Chapter 300: Teaching and Transmitting the Dao

Gotham's afternoons always felt somewhat dull; the already dim sunlight filtered through thin curtains grew even fainter, falling onto the floor like shimmering golden waves of a sunset sea.

Schiller stood behind the desk, fiddling with a telescope from the Age of Exploration—a treasure of the estate's original owner, once accompanying his ancestors across oceans from distant Europe.

Most of the decorative items on Schiller's desk had been left by the estate's former owner, each carrying a touch of English classical charm: the aged, yellowed globe in the corner, the phonograph beside it, and the cane hanging from the bookshelf's side.

Schiller was peering through the telescope when suddenly a dark shadow flew across its field of view; he set it down and turned to face the uninvited Batman.

Batman picked up the globe from the desk's edge with effortless ease; in his vision, the globe obscured Schiller's head, as if everything had returned to the dream.

Batman nudged the globe with his hand, but it quickly stopped; he said to Schiller: "You know why I'm here…"

Schiller turned to pull something from the bookshelf, rummaging as he spoke: "You're not here to arrest me, are you, Detective Batman?"

"Gordon told me that whenever something inexplicable happens in Gotham, you're the one to turn to."

"Oh? I didn't hear about any strange events lately. You don't mean those utterly ordinary murders, do you?"

Batman chewed over the words "utterly ordinary," and suddenly found his long explanation difficult to begin.

Schiller turned around, holding a bottle of wine and two glasses; he gestured for Batman to sit across the table and said: "Verbal descriptions are always dull—far less engaging than experiencing it firsthand. Don't you agree?"

Perhaps unwilling to have his next topic dismissed as "utterly ordinary and dull," Batman drank his glass like medicine; Schiller took a sip too, then leaned back in his chair, drowsy with intoxication.

As afternoon sunlight drifted through the air, Batman suddenly snapped awake—he saw the globe on the desk slowly rotating, while Schiller's head remained perfectly normal; after a pause, he opened his eyes and said: "Oh, I forgot."

He leaned forward, reached out, and took the globe, holding it before his face; in Batman's vision, the globe merged with Schiller's head—and Schiller's head became the globe.

Now Batman understood how the globe-headed Schiller from the dream had come to be.

After Schiller stood, Batman rose too; they walked to the center of the room, and Schiller gestured for Batman to proceed. Batman focused, recalling every detail of Richie's room.

This was his first time constructing such a large-scale scene in a dream; even with physical memories as support, Batman drained half his energy in an instant.

As he slowly raised his arm, the room shifted: books dissolved backward into the walls, shelves retracted and sank into the side walls, the desk retreated and sank into the floor, and the floor tiles flipped one by one, shifting from dark brown to light brown.

Richie's corpse appeared on the floor; blood spread across the pale surface, then seeped slowly into the cracks.

Schiller clicked his tongue. "That's quite gruesome, isn't it?"

"Three days ago, the head of the Lawrence family among Gotham's Twelve Families was found dead in his bedroom—seven wounds total, one through the heart, fatal; traces of anesthetic were detected in his body…"

"Two days ago, a member of the Hawk family's Hawk brothers was found dead in his chair—beheaded, one clean cut, instant death."

"Yesterday, the head of the Richie family was found dead in the reception hall—cut cleanly in half, died of excessive blood loss."

"The common thread: all three deaths mirror the martyrdoms of Jesus' Twelve Apostles. Gordon and I believe this is a serial killing—but since Richie's death, I've noticed inconsistencies in the killer's methods compared to the first two cases."

Schiller reached into the air and pulled out a cane; he tapped it lightly on the ground. "Why do you assume this is a serial killing? Just because the deaths match some religious story?"

"Isn't that characteristic of serial killings?" Batman asked. "I recall from my training—most serial killers favor a numeric narrative framework, like the Seven Deadly Sins, Friday the 13th, the Sabbath…"

"Did I ever explain why in class?"

"Because of 'ritual.' Serial killers—especially those who choose victims randomly—don't kill for revenge. They simply enjoy the thrill of killing their own kind. For them, ritual matters."

"Even if killing seven people over seven days increases their chance of capture, even if leaving more clues raises the risk of arrest, they still do it—without that ritual, killing loses all meaning."

"Exactly. That's why, for a skilled detective, serial killers are sometimes easier to catch than ordinary murderers—they always leave clues behind."

"So this must be a textbook serial killing…"

But Schiller shook his head. "It may look that way on the surface, but frankly, I'd call this a clumsy imitation."

"An imitation? What do you mean?"

"It means the killer isn't one of the psychotic serial murderers I've described to you—he's not a true serial killer, just a bungling imitator."

Batman stared into Schiller's eyes. "Why?"

"First, I take no legal responsibility for what I'm about to say—it's just a dream. And precisely because it's a dream, I'll only tell you this within it. Don't bother trying to activate recording devices in reality to capture my ramblings as evidence…"

Schiller circled Richie's corpse, cane in hand. "You know—if I were to commit this case, how would I do it?"

Batman hadn't expected this turn, and had no answer; finally, he said: "I think you wouldn't do this kind of case—there's no point."

"I'm glad you still understand me. But let's assume—assume—I suddenly changed my mind and began planning a serial killing…"

"First, the theme: since you say the killer chose Jesus and His Twelve Apostles, I'd use the same theme."

"You've read the story of Jesus and His Twelve Apostles carefully, haven't you?"

Batman nodded. Schiller looked up, expression distant. "Do you remember who the first apostle to die was?"

"... aint James?"

"Correct. According to the Bible, he was the first martyr. Do you know what kind of man he was?"

"James and John were sons of Zebedee; their mother was also a disciple. James was beheaded by King Herod—he and John were both fiery-tempered men…"

"That's why I say the killer is a clumsy imitator. Who was Lawrence? What did he share with James? Why should he be the first martyr?"

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Batman didn't quite grasp Schiller's point; Schiller continued: "If it were me, my first target would have to have a brother—like James. Old Lawrence was an only child."

"Second, Lawrence's temperament wasn't fiery at all. His appearance and nature were nothing like James's."

"And you said the first martyr was beheaded—not crucified."

"So if I were doing this, my first target would be a man with an extremely fiery temperament, a living brother, and a living mother—his death would be beheading."

"What if Lawrence represented Saint Peter?"

"Oh yes—Saint Peter was called the closest to Jesus, and named the first Pope. If he were the first to die, it might make sense—but what did old Lawrence have in common with Saint Peter?"

Batman fell silent. Schiller tilted his head toward the corpse. "And don't get me started on how the killer nailed Lawrence upside-down—it's like he's screaming, 'I'm a fake.'"

"If you've read history, you know crucifixion victims weren't meant to die from organ perforation—they died slowly from exposure, blood loss, or heart failure after their limbs were pierced."

"Piercing the heart belongs to vampire legends, not biblical accounts—it has nothing to do with the Twelve Apostles. An upside-down crucifixion victim should die from cerebral congestion, not heart puncture."

"Clearly, the killer either never read the story carefully or lacked patience to wait for a slow death."

"If it were me, I'd have patience. I'd spend a year setting up a scene—nail him to his bedroom wall and leave him undiscovered for ten days. That's how the story demands he die."

"And then he drove long nails through the man's skull? Good heavens—the thought of him hammering spikes into someone's head makes my skin crawl…"

"Your wording always strikes me as… rather unexpected," Batman remarked.

"And the biggest blunder? He used anesthetic? Good God—if he were a true serial killer, he should've been nailed to the cross himself. This damned heretic has zero sense of ritual…"

Batman stared at Schiller's clearly displeased expression, unsure what to say.