Chapter 1240: The Farm of Justice (39)

It was another rainy day in Cat Getan, though this time it was slightly different. As the rain soaked the pavement that had just been bathed in sunlight, it still carried the warmth of the midday hours, feeling different from the usual cold and mud, even through the soles of one's shoes.

Zatanna, standing by the roadside packing up her magic trunk, looked up at the gathering dark clouds and sighed with some worry, only to feel someone tap her on the back.

The owner of the newsstand nearby handed her an umbrella and said with a smile, "Times really have changed. To think someone would actually go out in Cat Getan without an umbrella?"

Zatanna didn't take it, just smiling as she said, "I live in the apartment building right next door. I just came out to perform some street magic while the weather was clear; I can make it back in two steps."

With that, the magician nimbly packed up her magic props, picked up the heavy trunk, and ran into the nearby stairwell.

She ran up to the sixth floor in one breath and let out a long sigh. Recalling the newsstand owner's smile, she couldn't help but remark, "Sunlight brings out extra kindness in people. Who would have thought someone here would lend an umbrella to a stranger? This is the City of Sin, but it's not half bad, is it?"

Zatanna had just pulled out her keys to open the door when she heard a strange noise from inside. She immediately stepped back in alarm, and just as she thought she was about to have her recent realization overturned, a familiar groan of pain came from within.

Zatanna opened the door and rushed in, exclaiming, "Thomas Constantine?! What are you doing in my house?!"

"I'm not Thomas..." The man, who was lying on the living room floor clutching his waist in agony, slowly crawled up and looked at Zatanna. "I'm John Constantine. Don't you recognize me anymore?"

Zatanna's eyes widened in shock. "John! You're back?!"

Constantine was in immense pain, his features twisted together. He clutched his waist with one hand and his neck with the other, saying in a faint, breathless voice, "Yes, I'm back. You don't want to know what I've been through..."

Zatanna could tell her old friend was on the verge of a breakdown, so she helped him sit on the sofa and asked, "What happened to you? Weren't you staying in the Dream Realm?"

"I was," Constantine let out a long, shaky sigh. "Until yesterday, when Schiller found me... That's right, that terrifying doctor came to 'treat' me again."

Through Constantine's account, Zatanna gradually learned what he had been through.

Previously, to repay Schiller for clearing his debts, Constantine had torn his soul in two, with one half becoming Thomas, using his physical body in the real world.

The other half had taken over for Morpheus, the Dream King, to oversee the Dream Realm. But just yesterday, while Constantine was wandering through the dream world, he heard a few barks.

Then, a white dog, moving with incredible speed and immense strength, tackled him to the ground and sniffed him intently.

And then, Constantine saw Schiller's face.

"Schiller?!" Constantine shrieked.

"That's right, it's me," Schiller said, crossing his arms. "It's like this: I think it's time we solved the problem between us. You tearing yourself apart like this isn't doing anyone any good."

"I think I'm doing just fine," Constantine retreated quickly. "I've been doing much better lately than before."

"Whether you're doing well or not, you know in your heart," Schiller said, looking over the half-a-man Constantine. "I think you must have realized by now that tearing your soul apart doesn't just bring pain; it comes with many aftereffects."

"Because I have encountered all of this myself, I know how terrifying these aftereffects are, but I also know how to solve them."

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Constantine wore a hesitant expression, because during this time, he had paid the price for his previous reckless actions. Tearing a soul apart wasn't that simple.

Constantine certainly knew it would be painful, but he wasn't afraid of pain. However, after doing it, he realized the most terrifying part was that he could no longer control his own soul.

Ever since he tore his soul apart, Constantine often felt as if he were watching himself from someone else's perspective, as if he were no longer himself.

What followed was a loss of control from that perspective; he could only watch his soul, unable to do anything. The longer this lasted, the more Constantine felt he might lose himself entirely.

Constantine wasn't afraid of pain, but every living thing in this world fears non-existence. It wasn't death, but rather everything slipping out of control—watching it happen while being utterly powerless to stop it.

Constantine knew his previous actions had been too reckless and impulsive. He hadn't mastered soul studies well enough to cut his own soul. He had been feeling worry and fear lately.

But he also understood that Schiller, who was staring at him, must have known this, which was why he had deliberately waited so long to find him. This professor knew too well how to use fear to make people obedient.

Constantine was afraid, so he had no choice.

"Don't worry, I'm just teaching you some experience in dealing with a fragmented soul," Schiller said. His tone was calm, possessing a power that inspired confidence.

Constantine had sworn a thousand times never to deal with Schiller again, but every time he heard Schiller's whispers, his willpower, which had resisted the temptations of countless demons, began to waver.

In the end, the fear of losing himself entirely overcame his willpower. Constantine followed Schiller into a room within his Mind Palace.

It was a dim room with a single chandelier hanging in the center. The floor was covered in deep red carpet. On one side stood a traditional English cabinet, with a gleaming island counter in the middle, and on the other side, a wooden table and chairs with candles and flowers.

Constantine walked over and sat down. He flinched at the sound of the door slamming shut, but there was no turning back now. He tried to act nonchalant, joking, "Is this our candlelight dinner?"

Constantine turned to look at Schiller. Schiller took a few dishes from the refrigerator and put them into the oven. While putting on his gloves, he said, "My cooking isn't very good, so I asked a friend to help me prepare a few dishes."

"Ding!" The oven door opened, and a rich aroma wafted out. Constantine couldn't help but twitch his nose, saying in a light tone, "It really smells good. I didn't expect you to have a side that could cook."

Schiller placed the plates gently on the table, withdrew his hands, and looked into Constantine's eyes with a gaze so focused it bordered on neurotic. "I'm glad you like it."

Constantine looked at the main course placed in the center of the table. It looked a bit like ribs, golden in color and cooked to perfection. More importantly, the aroma emanating from it made Constantine feel an incomparable hunger.

Constantine's Adam's apple bobbed repeatedly. Reason told him this abnormal hunger wasn't appetite, but a craving he couldn't suppress—a hunger erupting from the depths of his soul.

Following his instinct, he picked up the knife and fork like a starving man, his hands trembling as he cut off the largest piece of meat, skewered it, and brought it to his lips, only to freeze.

His hand shook, and the fork, along with the meat, dropped. The food hit the table, and the fork hit the edge, spinning as it fell.

Instantly, ripples distorted the air, and a pair of pale, gaunt hands pinched the handle of the fork.

The next second, Constantine lunged up, trying to escape, but was grabbed by the neck by the same pale hand, pressed back into the chair, and held at the throat by the sharp fork.

Constantine leaned back as far as he could, glancing at Schiller standing behind him with his one remaining eye, and let out a scream he had never uttered in his life:

"Schiller, you're insane!"

"Finish it, and then you can leave."

Schiller twirled the fork with two fingers, the cutlery flashing with a dazzling luster that made Constantine blink. When he opened his eyes again, the enticing rib was right before him once more.

"This can replenish your soul energy and make it whole again, so you won't have to face those terrifying aftereffects."

"But this is your..."

Instantly, the hand gripping Constantine's neck tightened. Constantine could only emit a sound hovering on the edge of suffocation: "Ugh..."

Constantine's gaze involuntarily lingered on the food before him—the color, the scent, and most terrifyingly, the delicious fantasy of the meal derived from his hunger that swirled in his brain.

An incomplete soul seeks wholeness, and thus craves energy. Constantine gasped for air like a drowning man, only one thought echoing in his mind—

He had once thought Schiller didn't need a lifebuoy, only because the sea Schiller was floundering in wasn't his area of expertise.

Constantine, leaning on the sofa, breathed tremulously, a dry retching sound coming from his throat. Zatanna hadn't dared to ask if he had eaten; his presence here was answer enough.

Zatanna was certain that no demon in this world would be insane enough to force a friend to eat their own flesh. This kind of "treatment" couldn't even be called evil; it was simply deranged.

Constantine wiped his mouth, scrambled up from the sofa, stood straight before Zatanna, looked into her eyes, and asked, "Do you have a phone?"

"Yes, who do you want to call?"

Constantine stood tall, looked up at the ceiling, and said in a dazed, hollow voice: "Schiller is a goddamn lunatic... We have to unite and cure him!"

"Ring-a-ling."

A phone rang. Oliver picked up the receiver, then turned and shouted, "Bruce, it's for you!"

Bruce walked over, picked up the phone, and said, "Hello?"

"Bruce, it's Victor. We have to unite and cure that insane psychology professor of yours!"

Bruce switched the receiver to his other hand. He heard Victor sigh on the other end of the line:

"I have deeply experienced what you've been through for the past four years. We must take measures against Schiller... But the problem is, I've tried to control him and failed. Do you have any good ideas?"

Victor didn't hold much hope, so he was shocked to hear a very certain "Yes" from the other end. He asked, "You really have a way? What is it?"

Bruce, holding the receiver, looked out at the hot, blinding Mexican sun and the massive, menacing black tractor working in the fields.

He withdrew his gaze, lowered his eyes, and looked at his fingertips. A small piece of paper was twirled between two fingers like a fluttering butterfly.

But Bruce knew it wasn't just a piece of paper; it was a common seed packet. The edge of the paper, torn at the corner, revealed a single word in a floral font—"Broccoli."

Looking up, he saw the sharp jawline of the young man and the corners of his thin lips curling into a faint smile.

But Bruce knows that it is not a piece of paper, but common seed packaging. The corner of the paper, folded down, reveals a floral English word—"Broccoli."

Looking up further, it is the sharp jawline of the young man, and the corners of his mouth, thin and shaved, slightly raised.