Chapter 12: Chapter Eleven: Pride and Prejudice (Part Two)

After Gordon and Batman left the underground beneath the chapel, both fell silent. After all, the place they had just left had buried dozens of lives within a single month.

Gotham is a dark city, but when such darkness is laid bare before people, only those with strong willpower can digest the shock of such profound darkness.

Both Batman and Gordon now felt countless emotions surging within them. For Batman, newly arrived, this was his first case—the seemingly endless evil, the lightless darkness, laid before him. He suddenly realized, as Schiller had said, that he might not yet be fully prepared.

Powerful force is merely a means to survive here, but saving this city requires far more than force alone.

As he thought this, Batman turned a corner and saw Schiller standing on the second floor, holding an umbrella. Beneath the balcony was where the beggar had once lingered.

Batman felt another wave of absurdity. This damned criminal, who had killed dozens of innocent lives, how could he dare stand here? Why were there people in this world who remained utterly indifferent to living souls? Who could be so cruel as to kill without hesitation?

Batman’s inner depression turned to rage. Under Gordon’s gaze, he leapt from the street, soaring straight up onto the two-meter-high balcony.

“Your trial is coming, you damned murderer,” Batman said.

“Have you found the evidence you wanted?” Schiller asked.

“Of course. And this evidence is enough to convict you.”

Schiller suddenly laughed, speaking in an unusually light tone: “How ridiculous. You’re still thinking about trying me? Gotham City Police should award you a Citizen of the Year medal—you’re a great cop.”

“What if, when your parents died, there had been a great cop like you—someone who found the evidence left by the killers and brought them to trial? Wouldn’t that have been better? That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

“You don’t trust the police, you don’t trust the courts, yet you still seek evidence, hoping to judge me through the correctness of the legal system. Don’t you see how contradictory that is?”

“You want to prove I broke the law, Batman. But your actions broke the law too. If I face trial, so will you. You’re using criminal acts to prove a criminal is a criminal, aren’t you?”

Schiller raised his voice, speaking with rhythmic cadence: “You believe you have the power to take revenge on criminals by your own means. But in the end, you’re still just an ordinary man, tamed by this orderly society—you still cling to evidence, still demand trial.”

“If you can’t shed these things, can’t break free from the chains this orderly society has forged around you, can’t erase from your mind the concepts of law and judicial procedure, you will never achieve the justice you seek.”

“Bruce…” Schiller said, looking into his eyes.

“The law is not justice. You are.”

“Gotham’s law didn’t save your parents, just as it didn’t save these dozens of missing people. If you keep clinging to such futile illusions about it, you will never become the true Batman.”

Schiller could clearly see Batman’s arms trembling, the veins on his hand gripping the batarang bulging, his entire body shaking—he was now utterly enraged.

Schiller’s words struck at the very core. He exposed Batman’s greatest internal contradiction.

Gotham’s law failed to save his parents, yet the Batman who swore vengeance remained bound by the very order he claimed to reject—still clinging to judicial justice.

“You want me to deliver my own justice?” Batman asked. Then he raised a gun, pointing it at Schiller’s forehead.

Of course Batman had a gun. In Gotham, without such firearms, you can barely survive—let alone deliver justice.

Schiller remained calm. “You haven’t answered my earlier question. Have you found the evidence you wanted? What is it?”

“Near the wooden crates in the chapel’s basement, there’s a stain you left. It’s soil and leaves—the leaves of the North American red pine, found only on the campus of Gotham University.”

Schiller said: “What does that prove?”

“It proves you’re the killer,” Batman said.

“Does it? I appeared alone on Mossen Street, dressed and acting suspiciously. And you found leaves from Gotham University at the crime scene—so the killer must be someone from the university. Therefore, I’m the killer. What impeccable reasoning.”

Batman stared at Schiller’s expression—no remorse, no guilt—his casual tone. His rage had reached its peak. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, Gordon ran up and shouted: “Stop! Put the gun down!”

Batman hesitated for a moment. Schiller tossed a memory card onto the ground between them and said:

“Conclusive evidence? The killer visited Gotham University, and I’m a professor there. How very conclusive.”

“Yes, you wished someone—just like you now—had simply shot the killer dead when your parents died, because the evidence was so clear.”

“Don’t mention my parents…” Batman said, his voice trembling. “You criminal.”

“You’ve noticed many similarities,” Schiller said.

“But your anger made you ignore more—many differences.”

“For instance, I have no educational background in chemistry or biology. I’ve investigated countless serial killings. My counter-surveillance awareness wouldn’t be so poor as to leave footprints. More importantly…”

Schiller looked at the memory card. “My evidence is far more conclusive than yours.”

Because of Gordon’s interruption, Batman’s rage subsided slightly. When reason returned, he realized—even in this cold, damp weather—his shirt was soaked with sweat.

Batman cautiously picked up the USB drive and plugged it into the microcomputer on his arm. A projection flickered to life.

At that moment, Gordon also ran around to the balcony. He saw the video: a man in a plaid shirt stealthily perched on an apartment’s air conditioning unit, inserting a flexible tube through a window. The figures inside—standing and sitting—collapsed one after another. The man then jumped down, entered the stairwell, and moments later emerged dragging two large boxes, loading them onto a cart and pushing them away. The people inside were gone.

This was the inspiration Batman had given Schiller. Jonathan was terribly lacking in counter-surveillance awareness. Schiller had stood in the stairwell of the opposite building, filming with a camera, and Jonathan hadn’t noticed.

Then again, no one in Gotham wandered the streets past midnight—especially not into slums like this. One misstep, and you’d lose your life.

Gordon suddenly cried out: “That’s why!”

“I remember when registering the addresses of the missing, the victims were mostly on lower floors—all their homes had balconies…” Gordon said.

He turned to Batman and Schiller, angrily addressing Batman: “I misjudged you. Did you just try to shoot him? Do you know you nearly killed a man?!”

Batman stared silently at the projection on his arm. Anyone with eyes could see the killer’s build was utterly unlike Schiller’s.

Schiller, though not a fighter or bodybuilder, was still tall—only slightly shorter than Batman, a bit thinner, but still nearly 1.9 meters. The man in the video was at most 1.7 meters, weighing no more than sixty kilograms.

“Professor Jonathan is a kind man, isn’t that what you think? He never checks homework, treats you well, and would never fail you. But I’m different—I’m a troublesome professor, always finding faults in assignments, giving constant exams, threatening every student with failure.”

“So obviously I’m the killer, and he isn’t. After all, how could such a weak, quiet, thin, small man be a serial killer?”

“Stop talking,” Batman said, his voice shaking.

He recalled again the scene with the beggar. The corner of his eye still saw the stain the beggar had left against the wall. The crushing guilt and shame enveloped him once more.

Gordon’s words only added fuel to the fire: “I don’t care where you’re from or why you’re running around in a spandex suit. But you nearly killed a good man. What’s your grudge? If you have a personal vendetta, settle it yourself—don’t interfere with police work.”

“Doesn’t Gotham’s police force have enough to do? You want to kill right in front of me, hoping I’ll lock you up immediately?” Gordon said.

Days of overtime had left him irritable. He snapped: “Spandex freak, hand me that USB drive—I need to file it. Sir, please come with me. You seem to know who the killer is. We need leads…”

After a moment of silence, Batman silently extended his arm and handed the USB drive to Gordon.

He realized his confident debut had been nothing but chaos. The criminal he’d assumed was Schiller had actually helped immensely, providing the most crucial evidence.

Schiller said nothing. Batman stood still. Outside, the rain continued, endless.

As he was about to leave with Gordon, he heard Batman behind him say: “...I’m sorry, Professor.”

Schiller’s steps halted. He felt disbelief. What had Batman just said?

He just apologized?

Schiller turned in disbelief. Batman stood in the shadow cast by the building, a single beam of light falling on his mask. His lips were tightly pressed. Schiller found it absurd.

He was Batman.

Because he was Batman.

And Batman was always right.

Batman never apologized.

Facing all accusations, he would only say: “Because I’m Batman.”

In the comics, Schiller had seen too much of Batman’s darkness—preparing kryptonite against Superman, devising countermeasures for every member of the Justice League. He seemed to trust no one—not even himself.

The editors, in crafting this character, had made these dark traits all the more compelling, leaving deeper impressions on readers.

But this had also created a prejudice in Schiller.

He believed Batman should be exactly as portrayed in the comics—never apologizing, never doubting his own actions, convinced his precautions against allies were necessary.

This had formed a prejudice in Schiller: Batman didn’t refuse to apologize—he simply never admitted he was wrong. But when he truly realized his mistake, he still felt regret and shame.

Schiller had truly intended to teach the young Batman lessons: don’t harbor prejudice, don’t judge by appearances, don’t let anger cloud your mind, think independently.

But Schiller suddenly realized he had no right to teach Batman about prejudice—because he himself held an unerasable stereotype of this character. He wanted Bruce to become the Batman in his mind—the comic-book Batman—and he wanted it to happen as fast as possible.

But now it seemed this story was not a wise, learned professor guiding a reckless student. It was a classic tale of Pride and Prejudice.

Batman, consumed by arrogance over his own reasoning, assumed Schiller must be the killer. With preconceived prejudice, and evidence that conveniently matched it, he nearly shot Schiller.

But Schiller, too, held a prejudice against Batman—he believed Batman must be the brooding, cautious, suspicious dark hero of the comics.

Neither was better than the other. They were equally flawed.

Now Batman seemed to have learned this lesson. He clearly understood he was not omniscient.

His reasoning could be warped by prejudice into grave error, and his impulsiveness, under such arrogance, became even more deadly.

He saw the scar on Schiller’s neck—the one he’d left with a batarang. At that time, he had assumed Schiller was guilty and treated him as such. Though he hadn’t pulled the trigger today, as Gordon said, the wound was deep—it would surely leave a permanent scar.

Batman felt guilt—and profound fear.

He thought: the law’s failure to properly judge every criminal was no excuse for him to arbitrarily judge others with his own arrogance.

And when he could not guarantee he was 100% right, any impulsive act of violence might leave an irreversible scar on an innocent person—or even a good man.

He was only grateful that the innocent had not paid with their lives.

Standing in the shadows, Batman resolved: he would forever prevent such a possibility. He decided that, no matter how evil the criminal, he would never kill.

If an innocent person died because of him, he would become a criminal worse than the one who killed his parents.

The killer who took his parents’ lives might have acted for money or revenge—his destruction claimed only two lives.

But if Batman killed innocents, this city would have no hope left.

In the comics, Batman’s refusal to kill seemed to have always been there.

Schiller had never questioned why. He found the rule infuriating. When facing those hateful criminals, those lunatics who kept escaping prison to cause chaos, why couldn’t Batman just kill them? He had thought this countless times while reading the comics.

But he never imagined that, in this world, the young Batman had solidified his vow not to kill—because of him. Because of Schiller.

Because he was Batman. Because he was the city’s only hope. If he was crushed by guilt over killing the innocent, the city would be beyond salvation.

By chance, though Schiller had failed to give the young Batman a spiritual pillar, he had successfully completed one of Batman’s defining traits: never to kill.

Schiller never imagined that, in the days to come, he would endlessly regret meddling in this affair.

When Batman finally matured, Schiller had screamed inwardly countless times: Why can’t Batman just use his fingers to strangle those damned criminals and keep them from appearing again, shattering his peace?!

And it all stemmed from today. It was his own doing.