Chapter 2195: Battle of the Two Cities! (Part 73)

The pain made Constantine recall that contract.

It wasn't the one Schiller had once carved into his heart; that had no special meaning, it just changed the relationship between the two of them to some extent, or perhaps it didn't change at all, it was more like an "official explanation."

The new contract came from that "Last Supper" in the magic world. All of them consumed excessive moose meat, leading to madness and death. Yes, Azazel was also present that day.

But this scapegoat didn't stay too long. He soon returned to his demon palace to savor the sinful feast he hadn't had for a long time. Constantine and Schiller remained.

By that time they had already drunk some wine, so some conversation occurred, but Constantine didn't think it was psychological treatment, because he wasn't facing that doctor and professor, but another kind of Schiller—the morbid Schiller.

For psychological treatment, the environment at that time was also very crazy. They had a table full of moose meat, emitting an ominous aura, and a table of severed limbs and fragments that couldn't even be described as ominous, coming from the mages who had been in ecstasy because they had obtained power earlier.

They sat opposite each other on both sides of the long table, with corpses piled up like a small mountain. Constantine could only see Schiller through the gaps. He was dressed for the occasion, impeccable.

Drunkenness surged up, and Constantine went crazy.

"Tell me, who am I? Schiller."

"You're drunk." The psychologist, who was always interested in such topics, tidied his cuffs and cravat, appearing colder than usual.

"I don't want to refute you, but do you think this bit of alcohol can defeat me? They fell before the first gully of my brain."

"But that doesn't mean you're not drunk."

"Indeed." Constantine didn't deny it, leaning to one side, tracing the mountain of corpses and sea of blood within his field of vision. Dopamine washed over his brain, pushing his little remaining reason to the edge of the cliff.

It wasn't alcohol, it wasn't drugs, but it was more fascinating than them.

Constantine was not a loner; he had rich emotions—with a seniority like the long evolutionary history of mankind, manipulating humans thousands of years earlier than modern medicine.

"How do you feel now?"

"It feels too good."

Constantine saw Schiller smile, and then he realized this was a thorough trap.

His body no longer had drug addiction, and he had mentally withdrawn from drugs, so Schiller needed him to be addicted to something new.

From Schiller's profession, Constantine knew what that would be, and at this moment he clearly felt the hunger and thirst surging from every bone gap.

"It's already late."

Constantine lowered his head, letting himself lean against the side of the chair. The shoulder on this side was slanted high and sticking out, like a piece of bacon hanging on a hook.

After a while, he laughed deeply. The laughter became lower and lower, but the resonance became stronger and stronger, almost about to disperse the ominous atmosphere emanating from the plates of meat dishes. The atmosphere was harmonious and cheerful.

The laughter came to an abrupt end.

They returned to their proper positions. Constantine raised his head and said: "I have been waiting for this day for a long time."

"They were once your companions and friends."

"Never. All my friends were already corpses before this." Constantine took a deep breath and said: "Getting involved with me is like a natural survival of the fittest."

"Selecting the worse ones?"

"Selecting the better ones." Constantine lowered his head and said: "My performance is rotten to the core, a thorough rotten person who can be seen through at a glance. Everyone who can see my essence through this junkie appearance is smart and sober."

"For a good person, if they see that what I am doing is beneficial to the world, they are willing to help me, even at the cost of sacrificing themselves. Many heroes are like this."

"But if I am a rotten person recognized by the public, then their dying for me will definitely become a laughingstock in people's mouths. This completely erases the possibility of them doing good deeds and leaving a name, so those who would do this must be people who don't care about fame and fortune, must be truly noble people."

"But they are not for me, usually not." Constantine shook his head and said: "They are for what I am doing, not for me as a person."

Constantine found that Schiller was silent for a long time, so he felt a trace of anxiety, but soon he heard Schiller speak.

"You are weaving a lie to confuse me. You want me to think that your spiritual loophole lies in the fact that you have never been firmly chosen by anyone. This is a logic that is easy to explain."

"You have such childhood shadows. Your father chose your brother over you. Your youth was lonely and strange. You had some friends but never interacted deeply. You were never the person who would be chosen first, just a backup plan's backup plan."

"You don't have a good reputation in the magic world either. Only when things deteriorate to the point where they have to find you will they suppress their disgust and contact you."

"And even those heroes who are willing to sacrifice for you, just as you said, are only for the sake of good things succeeding, not for John Constantine as a person."

"Why isn't it like this?" Constantine asked: "Everything makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Then you should go find the disciple of Arrogance." Schiller stroked the wine glass in his hand and said: "He is a master of the behavioral analysis school. He will give you such a conclusion."

"Then what conclusion would you draw?"

"Your first question."

"'Tell me who I am'?"

"Why should I tell you?"

Constantine stared straight at Schiller. He realized once again that he was dealing with the most difficult one among the many Schillers.

He didn't have the academic research needs like Professor Schiller, nor did he think that psychological treatment was a pleasure in itself like Doctor Schiller.

Manipulation has the most primitive indifference of an autistic patient, and it is precisely because of this detached ability that is almost unaffected by any emotional incitement that they can turn their manipulative tendencies into reality, and can coldly watch others collapse without being affected at all.

The confusion, pain, and excitement shown by Constantine didn't affect Schiller at all. This made Constantine feel that he was trying to pry a mountain with a branch. The unshakable heaviness made him understand that there was nothing without paying the price.

But Constantine was considering more cautiously than when he offered his organs to angels and devils, not only because Schiller was his master now, but also because he wanted the best return.

Regarding this question, Schiller would definitely only answer once. If the price wasn't enough to move him, Constantine would only get perfunctory words, and there wouldn't be a second time.

Constantine's Adam's apple moved.

"What do you want?"

Out of conservative consideration, he still asked as clichéd as possible, or it could be said to be respecting the other party's thoughts, right?

"Your first question."

Again, Constantine thought with some collapse, did he really have to consider the pronunciation of every syllable like a devout believer when saying every word to him?

Wait, perhaps this was right. Constantine thought of how he used to calculate every word when dealing with devils and angels, which had almost become his instinct.

Obviously, he was confused by Schiller's human skin again.

Constantine sighed in his heart with some annoyance, thinking, sweep away the inherent impressions, and never be so careless next time.

But he still repeated it resignedly.

"'Tell me who I am'?"

"Think again."

Constantine was stunned.

"'Tell me who I am, Schiller'?"

"Don't call me by my name."

Constantine felt very annoyed, not because of this requirement, but because he had just reminded himself to be as pedantic as possible, and then made the same mistake again.

Of course, he should also be annoyed because of this requirement, but he had heard more humiliating requirements from devils and angels, so this didn't count for anything.

"I'm very sorry." He apologized fluently.

"Think again."

Constantine was very frantic.

He felt like a bug whose wings were pinched from behind. This terrible sense of insecurity made him feel suffocated.

But he knew he had to hold on. Now, even if he took a step back, or even half a step, or even the distance of a grain of sand, he would definitely be contemptuously fooled.

Constantine knew Schiller was planning to do just that, using pressure to force him to retreat, so he wouldn't have to answer any of his questions directly. He was fighting for his right to be looked at directly.

It sounded pitiful, but in fact, it was the opposite. This was the peak of Constantine's status in the eyes of others. At least he was a bug, not a pile of shit.

Smart people don't play with shit, kind people don't play with bugs, but smart and kind people always want to save bugs, which made Constantine annoyed until Schiller appeared.

Schiller's purpose in saving him was not to let him be saved, but simply to see his reaction after being saved, or to put it more clearly, just to use this to manipulate him.

This meant that, in sincerity, Constantine didn't owe him anything. This instead gave them the possibility of being evenly matched, and he was just trying to use this possibility.

Constantine took a deep breath.

"I sincerely apologize, Doctor. Can I call you that?"

"Your second question."

"'What do you want'?"

Constantine looked at Schiller and asked with some skepticism: "Is this your condition?"

His subtext was actually "It's that simple?".

Schiller nodded.

Constantine tried hard to crack the trap in this short sentence, but the amount of information contained in this sentence was a bit too little. Constantine searched through every letter of every word, but couldn't find a place to hide a trap.

"Discount price?" He tried to ask.

"The punishment will be very severe."

"How severe?"

"You will regret it."

"Regret what?"

"Regret rashly thinking you can have a discount price." Constantine heard Schiller say too lightly.

"Has anyone had one? Bruce?"

"He got too many discounts from another me, he didn't."

"Then this is my discount price."

Constantine, walking out of the seaside wooden hut, just wanted to punch himself at that time—what a rash thought!

But it was too late. Now his heart was constantly repeating the pain when Schiller's precise knife technique left traces, just like reminding Constantine countless times who he had fallen into the hands of and how many times he had fallen in the same posture. ===== CHAPTER 2196 =====