Chapter 453: The Glorious Finale (Part One)

Batman's arm began to tremble; layered illusions appeared before his eyes, and the blue light formed a blizzard that chilled him to the bone.

At that moment, a soft "click" echoed in his ear—like a hammer blow striking straight to his heart.

The door to the surveillance room opened.

Batman stood frozen, his body rigid, leg muscles taut, his limbs straining to turn him around, yet another voice in his mind told him not to.

Because another bad premonition kept circling in his mind—he knew this was all a trap set by the Joker, and if he stepped through that door now, he would walk straight into it.

For some reason, Batman no longer felt certain of victory, because the other Joker he saw on the monitor had Schiller's face.

Batman recalled the dark days of his early career, and what stood out most wasn't Gotham's crime-ridden alleys, but Schiller's office.

Had the Joker become Schiller, or had Schiller become the Joker?

Batman didn't know, but he hoped it was the former—he hoped this was merely a trick by the Joker, not that Schiller had truly become the Joker.

Because if it were the latter, he couldn't imagine what kind of torment he would face after stepping through that door.

Batman took a deep breath, then finally turned around and strode out of the room; before leaving, he glanced at the Batman doll lying on the floor.

In the banquet hall, once-opulent tables and chairs lay scattered, the fine tablecloths torn to the ground, silver candlesticks shattered by impact; apart from the faint light seeping through the blizzard, there was no other illumination.

Clark lay amidst the wreckage, surrounded by broken debris, blood streaming from his forehead, tracing over his brows and eyes, falling straight to the floor.

At that moment, Joker Schiller walked over, knelt down, gazed at Clark's face, and said:

"Do you know? The man who wanted to nail Jesus to the cross was called Judas."

"People wrote a book to record Judas's countless crimes, and they enshrined its teachings as the Bible."

"Yet even today, whenever people face a god who is merciful, kind, just, and forgiving, everyone becomes Judas."

"Clark, do you know why?"

The Schiller with the Joker makeup differed from the other Joker—his voice wasn't shrill, but low, even tender.

Yet the words he spoke ruthlessly shattered Clark's last shred of faith, leaving him unable to even find solace in prayer.

"People pray for their god only when they need him; when they don't, they nail him to the cross—like Jesus, and like you."

"No matter how perfect you are, they'll always find an excuse to kill you; when they no longer need a god, your perfection becomes your crime."

Clark shut his eyes in pain, his Adam's apple bobbing frantically, as if swallowing saliva nonstop, the muscles along his neck trembling; he turned his head away, as if trying to escape Schiller's voice—but the devil's whisper seeped through every crack.

"No…" Clark tried to deny it, his voice hoarse:

"I save people not because I expect their gratitude—I only want to save them…"

"Even if the people you save want to kill you?"

Clark's jaw trembled; Joker Schiller tilted his head, watching Clark's eyes: "When you seriously considered that question, what were you thinking?"

Clark closed his eyes again, his eyelashes trembling, lips pressed tightly shut—as if unwilling to voice the answer.

"You realized you're not as great as you thought, right?"

"When I asked you that question just now, you realized you can't fully forgive them."

"You're not great enough to sacrifice your life to save people who want to kill you."

"Why do you feel guilty about that thought?"

Joker Schiller kept staring at Clark's face, asking with genuine curiosity: "Do you really see yourself as a god?"

"Is this belief truly born of your kindness and justice—or does playing the role of a savior, elevated above all, bring you pleasure?"

Clark's chest rose and fell faster; an emotion brewed within him—but Joker Schiller kept speaking:

"When they try to kill you, what's the strongest emotion you feel? Is it sorrow and loss from betrayal… or…"

"The urge to laugh—at how predictably stupid these inferior, base creatures are?"

"Enough." Another cold voice came; a dark figure entered the banquet hall, still carrying the chill of the snowstorm outside.

A new sound echoed through the long-silent hall, drawing onlookers out of the rooms; someone shouted:

"Hey, that weird Joker! Why aren't you acting?!"

"Do it! Kill him! Or he'll lift this building again and we'll all be crushed!"

"Yeah! What if the monster goes berserk? You're being irresponsible with our lives—why don't you just kill him already?!"

From the last collision, everyone bore some injury; most of these upper-class people hadn't risen from the bottom—they'd been pampered since childhood—and the pain made their emotions more extreme; everyone screamed, urging the Joker to kill Clark.

"Do you feel it?" Jack grinned at Batman: "They're terrified. Right now, they're utterly terrified—but not because of you."

"They're afraid of this guy named Clark Kent. Guess why? Because he hurt them. They feel pain—and fear the even greater pain that might come."

"Batman, perhaps you never imagined that one day, the person who could strike the greatest fear into everyone wouldn't be you."

"If you want to reclaim that title, it's simple—you know better than I do what they fear more than pain."

Jack spread his arms again, spinning to the center of the atrium, looked up at the crowd, pointed at them, and said to Batman:

"They're nothing but ungrateful villains. Even if you kill them, you're just delivering justice!"

"Think about it!" The Joker let out a string of chuckles: "The actors in the play defeat the monstrous beast—but then the audience rushes the stage and kills them. How hilarious."

Batman didn't look at Joker Jack; he turned to Joker Schiller and said with firm certainty: "This is a dream, isn't it?"

"Why do you think so?" Joker Schiller didn't turn around, still watching Clark, as if intrigued by his reaction.

But Batman suddenly tensed—Schiller's tone felt eerily familiar, just like every time he visited Schiller's office and was questioned by him.

"The timeline doesn't add up. There are too many strange details. Most importantly—you're not the Joker…"

"Why do you think I'm not?"

"Professor Schiller isn't the Joker."

Joker Schiller finally rose from beside Clark, stepped to face Batman, and said:

"If this is a dream, what will you do? Do you think you can break free?"

"What you don't know is, since my last dream entry, I've gained control over that power within me." Batman narrowed his eyes—he meant the black tide that had erupted from his dreams before.

"That's enough to shatter this dream."

As he spoke, the ground began to tremble slightly, then the shaking intensified; the entire mayor's mansion swayed. Everyone turned to the windows, toward the source of the rumbling waves.

At the horizon, a black line suddenly appeared—then in an instant, it was upon them: an endless black tide, like a ravenous maw devouring all.

The highest crest towered far above the mansion's spire; before this black beast, the once-majestic estate looked no larger than a grain of sand on a beach.

As the wave crashed forward, the windows shattered; the black water struck like a cannonball, hitting the two people farthest from the atrium.

They never had time to scream; the immense pressure turned them into fine sprays of meat, limbs and blood exploding outward, splattering over the atrium's railing and landing in the banquet hall.

Instantly, the black tide halted; Batman's expression froze.

Because it was all too real.

Blood splattered onto Batman's mask; the thick stench of blood filled his nostrils; between the shattered limbs, fine muscle fibers were visible—fat, organs, brain matter, all clearly seen.

Suddenly, the banquet hall erupted in wild laughter; Joker Schiller nearly doubled over with mirth.

Soon, he straightened up, looked at Batman, and said: "You forgot? I'm a psychology professor."

"Why didn't you consider this might be my trap?"

"Deliberately doing the wrong thing at the wrong time, planting bizarre details, crafting irrational plot twists—so you'd think this was all a dream…"

"But what if I told you this isn't a dream?"

Batman's hands began to shake; the thick stench of blood surrounded him; those who witnessed their companions' deaths screamed in terror—screams, wails, sobs—all felt utterly real.

"... Impossible." Batman clung to his last shred of reason, but his voice trembled: "I don't have this power in reality."

"Really? Then what about the battle that erupted over Hell's Ground that day?"

But at that moment, Joker Schiller suddenly said:

"You're right. This really is a dream."

This answer was like the curtain falling on the performance—but some comedies only begin after the curtain drops; Joker Schiller's rhythmic voice echoed through the banquet hall:

"Batman, you call yourself a hero of justice, walking Gotham's night, seeing yourself as Gotham's god."

"But when you fight crime, when you use your advanced gear to beat criminals senseless, break their bones, listen to their screams…"

"Is your motive truly born of kindness and justice—or does playing the role of a destroyer with absolute power bring you pleasure?"

Joker Schiller wiped blood from his face; unlike the other Joker, he didn't wear a mocking grin—he looked more like a philosopher.

"Answer me, Batman."

"Just now, when I told you this might not be a dream…"

"Look at them…" Joker Schiller extended his hand, pointing at the broken limbs on the ground: "Look at these weak, base creatures—these Judases who betray their saviors and send them to the gallows…"

"Look at these villains who forced you to witness this, who made you lose all faith in humanity…"

"Look at them, as they receive their due punishment through your divine power…"

"When you learn their price isn't just waking from a nightmare—but being truly killed, dismembered, crushed into fragments, dying in unbearable agony—"

"Did you feel even a single instant of wanting to laugh?"