Chapter 473: Is Schiller Insane? (Part 2)

"Uh, hello? Is this Arkham Asylum? Yes, Brand, it's me, Victor—we met at the dinner party."

"Have you seen Schiller lately? … Oh, really? Well, I'm a bit worried about his mental state recently—would you mind inviting him in for a visit?"

"Behavior? It's hard to say…"

In his office at Gotham University, Victor leaned one hand on his hip, holding the phone with the other: "Do you have any idea how terrifying this is? He can finish a meal in fifteen minutes—and now he's actually eating broccoli!"

"Remember that dinner at Wayne Grand Hotel? He went straight into the kitchen and shot that broccoli plant! Before that, he always told me he never used guns…"

Victor switched the phone to his other hand; the hand holding it gradually grew younger, and the phone turned from blue to black. Bruce held the phone to his ear and said:

baimengshu.

"Yes, Doctor Brand, it's serious. Even though he knew class started at ten, he didn't leave until 9:30."

"And yet, he didn't try to steal another professor's class because he missed one. All day today, he didn't mention it, didn't assign extra homework, didn't say there'd be a test tomorrow…"

"After being late due to Gotham traffic, he didn't even hassle the mayor. I think you'd better get him into treatment soon—I can't imagine what else he might do…"

"Doctor Brand, I found your number in the phone directory. I hope you don't mind me disturbing you—I'm Merkel, Mr. Rodriguez's butler."

Merkel stood beside the phone stand, lowering his voice: "Could you please come by tomorrow? … Oh, really? You don't offer home visits?"

"Yes, I understand—the entire city's mental health burden falls on one hospital. Of course you're busy…"

"Yes, I'd really prefer you invite Mr. Schiller in. I know it's presumptuous for a butler to say this, but his condition really is…"

"Yes, more than that—he didn't even frown once all day. I think that's genuinely dangerous."

"All right, I look forward to your invitation in the mailbox tomorrow. Thank you very much, Doctor Brand."

The next morning, Schiller woke up early as usual. He stood by the window, stretched, yawned, washed up in the bathroom, then went downstairs.

This time, Merkel rose even earlier. Seeing Schiller come down, he raised his hand in greeting: "Good morning, sir. Breakfast is ready."

Schiller nodded and walked toward the dining table. As he sat down to eat, he noticed Merkel standing by the door, staring out the window.

"Why are you standing there? Aren't you eating?"

"Thank you, sir, but I've already eaten."

After speaking, Merkel turned back to the window. Schiller didn't understand what was wrong, but he shook his head and didn't press further—instead, he lowered his gaze and began eating.

After a while, the faint ring of a bicycle bell came. Merkel opened the door and stepped out. The paperboy waved at him, and Merkel handed him a prepared loaf of bread.

The paperboy first pulled out a newspaper. Merkel took it, then the boy produced an envelope and said: "This is an urgent letter, but the sender already paid the delivery fee."

"You know, you're more dedicated than a professional mailman. I didn't think you'd make it this morning," Merkel praised.

The paperboy snorted dismissively: "Mailman? Mailmen don't last two days in Gotham!"

"I know every back alley from South District to West District. I get here in under an hour—faster than those damn car-driving masters."

Merkel gave him a thumbs-up, then pulled out a few coins and handed them to the boy: "Thank you."

"Oh, wait—I can't take this," the paperboy suddenly pushed the money back. Merkel stared at him in surprise. The boy shrugged and said:

"Things aren't the same anymore."

"You know Cobblepot in North District? The Falcone family gave him charge of all the kids in Gotham. He set up some strict rules."

"I can't explain all the details, but now we're not allowed to accept tips. If someone reports it, I lose my job."

"I don't want to lose this lucrative job. I finally got all the West District routes to myself. Ever since Cobblepot cleaned up those annoying parents, every penny I earn is mine. If they cut me out, it'd be terrible."

Seeing Merkel hesitate, the paperboy tossed the coins back. As Merkel caught them, he only saw the boy's retreating back. He shook his head and returned to the estate.

When the letter was placed before Schiller, he had just finished eating. He looked up at Merkel, who smiled at him.

Schiller picked up the envelope, opened it, and saw it was from Brand. He paused, recalled briefly, then said: "I have class this afternoon—I'll go over tonight?"

"All right, I'll call Doctor Brand back right away."

"Wait—why didn't he just call to invite me directly?"

"Because this is a formal invitation. Formal invitations always come in writing. Only casual gatherings are done by phone."

"Then I'll call him myself later."

Merkel rubbed his palms nervously: "Sir, it's better if I call. The person who answers might not be Doctor Brand."

"Then just have them get Brand on the line."

"I can call first, find Doctor Brand, then hand you the phone…"

Schiller sighed, pressed his hand to his forehead, and gave up. By the time he finished eating and reached the university, it was already afternoon.

In class, Schiller first explained his tardiness. He expected some students to complain—but instead, everyone nodded in understanding, almost cheering: "Good to be late! Wonderful to be late!"

Before lecturing, as many university professors do, Schiller tried to chat casually to lighten the mood and build rapport. But all the students sat frozen, silent, not responding to a word.

When he began teaching and moved to group discussion, the students just stared at him blankly.

Schiller paused, then thought: It's 1988. This isn't the modern classroom model. And I remember DC Schiller's teaching style was pure rote memorization—force students to memorize until they could recite it flawlessly.

Schiller flipped through his lecture notes and realized—he wasn't teaching at Harvard or any Ivy League school. These students' abilities were nowhere near capable of flexible learning. Rote memorization was still the only method that suited them.

After class, Schiller was in a bad mood. One reason: the classroom feedback was poor—he still wasn't used to this one-way knowledge dump. Another: he felt everyone in Gotham was… strange.

For some reason, everyone he knew treated him differently—with fear tinged with concern, concern laced with worry, and worry shadowed by pity.

As he thought this, Schiller packed his things and left Gotham University, driving toward Arkham Asylum.

He had no idea why Brand suddenly wanted to see him—but he thought a chat with a colleague might help relieve his emotional pressure.

At Arkham Asylum, Brand was already waiting at the door. They shook hands, then embraced. Brand said: "It's been a while. How have you been?"

"Fine," Schiller gave a vague answer. Then, as if remembering something, he suddenly asked: "By the way, how's Hugo Strange?"

"Oh, him? Last time I found him passed out in his office, I carried him to his room. When he woke up, he became erratic—muttering about monsters and impossibilities, even attacked the nurses."

"What did you do?"

"What could I do? Clearly, his mind broke. Probably another case of chronic illness from overwork. He's under treatment—meds, calming therapies—but no real improvement."

As they walked inside, Brand changed the subject: "Forget him. Tell me about you. You look unwell."

Schiller touched his face: "Do I? Maybe I haven't been sleeping well."

"Victor called me—he said you've been under stress. Would you like to take a mental health assessment?"

Schiller hesitated, then said: "All right."

Brand pulled a form from his drawer. Schiller picked up the pen and filled it out. When he handed it back, Brand's frown deepened. He shook his head: "What's happened to you lately?"

"Nothing much. If I have to say something—something did happen in Metropolis. Oh, I haven't told you about my trip there—it was quite an adventure…"

"When I arrived, there was a murder. Then agents sealed off the entire estate. And then…"

"Wait—agents??" Brand suddenly frowned.

He stood, strode to the door, opened it, glanced left and right down the hallway, then went to the window and pulled all the curtains shut. Finally, he sat back down, looking at Schiller with deep concern:

"They've found you again??"

Before Schiller could answer, Brand sighed heavily: "I told you this path was dangerous. Now look."

"And you hid in Gotham—fine. But then you went out and walked straight into their trap. Did they discover your identity? You didn't slip up, did you?"

Schiller slowly widened his eyes. Brand stared at his expression, exasperated:

"In school, you read Marx—I didn't stop you. Everyone has the right to pursue their beliefs."

"After graduation, you said you were going to Berlin—I said nothing. Everyone has the right to choose their path."

"When you worked, you stayed in Moscow for a while—I said nothing. Though our beliefs differ, friends should tolerate each other."

"But what I can't understand is—you joined the KGB… then changed your mind!"

"If you never intended to complete the mission, why accept it in the first place?!"

Brand's words had clearly been bottled up for a long time. His voice carried anger:

"You came to Gotham to hide after Moscow cut ties and suspected you. Now you leave Gotham again and dive into another mess in Metropolis?!"

"Schiller, I truly don't understand you. Jumping between so many factions—do you really want to die?"

Sitting in his chair, Schiller swallowed. At that moment, he and DC Schiller in his Mind Palace asked the same question:

"He… am I insane?"