Chapter 4556: Day of White (22)

The night on the Red Sea was very bright, and one could vaguely see the low urban buildings in the distance hidden in the flickering light blue mist. The moonlight fell on the sea surface and reflected onto the fishing rod. Deathstroke's hand rested on the railing by the deck, shaking the beer that was not much left in the can, while Schiller sat in the cabin looking at the map.

Of course, they didn't come here voluntarily; it was just that the land route was no longer feasible. The whole of Hurghada was strictly blockaded, the army searched house by house, and every outsider became a highly suspicious object. And Egyptian police were like notorious vultures, coming as soon as they smelled something, finding trouble even when there was none to extort money. In this situation, driving north was very difficult.

So they could only seek the protection of the ocean again, return to the Red Sea, and it took quite a bit of effort. Before the port of Hurghada was blockaded, the two managed to get a small yacht for tourists to go fishing, so they could set foot on the journey to Cairo again.

While night fishing, Deathstroke recalled what Schiller said. In fact, this wasn't his voluntary action either, but Schiller seemed to have added some kind of magic to his language, not only having great penetrating power when heard for the first time, but also lingering, always echoing in his mind.

Deathstroke couldn't believe this was made up. This was precisely because he was an old man over fifty, with extremely rich social experience, having seen all kinds of people, many of whom fit Schiller's description. Deathstroke could even accurately judge which war they failed in.

This set of theories explained many people's behavioral patterns very well, making those seemingly completely unreasonable hysterias show a deeper logic. Precisely because of this, it was exceptionally persuasive, really not like a false theory made up just to tease him.

So now Deathstroke faced two situations. If it were true, then his problem might indeed be like this. In the first half of his life, he lacked control, so that by the time he became a father, he hadn't successfully taught his son in this regard, which would be an obvious tragedy.

And if this was just Schiller making it up to tease him, Deathstroke simply had nothing to say. Schiller was able to combine his situation and make up such a big set of things in such a short time, logically self-consistent, looking like the real thing. To tease himself, he didn't know how much energy he spent, and how many brain cells died. It was as if as long as he could tease him, he wouldn't hesitate to win a Nobel Prize.

Facing such a person, taking a step back is thinking about it and getting angrier, but if you give him a slap, you always feel a bit guilty. Because such warm hospitality fully shows his importance to you. Although this importance is better not to have.

Deathstroke wanted to pursue Schiller, but felt he wouldn't get any good results. He wanted to forget this, end this topic, but those words kept circling in his mind.

He had already somewhat believed the excuse of dissociative identity disorder that Schiller said. The Schiller in front of him was completely different from the previous one. They had been on the boat for an hour and a half, and he had done nothing but study how to avoid trouble on the Red Sea and head to Cairo, not fishing, not drinking beer, not smoking cigars. Deathstroke felt he should go to church to sing hymns now.

"Hey, kid." Deathstroke thought he could call him that, but not the other one. It was strange that they were actually both young people. If they had to be said to be two personalities of one person, there were many similarities in age and mentality.

But for some reason, that Schiller made him feel dangerous, as if he wasn't really that young. He just disguised himself as a young and energetic appearance, because this could be used to confuse many people, letting them take the bait willingly.

Deathstroke had lived too long, and his fully liberated brain allowed him to remember very clearly how he aged. This didn't refer to his modified flesh, which had no changes, and was even trained to be stronger. On the contrary, what aged first was the spirit. Humans are not a race that can live forever—the aging of the heart is extremely terrifying.

When they clearly feel that they can no longer contribute anything, but must unrestrictedly demand from society to maintain a slightly decent life. This sense of frustration can easily defeat the elderly. Precisely because of this, they want more emotional comfort. Some people turn themselves into an emotional black hole, wishing to suck dry all the good moods of the people around them, because only in this way can they feel their existence.

This phenomenon happens to everyone moving toward aging regardless of class, as long as they haven't transformed into a long-lived species mentality, they will always feel an empty feeling that makes people collapse, even Deathstroke had such days. He was in danger several times, even almost dying, which was related to this.

At that time, Deathstroke felt like a starving vampire, just not sucking human blood, but sucking all beautiful emotions. He wanted to go among the lively, strong, and clever young people, pretending he was still their companion, pretending he had never aged.

He knew many birds in Gotham. Although he knew it wasn't in his reason, Deathstroke occasionally thought quite maliciously, perhaps Batman also used them to resist aging. He would say it was responsibility and love, but he did indeed become younger because of it.

The appearance Schiller showed perfectly matched the expectations of this group of vampires. He was even straightforward without any concealment, putting all the traits that could move people on the surface, just like hanging ten lures on a fishhook: sequins, feathers, bionic fish... as if using this exhaustive method to attract people to take the bait.

He must have succeeded many times, Deathstroke didn't even need to over-associate to imagine how those people stepped into the deadly trap with their stupidity and greed. They didn't deserve sympathy, but they were worth taking as a warning.

And the one looking at the map in the cabin now was different. He was a real young person. In the age when he should be struggling for his career, he had no time to mourn the spring and autumn. He didn't believe in "the process and experience are important"; if he could flash to the finish line in a race, he would definitely do it.

This is the real young person. The previous one wasn't. It's just that because normal young people are like this, they are busy, too focused on their own lives, and don't want to provide any emotional value to those aging people who are about to be eliminated by society. So the trap Schiller built looked exceptionally tempting. The two of them looked like they didn't get along, but they cooperated seamlessly, one telling you that reality is so cruel, and the other telling you that you are lucky to have received special favor. On the left is a fist, on the right is a knife, the left hand has high damage, and the right hand has high damage. I don't know which universe gave birth to these two things.

Schiller heard Deathstroke's call, but didn't look up and said: "Thanks, no need."

"Do you know what I want to do?"

"No smoking, no drinking, no fishing rod. None of them, thanks." Schiller was still diligently studying the Red Sea map. It was just a blank map, with nothing but terrain, but Schiller had already marked all the danger zones on it.

This is actually very difficult, because the situation is too complex now. The two armed forces still haven't stopped fighting, and they are fighting more and more fiercely, causing all cargo ships to start detouring, but they don't know where to go, and Egypt has also been involved, forced to blockade the port, causing more ships to return without cause. They sent

And this little broken yacht of theirs only had one acceleration gear, which was still meant for trolling for fish. The only thing that could be called weaponry was the chair that could strap the anglers to the boat; other than that, there was nothing else.

Crossing the perilous Red Sea in such a small boat was an almost impossible goal to complete. Deathstroke had never counted on relying solely on this, either. No matter which route they took, the danger was the same. So now, it looked like Shiler was just finding something to do for himself to get rid of boredom.

Who on earth spends their free time working? Deathstroke was truly puzzled. But Shiler had indeed done just that, and he even intended to keep it up.

Deathstroke walked over, snatched the map from in front of him, looked down at him from a superior position, and then said, "No cigarettes, no alcohol, no fishing rod. But we need to talk about you."

"Here we go again." The expression on Shiler's face had changed from the initial impatience to despair. He stood up, and while walking toward the deck, he spread his hands and said, "I don't understand where I am so attention-grabbing. I am just an ordinary agent, nothing special."

"I'm not interrogating you!" Deathstroke shouted at him, "All the conflict between us comes from you refusing to communicate and then acting on your own. Isn't that right?"

Shiler rarely turned his head back to give him a mocking smile: "No wonder your son doesn't want to acknowledge his old man. I can only believe that you are willing to turn yourself into a pure machine of violence because if you didn't, you would be even less likable."

This was a bit too sharp. Deathstroke almost crushed the railing into scrap metal. He had to retract his assessment that the Shiler in front of him now was better, and believe even more firmly that they were indeed the same person—both so skilled at stabbing knives into other people's chests.

Shiler walked to the chair on the forward deck and sat down. The sea breeze blew through his hair, and his gray eyes became more like silver-white under the illumination of the moonlight, making him look even younger and more capable; he would not look out of place in any spy movie.

Deathstroke felt frustrated because he had to admit that the part of his parenting that had failed was manifesting in his relationship with Shiler. He seemed unable to communicate with a real young person. Even though his appearance had become young now, he was still Deathstroke; nothing had changed.

"Then let's talk about Batman," Deathstroke said, "Where did he go? Why was it Wonder Woman who issued the commission to you?"

"You've hit the nail on the head with that one," Shiler said, "For some reason, Batman can't come back right now, and the Justice League has to deal with everything. They think I might be a good helper."

"If you didn't take this commission, would it have been Robin who came instead?"

"If I didn't take this commission, this commission wouldn't exist." Shiler seemed to be talking nonsense again. But after so many times, Deathstroke had finally learned to take these ramblings seriously as much as possible.

"What is their ultimate goal?" Deathstroke asked.

"Great, you've finally found your brain again," Shiler said as if relieved, "When you are no longer trapping yourself in the family, you are more like a father than usual, just like now. Your charm will always lie in your career."