Godfather Owl: Guardian of Batman [132]

Due to the soul contract in place, the only human capable of understanding Kathoom’s speech should have been Bruce.

But now, Martha could communicate fluently with the owl, which could only mean one thing—the situation was worse than expected.

Martha had completely taken control of Bruce’s consciousness.

Even so, Kathoom showed no signs of worry. After Martha left, he flew to Bruce’s side and pressed against his pocket.

It was empty.

Good.

Kathoom breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed the gift he had prepared had successfully entered Bruce’s mental domain with him.

The journal once recorded Ravenclaw’s explanation of her Dreamscape Magic.

“Every person’s mind contains a hall, a sanctuary of thought,” she had written. “Some exceptionally brilliant minds can consciously access their mental halls.

“But most people are oblivious to its existence. Dreamscape Magic traps people within their own mental halls, unable to escape.”

In essence, this was a form of DC’s psychic magic.

Many practitioners were skilled in such mind magics—Enchantress, Zatanna, Raven, and, naturally, Barbatos himself.

The Enchantress’ mind magic was flawed, Kathoom mused. Ravenclaw failed to detect the tampering.

Most likely, the Enchantress was a sacrificial pawn from the start.

Perhaps Barbatos and Martha had been collaborating all along. After all, their goals didn’t conflict.

Barbatos wanted Batman, while Martha wanted Bruce.

Kathoom didn’t stop Martha from taking Bruce’s consciousness. After all, what right did he, a mere godfather, have to intervene when Bruce’s mother came to claim him?

But—

Kathoom watched Martha’s departing figure and thought silently to himself:

Many parents try to dictate their children’s futures, only to find things don’t go as planned.

Sometimes, it’s better to respect the child’s own choices.

Batman is Bruce. Bruce is Batman. That’s his decision.

That’s why I trust him.

No doubt Martha would create a dream, one where she and Bruce could live together.

Over time, she’d gradually strip away Kathoom’s influence on Bruce until he became the son she wanted him to be.

She’s going to be disappointed, Kathoom thought. The Bruce of today isn’t the obedient child she remembers.

—

Under the gaze of millions, Homelander had been encased in a metallic egg. No one understood what had just happened.

Vought quickly dispatched a team to retrieve the egg, but the U.S. military intervened.

“This is no longer an internal company matter,” the military official told the Vought representative. “Everyone witnessed this incident. The situation is unclear, and we suspect it could impact national security. Regrettably, we can’t allow you to take the metal sphere.”

“Homelander is our company’s superhero!” the Vought representative argued. “We need to protect him and prevent further complications!”

The military official remained unmoved. “I understand your concern, but I’m afraid we cannot let you take him.”

Meanwhile, technicians with advanced scanning equipment approached the egg to examine its contents.

Yet no matter how they scanned, the images came out as pitch-black voids. Nothing inside could be detected.

What they couldn’t see was that Homelander, curled up inside, was peacefully dreaming.

At the same time, his body was undergoing a transformation.

The once thirty-something-year-old hero was growing younger.

Homelander was reverting to his childhood.

—

Bruce stood by the window of Wayne Manor, staring at Gotham’s overcast sky.

Footsteps sounded behind him, followed by the enticing aroma of tea and pastries.

For a fleeting moment, the scene felt hauntingly familiar.

It was almost as if he were reliving the time Alfred had comforted him after his parents’ deaths.

But when he turned around, the figure before him wasn’t Alfred.

“Bruce?”

Martha stood there, carrying a tray of tea and pastries, a gentle smile on her face.

“What are you thinking about? Come, try some of these.”

She beckoned him over, but Bruce remained rooted in place.

The dim light streaming through the window cast his silhouette like a shadow against Gotham’s skyline.

“Mom?” he asked. “Have you stopped grieving?”

Just yesterday, their family had attended a performance. On their way home through an alley, they were attacked by a robber.

Thomas Wayne had died shielding his wife and son.

By some miracle, Bruce and Martha survived.

“Grief solves nothing.”

Martha forced a fragile smile. “We must move forward, don’t you think?

“Come, have something to eat. You’ve got so much to learn—etiquette, piano, classical literature…

“Even without your father, I’ll make sure you grow into the perfect gentleman!”

But Bruce didn’t move. His gaze was unyielding, piercingly clear.

“Mom.” He called out softly. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

Martha’s expression shifted.

“Bruce, you must be tired!” she said hastily. “That’s okay. Rest for a bit; the snacks can wait…”

She sounded like an amateur actress, trying desperately to mask a truth everyone already knew.

“Mom!”

Bruce’s voice cut through her pretense. There wasn’t a trace of humor in his face, only a complex mix of emotions as he looked at her.

“I’ve lived through a dream like this before. I won’t lose myself again.”

There was a note of sadness in his tone. “The multiverse is vast, full of endless possibilities. I’m glad there are worlds where you’re alive.

“I understand Barbatos wants me.

“I understand he used you to bring me here.

“What I don’t understand is—

“Mom, why in your dream, even here, does Dad have to die?”

Bruce saw through it all.

When he used the journal as a medium to enter Homelander’s mind, an unknown force intercepted him.

It had placed him in this fabricated Gotham.

He was reverted to an eight-year-old, reliving that alleyway nightmare.

It was eerily reminiscent of his dream at Hogwarts.

But this time, Bruce had remained lucid from beginning to end.

He saw his father die and his mother live.

And from that night onward, her behavior had been anything but normal.

There was no question about who had created this dream.

“Mom, someone once told me I was trapped in that alley at eight years old.”

Bruce walked toward the dining table, his steps deliberate. “But now I realize—I’m not the only one stuck there.”

He pulled out a chair and gestured toward another.

“Mom, have a seat.”

Martha froze in place, caught in an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation.

The Joker, a master manipulator of human hearts, was now utterly lost in front of her own child.

“What happened between you and Dad?”

Bruce’s voice carried a sorrowful weight. “How did things come to this, where even in a dream, you’d wish for each other’s death?”

Seeing his mother alive again filled Bruce with joy.

But that joy was overshadowed by the sight of a family torn apart.

“Bruce, please, let me explain!”

Martha sank into the chair, her composure slipping. She had never intended for her son to see her like this.

She wanted to keep playing the role of the gentle mother.

But Bruce was too perceptive. Not only had he seen through the illusion, but he also realized she was the one who had created it.

Her performance was falling apart.

“Mom, you’ve been in pain for so long, haven’t you?”

Bruce didn’t blame her. Instead, he reached out and took her cold hands in his own.

“Even though we’re not from the same world, I still see you as my mother.

“I can feel your love for me. That’s real, no matter what.”

“But right now, I need to gain enough strength to save Gotham. I can’t go back with you.”

At these words, Martha’s tears stopped, and her eyes widened.

“No!”

Her voice rose in panic. “Gotham doesn’t need saving! You can’t follow in Thomas’ insane footsteps!”

Martha’s terror was palpable.

Thomas hadn’t even been part of this world, yet her son had somehow inherited his ideas.

In desperation, her voice softened, almost pleading, “Your goal should be to become a doctor or a lawyer, to live a happy, fulfilling life—not to dress as some kind of freak and risk your life…”

Bruce hesitated at the sight of her distress, but there was no room for doubt now.

“Mom, do you remember when I was little? Just a few months old, so small I couldn’t even feed myself? You had to spoon-feed me.”

Martha was taken aback, bewildered by the sudden shift in conversation.

“Of course, I remember…” she stammered. “But how do you?”

“Because I have a memory palace in my mind where I store all my memories, from the earliest moments of my life.”

Bruce smiled faintly. “The time we spent together is my most treasured memory.

“Mom, you know better than anyone—I grow up. When I was just a few months old, I needed you to feed me. By the time I was one, I could hold a spoon myself.”

“It’s the same now. I’m thirteen, not eight.”

As he finished speaking, Bruce’s body began to change.

He grew before her eyes—not into the eight-year-old child Martha remembered losing, but into his true self: thirteen years old, nearly her height.

“Mom, I have my own thoughts now. They might not be fully matured, but they’re what I truly want to pursue.”

Bruce leaned forward slightly, his gaze soft yet unwavering.

“Can you support me in that?”

Martha didn’t respond immediately.

She looked into his eyes and felt an unfamiliar distance, one she’d never experienced before.

“I see,” she said at last.

Her sorrowful expression hardened into something more resolute.

“I’ve been away from your life for too long. Trying to make up for lost time now would be impossible.”

Her tone grew cold.

“You’re just like this world—something that needs to be forced into shape to improve. I’ve seen Thomas’ madness, and I won’t let you become like him.”

“Bruce, you’ve left me no choice.”

“One day, you’ll understand—I’m doing this for your own good!”

Martha had initially planned to influence Bruce subtly, using the dream to reshape his thoughts over time.

But Bruce hadn’t fallen for the illusion. He’d stayed lucid, completely aware of what was happening.

There was no other way.

“Bruce, you forced my hand.”

Hearing those words, Bruce let go of the last shred of hope.

“That’s exactly what I was going to say.”

His gaze locked onto hers, unflinching.

“Mom, you forced my hand.”

—

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!