Chapter 638: Is This Really a Professor from Gotham University? (Part 2)

Six hours later, the boat still showed no sign of stopping; they had resupplied along the coast several times and even encountered a storm—had Arthur not possessed a special ability to avoid storms by sensing fish schools, this new vessel would surely have been badly damaged by now.

This fishing boat was never designed for open-ocean voyages; it could only operate in near-to-mid coastal waters, and forcing it to sail from California's coastline all the way to Mexico was pushing it far beyond its limits.

Finally, after about seven and a half hours, the boat came to a stop. Schiller's face was pale; he gripped the railing and looked at Arthur as he emerged, asking, "Are we really here?"

"We've only reached the vicinity of the islands now—we still need to find the exact one. If you're unwell, rest inside. I'll swim out and look."

Schiller nodded, accepting the arrangement—first, he couldn't swim; second, even if he could, he had no strength left.

The Grey Mist was right: his seasickness was psychological. The Grey Mist could forcibly suppress his stomach muscles from spasming, but the discomfort still transferred elsewhere—chest tightness, cold sweats, and more.

Even if the Grey Mist could suppress all these symptoms, Schiller's mind would still tell him his body was suffering, so he decided it was better to stay aboard.

The Superego said he was taking a vacation and barred him from entering the Mind Palace—meaning he couldn't seek blessings from the Dream God, nor could he poke that feather to summon Lucifer, not even if he wanted to jump into the sea and drown himself—death wouldn't take him.

Schiller entered the ship's only cabin, which had likely served as temporary quarters for the crew. There was a decent sofa bed; he lay down and drifted into a drowsy sleep.

Soon, he was jolted awake by loud commotion—he heard strange, garbled Spanish, followed by several gunshots.

As Schiller rose, he felt the deck shake—someone had boarded. He stood, gripping his umbrella, standing by the door.

The men outside spoke only Spanish; Schiller understood only a few words, roughly that the boat was new and in good condition.

Suddenly, a flurry of footsteps approached the door. It burst open with a bang, and a man entered holding a rifle, muttering Spanish curses.

But he had taken only one step inside when a knife pierced his chest. Schiller retracted his umbrella, watching the man collapse. Yin frowned.

The man wore a gray headscarf—resembling either a Mexican or a Caribbean pirate—but Schiller quickly identified them: he heard men outside shouting the name of a drug. These were Mexican drug traffickers.

From their tone, they intended to seize the boat for drug transport. Footsteps suggested they had already reached the bridge. Schiller instantly teleported to the end of the corridor; the trafficker there saw him and instinctively raised his rifle and opened fire.

Now Schiller was certain: these madmen were traffickers. Pirates typically took hostages for ransom; traffickers slaughtered everyone on board—they needed no survivors.

Bullets couldn't penetrate Yemengjia's serpent skin. Schiller unfurled his umbrella, blocking every round, then killed five or six traffickers with single strokes before reaching the bridge.

Three traffickers remained in the bridge. When they saw Schiller, they blurted a flood of Spanish. But after Schiller killed the first, the other two didn't aim at him—they fired at the control panel.

After dispatching the remaining two with single cuts, Schiller heard their dying curses. Combined with their earlier destruction of the bridge, he realized: they mistook him for a rival trafficker and, in death, sought to sabotage his vessel so he couldn't do business.

In this region, only such a ruthless group would act this way—and perhaps some American agents were among them, deliberately provoking conflict.

Judging by their attire, Schiller guessed they were low-level thugs from a drug cartel, Ouran stumbled upon the fishing boat, and planned to steal it back as proof of their worth.

Their gear was poor, they carried nothing valuable, and their combat ability was weak—Schiller dispatched them with a few teleports and slashes. Had they been trained, armed traffickers, it wouldn't have been so easy.

The drug trade in South America thrives so wildly precisely because the U. S. tolerates it. The elite traffickers' weapons rival those of U. S. Army infantry—and how they acquired them needs no explanation.

Having eliminated the traffickers, Schiller didn't relax. The bridge was a wreck—bullets had shredded the control panel, and one man had fired a shotgun directly at it. This was no warship; even a warship hit like this would have its buttons blown off.

Soon, Arthur saw the scattered corpses and the ruined bridge. Then he saw Schiller, pale and weak, holding his umbrella-knife, methodically stabbing each trafficker again to ensure they were dead.

Standing at the bridge door, Arthur swallowed hard and whispered, "... Is this really a professor from Gotham University?"

"You're back? Come in." Schiller waved him over. "Look—look what they did to it. Can we still sail?"

Arthur cared more for the boat. He stepped over the corpses, examined the control panel, and said, "It's unlikely. Most buttons are dead. I'll try to restart it."

After fiddling, Arthur said, "No good. A circuit must be damaged. I need to check the engine."

He left the bridge, returned moments later, and said, "The hijackers are veterans. They didn't damage the engine—but they disabled its ignition system."

"Can you say that plainly?" Schiller asked.

"They removed the ignition wiring. The engine's intact—but it won't start."

"Can you fix it?" Schiller asked.

"I can—but I need materials. I can't conjure wires out of thin air. And I just located the island where the trapped man is—we still have to rescue him."

"Get off the boat," Schiller said firmly, turning toward the exit. "They'll be back soon. We can lose the ship—but we must stay safe."

Arthur opened his mouth, glanced at the corpses, unsure whose safety Schiller meant—but he followed Schiller ashore. As his feet touched land, he looked back at the boat with deep regret.

Schiller was protecting Arthur's safety. The youthful version of Superman was still developing, far from his peak strength. Aquaman was even weaker—even at his peak, he wasn't strong. Whether this youthful version could even withstand bullets was doubtful.

Though he'd be nearly invincible in water, he was more likely to freeze at the sight of armed, vicious traffickers charging him—forgetting even that swimming was his strength.

The land they reached was another island. Schiller looked around: nothing but coconut trees and seabirds. He said, "So how do we reach the island you mentioned?"

"Uh... I can swim there..." Arthur began, then saw Schiller's unfriendly gaze. He immediately corrected himself: "No problem—I just spotted some helpful companions. They'll take you."

Ten minutes later, Schiller stared at a pod of dolphins and sighed deeply at Arthur: "Why do you think they can carry me?"

Schiller couldn't identify the exact species, but they were slender, small-bodied, and lacked any surface suitable for riding.

Dolphins varied by species—some large ones might carry humans, but these clearly couldn't.

Arthur thought a moment. "Wait—I'll go look again."

Half an hour passed before Arthur returned. He floated far out in deep water, looking exhausted. Schiller shouted, "What's wrong? Did you swim far?"

"No! I had to..."

Arthur hadn't finished when a geyser of water slammed him under. Then Schiller saw a massive black shape rise from the sea—white patches on its cheeks, strikingly resembling a panda. It was an orca.

"You can stand on the dolphins' backs first, then ride the orca. This guy's big enough to carry you easily."

Arthur swam over, whistled, and summoned the dolphins. One by one, they surfaced, forming a living staircase. Schiller glanced around, sighed, and resignedly stepped onto the dolphins.

Thanks to the Grey Mist's regulation, Schiller's balance was far superior to normal humans. Though his steps were uneven and his shoes soaked, he reached the orca's back without incident.

The orca had a towering dorsal fin—nearly 1.7 meters tall—perfect as a handhold. As Schiller gripped it, the orca swam, and he felt steadier than he had on the boat.

Arthur swam ahead, saying, "Finding a quiet one isn't easy. These guys are always mischievous. Getting them to carry someone takes a lot of favors."

Schiller gripped the orca's fin, curious, and asked, "What favor did you offer him?"

"I had to play with him. I spent five minutes communicating with him—then the rest of the half-hour was just playing."

As the orca floated half its back above water, it swam slowly—so slowly that Arthur even swam ahead. He stopped, patted the orca's head, and said, "Good kid. Just came of age, but already huge. He'll grow into a real giant."

"I heard orcas live in the Gulf of Mexico, but I never expected to find one so easily," Arthur said as he swam. "And orcas usually appear in pairs or family groups. A lone one like this is rare."

Though slow, they soon reached the island Arthur had scouted.

This time, no dolphins formed a path. Arthur reached shore first, then looked at Schiller still on the orca's back and said, "The orca can't go ashore—it'll strand!"

"Sorry, Professor. You'll have to swim the last bit..."

Then he saw Schiller vanish from the orca's back—and reappear beside him, completely dry.

Arthur stared, murmuring:

"Is this really a professor from Gotham University?"