Chapter 746: Night Rain, Lament (Part 2)

Schiller confirmed he truly smelled alcohol—it wasn't something ginger juice could mimic. He frowned, looking at Bruce, who lay quietly on the sofa, breathing evenly, seemingly asleep.

If the person across from him were merely a rich heir, Schiller wouldn't be the least surprised.

The empty manor, the drunken young master, the extinguished fireplace left unattended—all spoke of a lonely heir's story.

But Bruce Wayne was not just a wealthy boy; he was Batman, the most disciplined man on Earth.

Schiller had seen him substitute ginger juice for beer; the sharp sensation helped him perform more naturally, and Batman's portrayal of intoxication was flawless—even Schiller couldn't be certain whether he'd actually drunk anything.

So he stepped forward and prodded Bruce with his umbrella tip. As Bruce raised his hand, he made no movement—Schiller knew he was truly asleep.

Batman drinking alcohol was simply too abnormal.

Schiller sighed, turned, and walked to the fireplace, finding the shelf beside it stacked high with firewood—yet none had been added to the hearth. Judging by the dampness of the logs, they'd just been brought in. Alfred had prepared everything for Bruce before leaving.

Schiller picked up several dry logs and placed them in the fireplace. Soon, flames roared to life, illuminating every detail of the hall.

Clearly, something had just happened here. In any space once occupied, every mark told a story.

Schiller took a deep breath and began his deduction.

The most obvious mark in the entire hall was the trail of footprints stretching from the front door inward. Of course, these weren't Schiller's—he always wiped his shoes on the mat.

Moreover, these tiny footprints were very small, likely left by a girl around seven or eight. Schiller walked to the door and saw the prints were made by two people: a smaller child ran ahead, a larger one followed behind.

They must have chased each other into the house and were stopped not far from the entrance.

Schiller crouched, studying where the footprints ended. There were water stains there, as if dripped from something. He guessed it was rainwater from hair. Combined with the shape of the prints, these were two little girls.

The light dimmed again. Schiller stepped over the footprints toward the sofa. Through the fireplace's glow, he saw Bruce sitting there reading a newspaper. When he saw the two girls burst in one after the other, he stood and walked toward the door.

Instantly, time froze. Drops hung suspended in air. Bruce's stride halted.

Schiller stepped forward, reached into the gap between the sofa armrests, and pulled out the crumpled newspaper beneath. He saw it reported that the Metropolis Angelica Troupe had arrived in Gotham, along with a brief performance schedule.

Schiller flipped the paper over, studying its creases. Then, the Bruce who had risen and reached the door retreated, changing posture.

He held the newspaper, stood up, and upon seeing the two girls rush in, he hadn't even bothered to refold it—he simply tossed it beside the armrest and sprinted forward.

The newspaper's position revealed Bruce's urgency. But why was Bruce so anxious? He knew full well that Elsa was no ordinary child—she wouldn't fall ill from rain, not even from boiling water.

Schiller stepped forward, picked up the crumpled newspaper caught between the sofa armrests, and saw that it reported the Great Metropolitan Angelica Troupe had arrived in Gotham, along with a brief listing of their performances.

Schiller returned to the footprints, studying their size, and recalled the children he'd seen in the basement. Their faces and figures replayed in his mind—until one emaciated girl's face emerged clearly.

Before him, the girl stood at the front, Elsa behind her, reaching out to grab her. Alfred stood to the left; Bruce, just arriving, stood to the right.

Judging by the water stains' accumulation, they'd lingered there briefly. Then the girl stayed put, but Elsa ran out—and Alfred chased after her.

The clues near the door ended here. Schiller deduced Bruce had brought the girl home, but for some reason, she and Elsa had run out together in the rain, and Elsa had chased her back.

At that moment, Bruce may have been furious—he scolded Elsa, and she ran off in anger, Alfred chasing after her.

Schiller returned to the sofa where Bruce lay, noticing a letter on the coffee table, written in Dick's handwriting.

Having tutored Dick for so long, Schiller knew his penmanship well. The letter stated Dick was swamped with schoolwork and would stay overnight at school for several days—he wouldn't be returning home.

Schiller frowned at the letter. Schoolwork? What could possibly be so demanding in middle school? Besides, Dick hated studying—he'd rather walk home every day than stay overnight and be forced to do homework.

Schiller glanced again at Bruce, whose brow remained furrowed even in sleep. He knew Bruce and Dick had clashed—Dick refused to come home.

Schiller had long anticipated this day. Bruce's personality was impossible to describe—he'd inevitably fail to communicate with Dick. He just hadn't expected it to happen so soon.

Schiller had his own theories about their rift. After all, he'd watched how Bruce treated those children—and he knew better than anyone what their core issues were.

For abused children, frequent changes in environment were devastating, triggering severe stress responses.

Previously, Cobblepot rescued them and hid them in a bar's basement. Bruce then took them to the hospital, then brought this girl home. In all this, the hospital environment likely traumatized them further.

Luxurious restaurants and manors were easier for them to accept because, though finer, the objects were still familiar.

For example, the chair's carvings were exquisite, but it was still a chair—they understood its purpose. Tables held things. Beds were for sleeping.

Hospitals were different. Too many unfamiliar things: Was the IV stand a new weapon? What was the nurse doing with the syringe? Why did everyone stare? Why change clothes? Why lie on the bed?

These unknowns terrified them. This girl, having just escaped one hell, was thrust into another—and by now, she may have lost all rational awareness.

Schiller found traces in a corner of the room—she'd hidden there. But it was clear Bruce had followed.

Clearly, Bruce's actions toward the girl were almost all wrong. He overfocused, pressed too hard—creating immense pressure.

For children traumatized and abused, their perception of the world was twisted. What seemed normal to others was terrifying to them.

For example, an adult approaching meant they'd be beaten. Someone pinning them to a bed meant something worse was coming.

Constant talking might mean they'd be thrown out. Someone holding their hand while speaking to another might mean they'd be sold.

Their minds had formed these associations—so such actions only deepened their trauma.

Schiller reconstructed Bruce's behavior. Clearly, through step-by-step stimulation, the girl completely lost her mind—she could only react by instinct.

Combined with her physical condition, Schiller believed she could remain active for no more than three hours before collapsing. Afterward, she'd be returned to her room to sleep.

But worse: when she woke and found herself in yet another unfamiliar place, the trauma would intensify.

They wouldn't understand "sleep in the bedroom," "eat in the dining room." They only felt trapped in a terrifying vortex—with no escape.

At such moments, the only thing they could do was run.

Schiller didn't know how the girl escaped Wayne Manor—but she clearly succeeded. Only Elsa chased after her.

Elsa drove the girl back to Wayne Manor. But at that moment, Bruce made another mistake.

He believed he'd made progress—then, in an instant, she got soaked again, developed a high fever, and nearly vanished. All prior progress vanished. Not only had they regressed—they were worse off.

He didn't probe the deeper cause of this failure. He simply expressed frustration.

Perhaps he asked Alfred why the girl ran out. Perhaps he demanded answers from Elsa.

But Elsa wasn't an ordinary child—she was a wild, chaotic creature. Sensing Bruce's emotion, she fled Wayne Manor outright.

It was raining heavily. Alfred would have chased after Elsa. That left only Bruce and the girl alone.

Schiller searched the hall and upstairs but found no trace of the girl. He thought, then crossed the hall toward the garden.

The garden held no child's footprints—but Schiller found Bruce's.

Normally, Batman wouldn't leave such traces. Clearly, his emotions were unbalanced during this walk.

Schiller anticipated the outcome—but when he opened the storage door, he still sighed.

In a corner of the storage room, a wooden crate was stuffed with blankets and quilts. Schiller lifted one corner—sure enough, a tiny foot appeared.

He pulled back all the blankets and quilts. Inside lay a girl—now completely breathless.

From the corpse, death occurred no more than three hours ago. Cause: severe malnutrition compounded by hypothermia-induced cardiac and pulmonary failure.

Schiller checked her chest, wrists, and neck. Bruce had attempted first aid. But for a child this age, after such trauma, survival was nearly impossible. When she returned to Bruce, she was likely already on the edge of unconsciousness.

An adult in severe, prolonged hypothermia would suffer cardiac failure in ten to fifteen minutes. This girl's fragile condition shortened the process drastically—death likely took no more than thirty seconds. Even Batman's technology couldn't save her.

Schiller sighed, re-covered the body, and stood. Behind him, he heard movement. He turned—darkness at the storage door, then a darker shape emerged.

Bruce stood outside, holding a pistol—but didn't raise it. His expression was vacant, as if unaware he stood in the rain.

Schiller took one step forward. Bruce turned and walked away. By the time Schiller reached the door, he saw only Bruce's silhouette turning a corner, vanishing into the manor's side.

Suddenly—*bang*. A thud echoed through the empty manor, chillingly loud.

Schiller opened his umbrella and returned to the hall. Bruce was gone. But the liquor cabinet had toppled. Fine red wine spilled across the floor.

A glance told Schiller: two more bottles were missing—besides the two already gone when he arrived. Bruce had taken them.

Schiller turned to the window. The Batmobile's roar rose. A shadow, lit by lightning, sped toward the horizon.

Batman drove his car fast along Gotham's streets. The night was silent. The wide, straight road held only one vehicle. No obstacles ahead—he accelerated further.

The scenery blurred. He lost sensation of speed.

The Batmobile's flawless suspension eliminated road vibrations. He felt as if flying through the rain, like bats skimming low.

Batman thought he was heading to the Batcave. But the car's direction had veered completely off course. Alcohol clouded his judgment—he didn't know where he was going.

Suddenly, the road felt familiar. He slowed, studying the buildings flickering in his vision. Among the layered structures, he caught a familiar silhouette.

It was White Community Middle School—where Dick now studied.

The black car slowed to a stop. Rain poured harder. The light from the school dormitory glowed like a lamp in a dark room, drawing moths upward.

Then, the Batmobile roared again. Lightning flashed on the horizon. Puddles on the road blazed white, reflecting the car's speeding shadow.

Only Batman knew: when the girl first collapsed, he'd realized the truth.

He'd always viewed these problems from his own perspective—both the girl's and Dick's.

He thought the girl needed treatment, so he sent her to the hospital. He thought Dick needed school, so he enrolled him in the church academy. After the church school incident, he transferred him to the community school. After that one was too far, he moved him to a closer one. After the boarding school incident, he switched him to day school.

When he realized the girl's mental collapse stemmed from too many environment changes, Batman finally understood what he'd been doing to Dick.

As he recalled it all, he realized Dick had repeatedly tried to tell him—but Bruce ignored him.

Dick said he had no interest in studying. Bruce dismissed it as childishness. Dick said he missed his choir classmates. Bruce called it a necessary part of life. Dick asked which club to join at the new school. Bruce assumed he could decide for himself.

He never considered the consequences of this parenting style. Just as he'd never realized his mistake in returning the girl to her room—until it was too late.

As he carried the girl's body toward the storage room, he felt its weight grow heavier. Suddenly, he saw a familiar face—Dick's. Then Elsa's.

He could only flee blindly back to the manor's hall. But the fireplace offered no warmth. Then he saw the red wine—long kept in the cabinet, never opened.

Dick said he had no interest in studying, but Batman dismissed it as childishness; Dick said he missed his choir classmates, but Batman saw it as a necessary part of life; Dick said he didn't know which club to join at his new school, but Batman believed he should be able to decide for himself.

On the highway leading out of the city, the roar grew louder. The speed increased.

Suddenly—a screeching brake. The Batmobile's safety systems activated—but failed. The car flipped. The engine exploded, engulfing it in flames.

The fire burned fiercely in the night rain. Only Gotham could produce such absurdity.

Batman crawled out of the wreck, face bloody. In his hazy, blurred vision, light flared before him.

Gentle radiance wrapped him—but he knew it was illusion. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again—and saw something roll to his feet.

Suddenly, a screeching brake sound rang out; the Batmobile's safety systems activated, but to no effect—the entire vehicle flipped over, the engine exploded, and flames erupted violently.

The flames burned fiercer amid the night rain; only Gotham could produce such an absurd scene.

Batman crawled out of the Batmobile, his face covered in blood; in his blurred, dazed vision, light flared before his eyes.

A gentle light enveloped him, but he knew it was all an illusion—he forced his eyes shut, then opened them again, and saw something roll into view before him.

It was a ring of light, impossibly bright in the rainy night.