Chapter 768: The Consequences of Faking a Paper (Part 2)

Another rainy night in Gotham, this time the rain fell especially hard, with lightning and thunder.

Even Gotham citizens, accustomed to such scenes, could only hide in their homes, peering through small windows at nature's fury.

As spring gradually faded, summer brought typhoons and downpours; though this city never pretended to be gentle, the sudden, violent storm made even the strongest hearts tremble.

A dark shadow dropped from a towering rooftop, its cape whipping through the mist like a tiny boat in a storm, and as it landed, water splashed up into a dazzling neon glow beneath the streetlights.

Batman's hand gripped a batarang; the tension in his muscles betrayed that he faced another formidable opponent—and this time, his pressure was greater than ever.

Usually, he defeated criminals to save others; today, he had one more goal: to return to school as quickly as possible and avoid any life-threatening consequences from failing to finish his paper.

But soon, he realized it was already too late—he saw a figure holding an umbrella at the entrance of the alley.

It reminded him of the dreams he'd had in Schiller's Mind Palace, where he'd battled countless serial killers and faced terrifying foes in a twisted Gotham.

Even so, his heart raced faster—he knew this was a bad omen; if he placed himself first as prey, he risked becoming a sacrifice to this dark city.

Batman didn't overthink—he threw the batarang by instinct, but the umbrella blocked it; in an instant, a cold blade gleamed through the neon glow.

A sharp *whoosh*—a corner of his cape was torn. Batman spun and punched. The umbrella opened again; as his fist struck the fabric, he felt strange ridges beneath his fingers, like gripping a snake.

He let go instantly and retreated swiftly. Under the dim glow of a storefront sign, Schiller stared at Batman coldly. He didn't need to speak—Batman knew exactly what he meant.

It was an absurd joke. Batman remembered their first face-to-face encounter in a dark alley, when they'd discussed crime, law, and humanity.

Back then, Batman's mental state was unstable, his logic inconsistent—he had retreated.

But today, he no longer agonized over those things; the ticking clock of doom no longer pounded in his ears. Now, he faced a far more immediate problem.

The assignment isn't done, the professor's coming with a knife—what do I do? Please answer ASAP.

Batman never waited for answers. After a second's hesitation, he leapt onto a wall, fired his grapple, and shot toward a rooftop. The shadow with the umbrella followed close behind.

Beneath the curtain of rain, two shadows darted across Gotham's rooftops. The clash of metal echoed like a prelude to battle, growing louder as the storm intensified.

Batman knew he couldn't shake Schiller this way—he pinned his hopes on the Batmobile, whose security system had just been upgraded.

Last time, Schiller had shattered the Batmobile's engine with a mysterious ring. Batman realized its defenses were still inadequate, so over the next few days, he heavily modified the vehicle, reinforcing the engine casing.

Batman pressed a button on his armored gauntlet. A familiar beam pierced the rainy night. He sprinted toward it, leapt from the building, and used his grapple to cushion his fall, rolling on impact to dissipate force.

After a flawless sequence of tactical maneuvers, he steadied himself—then froze.

There, before him, was the Batmobile—but it had only three wheels.

A short distance away, two children pushed a massive tire, laughing as they ran, clearly delighted.

A soft *tap* sounded behind Batman. In that instant, he knew he was in deep trouble.

Half an hour later, in Gotham University's office, three figures stood before Schiller's desk: Bruce, soaked to the bone, Jason, and the Little Rascal.

All three wore identical poses—towels on their heads, steaming mugs of hot cocoa in hand, silent.

"Alright," Schiller said, setting his pen down, "let's break this case down. Why did you two steal his tire?"

Jason and the Little Rascal exchanged glances. Jason spoke: "We just wanted to see if we could pry it off…"

The Little Rascal stared at his fingers. "We're not thieves. We didn't plan to sell it. That tire's useless for sale—too big for a car, too small for a truck."

"Then why steal it?" Bruce turned to him.

Jason blurted: "We didn't steal it! We just wanted to try… what's the word again? Little Rascal, you say it!"

"Tech upgrade," the Little Rascal sighed. "That hellhole of a school taught nothing—spelling, basic symbols, maybe how to cook, run errands, or collect newspapers. I didn't need any of that."

"No teachers to guide me, so I figured it out myself—trial and error. I've mapped the power systems of nearly every car. I wanted to build one myself, but there are still technical hurdles…"

"I figured regular cars are too basic. To find a real benchmark, I had to look at that car with the bat symbol—the one we tried to take the tire off of. That was a real pain."

"So Jason and I decided to try again. We originally planned to take the engine—but the hood had a special lock we couldn't crack, so we settled for the tire."

Both boys stared wide-eyed, innocent expressions. Schiller turned to Bruce. "Last time they stripped your tire, why didn't you upgrade the car?"

"I had limited time," Bruce replied. "The engine's more dangerous than the tire."

"The engine's more…" Schiller paused, then realized Bruce meant him. He sighed. "Fine. They didn't sell the tire—you can put it back on."

"Besides, their lack of basic education isn't their fault. You won't hold them responsible, will you?" Schiller looked at Bruce.

He wasn't moralizing—just from Bruce's expression, he could tell he wasn't angry. His gaze at the boys held more sorrow than blame.

After all, if they'd been born in another city, with better resources and education, they might have become vehicle engineers at the very least.

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Bruce nodded. The two boys exhaled in relief—if Wayne pressed charges, their fate would be grim.

Schiller turned to them again. "Since that hellhole orphanage can't meet your educational needs, enroll at Gotham University's Technical College. You like cars? Then learn to fix them."

The Little Rascal's eyes widened. "Technical College? But that's for adults. We're too young—can we even enroll?"

Schiller picked up a registration form from the side and began filling it out. "We don't care about age—only skill. You two dismantled the Batmobile's tire—you've already surpassed every student here."

Schiller wasn't exaggerating. Repairing a regular car and repairing the Batmobile were entirely different technologies, separated by a massive gap. Though these boys weren't at Bruce's level, their talent was top-tier—and letting it go to waste would be a tragedy.

"But I hate sitting in a chair reading. I can't memorize any of that stuff," Jason complained.

Schiller kept writing. "Fine. You only need practical classes. No one in that college will ask you to write a paper—just prove you can do the work."

Jason scratched his head, reluctantly accepting. He clapped the Little Rascal on the shoulder. "Hey, buddy, you're finally gonna learn real skills. Let's go celebrate with a big meal!"

After finishing the forms, Schiller handed one to each boy and told them to report to the registrar's office. As they walked off, arms slung over each other's shoulders, Schiller turned back to Bruce.

Bruce cleared his throat. "I'm not lying. A mysterious man who can vanish at will broke into Wayne Tower. I don't know how he escaped—I'm still investigating…"

Schiller studied Bruce's body language. He didn't seem to be lying. But in his experience, Gotham had no villain like this.

Gotham's villains all had one thing in common: they were mad, and they wore it proudly—never sneaky.

They obsessed over broadcasting their ideologies to the world, willing to commit murders and bombings just to gain attention.

But this mysterious man Bruce described? He sounded like a thief—specifically, a thief with special abilities. That's not Gotham's style. No grievance, no philosophy, no grand ideas—how could such a villain survive here?

Schiller recalled the so-called "Great King" he'd heard of. He couldn't rule out the possibility that this man had adopted a grand title but was, in truth, just a sneaky thief. Schiller himself had done similar things—like naming a hallucinogen "Wine."

Schiller handed Bruce the stack of papers. Bruce didn't take them. He met Schiller's eyes. "You go to the library and write your paper. I'll handle the thief."

"How exactly do you plan to handle him?"

"Catch him."

"You mean break into Wayne Tower and arrest him there?" Bruce asked, then added, "Actually, the thief isn't that big a problem. You don't have to catch him."

"I thought your condition had improved, but clearly, your paranoia's still severe. You think I'm going to fight the thief in Wayne Tower and collapse the whole building? Do you think I'm a helicopter engine?"

Bruce Wayne reached out and took the stack of papers. To Schiller's surprise, he followed up with a joke:

"I'd prefer that. At least, a helicopter engine wouldn't make me graduate late."