A furious shout rang out from the distance, snapping Bruce back from the daze at just the right moment:
"You crazy bitch!"
Wonder Woman raised her sword high and charged in, the blade aimed straight at the helmet on Martha's head—the one brimming with boundless divine power.
But her strike pierced nothing more than a reflection. The Joker of Fate—Martha—had already shifted her position.
In an instant, dozens of identical Joker illusions filled the space, each indistinguishable from the next.
"Hehehe…!"
The gentle, maternal tone vanished, replaced by the Joker's shrill, chilling laughter echoing throughout the tent.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this show is worth every penny, wouldn't you say? Come on now… don't be shy—LAUGH!"
After witnessing Batman saving a circus disaster and Superman and Wonder Woman battling the Joker of Fate, the audience had certainly gotten their money's worth.
But whether that 'worth' was truly worth it… was no longer up to them.
The power contained within the Helmet of Fate was enough to grant its wielder something close to absolute command—reality bending to their words.
No Joker toxin was needed.
Just a single sentence.
Nearly everyone in the crowd stopped running and instead burst into uncontrollable laughter.
Even as their jaws dislocated, chests convulsed, and lungs failed to draw breath—they could not stop.
This laughter would end only in death.
"Stop this!"
Batman hurled a batarang at one of the airborne Joker illusions.
It didn't pass through.
Martha caught it.
Seeing that, Wonder Woman charged again, slashing toward the helmet—but her blade once again cut through nothing but illusion.
"Boring, boring! Amazon! Your little sword play doesn't even deserve a score!"
Martha made a casual looping gesture with her hand.
The Lasso of Truth coiled like a living serpent, wrapping tightly around Wonder Woman and binding her completely.
Midair, her strength suppressed, Wonder Woman fell like a kite with its string cut.
Batman threw more batarangs, drawing Martha's attention to prevent her from following up.
Catching one shaped like a bat, Martha seemed to spiral further into hysteria, screaming:
"I hate bats!"
At once, everyone stopped laughing—only to collapse to their knees, clutching their heads under the force of the scream.
"You don't like bats?!"
Batman forced himself to remain standing through sheer willpower.
He removed one of his gauntlets, wiped the blood from beneath his nose, and then took off his cowl.
"Then let Bruce Wayne talk to you."
The banshee-like sonic assault ceased instantly.
From within the Helmet of Fate, her voice softened again—gentle, warm, like a loving mother:
"My son… come here. Stay away from that bat. Come to your mother…"
"…Okay."
Bruce stepped forward, walking toward Martha.
As he did, he removed his armor piece by piece.
First the gauntlets.
Then the cape and greaves.
Finally, the utility belt filled with weapons.
By the time he reached her, he was left only in the tight underlayer.
He opened his arms.
"My dear boy."
Martha raised her hand and conjured a wand from nowhere. With a light tap in the air, a sleek black suit appeared on Bruce, perfectly fitted.
"Look at you… this is what you should be wearing at your age. You're barely in your thirties—just a child. Why do you always look so grim?"
Hearing those words, a long-lost smile appeared on Bruce's face. It was completely genuine, because he was reminded of a small childhood memory with his mother:
"Do you remember when I was six, I learned a magic trick from Zatanna?"
"Of course I remember."
Martha's voice softened as well:
"After she taught you, you showed it off to me several times every single day. It seemed like quite a complicated trick."
"No, it was a very simple one."
Batman slowly stepped closer to Martha:
"I only remember that after every performance, you would ask me how I managed to produce that playing card."
To Bruce now, it had been an extremely crude card trick. The entire performance was nothing more than producing a card out of thin air.
Without involving real magic, the essence of magic tricks is misdirection.
At its core, it's about the magician using exaggerated movements to draw the audience's attention elsewhere, concealing their true intent.
And for a mother, her attention would naturally be focused on her son's excited, smiling face—not the trick itself.
That was why Bruce's clumsy performances back then had never been exposed.
Just like now.
With a flick of his wrist, a sharp golden metal fragment appeared in his hand—just like a playing card conjured out of nowhere in a magic trick.
It was a fragment of another Helmet of Fate that Joey had brought earlier. While Batman had been helping him up, Joey had quietly passed it to him.
Now Batman was close enough—close enough to drive that sharp fragment into the helmet.
"No! What have you done?!"
The supposedly indestructible Helmet of Fate cracked under the force of a similar material infused with divine power. Martha's aura began to destabilize violently:
"Bruce Wayne!!!!"
Generally speaking, when a woman calls out a family member's full name—whether husband or child—it means one thing:
He's in serious trouble.
Fortunately, Batman had a backup plan.
"Superman!"
Before Batman even finished speaking, Joey—who had been lying there moments ago—shot up from the ground, smashing through layers of invisible magical shields as he charged straight at Martha.
Flying upside down over her head, Joey grabbed the Helmet of Fate, trying to rip it off by force.
Without the helmet, even ten Marthas wouldn't be enough to cause him trouble.
"No!!! Don't you dare!!!"
Martha grabbed Joey's hands as they clutched the helmet, and the two began struggling over control of it.
The power of divine order and Kryptonian brute strength both pressed against the already cracked helmet, causing the tiny fracture to rapidly spread across its surface.
"Watch out!"
Batman reached out, trying to pull the metal fragment out to stop the helmet from collapsing—but it was already too late.
In an instant, a blinding white light filled his vision.
Bruce lunged forward instinctively, his hand closing tightly around something cold and smooth.
"There's no need to rush. The wine cellar beneath the manor lacks many things—but wine is not one of them."
The late butler of the Wayne family in this world, Alfred, stood before Bruce and gave a slight bow:
"Still, I hope you enjoy yourself at the party, Master Bruce."
With that, Alfred turned and walked away, carrying a tray filled with drinks.
"What…?"
Bruce stared at Alfred's back in disbelief, barely managing to suppress the shock rising within him.
Only then did he look down at the object in his hand and realize what it was—
A tulip-shaped champagne glass.