Chapter 776

After hanging up the phone, Batman stood frozen, unsure what the hell Schiller was talking about.

He glanced at the Pied Piper locked in prison, thought for a moment, then decided to finish his paper first.

In the past few days, Schiller's relentless pressure had instilled in him good study habits—at least enough to get today's work done today, and to revise today's paper before submission.

Bruce returned to campus, spent the entire afternoon in the library, corrected every error in his previous paper, restructured the logical flow, and deleted all irrelevant sections; this time, he was confident he would pass on the first try.

At exactly seven in the evening, Bruce arrived at the administration building; he was about to knock when the office door swung open.

Schiller was carrying a stack of documents out, and upon seeing Bruce, he looked surprised, scanned him up and down, then fixed his gaze on the paper in Bruce's hand.

Before Bruce could speak, Schiller said: "Put it on my desk. I'll read it tomorrow morning."

Then he turned to leave, but Bruce blocked his path: "Professor, are you free now? I have a few questions…"

"If you have questions, go read," Schiller said without turning. "Have you finished the Jungian theory I assigned you? If not, go read it now. You don't understand the basics—why are you asking so many questions?"

He walked off quickly, leaving Bruce alone; both ends of the hallway windows were open, and as the cold wind swept through, Bruce felt what it meant to be chilled to the bone.

Humans are strange creatures: when someone pays you intense attention, you feel overwhelmed and annoyed; but when they suddenly stop, you wonder what happened to them.

Yet this sudden attention was never necessary to begin with—only during it do people condition themselves to adapt to the rhythm, and when it vanishes, they feel a strange sense of loss.

Bruce couldn't describe his current mood; he should have been relieved to be free from the terrifying academic pressure, yet now, clutching the paper, he didn't know what to do.

Bruce wasn't sure if he'd ever taken pride in Schiller's special treatment—after all, he knew Schiller pushed him so hard because Schiller believed he had the ability to achieve something remarkable; the professor was affirming his talent, seeing him as different from other students.

When someone is validated by a top expert in their field, they often develop an illusion—that they must possess unique talent in that field, which is why they're treated differently.

But viewed macroscopically, the other person might simply have had no better options.

Schiller wouldn't prioritize Batman just because he was the comic's protagonist—he had no better candidates due to Gotham's limited talent pool.

Whether or not Bruce had any innate talent for psychology, his IQ and comprehension were undeniable—his upper limit was unknown, but his lower bound was certainly high; in any field, he was highly worth cultivating.

But times change: no one stays seventeen forever, yet there's always someone who is seventeen—Bruce was twenty now, but Jason was only eleven.

Judging by current observations, Jason's psychological state was far healthier than Bruce's; though both were orphaned, Jason didn't harbor as many extreme emotions.

Perhaps because when even eating enough is a struggle, philosophical questions about evil, life, revenge, and law must wait.

People only contemplate life when they're idle, generating emotions irrelevant to survival; Jason, struggling daily for survival in Gotham's underbelly, had developed a more stable mental state and more coherent logic.

If a person's own mental state is unstable, they cannot treat others—because if they can't actively absorb another's emotions, they cannot extract the key to healing from listening; you must be calmer than the patient to help them calm down.

Schiller had constantly demanded Bruce improve academically because, given Batman's psychological state, even if he studied psychology, he could only master theory—he couldn't truly face patients, because he himself was a patient.

Moreover, Batman was at a disadvantage in verbal expression; his personality doomed him to avoid explaining himself, and he was unused to articulating the emotions he absorbed, preventing him from gaining practical experience.

But Jason had an unusual talent in this area.

He could rapidly sense others' emotions, articulate what he felt, and do so without over-investing emotionally to the point of collapse.

And just now, Schiller discovered Jason also had exceptional memory; Jason had claimed he disliked reading, so Schiller assumed he wasn't an input-type personality—but now it seemed he'd simply never found anything that interested him; he preferred humanities over science.

He was younger, at the age for absorbing knowledge and understanding the world, with greater personality plasticity and easier to persuade.

Schiller preferred direct communicators; he already spent enough energy probing patients with indirect hints—during daily life, the Riddler could just leave Gotham.

After drawing Jason as his card, Schiller promptly reassigned Batman to warehouse duty; university professors weren't obligated to chase after students to study—let Batman return to his self-motivated, free life.

Thus, Schiller vanished from Bruce's world at breakneck speed, leaving him stunned and bewildered by the abruptness and firmness of the change.

Schiller told him: just submit a readable paper before graduation; other assignments were optional, retakes were optional.

This freedom came so suddenly that Bruce didn't know what to do with himself.

Standing at the gate of Gotham University, braving the cold wind for three minutes, Bruce realized he should go home and see Alfred, whom he hadn't seen in days.

But when he returned to Wayne Manor, Alfred wasn't there—the vast estate was empty, without Alfred, without Dick, and without Elsa.

Bruce had to admit, when he saw this scene, his heart skipped a beat.

Yet before two minutes passed, Alfred returned; seeing Bruce, he smiled and said: "Master, you're back?"

"Yes, Alfred. Where were you?" Bruce asked.

Alfred removed his gloves, hung his scarf on the rack, then turned: "You forgot? I called you earlier to discuss Elsa's preschool enrollment—but you were busy then…"

"The two preschools in the South District have very few spots; to enroll before this semester, she needed to attend the orientation class early. I feared she'd miss registration, so I sent her ahead—today is her fourth day."

Bruce said dazedly: "Oh, she's in preschool now? How's she adjusting? Is she crying to come home?"

Alfred smiled happily: "Miss Elsa's social skills are stronger than I expected; though she still speaks little, she plays joyfully with the other children and loves dancing with her teachers…"

"Doesn't she need someone to read her stories?" Bruce asked.

"For the first two days, Dick read to her—but lately, she's been so tired after preschool that she falls asleep the moment she gets home, sleeps straight through the night, and eats more focused than before. Master, Elsa has improved a great deal."

Bruce fell silent, then asked: "And Dick?"

"Dick rejoined the new school's choir; their teacher recommended him for the dance club because his flexibility is excellent—they're currently rehearsing a ballet, and Dick is playing the Ma Lei lead…"

"Oh, by the way, Alfred—how's your health?" Bruce asked, concerned. Alfred shook his head: "Just a common cold—it's long gone. Don't worry."

Bruce nodded: "Everything's fine, then?"

Though his tone was certain, a strange emotion lingered; suddenly, he remembered: "What about Selina? Has she come by lately?"

Alfred shook his head: "Miss Selina hasn't been here for a week, but she called twice."

"What did she say?" Bruce asked.

"She said if you had time, you should visit her—but you've been busy all week…"

No sooner had Alfred finished than Bruce turned and left, hurried to his car, and drove to Selina's place.

Selina had always lived in a relatively decent apartment in the East District; though worn, it was far better than other places. As Bruce walked down the hallway, he saw her door was open, light spilling out.

Bruce frowned and approached; just as he neared the door, a bottle flew out and smashed against the opposite wall.

Bruce hesitated, took one step forward—then another crash: several magazines were hurled out.

Bruce stepped to the doorway and peered inside: Selina was tidying up, tossing out piles of clutter; upon closer look, she wasn't cleaning—she was packing.

Hearing him, Selina turned and looked at Bruce: "You came?"

Bruce nodded, scanning her: "You called me?"

"No, not anymore," Selina said, swiftly shoving a stack of clothes into her suitcase. "You were never free anyway."

"I was busy before, but now I have time. Where are you going?" Bruce asked.

Selina opened her mouth, took a deep breath, then stood up, gripping her knees, and stared at her suitcase:

"I'm going to Hollywood."