Chapter 305

When Schiller retracted his umbrella, Batman and Gordon stood on either side of him, looking down at the fallen Constantine. Gordon hesitated slightly, then turned to look at Schiller on his left and said, "Do you two have a grudge?"

"No, but…" Schiller paused briefly, then continued, "Whenever you see this man anywhere, no matter what he's doing, you only need to do two things."

"First, cover his mouth. Second, beat him up."

"Uh, why?"

"It'll satisfy you—and ensure you never become his friend."

Gordon wanted to ask more, but at that moment, Constantine lying on the ground began to vanish.

Gordon turned his head back, staring at the floor. Constantine turned to black ash from his feet upward, and in an instant, the living man became a flat, human-shaped pile of ash.

Gordon was about to speak when the pile of ash suddenly rose into a miniature whirlwind, sucked into the black book resting in his hand. Gordon stepped forward, bent down, and reached out to touch the book—Schiller said, "Don't touch it."

"Detective Gordon, never touch anything mystical. You never know how many dark magic traps or curses are hidden inside."

Schiller sighed slightly. "Not surprising. This guy is a complete fraud and a rotten person. Saving the world? That has nothing to do with him."

Batman was about to speak when he saw Schiller's movement freeze. Then Schiller straightened up, his gaze distant. After about two seconds, he suddenly smiled.

How to describe that smile? Simply put, Batman silently stepped back half a pace. Gordon stepped back one full pace.

Schiller tapped his palm with the umbrella. "... he happiest thing in this world is when a small trap you set unintentionally gets triggered by a fool who walks right into it…"

"What does that mean?" Gordon scratched his head. He realized that since the magic circle appeared, he understood less and less.

But Schiller turned and walked toward the door, saying as he went, "Come with me. I'll treat you to drinks at my estate."

"Wait, what about this thing?" Gordon pointed at the demon bound to the wall.

Schiller, already outside the door, stepped back two paces and turned to look at the demon pinned to the wall. The demon, meeting his gaze, scrambled backward in terror. Gordon stepped forward, saying as he walked, "Looks like it can't cause much trouble in Gotham. Let's go."

Several children followed the three adults out. As Jason passed the demon trapped against the wall, he spat at it.

Batman drove the children to his hideout first, then returned to pick up Schiller and Gordon. The three went to Schiller's estate. Upon entering, Batman narrowed his eyes and said, "Someone has broken in here."

"But I just checked—the door lock wasn't broken," Gordon turned, scanning the room. "And the windows aren't shattered either."

"Detective Gordon, you just witnessed a demon and a living man turn to ash. Why would you assume the intruder used doors or windows?"

Gordon slapped his forehead. "Sorry. My thinking's still stuck. In Gotham, the most common burglary scene always has doors and windows smashed to pieces."

Schiller's destination was clear. He led them straight upstairs, turned left, and walked to the very end of the corridor—to the parlor.

As soon as he opened the door, Gordon saw a familiar figure lying on the floor. When they entered, Gordon said, "Isn't this that Constantine guy again? How's he here? And… what's that?"

Beside the prone Constantine lay an overturned bottle of alcohol. The room was thick with the rich scent of liquor—hypnotic, intoxicating.

Gordon inhaled deeply. Colorful, hazy halos bloomed in his vision. He stumbled backward several steps, rubbing his eyes.

But the hazy mist didn't fade—it grew thicker. After a brief darkness, Gordon opened his eyes again. His first sight was a slowly rotating globe on the table. He turned his head—and saw Schiller holding his umbrella in one hand, the tip pointed at the throat of a blond man.

The Constantine who had been lying on the floor now stood in the center of the room. He stepped back two paces, raising his hands as the umbrella's tip pressed against his throat.

"I imagine you're confused—why did touching that bottle bring you into a dream?"

g.

"So why?" Constantine looked Schiller in the eye. His expression was unusually serious—something he wore only when things had gone badly wrong.

"Before that, shouldn't you tell me what your tricks were really about?"

Constantine lowered his eyelids. His rare seriousness gave him an aura of melancholy and decadent beauty.

He tilted his head slightly, looking up at Schiller from beneath his lashes. "I've heard of the Professor's name. But I didn't expect you to be even more formidable than I imagined."

Both men were nearly identical in height and build, both wearing long overcoats and ties. From above, their opposing yet strangely similar auras clashed violently across the umbrella's axis.

Schiller extended his umbrella hand slightly—the tip touched Constantine's Adam's apple. Constantine, hands raised, looked up. "Don't do that. I admit—I lost this round. I'll tell you everything…"

Schiller held the pose for an instant, then snapped the umbrella open with a *pop*. The black canopy blocked Constantine's view. When Schiller closed it again, Constantine saw Schiller's head had become a slowly rotating globe.

Schiller snapped his fingers. The room dissolved. The wooden floor became tile. The walls turned a sickly white. A metallic *clank* echoed as an iron chair landed in the center.

Constantine, dressed in a psychiatric restraint gown, sat strapped to the chair—legs, waist, and neck locked in place. Above him, a blinding white bulb hung.

Constantine leaned his head back against the chair, looking up. "Mind if I have a cigarette?"

Schiller sat behind a desk, one hand holding a medical chart, the other a pen. He snapped his fingers again. Constantine felt a cigarette appear in his mouth. He took a deep drag; smoke curled between his lips and nostrils.

He shifted slightly, feeling the tightness of the restraint, sighed with pleasure. "Looks like we don't just share musical tastes. Maybe other things too…"

Gordon blinked, making a disgusted face. Schiller remained unmoved. "Speak. What happened?"

Constantine shifted again, exhaled a soft *pff* of smoke, then settled comfortably into the chair. "It begins with a dream—romantic, profound…"

"It was a winter in Liverpool. After a match, I bought a bottle of wine on the way home—but I didn't wait. I drank it all on the sidewalk. Drunk, half-conscious, I fell asleep… and dreamed."

"It was an incredibly clear dream. I hadn't had one like that in years. Most of my dreams are chaotic, dark, filled with noise—turning my mind into a sludge lake."

"But that night, a man appeared in my dream. He called himself 'The Dreamer.' He claimed to be a follower of the 'God of Dreams.'"

"I've seen too many strange things to be surprised. He invited me to journey to the Realm of Dreams, to awaken the slumbering God of Dreams…"

"He said I was already known in occult circles—you know, empty flattery. I asked what he'd give me in return. He said the God of Dreams would reward me."

"He sounded like a cultist and a conman. But I agreed. I wanted to ask the God of Dreams why, since the day I was born, he'd never given me a single good dream…"

"So we set off. We descended through my dreams, endured countless trials, witnessed countless dream worlds—until we reached the deepest layer: the Realm of Dreams."

"It was beautiful—beyond any human imagination. There, I saw the God of Dreams."

"He had slept for eons. The Dreamer woke him. When he opened his eyes, he told me he could grant me one wish."

"But I didn't come to wish. I asked him: why, for my entire life, has he never given me a single good dream? The kind every ordinary person gets—a peaceful night's sleep…"

"The God of Dreams fell silent. He asked me to choose another wish. I said: I want to sleep with you."

"Cough—!" Gordon choked, clutching the wall as he coughed violently. He never expected such a fantastical tale to end like this. He stared at Constantine. "Didn't the God of Dreams kill you?"

Constantine ignored him, gazing at the bulb above. "If he won't give me a good dream, then a dirty one will do."

Batman fell silent. He couldn't judge this man. Though Bruce Wayne outwardly played the playboy, seducing every beautiful woman in Gotham, he still had standards—at least, they had to be human.

But Constantine? He didn't care—human, ghost, demon—he'd take them all.

"Then the God of Dreams agreed."

"Cough—!" Gordon coughed again, violently.

"We kissed in the holy chamber of the Realm. He whispered in my ear: his name was 'Morpheus.'"

"The God of Dreams changes form according to the dreamer's imagination. He became something beautiful I'd never seen…"

"So we kissed—*bzzt*—he *bzzt*—I told him *bzzt*—then we *bzzt*—his *bzzt*—I *bzzt*…"

Gordon stared at Schiller. "Why's it muted?!"

Schiller glanced at Batman, then said, "Didn't you notice there are children here?"

————Extra Note————

Three hundred chapters! Confetti!