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When Gordon woke up in the dimly lit hospital room, only a small desk lamp was on, and Schiller was dozing off in the chair next to him. Hearing Gordon's movements, he woke up and took off his glasses, saying, "I knew you'd wake up when I was with you..."

Gordon couldn't speak now, as he had a breathing apparatus on. Schiller said, "You were badly injured, a bit too badly. We barely saved your life after more than twenty hours of rescue, and whether you can fully recover is still unknown."

The psychologist's voice always carried a calming power.

Gordon blinked his eyes, unable to do much else. Schiller yawned and said, "Thanks to your partner, he arrived in time to save your life."

"But I'm sorry, the people who were chasing you were apparently after me."

Gordon shook his head slightly. He knew these people were just hired killers. Even if Maroni didn't hire them, he would hire others.

Just as Schiller was about to continue speaking, the door opened and Harvey walked in, saying, "Are you awake?"

Schiller nodded and stood up from the chair. Harvey said, "I'll take over, you go rest."

Before leaving, Schiller took a look at Gordon. The detective who usually looked full of energy now appeared incredibly haggard. The double torment of body and mind had left him somewhat mentally confused.

The late-night corridor of the central hospital was pitch black, and only the sound of Schiller's leather shoes echoed clearly.

As he arrived downstairs, a car was parked at the hospital entrance, and a tall man in a suit got out and opened the car door for Schiller. After Schiller got in, he said, "Let's have some jazz."

Soon, some lively jazz began playing, adding a bit of fresh air to the dull atmosphere inside the car. The lights outside still flickered.

Schiller closed his eyes with drowsiness, and the person sitting in the passenger seat obviously didn't expect him to fall asleep so quickly. This professor was truly extraordinary, he thought.

When the car arrived at its destination, Schiller had not fully awakened from his drowsiness. The brief nap had left him feeling even more tired.

Ascending the wooden stairs, Schiller entered the room where Falcone was seated behind a desk in his usual suit and shoes. Evans stood behind his father, also in a suit.

Schiller sat down opposite the Godfather, made the sign of the cross on his chest, and greeted him with, "Good evening, Godfather."

Falcone waved his hand and the tall man in the suit approached. Falcone retrieved a box of cigars from under the desk and his assistant cut one for Schiller. Schiller was about to refuse, but Falcone said, "I heard you like to smoke cigars. I happen to like them too. So have one."

Schiller adjusted his posture and leaned back in the chair, making no attempt to hide his fatigue. He accepted the cigar, and Evans approached to light it for him.

Schiller looked at him and said, "I've never seen you in a suit before. You'll have a lot of girls chasing after you at the ball."

Evans smiled humbly and said nothing as he returned to his father's side.

"You've changed a lot, I can tell," Falcone said. The Godfather was still elegant as he smoked his cigar, taking a small puff before exhaling and speaking again.

"When I first met you, I knew you weren't from Gotham. But now you're much better. That's good."

"When you're on guard here, you'll find that everyone is against you. But when you truly consider this place as your home, you'll find that anyone can find like-minded people here."

"Perhaps because everyone is a potential criminal," Schiller said.

"What surprises me about you is that you don't question why I didn't take care of Maroni," Falcone replied.

Schiller's voice was low as he said, "Maroni is not important."

"You always amaze me. I've met too many people in my lifetime, seen too many geniuses. They often have a sense of superiority, even if they appear humble on the surface. But I know that their deference is only out of fear of my gun."

"But I know for a fact that people fear Godfather not because of a gun."

"You've shown me the allure of psychology. You always seem to provide the answers I want," Falcone said, letting his cigar burn slowly in his hand.

"I hope Evans can learn the essence of this subject, but unfortunately, I know he doesn't have the talent for it."

"He's doing well academically," Schiller flicked off some ash from his cigar, saying, "He's hardworking and a good student."

"But that's about it, isn't it?" Falcone asked.

Schiller didn't seem to care about Evans' disappointed expression, and he said, "That's a good thing, Your Excellency Godfather. Studying psychology is a dead end."

Falcone looked at him, and Schiller took another puff of his cigar before saying, "It's not a strange metaphor. When you delve deep into this subject, you'll only end up with two outcomes: either madness or death."

"Then it seems you haven't chosen either."

"Perhaps I've chosen both?" Schiller replied.

Schiller began to feel increasingly sleepy. The sweet and pungent scent of tobacco caused waves of drowsiness to wash over him. He squinted his eyes, and the whole world's light blurred into a white haze.

"I know Evans has a long way to go. Like his mother, he's not an absolute good guy, nor can he be an absolute bad guy. That's the scariest thing," he said.

"What kind of person do you want him to be?" Falcone hadn't even had a chance to answer before Schiller continued, "Or should I say, do you want him to become the Godfather?"

Falcone fell silent.

It was clear he had an answer in his heart, but he didn't want to admit it. Is becoming the Godfather a good thing? After all these years as the Godfather, Falcone couldn't even give an answer.

"What happened to the cop?" he asked.

Schiller shook his head and said, "He was badly injured. It may take a long time for him to recover."

"You could've let him lean towards Maroni, and I wouldn't have blamed him," Falcone said. "I know these people don't have a choice. Either cooperate or die. In fact, just being able to survive until now has impressed me."

"Perhaps it's offensive, but his perseverance isn't because of the Godfather."

"Then what is it because of? If it's not because he fears me, why did he resist Maroni's offer to cooperate?"

"Because Maroni prevented him from going out to fight crime."

"So what?"

"He's a cop, and he believes it's only natural for the police to catch criminals."

"A very naive idea, isn't it? It even seems absurd in this city."

"Good people never live long, especially in Gotham," Falcone sighed.

"That's why I'll be your longest-serving family teacher," Schiller said.

Falcone closed his eyes, and after a while, he said, "Evans, go kill Maroni. Kill him with your own hands."

Evans pursed his lips and said in a low voice, "Yes, Father."

"As for those people coming from the Metropolis, I'll handle them."

"You don't need to trouble yourself."

"What's your plan?"

"I've made a lot of money lately, and there's a highly-priced super-mercenary whose price is just right for me."

"I'll pay for it," Falcone said.

"In your name, may Gotham be blessed by God."

It seems that this Godfather is really old, and he really loves his son. He believes that in the decades of his life before Godfather, he has never been so friendly to anyone.

Indeed, in the glorious years of Godfather's past, he didn't need to express himself like this to anyone, and no one dared to ask him to do so. But today, he can invite Schiller here and show him such goodwill, which shows that he is really getting old.

Schiller thought so, his drowsiness deepening. Falcone looked at the man opposite him, gradually closing his eyes. Godfather sighed and said to Evans, "Take your teacher back to rest."

Evans should be the Godfather. He stood up and looked out of the window. Outside the window was the quiet night of Gotham. From Falcone Manor, he could see the faint light of the lighthouse on the coast.

Forty years had passed, he thought. The friends and enemies of the Godfather had all faded away with time. His life and years had come to an end along with the previous era of Gotham. Only this lighthouse still shone all night long, witnessing the wind and frost, the rise and fall of this city, along with him.

Evans looked at his father behind him. Falcone's figure showed no signs of aging, still standing tall and wearing a suit that always looked elegant.

Finally, the Godfather extinguished the cigar in his hand and said, "I only hope that he will truly be the longest-lasting family tutor for you."

On the docks of Gotham's East District, the sea reflected the light of the lighthouse, and the waves surged like a golden school of fish. A cargo ship left the harbor under the cover of darkness.

The smell of blood on the deck had not yet dissipated. The bodies of the crew members were thrown into the cold sea. A burly man standing at the bow spat on the ground and said, "We suffered a big loss this time, lost a few men and didn't earn any money."

"Don't worry about it, at least we escaped," replied another person beside him.

Suddenly, as they hadn't sailed far from the harbor, a muffled bell rang from Gotham City. The bell rang seven times with a noticeable tremor. The leader at the bow asked in confusion, "Why are they ringing the bell in the middle of the night?"

"Who knows? Maybe it's a farewell to us," shrugged the person beside him.

A faint sound came from above, and then a figure in black and yellow appeared on the mast.

"It's indeed a farewell to you...a funeral bell."