Chapter 179: The Joker

Batman glanced around, then turned to Schiller and said, "Do you think now is the time for me to beat him up?"

As a tactical master, Batman wasn't the type to act on blind confidence—he saw hundreds of madmen drawn by the scent of alcohol, closing in on him in layers.

As the Bacchus Factor continued to spread, distant buildings began to stir with unrest—clearly, more people had been infected.

"I say you can, you can," Schiller shrugged. "This is a simulation exam. If you fail, get ready to be beaten senseless by the real examiner."

"I always feel you're hinting at something."

Batman finished speaking and still threw two batarangs at Alberto—he knew he had to draw the madmen's attention; if he retreated, these monstrous creatures would flood Gotham and cause countless tragedies. So even though he knew withdrawal was the optimal tactic, he couldn't leave.

Alberto laughed wildly as he dodged the batarangs and lunged forward—the two began to fight.

On the other side, Schiller had entered the church interior. He stood at the edge of the green pool, staring into the liquid, murmuring to himself: "The one who fell into the Bacchus Factor isn't… then who fell into the chemical plant? Or the circus? Could it be…"

Then he added, puzzled: "Batman didn't choose him? I thought…"

At that moment, a man wearing a bird-shaped mask stepped out from behind the statue of Jesus. He said: "It really is you. You've been interfering with us all along."

Schiller rolled his eyes. "Don't interrupt my thinking."

"You'll pay for opposing the Owl Court."

Schiller seemed annoyed. "Didn't your companions' fates teach you to be more cautious?"

"You mean those fools you trapped? I'm not—"

"I mean the ones who drowned in shit."

The man across from him choked, visibly nauseated by his own association. "You dare bring up that filthy trap again?!"

"At least that's better than your stupid, unimaginative plans. Water Source Plan? What other idiotic ideas do you have? Seed Plan?"

"Stupid plans?!" the man shouted. "Look! We've used wine to create a true immortal madman! He'll become Gotham's eternal nightmare! Look outside—"

Outside the church, Batman was locked in a brutal battle. The first wave of infected madmen had surrounded him—he was outnumbered by dozens. Even his superior martial skill gave him little advantage; he was already wounded.

"What you made doesn't matter. What matters is that Batman didn't choose him."

"What are you talking about? Don't you see? The wine is boiling! It will spread across all of Gotham! Everything you've done is useless! This city will descend into madness…"

Schiller watched Alberto join the mob beating Batman. He sighed. "If I were Batman, I wouldn't choose him either."

The bird-masked man kept rambling: "This is the greatest achievement of the Water Source Plan! Gotham's immortal nightmare! As long as he exists, destruction and chaos will never stop! He'll drag the entire city into the abyss!!"

"…How to put it."

"Your formula is correct. But you used the wrong numbers."

Then he added, almost wistfully: "No one can control Batman. No one can control his opponent—not even the Owl Court."

"Batman? You mean that stray dog nearly beaten to death outside?"

"I suggest you go save him now, or it'll be too late."

"Are you threatening me? How cliché…"

"No, of course not."

The bird-masked man stared at him. "How can you still have the nerve to play games? In less than ten hours, half of Gotham will be infected. Do you understand how terrifying that will be?"

"That's not terrifying. You don't understand. What's truly terrifying isn't a zombie siege…"

Schiller sighed, losing interest in the man. Right before his eyes, he vanished—teleporting to the bell tower roof of the cathedral, where he finished his unfinished sentence: "What's truly terrifying… is the Joker's return."

Below, the situation for Batman grew worse—there were simply too many attackers.

Batman had no supernatural abilities. Caught off-guard in this brutal fight, he couldn't gain the upper hand. Worse, these madmen didn't care about tactics—he couldn't use any distractions. Even when batarangs struck their eyes, they still screamed and charged forward.

Batman had never faced opponents like this. He paid for his inexperience.

He felt blood trickling from his forehead into his eyes, blurring his vision red. A brick struck his calf—his ankle exploded in pain, forcing him to kneel. Then came a rain of fists and weapons. Chaos roared in his mind; his organs felt displaced.

Batman collapsed, gasping heavily.

Through blurred vision, he saw a flash of brilliant light on the street before the church. He saw countless legs surrounding him—like a dense black forest. Beyond the forest, a blinding beam pierced through, melting the dark trunks.

In a daze, he realized—it was the high beam of a truck. Screams echoed from afar as the massive vehicle plowed straight into the crowd, hurling dozens into the air, then stopping right before Batman.

Lying on the ground, gasping, Batman looked up—and saw a pale face and a twisted smile on the truck's seat.

Suddenly, boundless fear surged within him. The black tide in his heart began to churn. Lying there under the truck's blinding light, he saw the familiar night sky above. Between flickering shadows, it seemed as if those familiar bats flew past once more.

He felt like that helpless little Bruce again—blood dripping from his forehead, splashing onto the ground like a string of crimson pearl beads.

He heard laughter—quieter than before, not shrill or piercing, but low and soft, as if echoing inside his soul. Yet it made Batman desperate to rise, to see who it was.

Alberto turned toward the truck. The door opened, revealing a driver in work clothes. He chuckled softly, shoulders shaking as if admiring his masterpiece.

The laughter didn't sound mad at all—it carried a childlike innocence, like a boy smashing toy soldiers with a toy truck, reveling in the cruel delight of watching his creations fall.

Alberto and the other madmen froze for an instant—then attacked the intruder.

Unexpectedly, the truck driver screamed, as if just realizing what was happening, and bolted away, shrieking and fleeing like a rat.

He ran to the opposite side of the street, crouching behind a building's corner, peering out curiously as if fascinated by the scene.

Alberto lowered his head, ready to resume his assault on the fallen Batman.

Then the truck exploded.

A deafening roar erupted. Flames burst outward. The entire church and the street before it instantly became ruins.

Only a small portion of the church, far from the street, remained intact. Schiller's figure reappeared atop its spire.

A figure limped out from across the street—he'd clearly been caught in the blast, bloodied head and face, leg injured—but he sprinted toward the explosion's center with wild joy.

Arriving, he looked around dazedly, as if searching for something. Suddenly, a figure appeared nearby. Schiller raised a hand and pointed right. "Batman was just blown over there."

The truck driver glanced at Schiller, blinked, as if confused how he'd appeared.

Schiller ignored him. "The person I'm looking for… let me see… oh, there he is. How'd he fly so far?"

"Because I built a BIG BIG BIG BOMB!" A raspy voice chuckled.

"Hmm, the explosion was certainly powerful. You solved the problem physically," Schiller replied dismissively.

The Immortal Wood's Miracle

The truck driver glared at him. "Are you saying I'm too brutal? How can you say that?"

"I suggest you go find Batman now. If you wait any longer, he'll die."

The man suddenly understood and limped as fast as he could toward the direction Schiller pointed.

Schiller circled around the church entrance and found Alberto among the rubble. He walked over, arms crossed, smirking. "The Bacchus Factor makes you immortal, but it doesn't stop you from feeling pain. How's it feel, Master Falco?"

His tone grew colder. "Or should I call you… the Owl Court's Claw, Alberto?"

Schiller turned and saw the bird-masked man lying on the ground, also drenched in blood, barely alive.

Schiller smirked again. "I told you something terrible would happen. You wouldn't listen. No escape plan, yet you dared get this close to the battlefield. I don't know whether to praise your bravery or call you stupid."

As the only one standing unharmed on the battlefield, Schiller launched into merciless mockery, mimicking the Owl Court member's words: "Look! Look there! That's your Water Source Plan's great creation!"

"Oh, that's not quite accurate. He wasn't made by you, and he doesn't obey you at all."

The Owl Court member either choked from rage or tried to speak but inhaled blood—he coughed violently, spitting blood from mouth and nose.

Schiller turned back to Alberto. "If Batman had chosen you, things might've been different. But unfortunately, he didn't."

"Not him. Not anyone. Not even me."

Thanks to the Bacchus Factor, Alberto quickly recovered from near-death—but he felt a bad premonition.

Suddenly, his body went uncontrollable.

He looked at Schiller in terror and saw gray mist spilling from his eyes. Alberto clutched his own throat. "No, no!!!"

Schiller murmured: "This is truly my Easter gift to you…"

A faint green-tinged gray mist drifted out of Alberto's eyes. Schiller caught it in a jar and sealed the lid.

"Happy Easter, Wens."

The blond youth lost consciousness and collapsed.

Schiller walked to the Owl Court member with the jar and shook it. "Thank you for helping me extract the pure Bacchus Factor."

The last thing the Owl Court member saw before death was Schiller's chilling smile.

————Extra Notes————

Ah ha!

When you thought the Joker had appeared

He hadn't

When you thought he hadn't

He still did

Hahahaha so many of you were fooled by my feint hahahahaha I've been waiting to write this for ages hahahahaha even before I had an outline hahahahaha hahahahaha I've been dreaming of this scene hahahahaha hahahahaha writing it hahahahaha