Chapter 585

Gotham's night rain always carried a bone-chilling cold; amid the howling wind and driving rain, the colorful neon lights shimmered like the city's shifting gaze.

A man in a trench coat hurried across the sidewalk; car horns blared in succession, but the man vanished swiftly down the other end of the street.

The traffic light changed; car tires crushed through puddles, splashing mist that landed on the edges of the street's cobblestones, glowing warm under the convenience store's light.

Leather shoes stepped through puddles on the steps, leaving only narrow slivers of reflected light on the water's surface; the man in the trench coat climbed the stairs of the Gotham Theatre, and inside, there were no attendants, only utter darkness.

Yet he moved with effortless familiarity, turning left into the ticket passage, then proceeding all the way to the audience seats—where several silhouettes were already waiting.

Victor, arriving in haste, removed his hat and shook off the raindrops, then sat beside Schiller and said: "Sorry I'm late—I had to clean up my lab…"

"It's fine, the movie hasn't started yet." Schiller moved his umbrella to the other side; Victor saw the droplets clinging to it and knew Schiller had just arrived.

The two people seated in front of Schiller were Yin Yin Wensi and Cobblepot; they were whispering to each other—Cobblepot appeared to be recounting the incident where Bruce and Lex fought and got arrested, making Yin Yin Wensi frown and grimace.

Sitting diagonally ahead of Yin Yin Wensi and Cobblepot was the Joker, Jack, but he was fast asleep, snoring deeply, with snot bubbles forming at his nose.

In a distant corner seat far from these people sat a stranger; Victor couldn't make out his face, but he felt an unsettling sense of familiarity.

Suddenly, the shadow shifted—in the fleeting instant Victor failed to catch it, he flickered to another row of seats, then vanished again.

"The Green Gourd Sword Immortal"

Victor wasn't even sure he'd truly seen him, but Schiller answered his unspoken question: "There are many cast members in tonight's film—it might be quite exciting. I can't monitor every frame, so I've hired a projectionist."

Victor looked at Schiller and saw him turn his head toward the seat beside him—where no one sat—but Schiller seemed to see something. He said: "Morpheus, could you please help us screen the film?"

In Schiller's vision, the pale-faced man in a black robe beside him turned his head slightly, glancing at Schiller with a hint of displeasure—as if he disapproved of being called a movie projectionist.

"I promise, this will be your final film before sleep. After we watch it, you can rest well—I and my friends will personally bid you goodnight." Schiller smiled.

Morpheus turned back, gazing at the theater's stage—suddenly, the wooden stage and curtains vanished, replaced by an endless starry river; the entire theater seemed torn open, the area ahead of the first row now a black hole.

Stars swirled endlessly, forming luminous vortices in the deep void; the lights on the theater ceiling extinguished one by one.

This profound darkness didn't last long—suddenly, the ground ahead of the seats began extending forward, the once-aging tiles now replaced with wooden flooring.

Then, a room slowly assembled itself, seamlessly merging with the theater's audience seating, even revealing the junction where wood met tile.

The theater's audience seats were now pitch black, and so was the room—until, with a sharp "click," the bulb above the room lit up.

The light also spilled into the audience seats, illuminating the first few rows—but the viewers' own positions remained dim, enhancing the immersion.

When the room's light fell on their faces, all of them squinted, just as audiences do when the film begins and you look from the front rows backward.

After the bulb ignited, the room's interior was fully visible: a cramped space, with a desk in the center, and on the side wall, a large poster—hand-drawn, bearing a few words: "Welcome New Students."

"Tap, tap, tap." Footsteps echoed from outside the room; a figure entered and stood before the desk.

The man behind the desk looked up—he wore a doctor's uniform and glasses, but unlike others, he was bald with a full beard. Victor recognized his face instantly: Hugo Strange.

Victor narrowed his eyes in confusion—he didn't understand why the scene opened this way—but Schiller wore an intrigued smile.

Hugo looked up, saw Bruce's face, and smiled warmly. "Bruce Wayne, welcome. Please sit and fill out your personal information."

"Thank you." Bruce in the room sat down obediently and began filling out the form—but after writing only two lines, he stopped. "Why so much to write? I don't want to fill this out."

He tossed the pen onto the desk. Hugo's expression stiffened briefly, then he smiled again. "Fine. If you won't follow procedure, your dorm is Building 2, Room 201 in the men's dormitory. Take the key and begin your college life."

Bruce said nothing, snatched the key, and turned to leave. After he left, Hugo behind the desk wore a relieved smile. "I thought there'd be some dramatic story when Schiller met Batman—turns out it was just a chance encounter on campus?"

"It seems Schiller was just an ordinary registration clerk. Under these circumstances, how could Batman possibly be wary of him?"

"What's going on?" Victor turned to Schiller in his seat. Meanwhile, Cobblepot and Yin Yin Wensi in the front rows also leaned forward, eager to hear Schiller's explanation.

"If I'd just sent Hugo crashing into Batman's dream and made them brawl, wouldn't that just be another fistfight? What's the point?"

"So what did you do?" Victor asked.

Schiller lowered his eyelids. When the room's light touched his face, it failed to illuminate the shadows beneath his brow ridges—those eyes, always shrouded in mist, were a year-round haze of gray.

"Hugo didn't enter Batman's conscious mind—he entered his subconscious, where memories are stored. Of course, I couldn't bypass Batman's conscious mind to send Hugo directly into his subconscious—but I could take a detour."

"I entered the dream realm beneath my own subconscious, reached beneath Batman's dream, then ascended from below—thus arriving directly at Batman's subconscious."

"Thank our projectionist." Schiller turned to Morpheus. "Thank you for letting me take this detour. Of course, this isn't smuggling—I notified Batman in advance that there'd be an exam."

"And of course, thank a friend—Mr. Jack, who's sound asleep right now." Schiller glanced at Jack in the front row. "To prevent Batman's conscious mind from detecting interference in his memories, the comedian Jack is tirelessly performing in Batman's conscious dream."

"Though perhaps he's enjoying it—just look at his expression."

Victor followed Schiller's gaze to Jack in the front row. Since their seats weren't directly aligned, he could see from the side: Jack, fast asleep, wore a sweet smile—as if he were having the time of his life.

"Also, this friend of ours, Hugo Strange, once told me himself that he wanted to play a role like mine—so I gave him the chance."

"In the subconscious, I located all of Batman's memories concerning me. Hugo invaded precisely that memory—within it, he replaced me, becoming Batman's teacher."

Victor shook his head, saying nothing—perhaps mourning someone, though he wasn't sure whom. Schiller continued: "Bruce in this memory doesn't know this is an exam. He acts purely according to his own personality's logic. I didn't control or influence him—so Hugo encountered the purest Batman, untouched by any external force."

"Then he's in for trouble," Victor concluded. Schiller glanced sideways at Victor. "You seem to have a peculiar understanding of Batman…"

"He's a very complex man. Forgive me, but you two are quite alike. From what I know of you, I can guess exactly what kind of man he is."

Schiller smiled, said nothing, and turned back to watch the stage.

The room's scene gradually dissolved, swallowed once more by the dark void; stars converged again into a vortex. This time, cold, damp cobblestones descended one by one, bricks rose to form walls, and distant building silhouettes flickered in and out.

The previously silent room now echoed with rain. A light drizzle fell on the stage; everyone felt the dampness on their skin, and the unmistakable chemical odor unique to Gotham's rain.

Cobblepot sniffed. He knew this scent intimately—as a native of Gotham, he'd spent countless rainy nights running through it: damp, cold, acrid, yet inescapable.

In the alley, Hugo, just entering this memory, seemed disoriented—unable to understand why he'd suddenly found himself in Gotham's rainy night.

Soon, two sharp whistles pierced the air. Hugo had no spider-sense, no umbrella—he couldn't dodge as two bat-shaped shurikens flew toward him.

The black, razor-sharp projectiles halted thirty centimeters from him. Batman, clad in his suit, appeared at the alley's mouth.

"Batman?" Hugo squinted. But Batman froze—he knew his alias hadn't spread yet. How did this man, his college professor, suddenly appear in Gotham's rain and know his name?

"Take those shurikens away, Batman. We should talk," Hugo frowned.

But Batman didn't move. "You shouldn't be here, Professor Strange."

"Are you connected to the recent disappearances in Morson Street?" Batman asked.

"No," Hugo denied instantly. But the hovering shurikens crept closer. He hesitated only a moment, then took a slight step back—after all, the cold gleam of the blades' edges wasn't fake; if they came any nearer, his throat would be slit.

"Batman—no, Bruce. Bruce Wayne… I know your true identity. You're a student at Gotham University. So this question should be mine: why are you here?"

Hugo sought to regain control—he revealed Batman's identity. As a professor, he was superior to a student. He believed this would create psychological pressure.

But Batman didn't flinch. The hovering shurikens pressed closer, forcing Hugo back against the alley wall—until the two shurikens pressed directly against his Adam's apple.

"Do you want to kill your professor?!" Hugo's Adam's apple trembled. "Are you insane, Batman?!"

"Tell me—are you connected to the disappearances in Morson Street?" Batman stepped forward, so close Hugo could see raindrops landing on his cape, leaving tiny beads of water.

He felt a chilling atmosphere spreading—then, with a sharp "zzzt," one shuriken spun and sliced open Hugo's skin. Blood sprayed. Hugo instinctively clutched his neck and lurched aside—but met Batman's fist.

First, a punch to the side of his face, then a knee to the gut. Hugo was knocked to the ground without resistance, landing in Gotham's icy puddle. He heard Batman's cold voice: "Tell me—are you connected to the disappearances in Morson Street?"

"If you won't speak, I'll make you speak."

"Are you insane?! Bruce! Do you want to kill your college professor?! … No, this isn't right. Could Schiller have…? Impossible…"

Batman repeated the question without emotion. When Hugo didn't answer, he continued beating him.

Hugo was beaten into dizziness. Blood flowed into his mouth, then dripped into the puddle, staining it red. He curled on the ground, hearing Batman say:

"Hugo Strange, I've reviewed your full record. A year ago, you were expelled for illegal experiments, then wanted. You used dishonorable means to evade charges, then joined another lab. Six months ago, you were expelled again for another illegal experiment."

"During your experiments, you showed violent and abusive tendencies, especially toward unauthorized human trials. Among your final project's subjects, eleven samples matched the profiles of the Morson Street disappearances…"

"Wait," Victor suddenly spoke from the audience seats. "If this is Bruce's memory fragment, how does he know these details? He shouldn't even know Hugo yet."

"I added them to his memory. But I told him only the truth. Hugo was expelled for illegal human experiments—this is common knowledge in the field. Batman at this stage could easily have uncovered it."

"I don't think this is unfair…" Schiller rubbed his fingers. "After all, my own record…"

Schiller shook his head, not continuing. Victor thought of it, then looked curiously at Schiller. "So how did you avoid ending up like this?"

Schiller shook his head again, refusing to answer—but seeing Victor's curious gaze, he said only: "I'm just an ordinary man."

Schiller turned back to the stage. Hugo, lying there, was unconscious. As the night rain grew louder, the scene collapsed again, dissolving into endless void.

Stars swirled. When the scene reappeared, it felt familiar—the same alley, but now the rain had stopped. A cold wind howled through the streets like a mournful cry.

"Bang!"

The amplified sound startled Yin Yin Wensi—he shrank into his seat—but like watching a horror film, he was terrified yet couldn't look away, eager to see what made the noise.

From a nondescript trash bin at the base of a tall building, a hand emerged. The glove's texture made Cobblepot frown—he recognized it. Sure enough, Batman crawled out of the bin.

He coughed repeatedly, rubbing his eyes. Cobblepot noticed white powder on his mask. He blinked, then sneered: "The lowest thugs' favorite trick—can't win, so they throw lime in your eyes…"

Yin Yin Wensi gasped. "That must hurt. My eyelashes getting in my eye already make me miserable for hours."

Batman held one hand over his eyes, the other gripping his waist. He limped slowly toward the alley's exit.

On the way, he saw a beggar. He walked over and spoke to him. On the second-floor balcony, Hugo remained trapped in rage and fear from his earlier beating.

He muttered incessantly: "No… Could Schiller have…? Of course—he couldn't possibly have won against someone like this. Controlling Batman isn't that simple. I was too reckless…"

"I shouldn't have confronted him so soon. I need to observe first…"

So he stood beside the balcony, watching Batman's conversation with the beggar. He heard Batman say things like "you're safe now," but that wasn't Hugo's focus—he only wanted to find Batman's weakness.

After speaking a few words to the beggar, Batman left some money and departed. After he left, Hugo stepped down from the balcony and approached the beggar—he wanted to know what was special about him, and whether he could find a crack in Batman's behavior from their exchange.

But the moment Hugo jumped down and stood before the beggar, the sharp whistles sounded again—two bat-shaped shurikens flew toward him. Batman, who had just left, had returned.

And in Hugo's vision appeared Batman's fist—the size of a sandbag.

And before Hugo's eyes appeared Batman's fist, as large as a sandbag.