Chapter 68: The Black Sun and the Bat Signal (Part 1)

Gotham City, a morning neither clear nor warm, saw the students of Gotham University face their final psychology exam.

As Evans handed out the papers, the classroom erupted in wails and groans; instantly, the sound of leather shoes on marble floors echoed outside the door, and the room fell utterly silent.

Schiller walked in, folding his umbrella as he entered, saw everyone bent over their papers, and nodded in satisfaction.

Then he planted his umbrella on the floor, hand resting on the handle, and stood at the center of the classroom: “This exam lasts one hour and forty minutes. Technically, you may submit early—but I’m bored Jiankao ing here, so any paper you hand in, I’ll grade immediately.”

“At the very least, make sure what you write is enough for me to read until you walk out that door.”

“Also, though I didn’t require you to sit apart, avoid whispering. Write neatly. No cursive. Most importantly, write your legal name clearly—I’m not going through another week like the start of term, having to repeat: no nicknames.”

“Alright, begin.”

The entire classroom fell completely silent, save for the soft scratching of pens on paper.

Gotham University had never before known such a dense atmosphere of study; Bruce glanced up between writing, and saw to his right-front the nephew of the East Side Hyenas—a boy who’d been smoking, drinking, and brawling since he was ten, a pure delinquent.

Yet now he sat there, ten minutes passed, and he was still writing—his brain, saturated with alcohol and tobacco, somehow still capable of producing words.

To Bruce’s left sat Gotham University’s infamous graffiti kid, skilled in spray-painting, constantly defacing walls, even during Xie Dun’s campus alcohol ban, when he’d sprayed a mocking portrait of the dean onto the corridor outside the president’s office.

He was already failing—his first essay question was blank, and he was doodling random patterns across the page.

Bruce, with his sharp eyes, took a glance: the drawing was Schiller—but unlike crude graffiti, this Schiller stood with his back to a black sun, arms outstretched, swirling particle-like patterns circling him; the image was eerie yet striking, though Bruce wondered if Schiller would reward such meticulous art with two extra points.

Half an hour passed, and still over two-thirds of the class were writing—this was nothing short of a Gotham University miracle.

In past finals, first, a few troublemakers would simply skip class—the seats wouldn’t even fill. Two minutes in, someone would finish writing their name, stand, and leave.

“This Celebrity Wants to Retire”

Ten minutes in, many would finish the easy multiple-choice questions, toss down their pens, and hand in their papers to leave.

In the past, by twenty minutes, only a handful remained—and those who stayed weren’t writing essays; they were just sleeping, having nothing else to do, savoring the quiet.

But now, Bruce glanced at his watch: forty minutes had passed, and still half the class was writing.

No one dared submit early. Even those who’d exhausted every thought, teetering on the edge of despair, still bit their pens, seated, hoping their small, sluggish brains could squeeze out a few more words to fill the page—trying to make their answers, halfway between illiterate and semi-literate, seem just barely acceptable to this professor.

In truth, even the introductory psychology textbook contained difficult terminology, names, theories, and definitions.

Forget these Gotham University students, accustomed to ignorance—even students from top American universities had to preview material before lectures, or risk blanking out completely.

Memorization was hard enough for students whose brains hadn’t turned in years, let alone cramming it all in one or two weeks.

When an hour passed, nearly everyone had stopped writing; Bruce jotted down the names of those still writing on his scratch paper—they would form the core of his future psychology club.

He paused, then added the graffiti kid’s name too—after all, the club needed someone for promotional artwork.

After waiting a full hour and forty minutes, when the professor at the front finally barked “Collect the papers,” the classroom exhaled in a chorus of relief—they’d nearly gone mad holding their breath.

Once papers were gathered, no one dared move until Schiller had stapled them, counted them, verified the names, and carried the stack out of the room—then the classroom exploded like a detonated bomb, “Boom!”

“Shit! I didn’t know half the fill-in-the-blanks! I’m doomed!”

“Damn it! I crammed psychology definitions last night—and they didn’t even show up?! I shouldn’t have wasted so much time up front!”

“I wrote the answer to question two on question four—oh god, what do I do now? I’ll get zero on the essays!”

“Who applied for grad school? Evans, did you? Yesterday my dad told me if my brain can handle grad school, I might as well hope our dog learns to climb trees—but our dog’s a corgi…”

“I still owe two papers—I have to finish them before break, or I won’t be able to enjoy my vacation, I’ll be too anxious…”

A few gathered around Bruce’s desk—his first invitees to the club; the graffiti kid Reni, wearing a fluorescent yellow headband, said: “The professor will love my drawing—I can tell, he’s got artistic taste.”

“But he might love your correct answers more,” Bruce said.

“Come on, I know nothing. Memorizing would pollute my brain,” Reni rubbed his nose—he was a typical Germanic type, with green eyes and freckles, dressed in reggae-style clothes.

“And who says this isn’t the right answer? Who says answering requires writing? Drawing counts too—I’ll pass!”

“Fine. I’ll pay you to design a poster—big, powerful, for club promotion. Price is no object—but I want it to be unforgettable,” Bruce said.

Reni snapped his fingers: “Rich guy, you found the right man! No one in Gotham understands unforgettable better than me!”

Several heads leaned close, whispering.

“What? You mean you’re going to…”

“You’re a genius…”

“Count me in—I’m joining too!”

“This is a huge surprise… yeah, I see it working…”

“Maybe he’ll pass us just for this…”

Days later, Schiller was grading papers, his anger meter filling. Though he’d expected the incompetence of these Gotham students, he hadn’t imagined they could perform this badly.

To avoid further contamination of his mind by these academic wastes, Schiller decided to work late—finish all papers at once, then give most of them failing grades.

Suddenly, he heard a sharp cry from outside the office window—like a fire alarm, but shorter, shriller.

Schiller stood, looked out: lights were flickering. It was barely dark, far from streetlamp time; most faculty and students hadn’t left campus yet.

He heard noise below—someone shouting his surname. Schiller set down his pen, walked to the window.

The entire side of the opposite building was wrapped in a massive tarp; he’d heard rumors it was for wall renovation, but he rarely passed that way, so he hadn’t cared.

But the moment he reached the window, the tarp dropped instantly—revealing a colossal graffiti, seven stories tall. A row of spotlights below flared to life, illuminating the entire facade as bright as day.

It was indeed a massive graffiti: at the bottom, Schiller’s back; above, a black sun covered in countless strange patterns, surrounded by rings of golden flame. Schiller’s figure stood before the black sun.

Schiller’s silhouette nearly merged into the black sun’s background—or perhaps the colossal sun was his shadow.

Schiller stood at the window, momentarily blinded by the powerful spotlights; when he opened his eyes, he saw this image.

Schiller: “...”

Symbiote: “...Wow.”

Along the side of the graffiti, written: “Join the Psychology Club. Face the Mind. Face This Black Sun. —Blue Ghost Reni”

Schiller looked down: a crowd stood below, waving excitedly—mostly psychology students from Gotham University, including Bruce Wayne.

Schiller looked up again at the black sun, composed of countless eerie patterns—its bizarre, terrifying beauty held the gaze, as if it would suck your soul in.

Terrifying, strange, absurd, ludicrous—yet radiating an irresistible, addictive beauty.

Schiller recalled: “Gotham” originally meant “Village of Fools.” Indeed, it teemed with absurd fools—living without knowing why, dying without knowing where.

Yet it also teemed with geniuses—endowed with unmatched talent, radiating magnetic vitality.

Schiller was indeed captivated. This bold, bizarre madness pulsed with a unique life force found nowhere else on earth—like terrifying vines climbing from an abyss, or masterpieces rivaling the greatest artists.

Schiller knew more than these students—but he just realized he hadn’t learned one thing yet—

He still hadn’t learned Gotham.

Everyone here was mad, yet Qingxing .

This dark city needed no correction. They lived madly in the abyss, breathing a twisted, strange vitality.

This vitality grew from darkness. These people wielded madness as a blade, piercing straight into any soul.

Schiller stared straight at the black sun. He thought: perhaps everyone here was incomparable genius. The only fool was himself—the fool in every comic, pretending to be a savior.

These people, with brains that knew zero psychological theory, read their professor like telepaths.

The black sun is still a sun—an uncannily precise portrait of Schiller.

Schiller, as he is, will never be a blazing sun—but a sun that gives no light, no heat—a black sun.

Minutes later, Schiller wrote on the fogged glass with his finger: “You all passed.”

Instantly, a roar of celebration erupted below—the citizens beneath the black sun, beneath this eternal star that never glowed, celebrating as if for a new birth.