Godfather Owl: Guardian of Batman [124]

“What do you serve here?” Homelander asked casually.

In truth, no alcohol, no matter how strong, could stimulate his taste buds.
Getting drunk? That was a luxury beyond him.
Coming to a bar to drink was, at best, a symbolic gesture—a ritual with no real meaning.

“Anything,” the woman behind the counter said suddenly. “It depends on what you want.”

Bold claim, Homelander thought, letting out a dry laugh.

“Do you even know who I am? You’re awfully confident to say it depends on what I want.”

“I know exactly who you are,” the woman replied, gesturing toward a small television nearby.

On the screen, footage from Homelander’s recent interview played.

There he was, exuding charisma and confidence—so different from the weary version of himself now seated at the bar.

“Were the things you said on TV genuine?” the woman asked. “You see, I have a special talent. I can see into people’s hearts.”

“Some people appear unshakable on the outside, but deep down, they’re softer than anyone else. I can always tell.”

At that, Homelander finally gave her a closer look.

Despite the strange makeup and the scars forming a grotesque smile on her face, the woman was… beautiful. Not the kind of beauty that turned heads, but a nurturing, almost maternal beauty.

It was the kind of beauty he’d only ever caught glimpses of in Madelyn Stillwell.

“What’s your name?” he asked abruptly.

“You can call me Martha,” the woman replied with a soft smile.

“Martha… Martha…”

Homelander repeated the name under his breath, savoring its sound. Then, with renewed interest, he said, “You claim you can see into people’s hearts? Then take a look at mine.”

He scoffed inwardly. The idea was absurd. His public image was flawless—a god among men, protector of the Earth.

He was invincible, physically and emotionally. No one could glimpse his true self.

His confidence faltered when Martha gave him a single, piercing look.

“You’re lonely,” she said simply.

Homelander froze, his smug expression wiped clean.

He adjusted his posture, clasping his hands together in front of his mouth like a shield.

“And what makes you say that?” he muttered, his voice low. “If you can’t back it up, I’m not buying it.”

Martha continued to clean a glass, her tone unchanging.

“Do you often find yourself staring off into space? You live in a world of applause and adoration, yet you feel distant from it all, as though no one can truly see you.”

“You’re not perfect, though you work hard to appear so. You’re deeply jealous, vengeful, and intensely emotional.”

“If someone wrongs you, you want to repay it a hundredfold. But if someone is kind to you, you want to give them the world.”

“Unfortunately, no one truly loves you.”

“You long for a friend—someone who won’t betray you, won’t lie to you, won’t judge you. But you’ve never found that person.”

“Homelander, beneath your bulletproof exterior lies a scared little boy.”

Homelander fell silent, his heart pounding.

How… how does she know this?

Every word struck true. It was as if this woman—this “Martha”—had peered into the depths of his soul.

“How did you… figure that out?” he asked, his voice tinged with awe and suspicion.

Could she possess powers like Mesmer, the ability to read minds or hearts? If so…

Homelander’s gaze turned cold. A mind-reader? That kind of person can’t be allowed to live.

Even Mesmer needed physical contact to use his ability, but this woman required nothing at all. In her presence, he had no secrets.

“You’re thinking about killing me,” Martha said, setting the glass aside and picking up a shaker to mix a drink.

“If that’s what you want, go ahead. I can’t stop you. But at least let me finish making this drink first.”

Homelander had never met anyone like her.

She showed no fear, speaking to him as though he were just another customer.

He could hear her heartbeat—steady and unflinching, even when his murderous intent had been clear.

Interesting.

For now, Homelander decided to spare her.

“You were wrong,” he said curtly. “It’s not true that no one loves me. Everyone loves me.”

“Is that so?”

Martha glanced at him with a faint, knowing smile. “Well, that’s nice to hear.”

Her tone was so neutral that Homelander felt his next words catch in his throat.

“There’s a book,” Martha said calmly. “It claims there are about 20,000 people in the world whose souls are perfectly compatible with yours.”

“Unfortunately, you might go your whole life without meeting even one of them.”

“Soulmates aren’t magic. They’re fate.”

She finished decorating the drink, sliding the glass across the counter toward him.

“Here. This one’s on the house,” she said. “Drink up. Then, if you want, you can kill me.”

Homelander stared at the glass—clear and filled with a light, minty aroma. Without hesitation, he picked it up and downed it in one gulp.

A strange sensation washed over him. His scalp tingled, and his head felt light.

Is this… what it feels like to be drunk?

It wasn’t overwhelming, just enough to dull his frustrations and lift his spirits slightly.

The bitterness in his heart seemed to melt away.

He stood up, his movements slightly unsteady. Glancing at Martha one last time, he turned to leave.

“Wait!”

Martha’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

When he turned, she handed him a warm towel.

“This drink has a strong aftereffect,” she said with a sigh. “Use this later to cool your head. Don’t neglect yourself just because of your superhuman resilience.”

Homelander accepted the towel almost instinctively, pressing it to his forehead.

He didn’t know why, but he found himself following her instructions without question.

Neither of them mentioned killing again.

At the door, he hesitated and turned back.

“Can I… come back sometime?”

“My door’s always open,” Martha replied, her painted smile unwavering. “You’re welcome anytime.”

A warm feeling surged through Homelander, inexplicable and strange.

He left reluctantly, leaving Martha alone in the bar.

“Still just a kid,” she murmured to herself, her voice echoing in the empty room.

She hadn’t actually read Homelander’s heart—just fed him a few generic lines.

They were, after all, straight from a book about zodiac signs.

If he thinks it fits so well, she mused, he’s probably a Scorpio.

Smiling faintly, she added, “A trap laid with the sacrifice of a witch is never in vain. Owlman, I hope your goals align with mine.”

—

“Homelander can’t be completely without weaknesses.”

In Bruce’s private quarters, he was quietly conspiring with Kathoom.

“I’ve been observing him for a long time. His psychological state is a mess!”

Bruce leaned forward, his expression sharp. “Maybe that’s where we strike?”

“Careful you don’t push him too far,” Kathoom cautioned, shaking his head. “Homelander’s already a bad guy, and the only thing keeping him in check is that psychological mess of his.

“If you keep poking at his mind, you might end up with a Homelander who’s completely unhinged and on a killing spree.”

“Then what should I do?”

Bruce was facing an enemy unlike any he’d encountered before.

In terms of raw power, Homelander was invincible in this world. A direct confrontation would be suicide.

But psychological tactics carried their own risks. If Homelander broke completely, the fallout could be catastrophic.

“That’s the thing with superheroes,” Kathoom remarked. “Even someone as mighty as Superman can fall under Darkseid’s control if his mind collapses.”

“Darkseid?” Bruce asked.

“A math nerd who’s really into equations. Forget about him,” Kathoom replied dismissively. “Let’s focus on Homelander. We need a practical solution.”

Bruce pondered for a moment. Joining The Seven had taught him one undeniable truth: the gap between superheroes was enormous—far greater than the difference between humans and dogs.

While Bruce could devise strategies to handle most of The Seven, Homelander was a different story entirely.

“Kathoom, walk me through something,” Bruce said suddenly. “In my world, there’s a Superman too, right? How do I deal with him?”

“That’s not going to help,” Kathoom said, shaking his head. “Homelander doesn’t have a Kryptonite equivalent.

“Right now, we have two possible approaches.”

“Go on.” Bruce leaned in, listening intently.

“First option: since Homelander is strong, you find someone even stronger to team up with. And don’t look at me—I’m on vacation. I’m not stepping in.”

Someone stronger than Homelander?

“Does such a person even exist in this world?”

“They do,” Kathoom assured him. “You just haven’t noticed yet. Start digging, and you’ll find them soon enough.”

“Got it.” Bruce made a mental note. “What’s the second option?”

“Well…” Kathoom chuckled mischievously. “This one involves a little magic from Hogwarts.”

With a flourish, Kathoom produced a diary from beneath his feathers.

It was Voldemort’s old diary, modified by Rowena Ravenclaw.

“Ever since Ravenclaw handed you this diary, I’ve been tinkering with it,” Kathoom said smugly. “Turns out your new teacher left you a pretty neat gift.”

Bruce’s curiosity was piqued.

When Ravenclaw had first given him the diary, he had handed it over to Kathoom for safekeeping without much thought. Later, when he tried to retrieve it, Kathoom had flatly refused.

“Anything in my claws is mine forever!” Kathoom had declared shamelessly. “No take-backs. I might let you borrow it, though.”

At the time, Bruce had been sorely tempted to roast the owl.

Now, seeing Kathoom willingly produce the diary was a surprise in itself.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Kathoom warned. “I’m just lending it to you. This diary? It’s got my name on it. It’s mine now!”

“It still has Tom Riddle’s name on it,” Bruce pointed out dryly.

“Damn Tom,” Kathoom grumbled. “Why’d he have to write his name on my diary?”

After venting, Kathoom tossed the diary to Bruce.

Catching it, Bruce noted the cover, which now bore a silver-etched eagle—the emblem of Ravenclaw.

“Go ahead, open it. Your teacher left you a message.”

Kathoom perched on Bruce’s shoulder, muttering to himself.

“Who knew Ravenclaw was so generous? Maybe I should become her student and see what I can scavenge…”

Ignoring the owl’s rambling, Bruce opened the diary.

The blank pages seemed to sense his presence, and writing began to appear on their own.

Dear Bruce,
Greetings! It’s me, your brilliant teacher, Rowena Ravenclaw.

If you’re reading this, I’ve already enjoyed a fine meal and a good drink.

This diary, imbued with a fragment of my soul, is my gift to you. Inside, I’ve left three spells.

With your current abilities, you should only be able to unlock the first one—

The Dreamweaver’s Charm.

To unlock it, simply shout three times: ‘Long live Ravenclaw!’

Bruce’s eyebrow twitched at the overly theatrical instruction.

“Shouting her name? Really?”

Kathoom, ever cheeky, chimed in: “Hey, she is your teacher. Show a little respect!”

—

This is a fan translation of 蝙蝠侠的猫头鹰教父 by 巴巴罗萨光年. All rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!