I settled into the front seat of my father's car, feeling the worn leather give slightly under my weight. The engine purred softly, a familiar sound that cut through the silence of the cloudy Gotham morning as we drove along the winding road leading to the hills of Crestview Heights.
My father kept his hands firmly on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, but I could see the slight tremor in his lips, as if he were fighting back a smile that wanted to spread. In the back seat, my mother held my younger sister's hand, who looked out the window with bright eyes, as if we were going on an adventure in a new world. The air inside the car was charged with a palpable energy—a mixture of relief, excitement, and that hint of disbelief that always arises when life changes suddenly.
It had been two weeks since I closed the deal with Bruce Wayne. The 380 million had fallen into the account like a silent bolt of lightning, followed by the first royalties that were already starting to trickle in—initial deposits that seemed modest, but which I knew would turn into a steady stream over the years.
I had used a substantial chunk to buy the mansion: $85 million. A sum that, on the open market, would be considered a bargain for a property like that, which would easily be worth twice as much in normal times. The Hargroves, an old Gotham family that had built its fortune in the shipping trade in the 19th century, were drowning in debt—bad bets at casinos, failed investments in tech startups, and a patriarch who had lost everything in a pyramid scheme disguised as a hedge fund.
They needed to sell quickly, before creditors seized the property through foreclosure. I learned of the opportunity through Natasha, my AI coordinator, who scoured catalogs of declining luxury properties and found this hidden gem. "A mansion with untapped potential," she summarized in her report.
Perfect. Large enough to be a secure fortress, far enough from Wayne Manor not to arouse suspicion, yet still in the heart of Crestview Heights — the elite neighborhood of Gotham, with its wooded hills, ornate iron gates, and private security that kept the unwanted at bay.
My father broke the silence first, his voice hoarse with an emotion he rarely let show. "Erick... son, I still think about all this. You've always been brilliant—since you were little, taking apart everything you saw, programming things on the old computer in the basement. But to turn that into... this? A mansion? I knew you were capable of great things, but I never imagined it would be so fast, so big."
I looked at him, seeing the wrinkles around his eyes that seemed a little less deep today, as if the weight of the last few months was finally lifting. "It wasn't quick, Dad. It was years of work in the basement, sleepless nights, prototypes exploding in my face. But after what happened with Zsasz... I sped up. I created things the world needed. Wayne saw the value and paid what it was worth. It's all legal, audited. No tricks."
My mother, from the back seat, leaned forward, her hand still intertwined with my sister's. Her voice was soft, but filled with a gratitude that tightened my chest. "We always knew you were different, Erick. A genius, like you used to say when you were little. But this... this goes beyond what we ever dreamed of. You're not just giving us a new house; you're giving us security. After everything we've been through—the graffiti, the stones, the sleepless nights... this is like a fresh start that we didn't even know we needed."
I nodded, looking through the windshield at the road that began to climb the hills, the trees growing denser and older, with trunks as thick as columns that seemed to guard secrets. "That's exactly it, Mom. A fresh start. I couldn't bear to see you suffering because of me anymore. The patent money will cover everything—taxes, maintenance, whatever is needed. You can relax now."
My sister, at 11 years old and with a curiosity that lit up any room, finally spoke, her animated voice breaking through the more serious tone of the conversation. "Erick, is there really going to be a pool? And a room just for me, with a big window to see the stars? And like, a garden for me to plant flowers?"
I turned around, ruffling her hair with a smile. "Yes, there will be a pool—huge, with an infinity edge overlooking the valley. And any room you want. There are about twenty upstairs, each one bigger than the next. You'll be able to plant flowers, play on the lawn, whatever you want. No more nosy neighbors."
My father chuckled softly, a rare sound that warmed the entire car. "You thought of everything, huh, son? But what about maintenance? A house like this must cost an arm and a leg to maintain. Electricity, gardening, cleaning... we're going to need help."
"I've already taken care of that," I replied, pointing to the horizon where the gate began to appear. "I hired a service company—gardeners to take care of the grounds, cleaners to keep everything spotless, and yes, a butler to coordinate the day-to-day operations. You don't need to get your hands dirty. If you want to continue teaching, great. Dad, if you want to retire and fish in the backyard lake, go ahead. The royalties cover everything. Forever."
The road made a sharp turn, and there was the gate: an imposing structure three meters high, made of old wrought iron, covered in thick vines that snaked through the bars like living veins in an aged metal body. Green leaves swayed gently in the damp wind, and wildflowers dotted the vines, giving an air of romantic mystery, as if nature were reclaiming what the Hargroves had abandoned.
The gate was adorned with Gothic motifs—intricate arabesques and small gargoyles atop the side columns, weathered by time and Gotham's acid rain, but still imposing. My father stopped the car in front, the engine purring low as he stared up, gaping, as if standing before a portal to another world.
"Wow," my sister murmured, pressing her face against the car window. "It looks like the entrance to an enchanted castle... but one of those with ghosts and hidden treasures!"
My father blinked, regaining his composure after a moment. "Erick... is this really ours? How do you open this thing? It looks like it came straight out of an old horror movie."
I took the remote control from my pocket—a small device I had programmed myself, integrated into the mansion's security system, with quantum cryptography to prevent hacking. I pressed the button, and the gate creaked open, the hydraulic mechanisms humming softly beneath the vines, as if nature itself were yielding. "It's ours, Dad. I bought it a week ago. The papers are signed, everything's in order."
He swallowed hard and slowly accelerated, the car passing through the gate and into the gravel driveway that snaked through the property. The surrounding trees were ancient and majestic—centuries-old oaks with trunks as thick as temple columns, their intertwined branches forming a natural canopy that filtered the sunlight in dancing patterns on the ground.
The path rose gently, gradually revealing the mansion: first the neglected gardens, with shrubs grown in wild shapes, wildflowers invading the cracked stone flowerbeds, and a dry central fountain with statues of nymphs covered in green moss; then, the imposing facade emerged like an awakened giant.
The house was a Gothic monument—three stories of dark gray stone, quarried from Gotham's own hills, with pointed spires at the corners that seemed to defy the cloudy sky. The windows were tall and arched, with faded stained glass filtering the late morning light in subtle shades of red and blue, creating hypnotic patterns on the entrance floor. The main door was preceded by a white marble staircase, now slightly yellowed by time, with railings adorned with sculptures of winged lions—the fierce animals, with outstretched wings, seemed like eternal guardians, worn by erosion but still imposing.
The roof was pitched and covered with black tiles that resembled the scales of a sleeping dragon, with tall, carved chimneys that evoked the towers of a medieval castle, and gargoyles on the eaves, their mouths open as if ready to spew rain or curses.
My father parked the car on the gravel roundabout in front of the staircase, turning off the engine with a sigh that seemed to release years of pent-up tension. "My God, son... this is... this is palatial. Look at these towers... they look like they're straight out of a history book. And the garden... it needs pruning, but you can see the potential. How did you find this gem? And... how are we going to fill all this up? The furniture, the decoration... it's going to be an adventure."
I got out of the car first, feeling the gravel crunch under my boots, the air fresher there, far from the industrial stench of downtown Gotham—a pure smell of damp earth, fallen leaves, and a distant hint of salt from the ocean beyond the hills. "It was planning, Dad. The patents yielded more than we expected. The royalties will cover everything. It's for you—for us. A place where we can start over without looking back."
My mother came out next, helping my sister down, her eyes shining with a mixture of astonishment and gratitude that tugged at my heartstrings. "Erick, this is surreal. We were in a comfortable, but simple house... and now this? A mansion with towers and marble staircases? You're not just giving us a roof over our heads; you're giving us security. After everything we've been through—the graffiti, the stones, the sleepless nights... this is like a fresh start that we didn't even know we needed."
I climbed the first steps of the staircase, extending my hand for them to join me. "That's exactly it, Mom. A fresh start. I couldn't bear to see you suffering because of me anymore. The patent money will cover everything—taxes, maintenance, whatever is needed. You can relax now."
My sister ran ahead, hopping up the steps two at a time, her laughter echoing in the still air like a joyful bell. "Look, Mom! The lions on the stairs have wings! And look how big the door is! It looks like a princess's palace, but with dragons!"
My father climbed slowly, resting his hand on the ornate railing, touching the cold stone as if testing if it was real. "The Hargroves... I remember reading about them in old newspapers. A family that dominated the shipping trade, legendary parties in the 1920s. They lost everything in the Depression and never really recovered. But now... this is ours. Erick, how did you find this gem? And... how are we going to maintain it? Taxes, maintenance... this must cost a fortune a month."
I stopped at the top of the stairs, picking up the old key—an ornate bronze piece bearing the Hargrove coat of arms, a stylized ship in high relief, now rightfully ours. "I'd been looking for brokers specializing in decaying historic properties. This one came up in their catalog—stalled for months, in urgent need of a sale.
Regarding maintenance... the patent royalties will cover it. They're lifetime percentages—every cell phone or battery sold with my tech generates money. We won't need to work if we don't want to. You can retire, Dad. Mom, if you want to continue teaching at the university, great. But you don't need to worry about bills at the end of the month anymore."
My mother reached the top, breathless but smiling, taking my sister's hand to stop her from running inside without seeing. "It's beautiful, Erick. But empty, like you said. We'll need to bring it to life—furniture, rugs, maybe some plants to add color. And the echo... it sounds like an abandoned cathedral."
I laughed, leaning against the door to close it behind us, the thud echoing like a period in the past. "Empty for now. The decorator is coming tomorrow—she'll help choose everything. I want you to decide: classic, with velvet sofas and antique paintings, or modern, with clean lines and integrated technology? There are empty rooms we can transform into a library for you, Mom, or a game room for her, Dad. And for the backyard... gardeners are coming next week to revitalize everything. Clean pool, trimmed lawn, even an artificial lake if you want."
My sister rushed inside, twirling in the center of the hall with her arms outstretched, her laughter echoing off the high walls. "Wow! Look how big this is, Mom! It's bigger than the school gym! And look at that chandelier—it looks like a bunch of diamonds hanging from it! Can I climb the ladder and pretend I'm a queen?"
My father entered slowly, his eyes scanning the space as if searching for ghosts of the past. "My God... this is... this is palatial. Look at these wood paneling—it must be imported mahogany from the last century. And the portraits... Hargrove, huh? A family with history. But now it's ours. Erick, are you sure this isn't a dream? Because if it is, don't wake me up."
My mother touched the stair railing, running her fingers along the polished wood, her eyes glistening with tears she tried to hold back. "It's real, darling. And beautiful. But... so empty. We'll need to fill it with life—furniture, rugs, maybe some plants to add color. And the echo... it sounds like an abandoned cathedral."
I nodded, feeling a lump in my throat that I hadn't expected. "I'm glad you liked it. Explore more—there's a games room on the third floor, with an old pool table and windows overlooking the artificial lake in the backyard. And an empty gym that we can equip. Choose your rooms, mark what you want to change. Tomorrow the decorator will come to help with the furniture and the renovation."
My father placed his hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Son, this is incredible. But... what about you? What will your place be in all this mess?"
I smiled, pointing vaguely downwards. "I'll take the basement. There's plenty of room for me—and for my 'laboratory'."
They laughed, thinking I was joking, but I was serious. The basement wasn't just a room—it was my kingdom. My laboratory. My path to power. As they continued to explore—opening doors to living rooms with carved marble fireplaces, auxiliary kitchens with empty pantries large enough to store food for a year, and even a music room with an antique piano covered by a dusty sheet—I went back down, feeling the mansion pulse around me as if it were alive, waiting to be transformed.
Back in the basement, I paused on the last step once more, absorbing the vastness. The space was truly cavernous—like an ancient underground wine cellar designed to store fortunes in wine and goods, extending beneath practically the entire mansion, with branches that disappeared into the shadows. The ceiling was high enough to accommodate an entire second floor, perhaps ten meters high in some places, supported by ancient stone arches that intertwined like the ribs of a fossilized leviathan.
The foundations were of solid granite blocks, stacked in intricate patterns suggesting a late 19th-century construction, with deep niches that once housed barrels of imported wine or crates of exotic goods brought by the family's ships. The floor was of irregular slabs of polished stone, cold to the touch and marked by grooves where rainwater must have seeped during storms, forming small puddles that slowly evaporated in the humid air.
The walls stretched for dozens of meters in all directions — the basement covered an area equivalent to a football field, with branches extending under the gardens and even beyond the limits of the mansion, forming an underground labyrinth.
One side section had shelves of rotting wood, capable of holding tons of bottles—now empty, with cobwebs hanging like abandoned curtains, ideal for storing electronic components or alchemical flasks. Another area, further east, had an old coal furnace with chimneys rising up the walls like veins of oxidized metal, which I could convert into a backup generator or furnace for synthesizing high-temperature chemical compounds. The space was so vast that it echoed my footsteps like an underground cathedral, with hidden niches in the walls that could house servers or weapons cabinets, and even a dry well in the west corner, perhaps an old drain for spilled wine, which I could transform into an elevator to lower levels.
I walked through the center of the main area, the beam of the flashlight dancing in the shadows and revealing more details: the walls of massive granite blocks, stacked in Gothic arches that supported the colossal weight above, with deep niches that could house barrels or boxes; the floor of irregular slabs of polished stone, with ancient grooves that channeled moisture to hidden drains, preventing flooding; supporting columns scattered like sentinels, creating natural partitions that divided the space into interconnected "rooms," each with potential for a specific function, such as a wing for alchemical experiments or a refrigerated server room.
The air was cool and slightly damp, with a faint smell of earth and moss seeping through the cracks in the high walls, but nothing an industrial dehumidification system couldn't fix. Small casement windows high in the walls let in fresh air and diffused light during the day, but I planned to seal them with armored panels for added security and privacy. At the bottom, a secondary staircase led to an even deeper level—an old bunker, perhaps used by the Hargroves during the world wars or to hide contraband, with reinforced brick walls and a cracked concrete floor, perfect for storing hazardous materials or expanding the transmutation circle for larger rituals.
My heart raced just visualizing the final layout: the transmutation circle enlarged to 6 meters in diameter, engraved directly into the granite floor with fused silver runes for greater stability and power, surrounded by containment barriers for volatile experiments; workbenches along the east and west walls, with quantum servers that I planned to build using the battery patents.
Rows of high-resolution monitors, industrial 3D printers for rapid prototyping, and electric furnaces for synthesizing chemical compounds or melting exotic metals; an expanded training area in the right corner, with a reinforced pull-up bar to support extreme weights, heavy punching bags hanging from forged steel chains, rubberized mats covering 50 square meters for intensive sparring, and even an elevated ring with holograms projected by Sensei for simulated fights against real villains like Amygdala or Mammoth; the surgical capsule in the back, integrated into an independent power system with solar generators on the mansion's roof and compact nuclear backups, for long nights of uninterrupted virtual immersion; and, in the lower basement, an emergency bunker stocked with freeze-dried food, customized weapons, and survival equipment, shielded against invasions, radiation, or disasters, with alternative exits to the garden or even to the Gotham underground if I were to dig tunnels.
I climbed back up, the creaking of the stairs echoing like a farewell to the simple past. In the hall, I heard my family's voices echoing from the second floor—loud laughter, exclamations of surprise that filled the emptiness of the mansion like a long-forgotten song. I climbed the double staircase, the cold, smooth handrail beneath my hand, feeling the ancient wood pulse with history.
The second floor opened onto a wide hallway, with faded Persian rugs covering the polished wooden floors that creaked slightly underfoot, and double carved oak doors leading to rooms that resembled five-star hotel suites. The walls were decorated with dark wood paneling, interspersed with niches containing empty vases and rusted bronze candelabras, and tall windows that let in the filtered light of the late afternoon, creating dancing patterns on the floor.
I found them in the main hallway: my mother emerging from a room with a built-in library—empty dark mahogany shelves stretching from floor to ceiling, an antique escalator to reach the upper floors, and a marble fireplace in the center, perfect for reading nights; my father opening the master bedroom door at the end of the hall, revealing a colossal bedroom with a king-size bed already furnished (a Hargrove remnant), an adjacent bathroom with a porcelain whirlpool tub and imported tiles, and panoramic windows overlooking the back garden: an immense pool, now empty but with an infinity edge that merged with the wooded valley beyond; and my sister rushing out of a smaller room, with a giant light wood walk-in closet and a bay window that formed a cushioned bench, ideal for sitting and stargazing.
"Erick! Look at my room!" my sister shouted, pulling me inside by the hand. "There's a closet that fits all my dolls and clothes! And the window is like a sofa! Can I put cushions here and pretend it's my own private castle?"
I laughed, ruffling her hair as I looked around—the room was spacious, with a high ceiling and Victorian-style plaster moldings, its walls painted a faded blue that begged for a makeover. "Sure, you can. And if you want to paint it pink or put up fairy lights, we'll fix it. This one's yours now."
My father came out of the master suite, his eyes still wide. "Erick, the bathroom over there is bigger than our entire old room. It has a shower with massage jets and a bathtub that looks like a small swimming pool. And the view... the garden down there is huge. It needs work, but you can plant fruit trees, have a barbecue on weekends..."
My mother joined us, emerging from the library with a smile that lit up the entire hallway. "I chose the room with the built-in bookshelves. There's space for hundreds of books—I'll fill it with my literature and history books. And the fireplace... I imagine lighting it in winter, reading with a cup of tea. Erick, this is more than a home. It's a dream we didn't even know we had."
I nodded, feeling a lump in my throat that I hadn't expected. "I'm glad you liked it. Explore more—there's a games room on the third floor, with an old pool table and windows overlooking the artificial lake in the backyard. And an empty gym that we can equip. Choose your rooms, mark what you want to change. Tomorrow the decorator will come to help with the furniture and the renovation."
Read the chapters in advance: patreon.com/cw/pararaio