Chapter 751

Gordon stared at Bruce, then after a moment slapped his shoulder and said, "Alright, I admit, what I told you before was a bit too harsh. I know you're a good man, doing your best to help others—you shouldn't be wanted."

"Don't play around, Bruce, this is a matter of life and death. The Angelica Troupe has only been in Gotham for a few days, and their most famous leading actress has been murdered. She had countless fans—we owe the public an explanation."

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"Besides…" Gordon sighed, "Vicki's reputation in the industry is excellent. Everyone says she's a beautiful, gentle genius actress. If she'd left theater for Hollywood, she'd have achieved great success."

"We can't just stand by while an innocent life is taken. Bruce, you should be able to analyze some clues, right?"

"I…" Bruce's arms trembled slightly. He felt no constriction from the armored plating, no resistance from the wind whipping his cape. His face bore no mask, his waist carried no weapons. More importantly, no one here expected Batman to appear.

He was no longer Batman.

Fragments of clues swirled in his mind, but refused to form a coherent chain. Something blocked his thoughts. Bruce focused closely—he realized it was Bruce Wayne's own memory.

Lavish parties, chaotic waste, utter failure—that was Bruce Wayne, an irredeemable fool and a rotten person. Ten years ago, he couldn't save his parents. Today, he couldn't save anyone.

Seeing Bruce's silence, Gordon stamped his foot. "Come on, besides you, I don't know who else to turn to… Oh God, I really don't want to go to him!"

Watching Bruce slip into that dazed state, Gordon grimaced, then called over an officer. "Call the professor. Come over here. You know who I mean."

In Schiller's estate, Schiller was having dinner with Elsa.

He pointed his fork at the remaining broccoli in his plate. Elsa shook her head vigorously. He pointed again. Elsa made a sorrowful face, then picked up the broccoli with her fork and put it in her mouth.

At that moment, Merkel walked over and said, "Call from Gotham Police Department. A murder has occurred. Chief Gordon wants you to come over."

Schiller rose to leave. Elsa turned her eyes toward him. The moment his back was turned, she spat the broccoli out.

Schiller walked to the phone and asked Merkel, "What happened? Where's another murder?"

"Unclear yet, but I heard loud background noise—probably somewhere crowded?"

Schiller frowned, picked up the phone receiver resting nearby, and said, "... hat? Gotham Grand Theatre? The Angelica Troupe's leading actress?... Bruce is there too?... Who else?... Alright, I understand…"

After hanging up, Schiller told Merkel, "Watch Elsa. Make sure she finishes her vegetables. I may not return tonight."

He took his umbrella and left the estate.

When he arrived at the Gotham Grand Theatre, the rain was heavy. The old theater, washed by rain, looked even more weathered by time.

Schiller entered the lobby. The receptionist came forward to take his umbrella. Seeing he insisted on keeping it, she wiped the canopy dry for him.

On the third floor, the crime tape was already up. Gordon stepped forward and embraced Schiller. "I'm truly sorry—I always call you so late. But somehow, murders always happen after dinner."

"Investigations always happen after dinner," Schiller shook his head. "But perhaps this will be the most sorrowful murder case for me—I was genuinely looking forward to their play."

At that moment, the troupe's owner approached and shook Schiller's hand. Hearing his words, he explained, "No, Macbeth will proceed as scheduled. Vicki wasn't performing in Macbeth anyway—there's no suitable role for her. The lead is older, and will be played by a more experienced actress."

Schiller frowned and asked him, "Was this planned long ago—or was it changed only after Miss Vicki's tragic death?"

"It was planned long ago," the owner replied. "In all our dozens of Macbeth performances, Vicki never played the lead."

Schiller nodded and turned to Gordon. "Where's Bruce? You said someone identified him as the first to find the body?"

Gordon led Schiller forward. "I was just about to tell you—his mental state is off. You should go see him…"

Opening a room's door, they found Bruce sitting inside. His expression had returned to normal, no longer vacant—but Schiller could still see his poor mental condition.

After opening the door for Schiller, Gordon stepped out. Before closing it, he said, "My colleagues and I need to interrogate the others first. You've got plenty of time for psychological counseling."

Once the door closed, Schiller sat beside Bruce. Bruce glanced at him and said, "Professor, are you going to treat me?"

"No. I just want to say—if you feel unwell, go rest. I'll handle this case."

Bruce froze. He turned to stare at Schiller, who was writing a medical note. Bruce bit his lip. "That night… I must've said something. Whatever it was—it was just drunken rambling…"

Schiller kept writing, head down. "I don't remember what you said."

He put down his pen and looked at Bruce. "You look terrible. Go rest."

Schiller scanned Bruce up and down. "I know something pushed you to act this way. But if you're truly suffering, take a few days off. Everything will get better."

Schiller stood and left the room. Bruce sat where he was, stunned.

Bruce knew Schiller hated noise and demanded strict discipline. If any student got drunk, street-raced at night, and got caught, the consequences would be terrifying.

Yet now, Schiller only told him to rest—even suggested he take days off. It was almost unimaginable.

Why? Bruce didn't understand.

Batman has already been disgraced, Bruce hasn't done any better—he made no progress, didn't become more perfect, and just created a whole mess, yet this professor, always known for his strictness, didn't make things difficult for him.

Unlike before, Schiller didn't bombard him with a barrage of unsolvable questions to unsettle his thoughts, didn't pressure him for results, and didn't even express displeasure over his unannounced arrival with Elsa.

Moreover, despite knowing Bruce was the first witness to the case, Schiller outright eliminated him as a suspect, leaving Bruce, who had prepared his statement, punching nothing but air.

Bruce sat in his chair thinking, when suddenly Gordon walked in and said, "A call came from Wayne Manor—someone's asking for you. She says her name is Selina."

Bruce looked up at Gordon, who shrugged and said, "I'm not worried you'll flee, so you can go back home for now—just make sure you're back before your interrogation."

"Did she say what she wanted?" Bruce asked.

Gordon shook his head, and Bruce left the room; Gordon assigned an officer to take him back to Wayne Manor.

As soon as he entered Wayne Manor, he saw Selina's figure, and beside her stood Dick.

Selina saw Bruce return and rushed over, berating him without preamble: "Bruce, what are you thinking? Why did you leave Dick alone at school? Didn't you even remember to pick him up after class?"

Bruce didn't react, but Selina crossed her arms and continued scolding: "Today at noon—around three in the afternoon—I suddenly got a call from Dick's school."

"His teacher said he called home, but no one answered. Thank goodness you remembered to leave my contact info, otherwise Dick would've been stuck at school all night."

Bruce remembered: Alfred had gone to the hospital, and he'd sat motionless outside the hospital all afternoon—probably right then, Dick had called Wayne Manor and no one answered.

At that moment, Dick stepped forward, looked up at Bruce, and asked, "Mr. Wayne, what's wrong? And where's Alfred?"

Bruce looked down at him and said, "Why did you suddenly decide to come back?"

"Because Wednesday is also a day you can go home," Dick replied. "Uh… did I come back at a bad time?"

"You…" Bruce paused, then asked, "Aren't you angry anymore?"

"Angry? Angry about what?" Dick looked confused, then suddenly seemed to remember something. "Oh—you mean that? I should be asking you, Mr. Wayne—aren't you angry anymore? I didn't mean to ask it that way. I knew you were stressed then, and I shouldn't have…"

Bruce knelt down, placing his hands on Dick's shoulders, and asked, "Then why did you run off to school and refuse to come home?"

"I didn't run off to school to avoid making you angry—I only planned to stay one night, but then the teacher said if I didn't come back on Monday, I couldn't come back on Tuesday either—I had to stay at least two nights."

Dick shrugged. "So I stayed two nights, then came back."

Selina stepped forward and patted Bruce's shoulder. "I know you're stressed about those articles in the papers, but honestly, it doesn't matter. You don't have to care what other people think."

"What about Elsa? Elsa might still be…"

"Wah wah wah wah!"

！

A loud cry echoed outside Wayne Manor as a small black figure dashed in and crashed into Bruce's arms.

Merkel rushed in right behind, gasping for breath: "Oh, sorry, Mr. Wayne! I couldn't catch Elsa—she ran all the way from Rodriguez Manor to here!"

！

"Wah wah wah wah wah!"

Elsa kept screaming. Bruce looked at Dick, who translated: "She says she missed you, and… broccoli is really gross?"

Bruce turned his gaze back to Elsa and asked, "... ren't you mad anymore?"

Elsa blinked, then gave him a puzzled look. Dick spread his hands and said, "Sir, whatever you mean, I think Elsa probably forgot already—her memory is terrible."

Bruce slowly set Elsa down, standing in the center of the manor, feeling as though he'd been swallowed by a whirlpool.

It all felt like a dream, yet none of his premonitions had triggered—he was certain this was reality.

He had ruined everything, yet faced no criticism.

Gordon didn't suspect him at all—he even let him go home. Schiller, who had always been harsh, now told him to rest immediately. Selina wasn't angry; she'd even brought Dick back. Dick didn't seem to be avoiding him, and Elsa had completely forgotten everything.

To Batman, these were monumental failures—but to them, they were just ordinary, trivial squabbles, unnoticed and forgotten.

And now, back to being the useless Bruce Wayne—unable to prevent the murder, offering no useful clues, making no brilliant deductions, failing to catch the killer, saving no one…

Yet everyone seemed to have forgiven him.

When Merkel lit the fireplace, standing in the center of the hall bathed in its glow, Bruce realized for the first time:

No one but himself cared whether he was perfect.

It's not that people don't love God—it's that the ordinary people Batman sees as frivolous and careless don't even care about God.

Bruce realized that when he returned to the life of Bruce Wayne, the one he always despised, no one felt disappointed.

No one felt disappointed by the loss of the perfect Batman.

So then, what exactly was he disappointed in?

Bruce felt it again—the moment the hall lights came back on and the fireplace blazed brightly—he was once again wrapped in warmth.

A string that had been taut for so long, like a death knell constantly plucked, suddenly went slack.