Chapter 765

Schiller scanned the students in the classroom and said:

"I know you were all sent here by certain people—those who sent you may have told you to study hard and work for them when you graduate, or to take every lesson seriously, master every detail, and never make mistakes that cost them losses…"

"Perhaps you're striving toward those same goals. Am I right?"

The room fell silent; everyone glanced at each other, but they all knew the answer in each other's hearts was yes.

All the students here were young, the oldest barely in their early twenties; most were lower- and middle-tier gang members who, due to their youth, quick minds, and nimble hands, had once been involved in technical work and happened to catch this opportunity to be sent here.

Their gang bosses wouldn't waste time giving them motivational speeches or parental advice—they simply said: "Study hard in there, or you're dead if you fail."

But everyone was confused—why was Schiller bringing this up now? Then they heard him say:

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"No matter where you come from, why you're here, or how you've performed so far, I must tell you: you're not studying for anyone else—you're studying for yourselves, for your future prospects, for your quality of life…"

"Some of you may not have come here willingly; some may carry hidden missions…" As he spoke, Schiller's gaze settled on Miss Goth, then continued: "But those are other people's demands. Think back—since the day you were born, have you ever truly done something for yourself?"

"I know many of you will answer no—your boss tells you to do something, you do it; your superior tells you to do something, you do it; the lucky ones, their parents tell them to do something, and they do it…"

"It's not your fault—everyone's circumstances differ; not everyone has the power to escape their current environment. But now, the opportunity has come."

Schiller scanned the room and saw every student was listening intently. Then he said:

"I guarantee no one can reach into this school—not even the Twelve Families you know so well."

"Perhaps you've heard about Bruce Wayne failing my class. I'm not boasting—but I'm telling you: if you enter this school, even if your surname is Wayne, you still must study hard."

"No cheating, no shortcuts—your only way out is graduation. Your time here is the only chance you'll ever have to do something truly for yourself."

"Break free from the gang bosses who order you around. Stop living a life of abuse and no choice. Abandon those foolish, shallow ideas—don't trade your life or your marriage as currency, don't make that your first goal."

Schiller tapped the desk again. "Of course, I know some habits aren't easy to change. But from today on, I'll personally come by during free periods to supervise you."

"As for the consequences of not studying…"

Schiller gave a false smile. "You wouldn't want to know."

Everyone felt a chill run down their spines—after all, even by appearance and demeanor, Schiller was unlike any other university professor.

Take Victor beside him: if Victor felt like a gentle spring breeze, Schiller felt like a Gotham spring breeze—paired with icy, bone-chilling rain that could freeze you from head to toe in just minutes.

As the students filed out of the lecture hall, they murmured among themselves—many still didn't understand Schiller's meaning. But soon, Schiller made it crystal clear what he intended to do.

Class began early that day. As before, Schiller sat in the back row with his notebook, but this time, any student who nodded off during lecture was immediately struck on the head by a glowing ring.

At first, they screamed and rubbed their skulls in protest—but then they saw Schiller's death glare, swallowed hard, and fell silent.

What followed was even more terrifying.

Though young, these students were gang members, raised with violent tempers. One tall Black Ma Lei, furious at Schiller's actions, swung his arms and cursed in slang, heading for the door.

He planned to leave this hellhole—he'd never liked studying anyway. He only came here because his gang boss couldn't find anyone else.

Then he was dragged straight to his boss's doorstep.

Schiller pointed his umbrella tip at the gang boss and said: "Your man refuses to study and dares to defy his teacher. What are you going to do about it?"

Gangs weren't isolated. As previously noted, these small gangs usually survived under the protection of larger ones, and most large gangs answered to the Twelve Families.

This city had many sharp-eyed people, and many knew Schiller was unusual. So when he personally visited a local gang, the news spread layer by layer until it reached the heads of the Twelve Families.

Phone bells rang nonstop across the North District, lighting up one point after another—each call connected dots into lines, until the entire North District glowed.

"What's going on? Why did Professor Rodriguez go to Andy's territory? Did that kid do something again?"

"Andy says he doesn't know—he just smuggled two extra crates of cigars. But I heard the professor likes cigars. Could he want those?"

"Shut up, you're wrong—it's not Andy's territory. It's clearly Lady Quelan's. That woman must've stirred up another mess…"

"What? He went where? Not to one of her four major gangs, but to a tiny neighborhood gang? …Oh, I get it—Lilac Street's Shining Bar. Yeah, I've seen their two guards out front. What happened to them?"

"Studying? What does studying have to do with this?"

"What? Because a student didn't study, he showed up at the gang's door?? That's outrageous! He's ignoring our rules…"

"I need to tell my father—he'll decide what to do…"

Thus, the news rose layer by layer until it reached Don Falcone's ears.

Falcone personally called the gang and spoke with Schiller. Then, Gotham's underworld issued a new rule.

Outside the school, your identity meant nothing. But once you entered as a student, your only identity was: student of Gotham University.

Students were under no gang's authority while on campus. If anyone tried to flee, the gangs had to bring them back—and they must remain on campus until graduation.

And if a gang member failed an exam and Schiller showed up, resulting in accidents or casualties, Don Falcone would not intervene on their behalf.

The gangs didn't resist strongly—after all, it was just asking them to keep their people quietly in school. How hard was that?

The gangs didn't want these students running off either—they'd paid dearly to send them for training. You think you can just quit? Not so easy. If you want out, only two options: pay, or die.

Now every student knew: they couldn't escape. The only way out was graduation.

But someone might ask: if you can't run, why not unite and rebel? Some tried. Then Schiller showed them what Gotham's spring breeze truly meant.

Gotham's spring breeze froze people in minutes. Schiller only needed two seconds.

Only Victor criticized Schiller for using cryo-technology as punishment. Everyone else gave full approval.

After establishing his authority, Schiller doubled down. He had ample experience here—he came from a country where the college entrance exam was the ultimate grind.

Class starts at 7: 0 a. .? Why not sleep all day? First bell rings at 6: 0. Wake-up bell? Set to 5: 0. Perfect.

Morning theory classes: 7: 0 to 12: 0. Lunch: 12: 0 to 1: 0. Afternoon practicals start at 1: 0. What? Nap? Why not sleep the whole day?

Still, Schiller was humane—he canceled tedious evening self-study and replaced it with self-defense physical training. After all, in Gotham's Zhian, you must survive before you can earn money.

Evening classes ended at 8 p. . Lights out at 9 p. . This technical college ran on true military discipline—not metaphorical. After all, the heavy weapons "voluntarily" donated by the Wayne family were mounted on the fence flanking the lecture hall.

But Schiller was surprised: the students adapted remarkably well. The next day, tardiness dropped sharply. Many were still exhausted, but they managed to stay awake.

It made sense—their old survival conditions were terrible. During peak logistics seasons, these young, skilled laborers worked day and night, always on call, always responding—fail to answer, and you weren't just fired—you got shot.

Here, though they studied from dawn to dusk, at least the food was better and sleep was uninterrupted—no one disturbed them, they woke naturally at dawn, and recovered energy far better.

Children raised in slums and gangs were different from those pampered by parents—they had higher endurance. Those who couldn't endure were already eliminated by nature.

But there was one exception: Tracy Goth. She was even more spoiled than city-raised girls—just waking up early nearly killed her.

Worse, Schiller stood behind her group constantly. If she slacked off, he'd fire an ice spike from his umbrella and freeze her in place all day.

For Miss Goth, being turned into an ice sculpture wasn't physically damaging—but it was deeply humiliating. What she hated most was losing face.

Under this pressure, she had no choice but to obey—tighten screws, roll tires, crawl under cars to repair them, always covered in grease.

Tracy had called her mother, begging to go home—but at that time, Mrs. Goth was overwhelmed by her own troubles.

Tracy could only endure in despair, forced back into the great labor—study hard, improve every day.