy. Whispers passed between them, mostly praise, but instead of feeling pride, Dean felt a weight settling on his shoulders.
The more they placed him on a pedestal, the heavier the burden became.
Forcing himself to focus, he turned his attention to Gordon's briefing.
"…The suspect is armed with an M9 semi-automatic pistol and is believed to be hiding between the 11th and 15th floors. Exact location is still unknown, and further investigation is required." Gordon's voice remained steady, but the tension in his shoulders was evident.
"In addition to the suspect, there are three construction workers present on-site. One has been accounted for outside the building, but the whereabouts of the other two remain unknown.
The suspect may be holding them hostage."
A wave of unease rippled through the officers.
One by one, they checked their weapons and equipment, preparing for the possibility of armed resistance. In Gotham, hostage situations rarely ended peacefully, and if it came down to it, they were authorized to shoot on sight.
Inside the police helicopter, Gordon turned to the ground unit for updates.
"Are the snipers in position?"
A response crackled through the radio.
[Snipers in position, but visibility is poor. Most high-rise buildings in Earthquake Gotham are under reconstruction, leaving only two viable vantage points. We have secured one.]
"We need that second position locked down. Maintain a visual on all potential exits."
[Understood, sending additional units.]
As the helicopter circled the construction site, a new voice came over the radio.
[The 11th floor has been cleared. No hostages. No suspect.]
[The 12th floor is secure. Negative on suspect.]
The atmosphere inside the helicopter remained tense.
[We have a visual on the suspect. 14th floor, northwest compartment. He's armed and engaging.]
A firefight erupted between the suspect and GCPD officers, the staccato of gunfire echoing through the rain-soaked structure.
[Target is mobile!]
[No hostages found yet!]
Dean's grip on the doorframe tightened. Before he could dwell on it, he felt Gordon's gaze lock onto him.
"Don't even think about it."
Dean glanced at him, silent.
"They want you inside, Dean," Gordon said firmly. "They're baiting you. I don't know what's waiting for you in there, but I do know it's a trap. You're already involved in this case. You don't have to go in."
Dean didn't respond immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the 14th floor, rain dripping from his chin as he calculated the distance.
Finally, he spoke.
"Director… you just said it yourself. This could be dangerous." He turned to Gordon, a faint smirk on his lips.
"Which is exactly why I need to be there."
His tone was calm, but the look in his eyes was resolute.
"In the entire police department, I'm the best at close-quarters combat and the fastest on my feet. If anyone can handle this, it's me."
Before Gordon could argue, Dean took a deep breath, braced himself, and jumped. The helicopter's blades whirred violently as the wind and rain rushed past him, and in the blink of an eye, he vanished into the storm.
Gordon's breath caught in his throat.
His glasses slipped slightly down his nose as he clenched his jaw.
"Damn it, Dean…"
Gritting his teeth, he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the roar of the rain.
"You better come back alive."
---
Dean smashed through the safety net, crashing through a window and rolling across the floor to distribute the impact. He landed in a crouch, inhaling sharply before rising to his feet.
The 14th floor was eerily silent.
The only sound was the distant patter of rain against the shattered windows.
GCPD had secured the 13th floor, meaning that only Dean, Ryan Richards, and the two missing construction workers were left on this level.
Changhong Sword in hand, Dean moved cautiously through the abandoned corridors, pushing open door after door—only to find empty rooms.
Until he reached the largest chamber. The moment he stepped inside, a sharp voice called out.
"You're finally here… I knew you'd come!"
Dean's gaze locked onto Ryan Richards, a man in his forties, his face lined with desperation. The suspect crouched behind a terrified construction worker, pressing an M9 pistol to the back of his hostage's head.
His fingers trembled, but his eyes burned with something else.
Hope.
When he saw that the person standing before him was Dean, his shoulders relaxed, and a smile of relief crossed his face. Slowly, he stepped out from behind the hostage. As if he had been waiting for this moment all along.
"Demon Cop, you are here to save me!"
Dean's brows furrowed slightly. Save him?
Richards sensed something was wrong and immediately ducked back behind his hostage, pressing the gun against the man's head. His breathing was ragged, his body trembling, but his eyes burned with desperate hope.
"Didn't Penguin send you? You have to help me! I swear I didn't do anything! I've never killed anyone!"
Dean remained calm, his voice even and steady, careful not to make any sudden movements. "Richards, look at me. I don't have my gun drawn. I'm standing here, far away from you. I can't hurt you, and I'm not here to hurt you. Just take a breath and talk to me."
Richards hesitated, then swallowed hard. Under Dean's calming tone, his panic subsided slightly, and he clung to the chance to tell his side of the story.
His voice trembled as he spoke, his words punctuated by quiet sobs.
"I'm a bird food buyer at the Iceberg Lounge. My job is to get the best food for the birds that Penguin keeps. And let me tell you, that's not an easy job. Penguin's got so many birds—all different breeds, all with different needs—and it took me years to get it right. But I did. I learned exactly what each one likes, and I worked hard to keep them happy."
Richards wiped his face with his shoulder, his grip on the gun tightening. His voice grew unsteady, and Dean could hear the pain in his words.
"This morning, I drove to work like I always do. I was just a few blocks away when… there was someone in the road. Just standing there in the middle of the street. I wasn't driving fast, so I hit the brakes, but—" He let out a dry, shaking breath. "The airbag went off. It hit me straight in the face. I blacked out."
He shuddered, shaking his head. "When I woke up… I was standing in front of a burning house. There was a gas can in my hand."
Richards' voice cracked as he continued, his body shaking from fear and confusion. "I don't remember anything that happened between then and now. But I swear—on my life, on my daughter's life—I didn't do this. I could never kill anyone. I'm just a guy who feeds birds, man. I have a daughter, Annabell. She's waiting for me to come home. I even bought her a gift…"
Dean's expression remained unreadable, but inside, he was piecing together the puzzle. Richards' terror was real. His emotions, his pain, his desperation—none of it was fake. Either he was the world's best actor, or he was telling the truth.
Before Dean could press for more details, Richards suddenly lifted the gas can, tilting it over his own head. Cold gasoline splashed over his face and clothes, spilling onto the construction worker beside him.
Dean's eyes widened in alarm.
"What the hell are you doing?! STOP!"
Richards blinked, confused. "What?"
The strong smell of fuel filled the room, and Dean instinctively took a step forward, one hand extended.
"Richards, listen to me. You're drenched in gasoline, and you're holding a gun. If you fire that thing, you'll set yourself on fire. You need to put the gun down. Right now."
Richards hesitated. He looked down at his soaked clothes, then at the M9 pistol in his shaking hands, as if only now realizing the danger.
Dean's stomach twisted. Something was seriously wrong here.
Richards' behavior didn't make sense. He was desperate to prove his innocence, yet he had almost killed himself without realizing it. This wasn't the behavior of a rational man—this was someone who had been compromised.
Dean's mind raced. Could he have schizophrenia? Was this a mental break? No—his fear for his daughter felt too genuine.
This wasn't insanity. This was mind control.
But if that was true, then who was controlling him?
---
A darkened room was illuminated only by the flickering glow of a television screen.
Black Mask sat in an ornate leather chair, sipping a glass of whiskey, his mask gleaming under the dim light.
The screen in front of him broadcasted the live footage from the construction site. Gotham's biggest news stations had already arrived, their reporters standing shoulder to shoulder, huddled beneath umbrellas and raincoats as they pointed their cameras toward the fourteenth floor.
Black Mask grinned, his voice silky smooth.
"Ahh, now this is entertainment."
He took another sip, watching the scene unfold with the satisfaction of a man admiring his own handiwork.
"This is the perfect storm. A murder tied to Gotham's mayoral election, a police standoff, and the star of the show? The Demon Cop himself."
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
"Doesn't even matter what happens next. It's already out of his control. Whether he pulls the trigger or not, the media is going to feast on this."
He swirled the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly.
"The public doesn't care about justice—they care about a good story. And right now, this is the best damn story in Gotham."
Black Mask leaned back, tilting his head toward the frozen figure standing silently nearby.
"Isn't that right, Mr. Freeze?"
Victor Fries did not move. His blue-lit armor glowed faintly in the darkness, casting cold shadows across the room. His face remained blank, his body as motionless as a statue. But when he finally spoke, his voice was low and mechanical, devoid of warmth.
"You can't kill him like this."
Black Mask turned, raising a brow beneath his mask.
"Kill him?" He chuckled. "Oh, no, no, no, Mr. Freeze. I have no intention of killing him."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his grin widening beneath the mask.
"I want to break him."
His fingers tapped rhythmically against the glass in his hand.
"He wants justice?" His voice dripped with amusement. "Fine. I'll give him justice."
The glow from Mr. Freeze's armor pulsed slightly, but he remained silent.
Black Mask's grin only widened.
"Now the real question is… can he do it?"
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