Chapter 798

Bruce sized up Schiller and said to him: "There's a rule in this game: no special abilities allowed."

Schiller followed his gaze to the umbrella in his hand and said: "It's just an umbrella. I won't use it for anything else."

Bruce stared at him for thirty seconds; finally, Schiller made the umbrella vanish into thin air and said: "Alright, a world where you have to buy your own umbrella is truly cruel. Let's go—where's your place?"

"You plan to live at my place? Don't you intend to find your own home?" Bruce asked again.

Schiller took a deep breath and said: "Bruce Wayne, I hope you can show at least basic respect to a teacher who chased you for over two months over your thesis, checked your assignments for over two months, and pushed you for over two months."

"You forced me to live in the slums to experience life, refused to let me bring money or abilities, even denied me my umbrella—and now you expect me to find a place on my first night?!"

"What, after two months of failed slum living, haven't you realized that respecting your teacher is the only way left to preserve what little humanity you still have, now that you've biologically and psychologically become a stray dog?"

Hearing this, Bruce exhaled in relief—Schiller's earlier demeanor had been too strange; he'd even thought Schiller had softened.

Good—he'd returned to normal within minutes, back to his usual style of equally hating everyone.

So Bruce nodded and said: "My place is far. If you're coming, it'll be a long walk."

"Then why don't we just take a cab?" Schiller asked.

"There are no taxis here," Bruce replied. "If you want a ride, how do you decide which car to take?"

"Why do you even need to decide?" Schiller gave Bruce a once-over, as if thinking he was mentally impaired. Bruce made a gesture inviting him to proceed.

Schiller shrugged slightly but didn't look at the road—he glanced left and right and noticed a few shops nearby, one of which was a nightclub.

In Bruce's view, Schiller walked straight toward the nightclub. Bruce assumed he was asking for directions, and that same exhilarated urge to laugh surged back.

But soon, he couldn't laugh anymore.

Because Schiller entered the nightclub, and a moment later dragged out a man.

By his attire, he was clearly a bouncer—unconscious, lying motionless on the ground. Schiller yanked the gun from his hand, checked the magazine, reloaded it, and chambered a round.

He stood in the center of the road with the shotgun. A screeching brake followed—before the truck driver could even shout, a gun was pressed to his head.

Schiller stood by the window, nodded to Bruce, signaling him to state their destination. Bruce opened his mouth: "No, we can't—"

"Don't kill me! Don't kill me!" the driver screamed. "Who the hell are you? You're robbing the Viper Gang's shipment?!"

"We don't want the cargo," Schiller said calmly. "We'll give you a location. Drive us there."

The driver, who had been roaring moments before, now choked back tears: "Take the cargo… just let me go… I never did anything to you…"

"Get in," Schiller said, tilting his head toward Bruce, still standing frozen. "What are you waiting for? Open the cargo door."

He walked straight into the truck and sat in the passenger seat, holstering the gun. The driver didn't dare move, even though another gun lay within reach.

Schiller glanced at his watch, adjusted his glasses, and said: "Can you get there before nine?"

"Y-yeah, if there's no traffic… okay, definitely." The driver swallowed hard, stole a glance at Schiller, then said nothing, stomped the accelerator, and sped off.

The half-hour drive was cut to fifteen minutes. After getting out, Bruce felt nauseous. Schiller pointed the gun ahead and said: "Where's your place? Lead the way."

Bruce stared at the truck, vanishing into Gotham's night at a death-defying speed—so fast not even its exhaust was visible.

He had to lead—he had no gun. Schiller did.

"You killed that bouncer?" Bruce asked.

"Of course not. Why would I kill him?" Schiller scanned the surroundings as he walked. Bruce asked again: "How did you knock him out? Did you cheat?"

Schiller shook his head. "Very simple. Made some noise in the nearby storage room, lured one person away, then used a vase from there to crack him on the back of the head. Anyone over 1. meters tall could do it."

Bruce fell silent. Then he walked toward the nearby shore and pointed to a can: "This is my home. Though I doubt you'd fit."

Schiller surveyed the surroundings. Bruce's home wasn't unique—the entire can district shared the same style. Calling it "war-damaged" was an insult to Syria.

"You live here?" Schiller's voice was warped by the sea wind. But Bruce showed no intention to dance around the issue—he pointed to the half-burned firepit: "We need to light the fire before it rains, or we won't get it lit at all."

Schiller looked up at the sky—thick clouds loomed, rain was coming. He tapped the gun barrel against Bruce. "Looks like we'll still need to find a place tonight."

He turned and walked away. Bruce followed. Schiller glanced back at the tent he'd left behind. "This kind of architecture is still too early for humanity."

Before leaving the shore, Schiller dropped the gun on the ground. Bruce blinked, confused by the gesture.

Schiller stared at the gun. "If I hadn't wanted to get here fast, I wouldn't have used such violence. I actually hate violence. Pointing a gun at someone has zero elegance. Let's go."

He stepped onto the path leading off the shore. Bruce had to admit—he felt a pang of desire seeing the dropped gun. No one understood the value of a gun better than he did. He thought Schiller had made a mistake.

Having a gun won't necessarily make you better—but without one, you'll only get worse. That was the lesson Bruce had learned over two months. He'd held weapons before. But many things couldn't be solved by weapons.

Schiller didn't hitch a ride—he kept walking. Fortunately, the destination wasn't far. The Living Hell building was unmistakable, visible from miles away.

Seeing the building and Schiller's direction, Bruce knew: his target was Living Hell.

As Schiller entered the Living Hell building, rain finally fell. Bruce said: "I know who to ask about rentals. I can talk to the landlord—but you pay. Do you have money?"

"I don't. But you go ahead. I'll wait here." Schiller looked up at the overhead light. "I'll wait right here in this hallway."

Bruce didn't overthink it. He turned and went downstairs to find the landlord. Security here had improved—just ask the guard at the lobby, then knock on the door.

When Bruce returned after negotiating the rent, Schiller was gone. The hallway, once filled with closed doors, now had one open.

He approached the door and found Schiller standing in the living room, holding a pack of cigarettes with mild disgust, inspecting the brand.

Seeing Bruce, Schiller turned and said: "Oh, you're here? Sit down."

His tone was as natural as if he owned the place. His demeanor was calm, as if he'd done nothing wrong. Bruce scanned him from head to toe—no trace of guilt, only ease and comfort.

Schiller lit a cigarette, drew in smoke, exhaled, and said: "This is a two-bedroom. If you rent one, rent is five dollars a week."

"Where's the original tenant?" Bruce asked from the doorway. "Every renter here is registered. You'll be kicked out."

Just then, the landlord arrived. Seeing Bruce standing outside, he frowned and walked over—then saw Schiller inside. "Who are you? Where's Joe?"

"Hello, I'm Rodriguez, the owner. So the intruder was Joe? I scared him off. Thanks for worrying about my safety." Schiller stepped forward and shook the landlord's hand.

The landlord froze. Schiller's tone was so utterly natural, the landlord briefly doubted his own memory. "No, you're delirious. Are you drunk? I rented to Joe. Who are you—"

"Regardless, today's a day to celebrate," Schiller bounced on his toes, excited. "Moving in calls for a party. Bruce, come in. And you, sir—let's have a small gathering…"

He turned to the fridge, opened it, and said: "Oh, nice—there's still a pizza. I remember—I ordered it yesterday…"

Through the fridge's open door, Bruce saw a blood-stained chair leg. He looked at the three chairs beside the square table. His foot hesitated at the threshold.

A wet gulp echoed behind him. He turned—saw the landlord swallowing hard.

Schiller stood up from beside the fridge and waved them in. "Why aren't you coming in? There are three chairs—perfect for us."

"No, no, Mr. Rodriguez… I just came up to remind you—rent is ten dollars a week, due next Wednesday." The landlord turned and left immediately.

Bruce touched his chest—his conscience ached. He asked: "Where's Joe?"

"I threw the intruder downstairs. Shame it's the third floor. Hope he learns his lesson."

Schiller turned to Bruce. "Gotham's first rule: never enter someone's home unless invited. Bruce—come to the housewarming party?"

As Schiller approached, Bruce instinctively shook his head—then heard him say: "Gotham's second rule: if the owner invites you, you'd better come in quickly."

Bruce watched as Schiller pulled a chair from behind the door, snapped off one leg, tore away most of the splinters, and turned it into a sharp spike.

Locking eyes with Schiller, Bruce stepped over the threshold and said stiffly: "Congratulations on the move."