Chapter 628: The Pathological Crisis (Conclusion)

When Bruce burst into the room, Schiller had already vanished; this time the darkness lasted unusually long, and without night-vision gear, Bruce saw exactly how Schiller escaped.

This office had more than one door; such an extended period of darkness was more than enough for Schiller to exit through any other exit. Bruce knew this, so he did not panic and chase after him, but began inspecting the room.

In the darkness, Bruce held a mini flashlight and examined the scene, but there was nothing worth investigating—everything he had already seen through the window: the only valuable items were the chair, the corpse, and the blood covering the floor.

There was far too much blood here; the heavy stench of blood made Bruce feel dizzy, and just then, he suddenly noticed a trail of footprints made of fresh blood.

He walked over and examined them: they were clearly from a man's leather shoe, matching Schiller's exact size.

But Bruce felt this was a trap, because he knew Schiller possessed extraordinary abilities far beyond normal humans—he could leave without walking at all, so why leave footprints?

Perhaps this was another method to misdirect his attention, but Bruce could only follow this clue, because beyond his righteous drive to pursue truth and bring the killer to justice, Bruce had another impulse.

He had witnessed Schiller's crime firsthand—not like before, when he merely suspected Schiller might have done something, but was utterly unable to trace him due to Schiller's stealthy methods and manipulative techniques.

He had seen exactly how Schiller killed a man, using a cruel method to strip away another's life.

That meant Schiller no longer had any excuse to justify his crimes.

Following the footprints, Bruce chased outside, seeing the blood trail climb the stairs all the way to the top floor of the psychiatric hospital; the higher he went, the more confused he became, because beside the blood footprints, he saw even more blood.

It wasn't the kind of dripping blood from a murder victim's clothes—it was far too much. It looked as if Schiller had been bleeding continuously.

This struck Bruce as absurd: how could Schiller bleed? He was nothing but mist—how could mist bleed?

But when he reached the top floor and opened the final door, he confirmed he wasn't hallucinating: Schiller stood before him, pale-faced and drenched in blood.

He stood by the windowsill; when moonlight fell upon his dark suit, Bruce saw that most of the suit had been stained dark red, with layers of dried blood piled one atop another.

Schiller's complexion was extremely pale, his lips devoid of any color—he appeared on the verge of unconsciousness from massive blood loss.

Yet his eyes held no pain or vulnerability, only a pathology Bruce had never seen before: a hysterical emotion he could not comprehend.

Beside him, three chairs stood neatly arranged; the three previous victims sat upright in them, facing Bruce, heads tilted upward, staring at the ceiling.

Bruce did not understand why they held such a bizarre posture—their hollow gazes seemed fixed on something, yet on nothing at all.

"You've come." When Schiller spoke, Bruce felt a strange unfamiliarity—he couldn't help thinking this man before him was not the professor he knew.

"I know you've always believed dissociative identity disorder is merely an excuse used by serial killers to evade guilt." Schiller's voice was soft, as if floating just above the surface, tinged with gentleness—not unpleasant, but utterly unlike his original self.

"Do you still believe that now?" Schiller asked.

"Who are you?" Bruce stepped inside, standing opposite Schiller, only a few meters apart.

"Perhaps he never told you: the many personalities you've encountered aren't truly personalities…" Schiller's voice grew weak, as if never quite landing, he said: "Each personality represents a trait. The Schiller you knew best represented arrogance."

"The Schiller you once chose was also arrogance—but after you chose him, he became madness."

"And I…" Schiller looked at Bruce and said: "I represent the 'pathology' within the personality."

"Pathology…" Bruce's tone grew somber; he slipped into Batman's mindset and asked: "Why are you injured?"

"Why do you assume I can't be injured? Because you've witnessed some of my miraculous abilities?" Schiller suddenly smirked with disdain: "Your eyes tell me you once envied this power—but it disgusts me."

Schiller slowly opened his arms, raising his voice: "The most thrilling part of a game is when the prey can hurt you—constant danger, constant risk of bleeding and injury—that is the true meaning of the hunt."

"To place yourself in absolute safety and crush your prey with overwhelming force—that is not murder, it is slaughter."

"The greatest charm of intelligent beings lies in their unwavering will, which drives them to resist even at the brink of death—and the greatest charm of murdering intelligent beings is that their resistance might make me bleed, hurt, even die."

"I might pay the same price as them at any moment—this is like gambling; only when no one knows the outcome can the moment of revelation deliver the most intense pleasure."

"If I already knew I would win, this game would become the most boring in the world—so dull it makes me sick."

"So…" Schiller lowered his head, unfastened his tie, and removed his suit jacket, revealing his shirt, completely dyed dark red. He tossed the jacket aside and said: "I abandoned all powers beyond human capability. What you've seen here…"

Schiller waved his hand toward the corpses and said: "... are my trophies. In every gamble here, I won."

"You're insane." Batman had no more words to say. Even facing the Joker, he could still recite public safety, justice, and similar phrases—but faced with this Schiller, Batman had nothing to say. He was insane, utterly and completely.

"No, I said I don't represent madness—true madness requires no stimulation, it is pure chaos." Schiller shook his head: "But I represent pathology—the pathological pursuit of stimulation and pleasure…"

"Do you know how these wounds came about?" Schiller pointed to his shoulder, where the deepest wound lay; from Batman's angle, he could even see the bone beneath the scar.

Schiller tilted his head slightly, revealing the full extent of the wound—it was actually three scars, the middle one deepest, penetrating to the bone. He said: "Perhaps you've already guessed: the theme of this serial murder case is the owl."

"The men sitting before you called themselves owls—but lacked the courage to become true owls. So I gave them some help."

"Superior eyesight, hearing, their favorite prey, and the ability to rotate their heads dramatically—while I did all this, they screamed in agony, felt pain and sorrow. But if they didn't want to be owls, why give themselves such a name?"

"Of course, these hypocritical little birds had other weapons—namely, the talons they cultivated. This wound…" Schiller turned his head to look at his shoulder, even sticking his hand into the wound to feel his own bone, and said: "... was left by their sharp claws."

Sword Comes

"I paid a heavy price to kill them—like an ordinary man: setting traps, evading, using myself as bait. In the end, I was still the winner."

Schiller took two steps forward, placing his hand on the back of the first chair. He said: "Since you've come here, you must have the patience to hear out every story—then let's begin with this director…"

"You killed him, disguised yourself as a janitor, infiltrated the bank, then threw the corpse off the rooftop." Batman summarized the entire story in concise terms, then added: "The others were the same—disguised as employees, infiltrated, killed, then tossed the bodies from above."

"You're a good detective." Schiller's voice turned cold: "My life-or-death games with them, in your words, are reduced to a single simple sentence. Every detective is like this—you skip the most beautiful parts and emphasize meaningless legalities and justice."

"You missed too many details to realize how you ended up here. Perhaps you'd like to hear this story?" Schiller appeared patient—but it sent chills down Batman's spine.

"Before you arrived, I came to this psychiatric hospital—earlier than any of you."

"Whenever I visit a place, I always check its asylum, to see if every asylum is like the one I lived in—or better."

"But clearly, Anderson Asylum was worse—because it wasn't an asylum at all. It had been converted into a research facility. You didn't notice: the letter you saw had already been taken down once."

"I entered Isabelle's room, learned its secrets, overheard the head administrator's conversation—and from him, I learned they were all owls."

"The bank director, the CEO of Palo Corp, the CEO of Snow Mountain Corp, and the female head of this lab—all were members of the Owl Council. They funded these experiments through various projects."

"I wanted to lure you here, so I killed the first victim—the bank director—and used the exact same time, location, and method as the earlier case in Dream Cat City, so you'd know this case involved the Owls. Once you knew that, you'd come here."

"In the first case, I left many clues to make you notice the connection between the bank director and the Palo CEO, leading you to investigate the financial ties between the bank, Palo Corp, and Snow Mountain Corp."

"From that transaction, you'd discover Palo Corp planned to renovate this psychiatric hospital on the west side—so you'd inevitably come here to investigate."

"Then, during my investigation, you arranged two power outages, deliberately guiding my attention to make me chase after you." Batman stared into Schiller's eyes.

He had to admit: this chain of meticulously linked clues was like a masterpiece.

"Batman, if I had told you the truth from the start, would you still have come here?" Schiller asked.

Batman fell silent. Clearly, his inner answer was unsatisfying—but Schiller seemed pleased. He said: "Each clue gives you a fragment of truth; all fragments form a complete puzzle. In this process, you felt unparalleled pleasure—that is your illness, Batman."

"If you were truly normal, when you realized I was deliberately guiding your attention, you would have stopped. But you didn't."

Batman took one step forward, staring into Schiller's eyes: "I will arrest you for these serial murders."

"I was hoping you would." Schiller nodded, stepping back two paces to stand before the floor-to-ceiling window.

He pulled out a button, pressed it lightly—and the entire window shattered. Glass shards sparkled like brilliant crystals, falling like a meteor shower under the moonlight.

Schiller stepped back another pace, standing in the night sky of Metropolis; the wind tugged at his hair and coat. Batman stepped forward and said: "No, this is the tenth floor—you can't—"

"You'd better worry about yourself first." Schiller's gaze passed over Batman, fixed on what lay behind him. Batman hesitated, then turned—and saw a massive black monster.

A sudden clamor erupted from behind the black monster; Batman heard what sounded like shouted Russian, followed by a rapid barrage of gunfire. Instinctively, he rolled sideways.

Beneath the flashes of the heavy machine gun, the black monster shattered—and bullets, like falling fire, rained down upon Schiller.

Batman saw tiny sparks of flame flicker across Schiller's blood-soaked body, gradually blending into the countless lights of Metropolis.

Schiller, head tilted upward like the bound corpses in the chairs, stared into empty space, then, arms outstretched as if embracing something, fell from the window.

Constantine and Kyla rushed to the window; only Angela stood frozen, staring at the falling figure. After several seconds, she screamed:

"Schiller… Schiller!"

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