Chapter 931

When the thick fog rose, the entire city was submerged in an ocean of mist, with only towering skyscrapers breaking through the fog sea, while Schiller and the others standing on the hospital roof resembled sailors swept into the fog ocean.

As the mist brushed past them, it seemed to mask their faces; the blocked fog drifted backward, clothing them in mist, the rain armoring them.

Schiller looked down and saw two doctors screaming as they burst out of the hospital’s main entrance, chased by deranged patients, while an ambulance surged in from a nearby intersection.

The driver leapt out, opening the door; the out-of-control ambulance slammed into a streetlamp pole, blood seeping from the ambulance’s door seam, then—*bang*—the door burst open as a mad doctor leapt out, sprinted three steps in two, caught up to the driver, and clamped his hands tightly around the man’s throat.

A brilliant streak of light shot down from the rooftop, a fireball striking the deranged doctor’s back and hurling him away.

But the driver’s neck now bore several bloody gashes; soon, his body temperature rose, and in the icy rain-soaked night, steam rose from his entire frame.

The doctor previously struck had not died—he ignored his burns, staggered to his feet, and Brand, watching from the rooftop, narrowed his eyes: “...Some skill. This curse enhances their defense and renders them immune to pain, like patients in a hyperexcited state with muscle restraints removed.”

“Shut down the ventilation systems of Phase One and Phase Two renovation buildings immediately. Until I determine whether it’s air or rain causing this, switch to internal recirculation—no one leaves the building!” Bruce said into his communicator.

Then Schiller turned to him and said: “Someone has unleashed a large-scale curse upon Gotham. We still don’t know if it spreads through wounds, rain, or both.”

“I have a way to destroy this curse,” Schiller raised his umbrella, “but the umbrella must make direct contact with the cursed to absorb the curse from their body—and it can only absorb, not heal. If the host is critically injured and survives only because of the curse’s power, removing it will kill them instantly.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes: “What’s the principle? How do you dispel this curse?”

“A stronger curse.” Schiller said no more, gripped the umbrella, and swung it toward Bruce. Bruce sidestepped; Schiller merely tapped his shoulder lightly with the umbrella’s handle.

In that instant, Bruce felt an emotion—he realized Schiller’s umbrella seemed alive.

“But regrettably, I can’t go around tapping every person in Gotham. Even if I could remove the existing curses, without finding the source, they’ll just be reinfected.”

“I’ll find the origin of the curse.” Bruce pulled out his communicator and looked at Schiller. “But Gotham needs someone to guard it. If the curse spreads unchecked, the city will descend into utter chaos.”

“Do you remember what I told you?” Schiller looked into Bruce’s eyes. “A man who has walked for a long time through a snowstorm, suddenly seeing a distant campfire, will use his last ounce of strength to run toward it.”

“And if someone tries to extinguish that single flame…” Schiller shook his head. Bruce wasn’t sure if he saw hesitation or retreat on the professor’s face, but he heard Schiller speak in a tone he’d never heard before: “They’ll show you true madness.”

Schiller lifted his gaze to the dark clouds above and said: “Those who did this will never understand—the people born on this mad land never fear any curse, no matter how insane.”

“Batman’s task isn’t to save this place, but to rescue those who want to plunge into Gotham’s chaos, who want to leap off the cliff.” Schiller glanced at Brand, then looked away. “Go, savior. These people already at the abyss’s bottom were destined to be here. Worry less about us—worry more about those reckless outsiders.”

With that, Schiller opened his umbrella and stepped into the mist, his figure vanishing at the end of the street. A flash of fire erupted where Brand stood, and he too disappeared. Bruce stared at the chaos below, his brow deeply furrowed.

The Batman could no longer pursue the mastermind alone, because he still lacked enough allies to defend this city when crisis struck.

At least, that’s what Bruce believed now—he realized he couldn’t even find one reliable teammate. The people he knew were either Schiller, a madman; Constantine, a scoundrel; the Joker, a lunatic—or no one else.

Yet what surprised him more was that after this disaster, his first instinct was to seek allies—not to race to the Batcave and try to split himself into eight pieces to handle everything alone.

Soon, a helicopter landed on the hospital rooftop; the rotor’s downdraft briefly scattered the fog. Gripping the ladder, the helicopter lifted him higher, and Bruce saw the chaos spreading.

More and more people poured from their homes, pursued by monstrous, insane figures; screams echoed from more and more alleys. The world hidden beneath the fog sea was growing increasingly chaotic and mad.

Bruce knew he had to find the mastermind as soon as possible. Whoever had unleashed this curse upon Gotham would pay.

After leaving the hospital, Schiller returned directly to the estate. As Merkel approached, Schiller smelled the heavy stench of blood on him. He turned and asked: “Where did you just go?”

“Tidying the garden, sir. The awnings and pipes are all fixed.” Merkel smiled, taking Schiller’s coat. Schiller glanced at the hunting rifle resting by the garden gate and said: “Also, our garden renovation plan found suitable fertilizer, didn’t it?”

“Yes. A bit mad, though.” Merkel hung the coat on the rack and smiled. But Schiller frowned. “You don’t even know if they’ve spoiled, yet you buried them in the garden. Aren’t you afraid the plants, after eating bad meat, will jump up and beat you?”

As he spoke, he walked toward the back garden, umbrella in hand. Merkel looked confused. “This isn’t the first time some fool broke in to steal. But this time, they were unusually bold—they actually charged at me.”

“Because they weren’t thieves.” Schiller stood beneath the eaves, watching the garden. A trace of blood, carried by the damp rain-scented air, drifted into his nose. Merkel suddenly sensed something was wrong. “What happened, sir? Those people… I shouldn’t have buried them in the garden?”

“Not yet clear.” Schiller shook his head. “But you made the decision—you bear the responsibility. I’m going to Gotham University. If the plants jump up and slap you later, pray that old rifle still works.”

He turned and walked back inside. Merkel hurried after him, anxious. “Wait—plants really can attack people? That’s impossible!”

“I didn’t expect you to still ask such a question after living in Gotham this long.” Schiller pulled his coat back on. “If you can’t handle it, call Alfred. Unless you want him to have even stronger complaints about your butler academy.”

With that, he stepped out, leaving Merkel alone at the gate, bewildered. But soon, Merkel heard another sound from the back garden.

Merkel sighed, returned to the parlor, crossed the hallway, picked up the still-warm hunting rifle, and went to the garden wall.

Climbing the scaffolding, Merkel saw several more figures trying to scale the wall and enter the yard. One was nearly successful—so when Merkel shot him in the head, the body tumbled straight into the garden.

He lowered the rifle, expressionless, walked to the corpse, grabbed its hem, and dragged it behind the oak tree.

One shovel strike—blood welled up. Digging deeper, he uncovered old, decayed bones. Merkel paid no mind, quickly dug a shallow grave with his garden spade, and tossed the body in.

The estate’s garden had a low wall, beyond which lay a narrow alley. This wall didn’t protect the estate—it was bait, especially now that the estate had a gardener who knew his craft.

Merkel turned, retrieved a bag of powder from the tool shed, sprinkled it over the corpse, struck a match, and dropped it. Instantly, flames erupted—weak in the damp air.

Burning the corpse took time. Merkel climbed the scaffolding again, rifle in hand, frowning at the chaos beyond the wall, sensing something was off.

Then he felt the scaffolding beneath him sway. Merkel immediately bent low, stabilized his balance, descended two levels, gripped the topmost step, and looked down—but saw no one.

The eaves beside the tool shed didn’t move. Not an earthquake. Merkel thought he’d imagined it, confused, climbed down, and headed to clean up the burnt remains.

But he’d taken only two steps when—*bang*—he fell face-first into the garden soil. He rose, muttered a curse, turned—and saw a vine had tripped him.

“Plants really can hit people?” Merkel muttered, shook his head, banished the absurd thought, walked to the burnt remains, lifted his spade, and began turning the soil.

Bone fragments, as before, were mixed into the earth, invisible. But as Merkel dug, he suddenly felt movement in the bushes across from him.

Merkel stepped forward to investigate—then his shoulder flared with pain. He cried out, turned—nothing there.

Suddenly, he heard rustling. He looked down at his feet—vines twisted, writhing, creeping toward him.

Vines, winding from deep within the fog, flickered between grass and soil; their scraping against the ground sounded terrifying, like claws reaching up from hell.

But unluckily for them, the estate’s gardener feared nothing—neither ghosts nor demons.