Chapter 254

Since the Ice-Bound Gotham incident, the city's temperature has been dropping; summer ended barely a while ago, and the cold came swiftly—until last night, light rain turned to sleet, and this morning, as Schiller arrived at Arkham Hospital for work, he placed his umbrella by the office door and sighed.

As Mrs. Miller walked in with a thermos, she glanced back at the umbrella leaning against the door, set the thermos on Schiller's desk, and said, "Dr. Rodriguez, why are you still using that broken umbrella?"

Schiller took the thermos, poured himself water, and shrugged. "It wasn't too damaged before—I had someone reinforce the frame. It still works. Who knew Gotham's rain these days would be hail?"

His gaze passed over Mrs. Miller to his own umbrella—clearly, one of the ribs had snapped; even when closed, a visible dent remained.

Mrs. Miller had once been a head nurse, retired, then rehired by the hospital—now she was the head housekeeper of Arkham Psychiatric Hospital, a thin but spirited old woman.

She pulled her wool shawl tighter and said, "The weather's getting stranger by the day—hail today, snow tomorrow, maybe. I'll have someone light the fireplace later."

"Oh, Mrs. Miller, you always exaggerate. It's still far off," Schiller said, sipping his hot water.

He pulled out his schedule and asked, "Who's the first patient this morning? Any need for my ward?"

"I don't think so," Mrs. Miller shook her head, picking up a notebook. "Oswald Cobblepot has a follow-up today—about two hours. Then Anthony and Miss Scott from the third floor, also follow-ups, another two hours total. I'll come by at noon to collect files and records…"

Mrs. Miller snapped the notebook shut. "Afternoon is personal time. Your two friends have already booked appointments. Is there anything you need me to help with?"

"No, thank you. Oh—by the way, a friend will come tonight, but he's calling my personal number…"

Mrs. Miller returned the notebook to the bookshelf on the desk, sighing. "Dr. Schiller, you know psychiatric hospitals don't allow unannounced visitors. Appointments require calling the hospital a day in advance. If someone contacts you through your personal phone, they should notify us at least two days ahead…"

"I know, Mrs. Miller. But my friend is… unusual. If I deny him entry, he might storm a TV station and hijack a camera."

"Fine. One exception. But next time, remind him—he must call the hospital. If anything goes wrong, we can't be held responsible. Dr. Schiller, this is for your own sake."

"Thank you."

Hot water poured into the cup with a soft hiss; faint white steam rose. Schiller sipped, set the cup down, and through the mist, looked at Cobblepot's face.

He had improved greatly from his previous gaunt state—still thin-cheeked, eyes sunken, but his hair was styled, his complexion flushed, lips no longer cracked.

Schiller flipped through his file. "I've told you many times, but I must stress again—your living environment is terrible for recovery. If possible, you should move."

"Not just the poor lighting and air quality—hygiene alone is a major issue."

Schiller set the file down and asked, "How is your mother?"

"She's fine."

"What's wrong? You seem to have something to say."

Schiller noticed Cobblepot's hesitation. He placed the file on the desk, stacked it with other papers, aligned the edges, and moved them aside.

He rested his arms on the table. "The routine check-up is over. Twenty minutes remain—this is free consultation time. Say whatever you want."

"Professor Fries suggested… I go to high school," Cobblepot said, placing his hands on the table, fingers interlaced and tightly clenched. "It's absurd, right? How could I possibly go to high school?"

"Why absurd? Why do you think you can't go?"

Cobblepot hesitated, unsure how to express his feelings. Schiller spoke for him: "Because it's uncommon in Gotham, isn't it?"

"Everyone around you barely reads—never mind high school. Many haven't even finished elementary. You're the same."

"Perhaps in your life plan, you've never imagined the path of steady schooling, then university…"

Cobblepot nodded, still tense, his Adam's apple bobbing. "It won't work. I can't go to school—I have no tuition. My mother needs care."

"But now, those aren't problems. You earn enough to live, pay tuition, afford your mother's hospital treatment—even hire a full-time caregiver."

"Yes, but I don't know how to choose…" Cobblepot paused. He wasn't hiding anything—his poor expression made it impossible to articulate his inner state. Schiller guided him: "What are your options?"

"I could keep working, earn more, open a restaurant, buy a luxury house for my mother. That was my plan…" Cobblepot bit his lip, speaking vaguely.

"When you describe this goal, you seem ashamed. Why?"

"Because Professor Fries described a completely different life—his experiences…"

"What was it?"

Cobblepot hesitated again, unable to speak. Unlike when he detailed his criminal schemes—fluent, vivid—now he was silent.

His imagination of a better life was barren; his vocabulary to describe it, even more so.

"He lives in a good family—a large country villa, a big yard, siblings, a dog, rides to school, sits in classrooms reading, goes from middle school to high school, then gets into a top university with excellent grades…"

Cobblepot's words were hollow—his adjectives: good, big, happy. Schiller noticed. "What do you mean by 'big'?"

Cobblepot circled his hands. "About the size of the houses in the southern rich district."

"Did Professor Fries say his house was that big?"

Cobblepot shook his head. "No, he didn't say that."

"Perhaps you're focusing on the wrong thing. His point wasn't about the size of his house, yard, car, or school."

"He wasn't boasting about his happy childhood, nor promising that if you go to high school, you'll live like him…"

"Your memory is sharp. Have you noticed any difference between how he described this life to you, and how you're now describing it to me?"

Cobblepot fell silent, then said: "I don't have his vocabulary, or his emotional depth. My mind feels empty…"

He spoke as if opening a floodgate, yet his voice trembled at the end, as if desperate to finish.

"When he described it, it was compelling—I felt envy, jealousy. But now, trying to describe it myself, I can't."

"There are two possible reasons. First, you've never experienced such a life—your fantasies are pure imagination. That's a matter of experience. But more importantly…"

"Cobble, do you know why people read?" Schiller drank some water. Cobble replied, "To learn knowledge? And then get a degree?"

Schiller sipped water. Cobblepot answered: "To learn knowledge? To get a diploma?"

Schiller put down the cup and explained to Cobble in the simplest, most understandable metaphor: "Your brain is like a precision machine, but even the most precise machine needs regular use to avoid rusting."

Schiller set the cup down and used the simplest metaphor he could: "Your mind is like a precision machine—but even the most precise machine must move regularly, or it rusts."

"When your mind always turns in one direction, inertia builds. Gears and parts adapt to that motion, becoming optimized for it—faster, smoother, more efficient. But this comes at a cost: balance is sacrificed for efficiency, lowering mental stability."

"You've noticed already—when you think about conspiracies, crime, relationships, business networks, your mind flows effortlessly. That's normal. You were born and raised in Gotham—these things matter more than art, literature, philosophy."

"But learning is the process of restoring your mind's balance."

"You don't need to memorize every book on art, literature, and philosophy and apply them to life. That's impossible."

"Just as learning advanced math won't help you manage a water system—because managing pipes doesn't require advanced theory."

But it helps your mind's gears and parts break in another direction—making them more balanced and stable.

"What we learn beyond knowledge are ways of thinking. When facing a problem, using more perspectives, viewing it more comprehensively, greatly enhances mental stability."

"When you have more angles to see something, you avoid mental dead ends and extreme emotions."

Cobblepot saw in Schiller's eyes a calm, all-encompassing power—stronger than what he'd felt from Victor.

For the first time, he understood the metaphor: "The eyes are the windows to the soul." In Schiller's eyes, he saw an endless, boundless ocean.

He'd felt this once before—when facing the Godfather. But the Godfather carried an irresistible authority, like a violent storm on the sea's surface. Schiller was like the deep ocean—quiet, peaceful, yet bottomless.

Cobblepot rubbed his tightly clenched index fingers together. He felt a chill—but not from the weather.

In his barren imagination, he was a penguin, wobbling on ice. Above him, Gotham's storm raged. Beneath him, the deep, unfathomable sea.

fantuan.

Now, two paths lay before him: be a bird carried by the wind—or leap into the sea, become a fish swimming fiercely through the ocean of learning?

His mind, always turning in one direction, for the first time produced a faint grinding sound—like thunder in a winter night.

But Cobblepot felt no fear. After the fireplace was lit, a faint warmth spread through the room.

If Gotham's rain never ceases, and he has no umbrella to shield him, let him leap into this sea—swim through currents and whirlpools until he finds his refuge, and freeze its waters into ice, building himself a home.

"Gul-dong." Schiller heard Cobblepot swallow hard—but it sounded more like a small waterbird leaping from ice into the sea.