Chapter 611

"No, I haven't figured it out yet." Bruce turned his head away from Schiller, but Schiller didn't look at him either—he spoke to himself: "Fine. If you had figured it out, then I suppose this energy would have found its destination."

Bruce stared at Schiller; Schiller stared at Bruce. They locked eyes for a minute, until Schiller finally spoke: "Listen, Bruce, I tolerate your terrible grades because you have real talent in scientific research. If you lose even that, I'll have to talk to your butler about your school performance…"

Bruce coughed twice, then turned back and said: "Wait a moment—I'll go get it."

While waiting for Bruce to retrieve his completed Arc Reactor core, Schiller didn't idle. The old nun upstairs taught the children songs, while Schiller waited on the roof, catching owls.

After just two songs, the accumulated energy was already substantial—though still nowhere near the magical energy he'd obtained from Marvel, it was far easier to acquire, requiring almost no effort.

Though Schiller had gathered vast amounts of energy from Marvel, the mental cost was high. The N'al incident alone involved layers of calculation: he had to secure enough resources for himself while also satisfying everyone from top to bottom, raising Earth's overall power level—this demanded immense cognitive effort.

The Tale of Immortal Wood

In comparison, consuming these Dark Owls was absurdly simple: squat on the roof during singing, eat as many as come.

These creatures offered no resistance, were pure energy beings, and didn't even require digestion. If N'al's chaotic energy was stir-fried pebbles, this energy was a delicious porridge.

As he ate, Schiller began to suspect that this energy had been pre-refined by someone.

Having read the comics, Schiller knew the Dark Owl rituals were backed by the Dark Dragon Babatoss—but he didn't believe Babatoss's energy could be this gentle. Clearly, these human Dark Owl cultists had modified the energy to make it compatible with human bodies—and all of it had ended up in Schiller's lap.

Thinking this, Schiller developed another idea.

In Marvel, the energy he took from N'al couldn't be used directly by humans—otherwise, Schiller would have created a Magic Spider-Man or Magic Hulk.

But unfortunately, without innate energy affinity, such energy was unusable—you couldn't sift through countless pebbles to find the edible meat. Only Kamar-Taj sorcerers or Cosmic Entities could do that.

Stark used the Arc Reactor to channel magical energy into himself, but he couldn't mass-produce it—installing an Arc Reactor on every person was impossible.

The cost was too high, the return too low. Spider-Man and the Hulk didn't need extra energy to enhance themselves anyway; having it was a bonus, but not worth the immense effort to obtain.

But this energy, refined by the Dark Owl cultists, seemed specifically designed for frail human bodies—perhaps not just humans, but children in particular.

Even the weakest humans could adapt to it, even coexist with it. If this energy could be toolized, could every ordinary person use it?

Take the simplest example: Gotham's logistics industry has been plagued by setbacks. The distribution hub system was once relatively healthy, but constant natural and man-made disasters left it perpetually unstable. But if we developed the ultimate black-tech teleportation array, rain, snow, disasters—none of it would hinder truck drivers delivering goods.

As he thought, Schiller realized how utterly pragmatic his idea was: he'd acquired this energy, and all he could think of was boosting logistics.

But it wasn't without merit. As the saying goes—if anyone could summon a teleportation portal right to their face, what problem couldn't be solved?

In Marvel, this idea might only apply to superheroes—ordinary people might die using portals. But if this energy became accessible to any human, if any ordinary person could walk through a portal, wouldn't Earth's technological progress skyrocket?

While waiting for Bruce, Schiller stood on the roof, pondering these ideas. The more he thought, the better the plan seemed—but the better it seemed, the more he disliked the pile of owls.

Right now, each time the children sang, roughly twenty to thirty owls appeared—about one per child, sometimes fewer. One full song took about three minutes, meaning roughly ten owls per minute.

But these owls were no larger than real-world owls—tiny, offering negligible energy. Though their arrival rate and quantity were decent, they were pitifully insufficient compared to Schiller's envisioned plan.

One defining trait of humanity is its obsession with scaling, automation, and assembly lines—even dedicated games exist to satisfy players' desire to expand production lines and boost output.

To Schiller, children singing below while he caught owls above was no different from primitive hunting. To enter modernity, he first needed standardization, then cost reduction, shorter production cycles, and higher efficiency.

Schiller abandoned the roof entirely. He teleported back down into the room and began collaborating with others to improve the efficiency of Dark Owl energy collection.

After briefly outlining his idea, Constantine stared at Schiller as if he'd witnessed a miracle. "You mean… you want to extract this energy at scale? Like humans mine oil?"

"Exactly. Look at the advantages—aside from being uncontrollable, it's a perfect energy source."

"Wait—that's not magic! We can't just… I mean… you need some reverence. This isn't oil."

"If he had reverence, the Green Lantern Corps' central power source wouldn't still be in shortage." Hal crossed his arms against the wall, sneering.

"Green Lantern energy and these Dark Owl energies are no different—they're just energy. Forget all that mystical nonsense. We're pragmatists." Schiller said.

Hal understood Constantine's mindset perfectly—he'd felt the same when Schiller first tricked the Green Lantern energy.

But he had to admit: watching once-mystical energy pumped out like crude oil, stored in tanks, truly destroyed useless reverence.

Humanity's greatest fear stems from the unknown. Once something can be harvested and used, that fear vanishes—or transforms into something stronger: greed.

Clearly, Constantine was greedy too.

Anyone who claims Constantine is a law-abiding sorcerer—the countless demons he's conned out of their pants in Hell have a lot to say.

His moral bottom line was lower than Hal's. After a brief moment of condemnation, he leaned in eagerly: "How do you plan to do it? Give me twenty percent of the output… no, ten percent. I'll help you fully."

Schiller glanced at him. "You said that."

"Relax. Constantine keeps his word."

Schiller said nothing more. He stood still, closed his eyes, and said: "Wait a moment—I'm calling in a specialist."

He paused for a second, then opened his eyes. His expression hadn't changed, but his eyes glowed with a different light. He looked up, through his spiritual vision, at the sky where owls circled—as if gazing at a sumptuous feast.

"First, we solve the first problem." Schiller led Constantine and Hal out of the room, up to the cathedral's surface, standing at the intersection leading to the parlor, watching the singing children. He continued:

"Three minutes per song is too long. Sometimes they don't finish, have to pause—on average, we get a wave of owls every five minutes. That speed is unacceptable."

Hal thought a moment. "Wait—that doesn't make sense. When I saw Elsa sing at Wayne Manor, it didn't take that long. She only sang three or four lines."

"What's the mechanism behind this nursery rhyme attracting special energy?" Schiller asked Constantine.

"Hard to say. Possibly specific words tied to mystical concepts, or unique melodies, or perhaps the combination of lyrics and melody forming a spell."

Though his answer was vague, that's how mysticism works—many paths lead to the same result, and the weirdest methods are common.

"No problem—we can test it." Schiller stepped forward, nodded to Father Daniel. The priest raised a hand; the nun stopped. She turned to the children: "Break time. Sit where you are. The restaurant owner will bring lunch soon."

Hearing they'd get food, the children erupted in excited chatter, guessing which restaurant and what dishes.

Schiller, Hal, Constantine, Father Daniel, and the nun huddled together. Daniel knew about the owls—he supported Schiller's plan. Only by eradicating these cultists could Gotham's children be protected.

When they learned Schiller wanted to test the nursery rhyme's mechanism, they devised a plan. Soon, the nun gathered the children again and said: "Now, divide into two groups: Lyric Group and Melody Group. Lyric Group learns the words; Melody Group learns the tune."

"Lyric Group splits into four: each person learns three lines. Melody Group same—each learns two measures. Listen carefully: from this center line, left side is Lyric Group, right side is Melody Group…"

The nun organized the children into small groups, taught them individually—each child assigned one lyric line or melody segment. After hours of practice, they began singing their parts one by one.

The experiment revealed something: in this complex song, not every lyric or melody mattered. Most were decoys—designed to conceal the true useful lines and notes.

Among the groups, a few triggered owls the moment they sang their lines. Others, no matter how many times they sang, produced no reaction.

Constantine stood before the choir stand, stroking his chin. "I suspect human language is just a facade. It's the phonetics of the lyrics combined with melodic rhythm that form specific syllables—exactly like many summoning spells I know…"

"Can you extract all these syllables? The most refined part—shortest possible."

Constantine pulled out a notebook, frowned, stared at the singing children, and began scribbling furiously.

After listening to nearly every group, Constantine laid the notebook flat. Schiller and Hal leaned in. On it, only a few syllables were written: "Muli Zhi."