Chapter 85

Gordon awoke to a dim hospital room, only a small bedside lamp glowing; Schiller was dozing in a chair beside him. Hearing Gordon’s movement, he woke, removed his glasses, and said: “I knew you’d wake while I was watching over you...”

Gordon still couldn’t speak—he was on a ventilator. Schiller said: “You were badly injured. Too badly. We fought for over twenty hours just to keep you alive, and whether you’ll fully recover remains uncertain.”

The psychologist’s voice always carried a calming power.

Gordon blinked his eyes—nothing more was possible. Schiller yawned and said: “Thank your partner—he arrived in time to save your life.”

“Though I’m sorry—the men chasing you were apparently after me.”

Gordon gave a slight shake of his head. He knew these were merely hired killers; Maroni would have hired others even if he hadn’t hired these.

Just as Schiller was about to speak, the door opened and Harvey walked in: “Awake?”

Schiller nodded, rising from his chair. Harvey said: “I’ll take over. Go rest.”

Before leaving, Schiller glanced at Gordon. The usually energetic detective now looked utterly drained—his body and mind had been worn thin, bordering on delirium.

The midnight corridor of Zhongxinyi Academy was pitch black; only Schiller’s leather shoes echoed clearly.

Downstairs, a car waited at the hospital entrance. A tall man in a suit stepped out to open the door for Schiller. Once inside, Schiller said: “Play some jazz.”

Soon, a light jazz tune filled the car, adding a touch of freshness to the heavy air; outside, the city lights still shimmered.

Schiller closed his eyes, succumbing to sleep. The man in the passenger seat clearly hadn’t expected him to fall asleep so quickly—this professor was truly unlike anyone else, he thought.

By the time the car arrived, Schiller remained lost in heavy drowsiness; his brief nap had only deepened his fatigue.

Climbing the wooden stairs, Schiller entered the room to find Falcone seated behind his desk, dressed impeccably in a suit as always, while Wensi stood behind him, also in a suit.

The Solo Path to Immortality

Schiller sat across from the Godfather, made the sign of the cross over his chest, and said: “Good evening, Godfather.”

Falcone waved his hand. The tall man in the suit stepped forward. Falcone pulled a box of cigars from beneath the desk. His assistant trimmed one. Schiller opened his mouth to refuse, but Falcone said: “I heard you like cigars. So do I. Have one.”

Schiller adjusted his posture, leaning fully back in his chair. He made no effort to hide his weariness, yet accepted the cigar. Wensi stepped forward and leaned in to light it.

Schiller held the cigar, glanced at him, and said: “I’ve never seen you in formal wear. At a ball, girls will chase you.”

Wensi offered a modest smile, said nothing, and retreated behind Falcone.

“You’ve changed. I can see it,” Falcone said. Even as he smoked, the Godfather remained elegant, taking only a light puff, waiting until the smoke had fully dissipated before speaking again.

“The first time I met you, I knew you weren’t from Gotham. But now—you’re better. That’s good.”

“When you’re wary of this place, everyone seems your enemy. But when you truly make it your home, you’ll find anyone can find their kindred spirit here.”

“Perhaps because everyone here is a potential criminal,” Schiller said.

“What surprises me is that you don’t question why I haven’t dealt with Maroni.”

Schiller spoke in a low voice: “Maroni isn’t important.”

“You continually astonish me. I’ve seen too many people in my life—too many geniuses. They often consider themselves above others. Even when they appear humble, I know their deference stems only from fear of my gun.”

“But I know the Godfather inspires fear not through a gun.”

“You’ve shown me the allure of psychology. You always seem to give me the answers I want,” Falcone said, letting his cigar burn slowly.

“I hoped Wensi would grasp the essence of this discipline. But I know—he lacks the talent.”

“His grades are decent,” Schiller flicked ash and said. “He works hard. A good student.”

“But that’s all, isn’t it?”

Schiller paid no mind to Wensi’s faint disappointment. He said: “It’s a good thing, Godfather. Studying psychology leads to a dead end.”

Falcone looked at him. Schiller drew another puff of the cigar and said: “It’s no metaphor. When you push this discipline to its end, there are only two outcomes: madness or death.”

“Then it seems you chose neither.”

“Perhaps I chose both.”

Schiller grew increasingly drowsy. The cloying sweetness of the tobacco brought wave after wave of sleepiness. He squinted—light across the world blurred into a single white haze.

“I know Wensi is still far behind. He’s like his mother—he’s neither wholly good nor wholly evil. That’s the most terrifying thing.”

“What kind of man do you want him to become?”

Before Falcone could answer, Schiller said: “Or rather—do you want him to become the Godfather?”

Falcone fell silent.

Clearly, he had an answer. But he refused to admit it.

Is becoming the Godfather a good thing?

After decades as Godfather, Falcone could not give an answer.

“How is the policeman?” he asked.

Schiller shook his head: “He’s badly injured. It may take a long time before he recovers.”

“You could have turned him toward Maroni. I wouldn’t blame him,” Falcone said. “I know these men have no choice—cooperate or die. In fact, holding out this long has already impressed me.”

“Perhaps this is offensive, but his resolve isn’t because of the Godfather.”

“Then why? If not fear of me, why resist Maroni’s offer?”

“Because Maroni stopped him from fighting crime.”

“And?”

“He’s a cop. He believes arresting criminals is his duty.”

“A naive idea, isn’t it? Even absurd in this city.”

“Good people don’t live long. Especially not in Gotham,” Falcone sighed.

“That’s why I’m your longest-serving tutor.”

Falcone closed his eyes. After a moment, he said: “Wensi, kill Maroni. Do it yourself.”

Wensi pressed his lips together, then said in a low voice: “Yes, Father.”

“As for the men from Quandou Society—I’ll handle them.”

“No need for you to lift a finger.”

“What are your plans?”

“I’ve made a lot of money lately. And there’s a very expensive super-soldier who’s intrigued by my offer.”

“I’ll pay for it,” Falcone said.

“In your name. May God bless Gotham.”

It seemed the Godfather truly was aging—and he truly loved his son. In decades past, he had never shown such favor to anyone.

Indeed, in the glorious years of his past, he never needed to make such gestures, nor would anyone dare ask for them. Today, bringing Schiller here and treating him this way proved he was truly old.

Schiller thought this, his drowsiness deepening. Falcone watched the man across from him slowly close his eyes. The Godfather sighed and said to Wensi: “Take your teacher back to rest.”

Wensi replied: “Yes.” The Godfather rose and looked out the window. Outside, Gotham slept in silence. From Falcone’s estate, only the lighthouse on the shore glowed faintly.

Forty years have passed, he thought. His friends and enemies alike had vanished with time. His life, his years, had ended with Gotham’s old era. Only the lighthouse still burned through the night, standing with him, witnessing the city’s storms, its rise and fall.

Wensi watched his father from behind. Falcone’s figure showed no sign of age—still straight, the suit always perfect on him.

Finally, the Godfather extinguished his cigar and said: “I only hope he truly will be your longest-serving tutor.”

On the docks of Gotham’s East District, the sea reflected the lighthouse’s glow, waves surging like golden schools of fish. A cargo ship slipped away from the harbor under cover of night.

The smell of blood still clung to the deck. Crew bodies had been tossed into the cold sea. A burly man standing at the bow spat on the ground. “We lost several men—and made no profit. This was a bad job.”

“Don’t worry,” said the man beside him. “At least we got out alive.”

Suddenly, before they’d gone far from port, a muffled bell rang from within Gotham. Seven deep, trembling chimes echoed. The captain on the bow frowned: “Why are they ringing bells at this hour?”

“Who knows?” the man beside him shrugged. “Maybe they’re bidding us farewell.”

A soft sound came from above. Then a black-and-yellow figure appeared atop the mast.

“It’s a farewell indeed... for you.”