Chapter 307

"I reported the police, I controlled the key keeper who led the way, I set the traps in the room, I placed the ghosts in the corridor, and even Lauren's ability to summon a demon possession was something I allowed—my goal was to kill you inside the boarding school…"

Schiller, while scribbling in the medical record, commented without looking up: "Full of holes."

"From the moment you sacrificed Cooper to the demon, this plan had too many flaws. When I investigated Cooper's death scene, the first thing I saw was that magical array—any normal person would immediately link it to occult factors."

"You wrote the answer right on the question—did you really expect no one to be wary?"

"The traps in the boarding school were even more poorly arranged. The key keeper's behavior was too frantic, too obviously purposeful. And the drawer-and-key trap inside the room… you deliberately hung a lock on the drawer, then placed a key right in plain sight."

"If I'm not mistaken, that key carries no curse—but the moment you open the drawer, the ram's skull inside will unleash a fatal curse."

"You're not ordinary at all," Constantine said, staring into Schiller's eyes. "You didn't open the drawer, yet you knew what was inside."

Schiller ignored him and continued: "Do you think this is a computer game? Every lock has one key, and once you have the key, you open it, find the clue, and move to the next level. Constantine, I've seen this Taolu too many times…"

"Then you lured us to the basement—your whole story there was even less convincing. No vigilante hero with a sense of justice would ever act like you…"

Schiller sized Constantine up with his gaze. Constantine understood and turned his head aside. "Alright, I look like a drug-addled, hedonistic junkie. Those overly righteous lines don't match my appearance—but it doesn't matter. Even if I can't kill you, buying time is enough."

"So far, my plan has gone smoothly—you've been held back. But what confuses me most is…"

"What confuses you most is why you got caught?"

Schiller stood the pen upright on the table and smiled. "Actually, this is a very common cognitive blind spot. Constantine told me—why did you assume 'Mad Wine' was truly a kind of wine?"

The other three in the room paused slightly. Gordon said without hesitation: "Why wouldn't Mad Wine be wine?"

Schiller held up the pen. "Do you know? This is a carrot."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not saying this pen is a carrot. I'm saying I call it 'a carrot.' This pen's name is 'a carrot.'"

"Your behavior is like a foolish rabbit who hears I have 'a carrot' and comes running—except this isn't a carrot. It's just a pen named 'a carrot.' So you bite down—and don't taste carrot, but break your teeth."

"I named this mysterious liquid that drags people into dreams 'Mad Wine.' So you took it literally as wine, assuming it would sit quietly in the bottle until you uncorked it and drank it down."

"Let me give another example." Schiller tossed the pen onto the table. "Now, suppose I name this mysterious liquid 'hexafluoroantimonic acid.' Would you still rush over and grab the bottle without gloves?"

Gordon shook his head. "I don't know what that long chemical name means, but just hearing it, I know it's dangerous. I'd walk around it."

"See? That's exactly it. I named this liquid 'Mad Wine,' but it's only called 'wine'—I never said it works like ordinary wine, only when swallowed. This liquid can be absorbed through the gastric mucosa, the respiratory tract, even skin contact."

"Also, the bottle on the shelf contained a concentrated form—it must be diluted with regular wine to drink. Just touching it is enough to instantly drag you into the dream."

"Let me guess—this clever Mr. Constantine assumed it was real wine, so he grabbed the bottle bare-handed, maybe even touched the cork soaked in the liquid, and immediately fell into the dream…"

"Jian Lai"

Constantine turned his head away, but Schiller kept talking: "It's like you set up a grand, world-shattering plan—and lost it because you couldn't find a parking spot."

"I admit, I underestimated your cunning and depravity. So what do you want?"

"You want to see Morpheus, the Dream King? I can help. I have a shortcut I dug out before—it'll save you a lot of trouble. But you must agree to one condition…"

"Say it. Can it get worse than this?"

"Since you killed Lawrence and started the Twelve Apostles serial killings, you must find the killer who murdered Hawk and Richie."

Schiller looked at Batman. "Let him earn redemption by helping us, then try all these killers together. You have no objection, right?"

"I can investigate these two cases myself."

"Really? Seems like your homework isn't enough…"

Batman fell silent. Schiller turned to Gordon, who waved his hand. "As long as the killers face trial, I'm fine. Without your help, we'd never have caught this magic user. Do whatever you think best—you've got more experience."

"Hey, shouldn't you ask my opinion?" Constantine shook his head. "I'm a rock singer, secondarily a demon exorcist. I don't investigate cases."

"I heard your nickname in the circle is 'Hell's Detective.' Perfect. We have a 'Gotham Detective,' and a 'Chicago Detective.' All three of you as a trio—what case couldn't you solve?"

"The 'Hell' part of 'Hell's Detective' matters… Alright, if that's your demand, I'll do my best."

One day later, Batman stared at Constantine, slumped in the corner, eyes glazed, expression vacant. He glanced around at the junkies in the den, all with the same dazed look—and suddenly understood Schiller's method: no matter where you see this man, punch him.

"How much did you take?" Batman asked, voice low.

Constantine spat one word from his throat: "Smoke…"

Batman grabbed his collar and punched him. Constantine snapped back slightly, shook his head, and said: "Thanks. Better than smoke."

Batman released him, letting him collapse to the floor. Constantine's shoulder hit the wall, but he didn't care. He fumbled on his body, pulled out a crumpled cigarette pack, took out a cigarette, and asked Batman: "Got a light?"

"When are you going to start investigating?"

"Why don't you go? He's not watching me every second. You said yourself you can figure it out—then go. I'll just hang here. Isn't this perfect teamwork?"

"If I could avoid working with you, you wouldn't be seeing me now."

"Heh…" Constantine chuckled lowly. His cigarette wasn't lit, but he still held it between his lips. He leaned back against the wall, staring at Batman. "Did the good professor give you this as homework, boy?"

"I can tell—you're a simple boy. Fresh out, just left home, full of hero fantasies, wanting to fight crime, deliver justice…"

"But soon enough, you'll realize the world has far more interesting things…" Constantine's voice always carried a rasp. He unbuttoned his collar, looking disheveled.

The drug's hallucination and euphoria hadn't faded, making Constantine seem slightly insane. He tugged his collar and looked at Batman: "Learn to relax. Then you'll see, like me, the last bit of beauty left in this damn world…"

"My child, why so serious?"

Batman's arm muscles tensed instantly. Constantine noticed—and thought his seduction had worked. The moment he grinned, a fist the size of a sandbag appeared in his vision.

Ten minutes later, bruised and swollen, Constantine trailed behind Batman, complaining: "What did I say wrong? Even if you're not interested in me, we could find some fun. You know—I'm very open…"

Ten minutes later, Gordon stared at Constantine, now even more battered, and said: "You didn't really listen to Schiller, did you? Batman, even if he's a criminal, you can't… this is going too far."

"Thanks for speaking up, officer. Got a light?"

Gordon pulled a lighter from his pocket and handed it to Constantine. Constantine lit the cigarette, inhaled, exhaled smoke—Gordon sniffed, then shouted: "God, what did you put in that smoke? Fuck! Put it down! Are you flying leaves right in front of a cop?! Put it down!!!"

Ten minutes later, Gordon stood with his hands on his hips, staring at Constantine, a limp pile of flesh slumped in the corner. He rubbed his forehead. "I swear I didn't want to hit him—he went too far…"

Gordon pinched the cigarette pack, pulled out one, peeled back the wrapper, and said: "Others add a little something to tobacco. He adds tobacco to something. You bastard junkie—don't you fear you'll smoke yourself to death?"

High again, Constantine grinned: "You think—if a demon ate the soul of a junkie like me, would it cry like a stray dog, clawing its own face?"

Gordon looked at Batman: "He's beyond saving. Even in Gotham, I've rarely seen someone this rotten."

He nodded. "Schiller's right. No matter where you see him—punch him. Always right."

————Epilogue————