Chapter 769: The Consequences of Faking a Thesis (Part 2)

To ensure Bruce could focus on writing his thesis, Schiller arrived at Wayne Tower that night with an umbrella.

But he had no intention of acting like Superman, grabbing a villain and beating him senseless—that would create too much noise and require too much effort.

He had formed some suspicions about the villain's identity; after all, the previous scenes had provided ample clues. Schiller knew tonight's opponent was not suited to brute force, so he did not summon Moonlight Schiller—he intended to handle this himself.

After leaving school, he transformed into a cloud of gray mist, drifting through alleyways like a breeze, leaving no trace.

Inside Wayne Tower, no one remained; one window after another dimmed until finally, the building once brightest in all of Gotham vanished into darkness, swallowed by the rainy night.

As a gentle wind passed through layer after layer of streets and reached Wayne Tower's entrance, a notice fluttered up—clearly printed: "Full building electrical maintenance. Power cut after 6 p. ."

Without electricity, no one could work; employees had all gone home early. But an unwelcome guest had arrived even earlier.

On the 13th floor corridor of Wayne Tower, a shadow moved slowly forward. From his hesitant steps, it was clear he sensed something unusual tonight.

Normally, Wayne Tower never turned off its lights so early. Many rooms stayed brightly lit all night, even with low foot traffic.

But tonight, there was nothing—only the howling cold wind outside the windows and the growing roar of rain.

The oppressive weight of the typhoon differed entirely from ordinary sea breezes; the storm, sweeping in from the ocean, showed no sign of weakening, charging forward relentlessly, as if humanity's steel jungles were utterly powerless before it.

Violent winds howled through the steel tower, producing eerie, wailing sounds. When the first lightning bolt struck, the sneaking figure jumped in fright.

White light flashed across the night sky, illuminating the figure's form.

It was a young man, clad in a tight-fitting suit, outwardly unremarkable—but in his hand, he held a gun with an odd shape.

As the lightning struck, he instinctively fired into the air. Instantly, a shimmering shard appeared in the room. He leapt forward three steps and plunged straight into the shard.

After a moment, realizing no danger was present, the figure reappeared. He exhaled in relief, shook his head, and resumed searching Wayne Tower's offices.

Anyone familiar with the Flash comics would have recognized him now: this villain who had stealthily infiltrated Wayne Tower and given Batman headaches was the Mirror Master.

Mirror Master's ability, as the name suggests, allowed him to travel through mirrors—or any reflective surface—and he carried a Mirror Gun capable of creating mirrors for spatial transit.

He could also split into multiple mirror duplicates to confuse opponents. In early comics, he could even generate blinding flashes to catch the Flash off guard.

At this moment, Mirror Master was ransacking Wayne Tower's offices because he had already thoroughly searched the rooms he suspected held important files—but found nothing crucial. To avoid missing any possible leads, he was conducting a thorough, room-by-room search.

He had no intention of finishing quickly; he could leave anytime, and no one could stop him. What did Bruce Wayne matter? He was merely a wealthy old man. Mirror Master could trap him in a mirror dimension at any moment—shatter the mirror, and Bruce would die.

As Mirror Master focused intently on the documents, his peripheral vision caught a dark shadow.

He turned his head—but saw nothing. He thought it must have been the curtain stirred by the wind, an illusion.

Yet this made him slightly tense, for the environment inside Wayne Tower was truly terrifying.

The entire building had lost power, meaning no lights at all. Normally, even without artificial lighting, glass-walled towers could still be dimly lit by moonlight, offering just enough visibility. But Gotham was not normal.

Gotham was a city rarely blessed with moon or sun; its sky was dominated by clouds that blocked all light, let alone now, with rain pouring down.

The 13th floor where Mirror Master stood was an awkward level—too far from the ground for streetlights to reach, yet not high enough to see distant lighthouses. Worse still, the room faced east, and just nearby stood another tower that completely blocked any remaining light.

In near-total darkness, human senses sharpened, heightened awareness made even the slightest movement seem threatening, breeding paranoia.

Mirror Master's focus wavered. He picked up a document, glanced at it, then glanced sideways—as if checking the curtain's condition.

Suddenly, a noise came from his left—crisp and clear in the dark room. Mirror Master dropped the document, assumed a defensive stance, and stared hard—it was only a paper cup that had fallen off the desk.

He walked over, picked it up, held it before his eyes, and only when it was nearly touching his face could he make out the stains on it.

Mirror Master assumed it was coffee residue—but as he brought it closer, he smelled a heavy stench of blood.

"Snap." The cup he threw hit the glass. Mirror Master swallowed hard, stepped back two paces, and turned to flee.

But then came a strange "creak." Wind rushed through the open window, chilling his back. Only then did he realize he was drenched in cold sweat.

Investigating in darkness required more than superpowers—it demanded iron will and courage to face sudden horrors.

Not everyone was Batman, prowling Gotham's lightless nights. Mirror Master came from Central City, where the sun shone brightly and the climate was pleasant. He had never spent a terrifying typhoon night alone in a pitch-black room.

Once fear took root, the mind grew unsteady, thoughts blurred. Mirror Master was no exception—he only wanted to escape this room. He walked backward while glancing over his shoulder, unaware that a pen lay at his feet.

He stepped on it. His center of gravity shifted forward. The pen rolled backward like a ball. "Thud." Mirror Master fell to the floor.

He scrambled up, drew his gun, and waved it wildly at the air. "Come out! I see you! Get out now! Don't make me shoot!"

»

Only the mournful howl of the night wind answered him.

Mirror Master's lips trembled. After a long pause, he fired another shot and vanished into the mirror world.

After a moment of calm, he thought he'd overreacted. The window must have been slightly ajar, letting wind in. The smell on the cup? Probably his imagination. If he ran now, he'd look like a coward.

People in safe environments always overestimate their courage—like every thrill-seeker who boldly vows to enter a haunted house.

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Mirror Master poked his head out again. Everything seemed calm. He stepped out of the mirror, ready to leave the office—when suddenly, he heard two "swish" sounds.

He spun around—and saw the curtains had drawn themselves shut, blocking every pane of glass.

In his vision, a faint breeze drifted in from afar, carrying thin mist, passing straight through the center of the office.

Suddenly, a stack of A4 papers on the farthest desk lifted into the air, swirling wildly.

Mirror Master looked up—every sheet traced bizarre arcs, then flew toward a single target.

Glass partitions between desks were covered entirely in paper. All reflective stainless-steel water cups were wrapped in paper.

The A4 sheets moved like eerie footsteps, continuing forward, flying toward the office's glass walls and door, one by one, sealing every surface completely.

The moment Mirror Master raised his hand, searing pain shot through it. "Snap!" His Mirror Gun was knocked from his grip.

Panic surged. He turned to flee—but a sheet of A4 paper slapped across his face. He frantically tore it off.

But soon, he saw grotesque smiling faces appearing on the paper stuck to the glass.

In the nearly lightless office, Mirror Master could see only one grotesque smile after another spreading toward him. The heavy stench of blood filled the air. He realized—he had no escape.

He rushed to the door—but it was locked. His Mirror Gun lay on the far side of the room, but that area was now entirely covered in smiling-paper.

All reflective surfaces were obscured. His power was useless. And fear had shattered his judgment.

He slumped against the door, collapsing to the floor. As the floating papers surged toward him, he raised his arms to shield himself and screamed.

Then he saw it—a blade's tip, centered on his forehead. A man stood before him, holding an umbrella. Mirror Master slowly raised both hands.

He gasped for breath, staring at the man. "You… who are you? How did you get here?"

"That's my question," Schiller said. "Here, you are the intruder."

"You're Wayne? No—you can't be Wayne. Who are you?! Aren't you the intruder too?!" Mirror Master shouted, voice shrill but hollow.

Schiller kept his eyes closed—he knew Mirror Master could enter a person's eyes via reflected pupils, causing temporary blindness.

"You shouldn't be here," Schiller said, pressing the blade's tip closer to Mirror Master, deliberately waving it before his eyes.

Sensing death's approach, Mirror Master desperately wanted to flee—but there were no reflective surfaces left in the room, except the blade before him.

The blade fixed to the umbrella's tip had a smooth, polished metal surface. Even in dim light, it reflected a clear image—like a mirror.

Instantly, Mirror Master activated his power, stepped forward, and plunged into the umbrella-blade.

The next second, he screamed and collapsed, wreathed in cursed black mist.

Through the pain, he saw a blade embedded in the floor's crack, less than three centimeters from his ear.

A cold voice, like thunder, exploded in his ears, shattering his mental defenses.

"This is a curse. If not lifted, you will die within twenty-four hours."