Chapter 9

On a fog-choked morning in Gotham, Schiller stretched, sat up from bed—he had just settled into the Marvel universe, barely had a few days of peace, when he noticed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents lurking near his psychological clinic.

Those agents were like stubborn glue you couldn’t shake off; to ordinary people, perhaps, but even Stark, the billionaire of that world, was driven mad by them and had no way to escape.

But Schiller was different. After being harassed by the young Batman in Gotham, he could simply walk away and hide in Marvel. Now that S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were tailing him in Marvel, he could just leave again and return to Gotham to lie low.

S.H.I.E.L.D. agents never discovered how Schiller vanished—his departure left no trace, no train or plane tickets, no sightings at any highway checkpoints, making Nick Fury even more certain Schiller was no ordinary man.

After returning to the DC universe, his colleague, the future Scarecrow Jonathan, never noticed the theft of his fear toxin—because Schiller wasn’t greedy; he took only a tiny vial’s worth.

After all, he wasn’t like the Scarecrow, using fear toxin to orchestrate terrorist attacks—he only needed it to deal with a few lowlife gangsters. He didn’t require high-tech spray devices; a simple spray bottle aimed at a normal person’s nose was enough. The concentrated fear toxin became the perfect weapon, since those gang members couldn’t match Batman’s reflexes.

While studying the toxin, Schiller lacked systematic chemical knowledge, but he at least understood resourcefulness. Beyond using it as a weapon, he discovered this initial version of fear toxin wasn’t pure—it could trigger not only fear but other negative emotions. For a psychiatrist, this was excellent news: if patients refused to confess their inner feelings, treatment couldn’t proceed.

Schiller realized he could dilute the fear toxin hundreds of times and wear it like perfume. For some reason—perhaps the system’s doing—it had no effect on him, yet it subtly infected those nearby with minor negative emotions.

Yes, Schiller planned to use this trick against the inexperienced Bruce—Young Batman.

This Batman wasn’t the omniscient old man he’d become; Bruce was still young, just returned from his global travels, armed with skills, eager to begin his revenge. He donned the first version of the Batsuit, grabbed bat-shaped shurikens, and set out to fight criminals. In his eyes, spending billions on gear was trivial—but he hadn’t yet realized that what truly made him Batman wasn’t the gear, but the spirit within.

Clearly, Batman’s path to growth was long, and Schiller, for his own safety and to secure a stable life in Gotham, had no choice but to become the young Bruce’s mental mentor.

Another ordinary morning. For Bruce, meeting Schiller in the rain the night before was just yesterday’s event. Schiller had spoken his real name—Bruce wasn’t surprised. He knew this man was no ordinary person.

Perhaps it was an ability, perhaps magic—he’d encountered many such people during his travels. He knew the world was far more complex than ordinary people imagined; countless unimaginable forces were watching.

Bruce knocked again on the psychologist’s door. From inside came a steady, deep voice: “Come in.”

For some reason, Bruce felt a sense of relief—this reply came swiftly, clearly the man inside knew who he was and was glad to let him in.

Batman hated all things mysterious and nihilistic; Bruce did too. To him, Schiller’s attitude meant he might finally explain what was happening, rather than dodge, conceal, or play verbal games.

Bruce sat again across from Schiller. “Professor, you seem to be in good spirits today.”

“Mr. Wayne, you seem to be in poor spirits today,” Schiller said. “I thought you’d come as you did on the first day and make me coffee.”

He gestured to the empty desk. “I didn’t even brew coffee this morning—I was waiting for you.”

Bruce fell silent, then rose to make Schiller a cup of coffee.

Schiller merely found it amusing to drink coffee brewed by Batman himself. But Bruce saw it as a test—or a psychological manipulation tactic: using words to force someone into compliance. Well, that did fit Schiller’s profile better—a mad doctor obsessed with psychology and psychiatry.

Schiller sipped the hot coffee, dispelling the chill that had settled over his body from Gotham’s cold weather. Bruce spoke first:

“Why were you there last night?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“If you wanted to hide, you should’ve worn a mask last night—not waited until I saw your face to deny it now.”

Schiller set down his coffee cup, the sharp clink echoing on the desk. “I’m not denying you saw me last night. I’m asking why, with billions in wealth, you don’t donate to charities or fund foundations—but instead wear a ridiculous tight suit, dash out into the rain, and brawl with street thugs.”

Bruce fell silent.

“This isn’t a rhetorical question…” Schiller said. “You don’t need to think how to answer—I’ll answer for you.”

“Your true goal isn’t rescue—it’s revenge.”

“That’s your answer,” Bruce said.

“No, I merely saw the answer already inside you,” Schiller said.

“I don’t believe in mind reading.”

“There’s no such thing as mind reading in this world. But some people don’t realize their strongest desires reveal themselves through their actions. People think they hide their inner selves well—but they don’t.”

“Can I learn this ability?” Bruce asked. “This power to see through people’s hearts.”

“And use it to punish criminals?” Schiller asked. “Clearly, you’re oversimplifying this, Bruce. Perhaps your motive is revenge—but if you make it the sole driving force behind everything, you’ll end up just like last night.”

Schiller made a falling gesture. Bruce explained:

“Last night, after I returned, I added a cape to my Batsuit. I’m also planning to design a utility belt…”

“You know those things aren’t the point. You could give your fists a force of thousands of kilograms, attach engines to your boots to leap to the moon, even design wings to fly to any planet in the solar system. You can do all that, Bruce—I believe you can.”

“But it still won’t be enough. Far from enough.”

“If I had such power, I could eliminate every criminal in the world, right?” Bruce asked.

Schiller sighed. Clearly, Batman before meeting the Joker couldn’t imagine how a powerless criminal—someone with only basic acrobatics and martial arts, frail and weak—could defeat a superhero who mastered hundreds of fighting styles and absorbed every ability on Earth.

Schiller felt that no matter how much he guided Bruce now, the future Batman, he could only ever be Batman’s associate professor. The one who truly taught Batman everything was his archenemy—the Joker.

And now, the Joker was probably still living an ordinary life in some circus.

Bruce was still arrogant. He asked Schiller to teach him psychology, just as he’d learned every skill across the world. His humility and arrogance didn’t contradict each other.

Schiller said: “Same as before—you can study psychology. Everything’s in textbooks. You can attend my lectures, go home, memorize, do homework, write papers, take the final exam. I’m a professor—I won’t stop any student from learning.”

“You know I don’t mean that…”

“Then what exactly do you mean?”

“Your… special ability,” Bruce gestured. “I’ve met many such people around the world—they have abilities ordinary people don’t…”

“No, I’m different. I have no abilities beyond the ordinary.”

Bruce hesitated, pursed his lips—he clearly didn’t believe it. But Schiller had nothing more to explain. The young Batman was still too naive, too blunt, impulsive, and reckless.

He was also too impatient. The setbacks in his superhero career only deepened this impatience—he clearly thought if he could learn something like mind reading from Schiller, he’d handle criminals more easily, instead of being shoved down a staircase by a few gangsters and landing helplessly on the ground.

He still didn’t understand what had truly caused his failure.

Bruce left Schiller’s office empty-handed again. Schiller merely told him—or threatened him—to study hard, finish all his courses, and ace the final exam.

Bruce clearly didn’t listen to a word.

That night, Schiller went out again, sneaking into Jonathan’s secret lab and stealing more fear toxin. This time, even if Jonathan was stupid, he’d notice his rows of vials were now half-empty.

Schiller knew no chemistry. He couldn’t modify or improve the gas—only store it in different containers or dilute it slightly.

But there was one thing he could do: use the fear toxin to scare Batman.

Soon, Schiller reappeared in Mossen District. He knew Batman would return there. Bruce was the type who’d rise from where he fell—he refused to change locations. It was his pride.

Mossen District was small, only six alleys. The building where Bruce fell was the first alley, home to a nightclub controlled by the Gutter Gang.

The Gutter Gang was just a minor Gotham gang. Because Mossen District bordered one of Gotham’s drainage ditches, they loved dumping tragic victims into it. The ditch grew increasingly foul-smelling, so other gangs began calling them the “Gutter Gang.” They took pride in the name.

Batman’s first enemy wasn’t some famous villain—it was just a group of thugs smoking upstairs in the nightclub. Batman used his martial skills to defeat most of them, but lacking real combat experience, someone threw lime in his eyes, he stumbled, and fell off the building.

Early Batman had no allies and immature gear—falling into a gutter wasn’t surprising. But the Gutter Gang wouldn’t get lucky twice. Schiller leaned against a wall at the end of Mossen District, then heard terrified screams from the nightclub. Soon, the night fell silent. A minor gang vanished from Gotham without notice.

Batman emerged—clearly in better shape than last time. He lowered his head, seemingly still calculating how to modify his Batsuit.

Suddenly, he remembered something. He walked forward, turned a corner, and headed to find the beggar—to give him more dollars and tell him the Gutter Gang was gone, that he was now safe.

Indeed, he found the beggar in the same spot. She still huddled tightly in her blanket, shivering in Gotham’s damp, cold night air. The umbrella Schiller had given her was gone.

Batman handed her the money and spoke in a low voice: “This district has no more gangs. You’re safe now.”

The beggar lifted her trembling head. But Batman saw no gratitude in her eyes—only hatred.

“Aren’t you happy?” Batman asked.

“Of course not,” came a familiar voice from above. Schiller stood on the beggar’s second-floor balcony, looking down at Batman.

“Because the Gutter Gang existed, the nightclub had a steady stream of customers. Some would hold food in their hands; when they’d eaten down to scraps, they’d toss them on the street—then the beggar could pick them up.”

“Now, without the Gutter Gang, the nightclub can’t stay open. No customers mean no food.”

“But hundreds of dollars are enough for him…”

“Yes—you have Gotham’s best medical system, private doctors, health advisors. You’ve never experienced a cold or fever. You don’t know what it’s like to be frozen stiff, unable to stand.”

“In your imagination, he could take those hundreds of dollars to the nearest supermarket, buy enough supplies, maybe even rent a hotel room for a few nights, and cure his illness…” Schiller drew out the word, then added:

“But sadly, he can’t even take the first step.”

Batman knelt down, pulled back the blanket beside the beggar’s legs, and saw her entire lower limbs were purple and blue with frostbite. Days of continuous rain had soaked her legs—they were swollen beyond recognition.

Batman knew surgical theory—he knew that even in Gotham’s best hospital, such limbs could only be amputated.

He fell utterly silent. He stared at the dollars scattered on the ground, not held in her hand, but left to drift freely. He felt an unbelievable absurdity—a suffocating shame.

Suddenly, overwhelming negative emotions surged into him, devouring his mind, making him want to roar. Batman had never felt so out of control. He stood, staggered backward a few steps, then collapsed onto the ground.

Clearly, a tragic ending with unexpected consequences, combined with a trace of fear toxin’s negative emotions, was enough to silence Bruce for days.