Chapter 393: The Absurd Fusion (Part 1)

In Stark's field of vision, Schiller, dressed in a doctor's uniform, slowly ascended several flights of stairs to the open space before the door, arms outstretched as light poured down from the top of Gao Ta, his back a vast, endless expanse of stacked floors and staircases.

"Welcome to my palace of thought."

They heard Schiller say this, then watched him lower his arms and his head: "At any time, in any place, those different from ordinary people are called patients."

"But when you cannot gain advantage in a group through ordinary means, being the most severely ill becomes the only way to escape this mundane, tedious life."

They heard Schiller's tone become rhythmic and cadenced.

"If you cannot cure this madness, turn it into an unmatched power—abandon conformity with ordinary people…"

"Become a fearless, incurably insane madman."

Though Charles had witnessed such scenes before, he was still awed by the unique aura radiating from Schiller at this moment.

The world's most powerful telepath knew well that a person's mental world was his greatest allure, and he had never encountered anyone as extraordinary as Schiller, possessing a mental world so uniquely and irresistibly captivating.

Stark and Steve fell silent; now, they finally understood why Charles said Schiller could not be cured—or rather, that he did not need to be.

If a man possesses such a magnificent mental world, yet only appears slightly different from ordinary people on the surface, then no one has the right to label him a patient, nor the authority to treat him.

Just as Stark was about to speak, he heard a sharp "click" from behind him; he turned and saw a large lock hanging on the door that Schiller had closed.

"I dislike guests who leave without saying goodbye, especially one who claimed they could cure me," Schiller smiled and said. "Since you've come to my home, how could I not offer you something?"

Steve turned to look at the lock and said, "You plan to lock us in here? Is this your idea of hospitality?"

"No, how could I possibly use a lock to entertain guests? It's merely to prevent you from leaving too soon—after all, I don't get many visitors, and when someone does come, I naturally want them to stay a while longer."

Stark felt a bad premonition—he'd noticed lately that such premonitions were growing more frequent, and always came true. As the feeling rose in his chest, he heard Schiller speak in a calm tone:

"I'd love to guide you, but since you're so confident, I'm sure free exploration won't be too difficult."

"Take the staircase to your left, then each of you pick a room—any room might hold a key. Until you find it, you cannot leave."

"So now…" Schiller lifted his head, raised his voice, and said with a hint of excitement: "The game begins!"

Instantly, Schiller vanished. Stark turned his head toward Charles; the professor understood his unspoken question and shook his head: "No, I cannot forcibly extract you from here."

"If it were just me, I might attempt it—but Steve, and you too, your mental strength is merely ordinary. You likely couldn't withstand the violence of such a psychic transit."

"To force our way out, I'd have to break through the walls—but the backlash could easily affect your consciousness. So…"

"Alright," Stark crossed his arms and looked up at the tower. "Let's see what's inside."

The three ascended the staircase Schiller had indicated—and their astonishing tour had only just begun.

As soon as they stepped onto the flat corridor, they saw countless figures moving among them.

Stark had taken only two steps forward when he saw Schiller approaching head-on; he opened his mouth to speak, but the Schiller passed right by him. Stark turned to watch his back, only to have another hurried Schiller collide with his left shoulder.

"Oh, sorry! Excuse me!" That Schiller rushed past; Stark reached out to call him back, but another Schiller bumped him, spinning him around.

The last Schiller who passed seemed to be in his teenage form; as Steve turned curiously to watch him, another Schiller—a child—ran past.

On the corridor opposite the atrium, another Schiller was on the phone, another stepped out of a door; Stark craned his neck, then muttered: "... really underestimated how far gone he is."

"Don't tell me all these are his personalities?" Steve said, watching the opposite corridor, hesitantly adding: "Is there even any point in treating him?"

Charles sighed: "This is exactly what I meant when I said I cannot cure Schiller."

He explained: "Most patients with dissociative identity disorder develop new identities after some trauma—because their original identity cannot bear the shock, so a new one emerges to handle what they cannot."

"Some may split into multiple identities at once; others may develop them gradually through repeated trauma."

"But the more identities that form, the heavier the pressure on the original identity, the smaller its share within the mind, leading to shorter periods of bodily control and longer periods of unconsciousness."

"This severely disrupts the patient's normal life, causing the original identity to develop intense hostility toward the others, refusing to accept them—worsening the dissociation."

"When the original identity harbors hostility, the other identities become increasingly uncontrollable, even turning against the original, harming it. Without intervention, it eventually becomes a war between identities."

Charles walked to the railing, watching the figures moving across the corridor. "Have you ever fantasized about creating a new identity to handle your troublesome tasks?"

Steve smiled: "Yes—when I was a comic artist, I fantasized about having another version of me who could ink the lines for me."

"Many treat dissociative identity as a 'convenient' disorder, believing that possessing different abilities and identities grants them more power."

"They think they can avoid unwanted tasks by handing them off to another identity—but in reality, that's impossible."

"Without intervention or treatment, it always devolves into mutual destruction among the identities."

"So…" Stark stared at the tower with its countless floors, murmuring: "How did he even manage this?"

"Splitting identities isn't hard—anyone with strong control over their own consciousness can do it, including you and me, Tony."

"But the hard part is making these identities coexist peacefully, each fulfilling their role—something nearly impossible."

"Every identity that emerges believes itself to be the true one, all crave control of the body, and naturally seek to kill the original identity."

"So where is Schiller's original identity?" Steve asked.

"We'll likely have to delve deep into this tower to find out," Charles turned and said. "I've been here several times but never explored deeply. But I must warn you—this place is extremely dangerous."

"The Deviant God"

"Among the dissociative identity disorder patients I've seen, one or more of their identities are dangerous."

"Among so many identities, some must be extreme threats," Charles said, turning to Stark and Steve. "You've both had nightmares—if you're injured here, it's like suffering an extremely severe nightmare. It won't kill you, but it damages your spirit, requiring days of rest to recover."

"So if you truly face a danger you can't handle, focus your mind and silently repeat my name—I can forcibly pull you back here."

"It will drain some of your mental energy, but at least you won't need to lie in bed for days."

"Thank you, Professor," Stark glanced around the corridor. "Schiller said each of us should pick a room—does that mean only one person can enter each room?"

"For safety's sake, I'd follow his instructions," Steve rubbed his chin. "Looks like we'll have to split up."

"Which floor are you going to?" Stark asked. Steve shrugged: "You pick first—I'll go anywhere."

Stark snorted: "Don't underestimate this. Your mental strength is ordinary, and you have no strong control over the mental realm. Pick a simple room—or else…"

Steve glanced left and right, his gaze landing on the nearest door. "How about this one?"

He stepped forward, examined the door—no markings, just a handle shaped like a building block. Without close inspection, he gripped it, turned, and pushed the door open.

Stark glanced at the handle. "I should've stopped him—that's definitely not a safe place."

At that moment, Charles turned toward the stairs. "Pick a room on this floor—I'll go up."

Stark stood in the center of the corridor, glanced left and right, then walked toward a room at the end. Its door bore no markings, but the handle was an old wooden one, etched with a strange symbol.

Stark studied the symbol carefully—it was composed entirely of lines: an equilateral triangle on the outside, a perfect circle at the center, and a vertical line through the circle's middle.

Stark was certain he had never seen this symbol before, yet he turned the handle and stepped inside.