Chapter 635: Schiller

"What's wrong?" Schiller asked, noticing the Viking's changed expression. "Are you afraid?"

The Viking kept his head down, tidying the fishing line as he spoke: "My father said no one from there is any good. I never thought they'd have university professors there."

"Of course they do—it's a big city. By the way, did you go to university?" Schiller chatted idly with the Viking, trying to distract himself, since he too feared he might seasick.

The Viking shook his head. "I just graduated high school a few months ago. My father wanted me to go to university, but I didn't. I don't like being too far from the sea. This place raised me."

"You just graduated high school???" Schiller sized him up, realizing he couldn't tell he was only eighteen or nineteen.

Even though white people generally mature early, and beards make them look older, this man's broad frame and sturdy bones looked nothing like a teenager's.

"That's why they call me the Viking—they think I'm too strong, like a pirate." Having finished tidying the line, the Viking stood and walked to the boat's edge, casting his rod to test it.

Schiller stepped forward and stood beside him, gazing at the vast, endless sea. "In all the years I was born and raised, I never saw the ocean. This is my first seaside vacation. It feels wonderful—I understand why you love it here."

The Viking turned to him, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Don't university professors usually go to the beach on vacation? … Wait, so you can't swim?"

Schiller nodded. "Technically, I've never swum. If I fell in the water, I don't even know if I'd drown."

"You'd drown," the Viking said with absolute certainty. "The sea isn't as gentle as it looks now. When it's angry, you'll witness true natural disaster."

He handed his rod to Schiller, who took it, adjusted it, and began casting.

After Schiller cast for a while, nothing happened—but the fishing boat had reached the spot the Viking called troublesome.

It was still a shallow shore, but beneath lay rocks, seaweed, and coral. Finding fish here was hard enough, let alone catching them.

The Viking picked up another rod and fished beside Schiller. Schiller's rod remained still; the Viking reeled in fish one after another. After half an hour, Schiller turned to look at the bucket of fish at the Viking's feet. "You know, if this were anyone else, they wouldn't tip you."

The Viking smiled, like a prankster who'd succeeded. "Many rich folks come on my boat, boasting about their fishing skills. I bring them here—just like I said, the sea isn't just gentle. It teaches you what failure means."

To his surprise, Schiller didn't get angry or pull up his line. He kept holding the rod, quietly watching the sea. "It's fine. You said it's a troublesome spot. If I catch even one fish today, I'll be happy."

The Viking reeled in again, removed the hook from the fish's mouth, and said: "You're the most composed Gothamite I've ever met. When those gang bosses come, they either curse their bad luck or try to buy my catch."

"The joy of fishing isn't in the fish—it's in the suspense of waiting for a bite," Schiller replied.

"If you'd tasted my father's fish soup, you wouldn't think that," the Viking smiled again. "As compensation for your failure today, I'll take you home for his soup. No university professor's ever come to our house—he'll be thrilled."

Schiller smiled. "Then I won't be shy about enjoying your catch."

In this era, most people deeply respected teachers, doctors, and especially university professors. In this simple seaside town, a professor's visit was met with warm hospitality.

Until sunset, Schiller caught not a single fish. The twilight cast golden light into the sea, turning the swaying seaweed into the silhouettes of graceful dancers. Seagulls circled in flocks against the red sun, appearing as tiny shadows. Schiller no longer cared about his catch.

About half an hour later, Schiller walked along a slightly damp cobblestone path. He looked up at the towering lighthouse ahead. "Your home is inside the lighthouse?"

"Of course not. Who lives in a lighthouse? My father is the keeper of the Brodhaven Lighthouse. I'm here to pick him up—he can't cook, and if he doesn't come home, we'll starve tonight."

Schiller laughed. The Viking laughed too. Just as they reached the lighthouse door, a man with streaks of gray in his hair stepped out. He didn't look old; his glasses gave him a gentle, world-weary wisdom.

The Viking's father warmly welcomed Schiller. Like everyone else, he held university professors in awe. On the way back, Schiller learned from the Viking about his father's history.

The Viking's father was the longest-serving lighthouse keeper in Brodhaven. He had witnessed countless returning ships. He claimed he could name every captain who'd docked in Brodhaven, and remember every story each captain had told.

When the steaming fish soup was set on the table, white mist rose until it touched the ceiling lamp. Placed in the center, the large pot warmed the entire room. The deep blue night beyond the wooden window no longer felt cold.

As the Viking said, his father made an excellent fish soup. The mixed-fish broth was exceptionally savory; the pepper gave each sip an extra warmth as it went down.

Schiller took one sip, exhaled, and felt sweat break on his forehead. The Viking drained his bowl in a few gulps, sighed deeply, and set the bowl down. "My father built his reputation on this soup. Every fisherman in town respects him—everyone wants to drink old Currie's steaming fish broth after a day's catch."

The man called Old Currie smiled gently. "That's an exaggeration. But I did win your mother's heart with my cooking."

"Your surname is Currie? Then what's your name?" Schiller asked the Viking. The Viking shrugged. "I'm Arthur. Arthur Currie. You can call me Little Currie—or just Arthur."

Schiller nodded, took another sip of soup, and said: "So this is Mercy Harbor?"

"I haven't heard that name in ages," Old Currie sighed. "It's what those Europeans called it—'God forgives all.'"

My Healing Game

"But since we were discovered late, our harbor shared a name with another on a different coast. For the past few decades, hardly anyone uses it anymore. Only old folks like me still remember."

"I once saw that name in a document," Schiller nodded. "The article seemed to describe local fisheries. The author was also very old."

In truth, Schiller had seen Mercy Harbor in comics—it was the hometown of Aquaman, one of the Justice League's seven titans, Arthur Currie. And the blond man sitting before him was Arthur Currie.

"That makes sense," Old Currie leaned back in his chair, relaxing with a sigh. "You're truly learned. When this place was still called Mercy Harbor, fisheries were thriving. Back then, there were far more ships than now."

"I'm curious," Schiller asked. "Gotham's so close. Why didn't its fishing industry develop? Its population is larger."

Old Currie, an experienced fisherman, replied: "It won't work. Gotham's rainy weather is deadly—not just for people, but for fish. Fishing near shore is impossible. Aquaculture won't work either."

"Old fishermen know: these shallow-water seaweeds need sunlight. Gotham's daylight hours are so short, even plants struggle to grow. Add industrial pollution, and the nearshore waters are ruined…" Old Currie shook his head. He clearly thought Gotham could never develop a fishing industry.

Schiller nodded. It made sense. The greenery in Gotham had always been poor—even the trees and shrubs looked sickly. Since arriving in Brodhaven, the world felt brighter, almost blinding.

But this was how the world should be. Gotham's weather—where even 10 a. m. felt like midnight—was unfit for humans, or for plants.

As Schiller and Old Currie discussed fisheries, Arthur suddenly set his bowl down, stood up, and said: "I almost forgot—wait, I'll be right back!"

He rushed out. Old Currie frowned, displeased, but didn't call him back. Instead, he explained to Schiller: "Sorry. For the past few months, he's been doing this—vanishing at night, returning hours later."

Schiller smiled. "Could it be love? Some of my students stay out all night too—they're dating."

"Who knows?" Old Currie sighed, worried. "Arthur's too wild and loud. Girls don't like him. The girls here prefer men like you—polite, cultured. I'm worried about his future marriage."

"They'll find their true love eventually," Schiller said, turning to look out the window, where he saw Arthur walking toward the sea. "Teenagers are impulsive, lost, confused. But in a few years, they'll grow up overnight."

"Sometimes, I don't want him to grow up," Old Currie said, gazing at Arthur's silhouette outside. His tone carried an unspoken emotion—this remark seemed to mean more than it said.

The fish soup on the table had cooled, no longer steaming. The fireplace burned, but its warmth had faded.

Arthur hadn't returned. Schiller picked up his umbrella and moved to open the door. Old Currie stopped him. "Professor, you shouldn't go out so late. Arthur will be back soon."

"Don't worry. You forgot where I'm from?"

"Oh my goodness—you're from Gotham? Then I was wasting my worry. But please hurry back. It's cold outside. Don't catch a chill."

Schiller pulled on his coat, opened the door, and stepped into Brodhaven's night.

It was far quieter than Gotham. No gang wars. No gunfire. No killers dumping bodies. No terrorists planting bombs. Everything was calm, peaceful.

Schiller followed Arthur's footprints to a beach not far from the house. There, he saw Arthur sitting on a rock, speaking to the air.

Perhaps it wasn't just air. Schiller looked at the moonlit sea. Beneath the shimmering waves, a school of fish swam around Arthur's feet. He heard Arthur say:

"How's he doing today? Really? Too bad you can't talk—if you could, I'd ask you to tell him to hold on. I'll set sail to rescue him soon."

"What? He was beaten?!" Arthur suddenly raised his voice, standing up anxiously. "No—I have to go now. I have to help him!"

Under the moonlight, a voice came:

"Who are you trying to help?"