Chapter 747

Blood from his forehead dripped into his eyes, blurring Batman's vision; in a sea of crimson, he saw a hand reach out before him, then pick up the ring.

Next, a pair of leather shoes entered his field of view; the man before him slowly crouched down, holding the ring, and slammed it hard into the road surface, where it sank halfway and vanished.

Batman rolled with all his strength to the side, scrambled to his feet, and knelt there gasping; when he opened his eyes again, he saw Schiller's face—the professor across from him adjusted his glasses and said:

"Alcoholism, drunk driving, staying out all night, street racing, noise pollution at midnight… Batman, if you're truly this free right now, shouldn't you consider turning in your overdue assignments?"

Batman coughed twice; he noticed blood in his saliva, but felt no pain in his lungs—he suspected oral bleeding from the earlier impact. He took a deep breath, stood up, and staggered toward the Batmobile.

Schiller made no move to stop him, only watched as Batman struggled mightily to flip the overturned Batmobile back upright, then climbed back into the driver's seat.

Batman squinted, reaching for the accelerator—next second, a ring embedded itself in the windshield, less than ten centimeters from his nose.

Instantly, half his drunkenness vanished.

"Professor…" Batman's voice was guttural; his lips didn't move as he spoke—the word seemed squeezed directly from his lungs, vibrating with a resonance that made the rain tremble.

"Where are you planning to drive?" Schiller asked, standing before the Batmobile. After the violent crash, the vehicle's headlights were dark, so Batman couldn't see his expression.

"I'm going back to Wayne Manor." Batman replied.

"Are you really going back like this? Do you know how old Alfred is this year? Do you know how he'll feel seeing you covered in blood?" Schiller retracted the ring and used it to illuminate the surroundings.

This was the highway out of Gotham, still within the city limits, but no longer the bustling urban scene—here, the sound of rain was far more distinct.

Ten minutes later, beneath the eaves of a nearby alley, Batman sat on the steps, holding the ring for light; Schiller stood behind him, wrapping bandages around his head.

"You… you saw her? Saw that…" Batman stopped, as if unwilling to utter the word—but Schiller said directly: "Yes, I saw the body."

"She was a poor child, subjected to terrible abuse; severe malnutrition greatly increased her chance of dying young. Honestly, her surviving this long was already luck."

"No." Batman shook his head. "I didn't watch over her. I thought she had no strength to resist, so I never checked her bedroom window. I never imagined she'd jump from it. She was already so weak—even a second-story drop was too high for her."

"I didn't watch over Elsa either. Elsa frightened her, causing her to choke; by the time her heart stopped, I couldn't save her."

Schiller's hands paused, then he asked: "Do you blame all this on your lack of a more thorough plan?"

"Isn't that right?"

Schiller sighed, about to speak—but Batman said: "Yes, I should've studied child psychology before bringing them home. I shouldn't have moved them around so often. I should've used medical interventions first—to restore their nutrition, improve their physical condition…"

"I shouldn't have brought her back alone. At least I should've given her someone of her own kind. On her first night, I should've stayed with her—not left her alone all night, prying at the window…"

Batman's voice grew heavier. "I thought she might run away—but I never thought she'd jump out the window. I never thought she'd dare. I should've known: traumatized patients aren't bound by fear."

"I should've told Dick and Elsa before bringing her back—not to frighten her. After she ran out and came back, I should've acted immediately to preserve her body heat—not stood there arguing with someone…"

Batman, as if holding back for too long, spoke rapidly, fueled by the returning alcohol: "Dick was the same. He didn't want to come home because I never considered he might hate this new environment—he might not want to change schools again and again; he might prefer staying with the choir kids…"

"There should've been better ways to handle all this." Batman wiped the blood from his eyes. "If I'd thought carefully, I could've prevented all this."

"Why won't you allow yourself to make mistakes?" Schiller asked.

"Because she's dead. She was a child. A child's life. No life should be the price paid for another's error." Batman opened his mouth. "If Batman makes a mistake, someone dies. What's the difference between that and dying at a criminal's hands?"

"Do you want everything in this world to fit within your plans? Do you want to never make a mistake?" Schiller asked.

"Of course."

"What drives you to make such a decision?" Schiller asked again.

Alcohol continued to erode Batman's mind; those who rarely drink always get drunk more easily.

Even without Schiller's hypnosis, Batman naturally slipped into a hypnotic state; hallucinations flooded his vision—bizarre, surreal scenes that made him shiver with cold.

"Bats… bats." Batman answered. "One night, a swarm of bats flew past the window. I heard them say to me: you can join us, and save this city…"

"Fear is driving you."

Schiller said. Psychologists are skilled at interpreting patients' strange imagery—unrelated objects, fairy-tale-like stories, even disgusting or unsettling fantasies—all represent buried emotions.

Schiller asked: "Are you afraid of things outside your plan because of the bad outcomes they might cause—or because those outcomes might shatter your perfect identity?"

Batman seemed not to understand this long, complex question. He remained silent, struggling to shake off the returning drunkenness—but he'd drunk too much. His efforts were useless.

"Batman? Batman?" Schiller called—but Batman gave no response. He had slipped into a foggy, half-conscious state—commonly called "blacking out."

Schiller's long string of questions became his final lullaby. In a dark alley beside a torrential downpour, Batman fell asleep—proof he was truly drunk.

The next morning, the rain stopped. Every spring dawn in Gotham was equally chilly. Bruce sat up in bed; the moment he moved, he felt a sharp headache.

He got out of bed, walked to the window, opened it—the cold wind brushed his temples, clearing his head somewhat.

Before opening his door, Bruce paused. He felt an irrational fear—he feared that when he opened it, Alfred wouldn't be there.

But after a few seconds, he opened the door anyway—and heard the crackling of burning logs in the fireplace.

He exhaled in relief. As he reached the stairs, he saw Alfred dusting the telephone with a duster.

He wore deerskin gloves Bruce hadn't seen in years—making his movements less agile—but Bruce's grip on the banister tightened. In the cold air, an emotion began to brew.

"Oh, Master, you're awake? Good morning. Breakfast is ready—you may go and eat." Alfred smiled at Bruce, as if nothing had happened last night.

But Bruce's memory told him many things had occurred—he needed to know the outcome. So he asked: "Where's Elsa? Has she come back?"

"Yes, Miss has returned, Master. She didn't run far. I brought her back, but since I didn't see you, I put her to bed." Alfred smiled as he answered.

The moment he finished speaking, a flurry of light footsteps came from behind.

Elsa, in her pajamas, ran down the stairs "clattering," dashed to the dining table, pulled out a chair, jumped onto it, sat down, picked up knife and fork, licked her lips, and turned back to Alfred.

Alfred smiled, guiding Bruce to the table. Bruce wanted to say something to Elsa—but she had already buried her face in her food. Alfred stood behind him and said:

"Miss Elsa engaged in vigorous activity last night. When she returned, she was already hungry. But since it was too late, eating would've been bad for her health—so now, she's probably quite hungry."

Seeing this, Bruce said nothing. He began eating breakfast too—but halfway through, he felt something was missing. He set down his fork and asked: "Alfred, where's today's newspaper?"

Alfred, holding the duster, twitched his fingers slightly. "I'm sorry, Master. I woke up late today—the paper hasn't been pressed yet. But today's paper still promotes the Angelica Troupe and their new play, 'Macbeth'…"

"Oh, Master," Alfred suddenly raised his voice a little. "This is Gotham's first official theater performance in ten years. All the city's elite will attend. You really should go. Shall I get tickets for you, Master Dick, and Miss Elsa?"

Bruce glanced at his plate. "No, I won't go. Get tickets for Selina, Dick, and Elsa—let them go together."

Alfred nodded, said nothing more. After breakfast, when Alfred took Elsa to the backyard for exercise, Bruce frowned.

The paper wasn't pressed? Bruce didn't believe that excuse. In decades of serving the Wayne family, Alfred had never served breakfast without the paper pressed first.

On this point, Alfred himself was even more rigid than any Wayne—he would not be swayed from his obsession with ensuring the family knew the latest news.

Bruce went to the back of the hall, looked through the window, and saw Alfred playing with Elsa. He left through the dining corridor, circled the hall, and entered the ironing room.

Alfred usually ironed here—clothes, gloves, newspapers. The newspaper delivered by the boy was always placed here immediately after being taken from the mailbox.

But Bruce searched for a long time and found no trace of the paper. He returned to the hall, stepped outside the front door, opened the mailbox, and peered inside.

The mailbox was empty. Bruce frowned, closed the door, and began scanning the street on both sides.

At that moment, Wayne Manor's neighbor happened to step out.

Near Wayne Manor lived a mother and daughter. The mother was the widow of a wealthy merchant from the East Coast, but due to her superior business acumen, the family had thrived even more than when her husband was alive—thus she was honored as Lady Goth. Her daughter was Miss Goth.

Both dressed identically: in the latest fashionable wool coats, paired with bright boots, matching scarves and hats, and carrying handbags.

Bruce retreated into the manor's courtyard, hiding behind the shrubs, listening to their conversation.

Lady Goth spoke first: "If not for your insistence, I'd never sit with those stinking dockworkers for dinner. Wasn't last night's experience bad enough?"

"Don't say that, Mother. Look at those people—some girls my age stare longingly at my boots. And didn't you see how those East End women pretending to be ladies looked at you?"

"Hmph. Don't try to trick me. You just want to see young Vitt. I've known for ages. That boy's character is poor, but his family is respectable enough. If you meet Mr. Vitt today, behave with restraint."

"I know, Mother. What topic should I start with? Should I talk about the recent play?" Miss Goth's voice was hesitant.

"Foolish girl." Lady Goth scolded. "The play hasn't even opened yet. What are you going to talk about? Didn't you read this morning's paper? You should talk to the outsider, Mr. White, about our local celebrity—the Batman."

"Ugh, what's so interesting about him? Just a hypocritical rich man. The papers all say he uses rescuing beggar children as an excuse to lure them to his base and indulge himself. It's disgusting. I heard one child died—he's truly…"

Lady Goth quickly covered her mouth. "Don't say such things. That's not a topic for a young lady like you. Let those filthy men gossip all they want."

The mother and daughter whispered, hurrying past Wayne Manor's courtyard. Through the gap in the hedge, Bruce saw Lady Goth use her handkerchief to cover her mouth as she sized up Wayne Manor, then said to her daughter:

"In my opinion, young Wayne is the best choice. A playboy? That's the least important quality in a husband. If you marry young Wayne, I'll thank God every week."

The sound of high heels faded into the distance. Bruce's expression turned cold. He walked along the courtyard wall to the back of Wayne Manor, avoiding Alfred's sight, and scaled the wall with practiced ease.

Behind Wayne Manor were two other estates. But since the South District was newly built, the buildings were less dense than in the West District. Bruce walked down one street, turned a corner, and found another household's mailbox.

Bruce knew the Ma Lei head of this household was allergic to ink. Though they subscribed to the paper, they never read it. Bruce had once heard the paperboy complain that yesterday's paper still sat in the mailbox when he delivered the new one.

Bruce glanced around—no one nearby. He pried open the mailbox and pulled out a newspaper.

He closed the mailbox, walked two more corners, found a deserted alleyway, and opened the paper to read.

He didn't need to read carefully—the front-page headline screamed in bold letters:

"Batman? To hell with your Gotham hero!"

Beneath it, the subheading read: "Batman kidnaps children: a cruel child killer wearing a hero's mask!"

The article was long, but mainly followed a chronological timeline, detailing how Batman had "rescued" street children under the guise of salvation, taken them away, and driven them to death.

Four photos accompanied the timeline. The first showed Batman's fleeting shadow in a dark alley—Bruce remembered this alley, and the narrow gap between it and another, where a metal sheet had been laid; three children, including the girl, had once lived there.

The second photo showed Batman standing atop a tall building. But due to the angle and background, he looked less like a hero and more like a killer hunting for the right moment to strike.

The third and fourth photos were close-ups, clearly revealing the shape of Batman's mask.

Batman had roamed Gotham for so long that newspapers had taken notice before. Reporters had risked their lives to photograph him at night—but he usually caught them on the spot and confiscated their equipment.

Few papers dared publish stories about him. After all, who wanted to deal with a man in a tight suit who appeared at midnight? Gangsters had at least some sense of reason—but a madman? There was no arguing with madness.

But this time, the article took up an entire page of the Gotham Morning News.

The writing was sharp, the narration polished, and the tone highly inflammatory. More importantly, it precisely targeted Gotham's psychology—

Rather than worshiping gods, these people preferred watching them fall.