Chapter 4911: There Is No Batman Here (Sixteen)

Constantine paused slightly, then smiled again, a nameless melancholy still lingering between his brows. He fumbled on his coat, hand slipping into a pocket, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lowered his head, took one out, lips pressed flat and straight.

He nudged one out, holding it toward Shiler. Shiler's focusing gaze, when he lowered his eyes to look at that cigarette, turned scattered once more. "I thought you'd cast a healing spell."

"This is my healing spell," Constantine said. "Looks like you don't need your injuries healed, just want a distraction. We happen to have a bit of time."

Constantine kept his eyes on Shiler. He saw Shiler take the cigarette, but not pinched between fingers like a normal smoker — instead he gripped it with index finger and thumb, holding it upright, like he was holding a candle.

After Shiler took the cigarette, Constantine didn't look at him again. He took another one out, lowered his head and clamped it between his teeth. When he dropped his eyes, the contours of his brows and eyes blurred further, like frescoes on an old cathedral dome.

He fumbled on his coat again, reached into both pockets searching, but found nothing in the end. He could only keep the cigarette clamped in his teeth, bow his head, flip open the Bible, and tear a strip from it. A light shake of his hand, and a tongue of flame ignited the paper scrap.

He lit his own cigarette first, drew a deep drag, his features smoothing out. He said somewhat indistinctly to Shiler, "You've got it backwards. The yellow end is the filter."

Shiler turned the cigarette around, but still held it like a sword. He pointed the white end downward, gradually bringing it near the flame in Constantine's hand. Unsurprisingly, the cigarette caught. Sparks flickered. Shiler stared at the fine ash drifting down.

"Not a bad way to pass the time," Constantine said with a smile. "If I could do that, my lungs would be happy."

Describing Constantine's smoking as "puffing clouds" wasn't quite accurate, because he inhaled the smoke but exhaled very little, as if he swallowed down every component of an entire cigarette.

"Can tell you don't smoke cigarettes," Constantine said. "You're the type who'd smoke cigars — savoring the aroma, the layers, the color."

Constantine flipped his cigarette-holding hand over casually. "Tried that too. But I'm clearly not one for enjoying spices. Nicotine suits me better."

He exhaled a long stream of smoke, as if hearing some movement outside, and turned his head toward the cathedral's stained-glass windows. Deathstroke had previously knocked a hole there. Some chill seeped in, but outside the fog still hung thick.

"You really are different from the other Constantines," Shiler spoke up. He was merely remarking, no manipulative intent. "They always pretend to be in pain, while you pretend to be calm."

"I don't understand why they're like that," Constantine said. "Plenty of people misunderstand me because of other variants. But most of them think we just share a name."

"You think that's a good thing?"

"I sometimes wonder why I'm so different from them yet still walked the same path. Whether that's unfair to me. But later I understood — it's precisely because I'm different from them that I walked this road in my universe."

Constantine took another drag, then swallowed the smoke again, exhaling only a thin, turbid breath. "If I were really as cool and clever as them, seemingly cynical but actually running circles around demons, able to watch loved ones and the world be destroyed together — then I wouldn't have become an exorcist."

"Every Constantine in the multiverse volunteered. Except you," Shiler said.

"Yeah. They're the evil geniuses from the books, connected to magic from childhood, ceaselessly delving into forbidden knowledge. Even after realizing magic was a trap, some ended up imprisoned. But ultimately, nothing could really stump them."

"Whereas I," Constantine smiled faintly, shook his head, "was just frightened by the things I could see. All my efforts were just to defeat them. Pity effort doesn't always work."

"When did you stop believing in God?" Shiler asked casually. They seemed like the kind of strangers who step onto a balcony at a reception for air, happen to collide on the same balcony, and chat idly for the span of a cigarette.

"I can't quite remember," Constantine said. "Maybe the first time I fled to a church chased by the devil, but Jesus only lowered his head and watched me scream in fear. Maybe when I tried to slash my arm, hoping God would hear my prayer, but only half-demons came. Or maybe the first time I saw the angels' ugly faces."

"Same old story," Shiler said. "How do you feel?"

"Actually fine," Constantine looked at Shiler. "I've seen shrinks. They seemed to expect me to sob, tell them how much I hurt. But actually, I'm not that sad."

"Shiler, I know you're like the other mes — a born genius who always seeks circumstances matching his talent, wants too much. Dull people are easily satisfied, experts at comforting themselves."

"Being hunted by devils and angels was a blessing in disguise for me. I accumulated rich experience fighting them. With that skill I became an exorcist, got a foothold, have some money to spend."

"Lung cancer was a massive piece of bad news. I was depressed for a long time because of it. But it's cured now. How many people in the world are this lucky? I'm ready to believe in God again, even started attending services."

"The multiverse trip had its hair-raising moments, but I also made some friends — you included. Even if it's just using this thing to prepare for the next lung cancer, I have someone to share it with." Constantine shook the cigarette in his hand. "Shame you don't smoke. Maybe next time I can treat you to a cigar."

Shiler blanked for a moment, then grew somewhat bewildered, before finally looking at Constantine, sizing him up from head to toe, seemingly very surprised.

"You're still standing," Shiler said. "Thought you'd be nailed to a cross by now."

Constantine shook his head again. "You think your other persona would take an interest in a special Constantine. But unfortunately, I'm not 'Constantine' at all."

"What do you mean?" Shiler asked.

"Means I'm not a pervert like him. No special kinks or artistic pursuits. Sharing a name with him — my apologies."

Shiler gave him a deep look.

What's the best way to deal with mental manipulation? People argue endlessly. Resistance doesn't guarantee victory. Flight doesn't guarantee escape. It seems all agency rests in the hands of the perverted madman who wants to manipulate you. But desire is sometimes that mysterious — it can appear suddenly and drive someone into a frenzy, or vanish suddenly, receding faster than the tides.

The ultimate answer to mental manipulation is to make the other person completely lose interest in you. Plainly put: "Whatever you like about me, I'll change."

Constantine seemed to just walk a few steps to the other side unintentionally, yet also somewhat like he was pacing before Shiler. He still held the cigarette, but his demeanor was completely different from before.

"You don't like dull ordinary people," he said. "Not that you look down on them. On the contrary, you envy them. To madmen, pathology is the soul's drain — no matter how much you pour in, it flows down the sewer, never filling up."

"Ordinary people are a pond. So natural, complete, perfectly formed. The most outstanding genius spends a lifetime merely imitating that naturalness. Standing beside them, your own calculated misery stands out all the more clearly — so naturally you distance yourself."

Constantine sighed lightly. "You must be wondering if this is a carefully designed counter-strategy of mine. But sadly, I may not be as easily satisfied as ordinary people, but mediocre talent is unchangeable. You only need one glance to see I'm not nearly as clever as the other Constantines. In essence, just an ordinary person forced by angels and demons to learn magic or die, scraping by in the cracks."

Constantine finished a cigarette. He pinched out the butt with his fingers, then burned everything to ash with fire. He looked at Shiler and said, "I quit after the lung cancer was cured. But I know your type definitely hates secondhand smoke."

Shiler didn't know what to say, just smiled and let it go. Maybe a madman's world is like this — you scheme, calculate, try every way to escape someone's mental manipulation, but the simplest method is actually using secondhand smoke to harm their health.

Shiler was certain the pathology left not because this Constantine was ordinary, but because this Constantine really could smoke. The caliber of ten packs a day with late-stage lung cancer — no creature with lungs is fit to share a room with him. He's suited for romancing Deep Ones.

Constantine stopped in front of Shiler, laughing unrestrainedly — completely different from his previous melancholy smile, and nothing like the other Constantines. He suddenly reached out and grabbed Shiler's shoulder, forehead nearly pressing against Shiler's forehead. "Don't call him over again. I don't want to get lung cancer again!"

Then he shoved Shiler away hard, turned around to go tinker with his magic array. Shiler really wished an Agent were here right now — then the moment he reached out, Shiler could give him a clean shoulder throw. Too bad he really isn't as combat-capable as an Agent. This Constantine isn't one of those blond Constantines who won't hit back. If he punched him now, the result probably wouldn't be good.

He touched his shoulder — the injury from the door slam was still there, still ached a bit. But he genuinely couldn't help with setting up the array, so he decided to go sit on a pew for a while, rest. The moment he sat down, a white light flared. His injuries gradually healed. Constantine's voice came from behind the pulpit.

"If you're good at digging graves, go get me some mud," he said. "From a grave. The soil under the coffin."

"I'll say it again — I'm a gravedigger, not a tomb robber. I dig pits for burying people, not other people's graves." Shiler said this, but still stood up. He really had nothing to do here anyway. Dig a grave, then.

Shiler opened the map. Gotham has two public cemeteries. Since the West doesn't really favor burying people on mountains, preferring the flattest ground possible, both cemeteries are in the relatively flat southern district. Still a bit of a distance from here.

Shiler checked his gear and set off. Meanwhile, in Gotham's Palisades Cemetery, Red Robin held up a lantern, looked at the name on the tombstone, then straightened slightly. "Looks like this is it."

Damian emerged from behind him. "What do we do? Dig the grave?"