Chapter 754: Batman

When Schiller and Gordon entered the room, the theater manager was still struggling, staring in disbelief at Bruce's expressionless face. "Mr. Wayne, you must have misunderstood something—let me go!"

Bruce released his arm and stood up; in that instant, the theater manager spun to flee.

Schiller picked up his umbrella; its special device emitted a faint blue light—*whoosh*—an ice spike struck the theater manager, freezing him into a statue of ice.

This was Schiller's first time using the ice gun Peter had attached to his umbrella. Judging by the result, it worked well—the theater manager couldn't move, but his voice still echoed from within the ice.

Bruce walked over, picked up the longsword, which was wrapped in a performance costume. The blade's bloodstains had been wiped clean, but perhaps due to haste, a clear trace of blood remained where the hilt met the blade.

At this point, the theater manager could no longer deny it. In any country's legal system, the murder weapon was the most critical evidence—and with three witnesses seeing it in his hands, one of them Bruce Wayne, he had no possible defense left.

"Tell us, Mr. Andover, why did you kill Miss Vicki? And how exactly did you do it?" Schiller tapped the ice with the tip of his umbrella.

The theater manager gritted his teeth: "That bitch was to blame!"

"That damn whore! She didn't just want to leave—she wanted to take Alex with her! She was deceived, chasing some damn movie dream!"

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"I know she hooked up with some rich old man who promised to make her the lead in his film. That fool actually believed him!"

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"If I hadn't overheard her talking to Alex, I'd never have known she was dreaming such a stupid fantasy! And that idiot Alex—he actually believed Vicki and wanted to leave the troupe with her?!"

"They never thought it was me who made them famous! Leave the troupe? Dream on!"

The theater manager's face twisted with rage. Gordon stepped forward with his notebook and asked: "How did you kill Vicki?"

"Of course with that sword…" The theater manager sneered. "I'd even made Alex new armor, hoping this new image would make him even more popular. Since neither of them wanted to stay, let them both go to hell!"

Gordon nodded, not pressing further. As the theater manager, slipping into the prop room to retrieve a longsword was trivial.

"Did you bribe the prop master, Molly?" Gordon asked.

"I didn't bribe her. I already said—it was her jealousy. I told her I wanted to teach Vicki a lesson and needed her help. She agreed immediately." The theater manager sneered contemptuously. "That ugly hag could never step on stage. She belongs in prison!"

Before Gordon could ask, the theater manager continued: "I planned to place the sword in Alex's dressing room to threaten him—perform well, or I'll send you to jail. Don't even think of leaving the troupe."

"But when I pulled the sword out, someone climbed in through the window!" The theater manager growled. "I had to grab the sword and flee in panic. Then, on the second floor, I ran into a group of tourists coming up—I barely squeezed into this room…"

"So while we were focused on the prop master Molly, you rushed back to move the weapon…" Schiller shook his head. "You fell for such a simple trap. You're even dumber than the fools you called them."

Ten minutes later, on the roof of the Gotham Theater, police lights glowed on Bruce and Schiller's faces. Schiller turned to Bruce. "Your performance today surprised me. The old Bruce Wayne would've done nothing."

Bruce remained silent, watching Gordon lead the theater manager into the police car. "I need to go see Alfred."

Then he turned and left. Schiller stood on the theater roof, gazing at Gotham's still gloomy night. He knew that as the city's lights grew brighter, the black bat would slowly take on new colors.

This bat, striving to become Gotham's god, would soon learn: gods don't love humanity, and humanity doesn't love gods. Gods send floods to destroy the world; people cheer when gods fall. Their love has no common ground, but their hatred flows both ways—and lasts forever.

Unconsciously, Batman could no longer remain a lonely, radiant god, because someone in this world always accepted his imperfections, forgave him again and again, treating the things he cherished as ordinary, trivial matters.

When a person is always forgiven, they grow soft-hearted.

Sitting beside Alfred's hospital bed, Bruce felt his heart's blood draining like a receding tide. After a while, Alfred woke from sleep and smiled when he saw Bruce.

Bruce poured him water, adjusted the bed so he could sit up. Alfred coughed twice, but after a sip of water, he improved.

Bruce looked at him and asked: "Aren't you disappointed?"

"Disappointed in what?" Alfred countered.

Bruce paused. "All this… what Bruce Wayne has done…"

Alfred shook his head. "Why would I be disappointed? A child without parental protection didn't turn to hatred and revenge against society. He didn't become rude or violent from lack of education. He didn't self-destruct from lack of supervision. What more could I ask for?"

"You don't want me to…" Bruce lowered his head, took a deep breath. "You don't want me to seek revenge? To punish those criminals?"

"No… Bruce." Alfred called him by his name for the first time. Bruce's fingers trembled. He heard Alfred say: "I wish you could forget this forever. But sadly, I can't."

"If I were Professor Schiller, I'd do everything to make you forget your past, never speak of that tragedy again—it's the source of all your pain. You shouldn't have to bear it."

"Don't you think… don't you think I can be a hero? Don't you think I can save this world?" Bruce stared into Alfred's eyes.

"Perhaps you know I once carried that same passion, set out to save the world. On that path, I didn't reach the end. I was a cowardly deserter, a defeated man who gave up."

Bruce wanted to interrupt, but Alfred's tone remained calm—no sorrow, no agitation—so he listened on.

"Yet even today, I feel no regret for that journey."

"So if I want you to save the world, to become a hero, it's not because I wish to see the world saved."

"It's because I want you to meet others on that path—friends who share your great ideals. I want you, when you finish, to tell your children about those glorious years."

"But if, at the end, you have no family, no lover, no friend—what was it all for?"

"If a world drives a hero to loneliness, to the loss of wife, child, and companions—does it even deserve saving?"

"Then why… why did you teach me so many skills? Combat, surveillance, intelligence… Didn't you want me to use them to save the world?" Bruce asked.

Alfred shook his head. "If I made you believe that, I'm sorry. I was… back then, I just felt empty. I needed something to do."

Bruce remembered the snowfall he'd seen in Metropolis. He'd once wondered whether his butler had ever seen snow larger or more beautiful than that in the northern land.

Now he had his answer: if he hadn't witnessed grander sights, why would the opulent Wayne Manor have felt so dull, tedious, and hollow?

Bruce took a deep breath. He felt this whole thing was a joke.

From start to finish, no one except himself expected him to do anything.

No one held him to any expectation beyond the ordinary. The sense of burden, the illusion of the world's hope—he'd dreamed it all.

Bruce covered his face with his hands. Today, for the first time, he'd acted as Bruce Wayne.

He set a trap for the theater manager: first, he pressured him as Wayne, forcing him into panic and a desperate search for a scapegoat. Then, with Schiller's help, he deliberately shifted suspicion to the prop master, making the manager let his guard down.

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Then he mentioned the weapon, shattering the manager's psychological defenses. Finally, he pretended to leave, waited in another room, tracked the manager, and caught him red-handed at the crime scene.

What would Batman have done?

But perhaps Gordon wouldn't expect it of him—he'd still call Schiller, because the professor seemed more experienced.

This made Bruce wonder: his faint hostility toward Schiller—was it born of suspicion that Schiller might commit crimes, or of a fear that his own identity, ability, and presence might be replaced?

Bruce recalled his first meeting with Schiller in a Gotham alley. At the time, Bruce was investigating disappearances in Moss Street, and Schiller claimed he was too.

In that moment, when he doubted Schiller—was he suspecting him as the killer, or feeling the threat that Schiller's perfect identity might replace his own?

Bruce couldn't find an answer. But he knew he could never ask Schiller. There was no reason—he simply didn't want to.

Yet not seeking Schiller didn't mean Schiller wouldn't come to him. The hospital room door clicked. Bruce turned. A figure holding an umbrella stood outside.

Bruce stood up, watching Schiller. Schiller tapped the floor with his umbrella's tip. "I forgot to ask you something."

"Bruce, how long has it been since you turned in an assignment? Do you know how many papers and credits you owe me? Enough to graduate a freshman."

Bruce opened his mouth, but Schiller pointed the umbrella at him. "Listen, Bruce Wayne—this is your final warning. If you don't hand in every overdue paper by tomorrow morning, I'll publish it in every newspaper in Gotham: the famous Batman doesn't do homework."

"I'll say it one last time: tomorrow morning, I want every assignment on my desk."

Watching Schiller's retreating back, Bruce closed his eyes and sighed. He thought to himself:

No—not everyone had abandoned their expectations of him.

At least, this professor thinks he has eight hands.