Chapter 652

In the presidential suite of the Beverly Hills Hotel in Los Angeles, Hal and Oliver were playing cards; through the window, Arthur was swimming in the outdoor pool below, where many beautiful women stared at his muscular physique and gasped with each movement.

"You're not much of a sailor, but you sure know how to show off your muscles," Oliver sighed. "I used to do the same when I was young—spending two full months in the gym just to flex at pool parties."

"You should be grateful for your fitness routine—it gave you the strength to survive on that island; otherwise, you wouldn't have made it this far," Hal said, tossing down a card.

Oliver nodded, then added: "I just called Star City. My butler was shocked—and delighted—to hear I'm still alive. He wants me to return as soon as possible…"

"Then why are you still here?" Hal reached out, glanced at his watch, and said: "Star City isn't far. If you leave now, you'll make it before dawn."

Oliver shook his head. "These past days on the island, I've been thinking about one question: Where do human sufferings truly come from?"

"Why the sudden interest in philosophy? Are you a philosopher now?" Hal sipped his chilled sparkling water, sucked in a breath, and said: "I thought only professors like Shiler studied such useless philosophical questions."

"How can you call it useless? Haven't you ever wondered about it yourself?"

"I've wondered—but does thinking alone help?" Hal sighed. "Sitting here pondering won't reduce anyone's suffering in this world. I'd rather spend that time helping others."

"But can your help eliminate all suffering in the world?" Oliver asked.

"Of course not—but every bit that disappears counts, every life you save matters, doesn't it?" Hal said.

"That's a passive mindset. Unless you understand at a spiritual level why everyone suffers, you'll never truly save them," Oliver said seriously.

Hal's hand paused mid-shuffle. "I heard a similar argument from someone once."

"Who?" Oliver looked him in the eye.

"Probably Shiler. Among people I know, only he'd say something like that," Hal scratched his head. "Sometimes I don't understand psychological or philosophical theories—but often, those words circle in my mind as if I've already grasped and remembered them."

"When he treated my wounds, he didn't act like someone who reads philosophy," Oliver sneered.

Just then, the door clicked open. Shiler stepped in, glanced at the two men playing cards in the center of the living room, and said: "You're still awake?"

"It's still early. But you—how was your visit with your old friend? Didn't he let you stay the night?" Hal looked up.

Shiler snorted. "He wanted to keep someone else overnight—a pretty female officer."

Oliver and Hal burst out laughing, clearly enjoying his misfortune. Shiler changed his shoes, walked in, sat beside the sofa, and picked up a hand of cards.

As they played and chatted, the conversation drifted back to island survival. Hal remembered Oliver's earlier words and asked: "You said drug traffickers slaughtered an entire village—what happened?"

1200ksw.

"When I first arrived on the island, I found signs of human habitation. I was overjoyed—but when I followed the trail, I found no living people, only the ruins of a village."

"That must've been where the original islanders lived. From the traces, the last activity there was long ago."

"I didn't find any full bodies, but I found severed limbs. Following those traces, I found where those bastards buried the villagers—about a dozen corpses. Probably all of them…"

"They looted the whole village. Left nothing useful. I'd planned to settle there—but…"

Oliver shook his head, his face grim. "I saw the traces of their lives, then imagined their corpses… I felt overwhelming sorrow. And the place was far from Freshwater, with little food. So I left."

"Damn drug traffickers—they're getting bolder!" Hal took a deep breath. "You might not know, but Haibincheng once relied on fishing. Back then, deep-sea vessels feared the drug lords of South America."

"If you met pirates, they'd only kidnap crewmen and demand ransom. Pay up, and they wouldn't kill you. If the captain was willing to surrender the cargo, at least no one died."

"But drug traffickers? They have no humanity. They don't need any survivors. Once they board, they kill everyone." Hal's face darkened. "My uncle—my father's eldest brother—died at their hands."

"And if you resist, they torture you to death and dump you in the sea. My uncle was a retired army officer—he suffered unspeakable torture. Even his body was never recovered…"

Hal lowered his head, sorrow etched deeper into his brow. "After that, my parents refused to let me travel far. I'm their eldest son. They feared I'd meet the same fate as my uncle…"

"I want to avenge those villagers," Oliver hesitated, then spoke out: "I know drug trafficking has existed for ages—it's probably impossible to eradicate. But I can't just stand by."

"What do you plan to do?" Hal asked immediately—he clearly shared the thought. Oliver turned, glanced out the window, and looked at Arthur still playing in the pool below.

"Arthur can communicate with fish. He said a killer whale's mother was killed by these traffickers. We can use his ability to have the whale guide us to their base—and avenge the villagers."

Shiler remained silent. Hal and Oliver turned to him. He offered no opinion, only said: "If you want to go, go. But I get seasick—I won't be joining you."

"Don't you think they're cruel?" Hal asked, staring at Shiler's unchanging expression. Then he added: "Oh, I'm not forcing you to come…"

Shiler sighed. "Have you ever wondered why all this happens?"

"Because of those evil drug traffickers!" Hal loathed them with every fiber of his being, seizing every chance to curse them. "I'll destroy them all—avenge every innocent life…"

Hal stood up, visibly enraged. Oliver rose with him. The two were in agreement. After a moment, Arthur was called up. Hearing they planned to confront the traffickers, he agreed:

"The Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean have rich fisheries. Many fleets sail there during peak seasons. They fear pirates less—they dread these drug lords. Their methods are brutal. I've heard these terrifying tales since childhood."

"Let's leave now. I can use the Green Lantern's energy to make the boat move fast. With the killer whale guiding us, we'll reach their base quickly—and they're finished."

"Let's go now," Oliver said, remembering the horrific scene he'd seen on the island.

After the three left, Shiler didn't rest long. Lucifer and Cloin arrived again. By the time they entered the hotel room, dawn had broken. Shiler was about to have breakfast, so the three went to the hotel restaurant, eating and talking.

"So you tracked down Delila's partner, crashed his wedding, and got your lead that way?" Shiler asked, taking a bite of salad.

"He wouldn't cooperate," Lucifer snorted. Cloin gave a weary look. "You should've listened to me—we should've followed procedure…"

"Fine. The goal's achieved. What did you find out?" Shiler asked.

"Delila's partner told us she had a boyfriend who beat her. She once cried in the recording studio. Cloin and I went to his house—he's a rapper, with a chaotic personal life…"

"When we arrived, he was high. I had to wake him up. I lifted him and hung him over the balcony, let the wind blow on him—then he finally talked."

"He said he beat Delila because she cheated. She often visited a therapist named Linda."

"So we came to you because we need your help," Lucifer glanced at Cloin and spoke up. "Linda's a tough one. Since you're a famous psychologist, maybe you can persuade her. We need to know who Delila cheated with."

"Did she tell you that patient confidentiality is a psychologist's ethical duty?" Shiler asked.

Cloin nodded immediately. "Exactly. We asked repeatedly, but she never wavered. That's why we came to you…"

"Patient confidentiality is indeed a psychologist's ethical duty—for me too. So I won't pressure my colleagues to reveal secrets. But I believe there's a better way to uncover the truth."

Cloin and Lucifer exchanged glances, then turned to Shiler. He cut his food with knife and fork. "I don't understand pop music, but I know that alongside pop music and commercial films rose another thing: tabloid newspapers."

"Even in Gotham, I hear newsboys shouting gossip about celebrities. How do tabloids get these rumors?"

Cloin froze, then suddenly exclaimed: "Paparazzi! Yes! Delila's been skyrocketing in fame—paparazzi must be tailing her! Let's go to The Windmill—West Coast's biggest gossip paper…"

Cloin stood and rushed out. Lucifer glanced back at Shiler, gave him a "well done" gesture, and chased after Cloin.

But just then, Shiler set down his fork, turned slightly, and glanced toward the corner of the restaurant—where a familiar figure was helping himself to food.

The figure wore a yellow-and-black uniform, standing out among the suits and long dresses.

"Long time no see… Deathstroke."