Chapter 941: Exploring Zeller

Batman’s fingers tightened slightly around the cup, but soon he turned his gaze back to the cabinet holding personal items.

A sudden emotion rose in him, causing a pause—he didn’t know what he was excited about, but he felt certain his decision was right.

Batman had no intention of fully following Zatanna’s plan to trick Zeller’s umbrella, because he knew it would fail; yet he needed a way to enter Zeller’s memories—his goal was to find his weakness.

Several months ago, when the renovation project had just begun, Batman had started revising his defense plan targeting everyone in Gotham.

Most of those plans were completed within a month, but a few targets gave him immense trouble—not including Zeller, because his trouble with Zeller went far beyond mere difficulty.

After the last appearance of the pathological personality, Batman realized Zeller likely suffered from dissociative identity disorder—he had more than one identity, making a single universal plan impossible.

Of course, Batman figured that if Zeller had ten thousand identities, he could devise ten thousand plans—it wouldn’t be hard for him—but only if he could first determine how many identities Zeller had and what each one’s weakness was.

Unfortunately, many of Zeller’s identities appeared before Batman only fleetingly, leaving him almost no time to observe their weaknesses; so when Constantine suggested using Zatanna’s ability to enter Zeller’s memory space, he knew the opportunity had arrived.

Of course, this carried risk—but Batman never feared risk; he had considered the consequences of angering this professor, but he no longer cared, because his diploma was already in hand.

Though the graduation ceremony hadn’t yet taken place, it didn’t matter—he’d already planned to switch to the physics department for graduate studies, at which point this professor could no longer threaten him with papers.

As for his past grades and paper quality, Batman had no intention of striving for them anymore—in short, he was done trying.

So he could now probe Zeller’s limits without restraint—and was about to reap results.

The small cabinet before him was divided into two sections: the upper part was a glass-doored bookshelf, the lower a storage compartment; Batman first opened the bookshelf, which held numerous volumes with blurred titles and author names.

Batman couldn’t determine the language of these books, so he couldn’t judge their content by thickness or binding; after flipping through them for a long time, he found almost nothing, so he knelt down to examine the storage compartment below.

Opening the cabinet door, he found its contents neatly arranged: the first shelf held a set of replacement patient gowns; when Batman picked one up, he realized it didn’t match Zeller’s build.

Zeller was slender, but stood 187 cm tall; this gown would be too short for him—especially the pants and sleeves.

Batman held the gown against himself and realized the wearer must have been just over 1.8 meters tall, extremely thin, and likely had no visible muscle definition—any trace of muscle would make it impossible to wear.

Batman guessed this might have been young Zeller’s clothing—that is, only when he hadn’t yet grown to his full height could he have worn it.

He folded the gown and returned it; beside it lay a toothbrush, a towel, and two stacked rolls of toilet paper—all ordinary items offering little clue—but the next shelf held something that puzzled him.

First, on the left of the second shelf sat a metal cookie tin; when Batman picked it up, he saw it bore Chinese text—likely a brand of cookies; opening the lid revealed two notebooks.

The notebooks were plain, one new, one old; the older one showed heavy use; opening it, he found page after page filled with dense Chinese script—clearly a diary.

Batman read closely and found the author seemed to have a plan, but never succeeded.

“November 20: I successfully gained access to the cafeteria and, as planned, watched the TV drama playing on the cafeteria’s screen…”

“November 22: I began imitating the behavior and speech of characters from the TV drama…”

“November 25: Exposed during follow-up examination. Failure.”

“January 6: The nurse said my illness was nearly cured. Of course—it was because my roommate suffered from anorexia; though he refused food, his behavior was normal; I successfully imitated him and became normal myself…”

“January 10: Exposed during follow-up examination. Failure.”

“February 11: I said I wanted to take the college entrance exam; the director was delighted and provided me with many books; after memorizing them all at incredible speed, I earned the right to read outside materials.”

“February 13: I read many stories from the outside materials and imitated the characters’ behavior; the director believed knowledge led to progress and was pleased.”

“February 15: Exposed during follow-up examination. Failure.”

“March 10: Exposed during follow-up examination. Failure.”

“March 25: Exposed during follow-up examination. Failure.”

“April 1: Began considering giving up.”

“April 2: Gave up.”

As Batman turned page after page of the diary, his brow tightened—he could gather only this: the author had persistently tried to imitate normal behavior, but every follow-up exam exposed him, and then he gave up.

Batman was about to set the diary down when he sensed the last page had been turned; flipping to it, he found one sentence written:

“The two things humans love most: turning an ordinary person into a madman, and demanding a madman pretend to be ordinary.”

Upon reading this, Batman’s fingertip paused—but then he blinked and picked up the other notebook.

This notebook was far newer, appearing barely used; yet when Batman opened the first page, he froze.

It contained no text—only a drawing: a colossal tower, vast, majestic, piercing the clouds.

Flipping further, he found nothing else; he frantically flipped both notebooks from start to finish but found no clue about the tower.

The only observation: the artist’s strokes suggested constant revision—as if sketching a blueprint, not a realistic drawing.

Another detail that troubled Batman: the tower was covered in intricate patterns—or rather, cracks—as if built from countless tiny fragments.

The direction of the artist’s strokes suggested he was endlessly deliberating where each fragment belonged and how to join them to maintain stability.

When the Parallax Beast arrived and was parasitized by the Laughing Egg, Batman had seen Zeller’s Mind Tower—but now he understood more: this tower wasn’t a single structure ascending from bottom to top; it was assembled from countless fragments.

Batman turned to the box on the right of the second shelf: it looked like a microwave-safe plastic container; removing it, unlatching the lid, he found not food, but several wooden blocks.

He picked one up, examining it closely: the corners were heavily worn, suggesting daily, frequent use; he squinted in confusion—he couldn’t picture Zeller sitting on his bed assembling blocks.

This professor always seemed mature, showing little interest in any entertainment unsuited to his age; if he played any tabletop game, it might be chess or go—but never blocks.

Batman stared at the block in his hand, thinking: even if blocks, they should be something like LEGO—more engaging—not these plain wooden chunks. And how many were in the box altogether?

Batman closed the lid and returned the box to the cabinet, then turned his gaze to the lowest shelf—where lay the one thing he could least comprehend; he picked it up, unfolded it, and confirmed: it was a straitjacket.

The instant he unfolded it, the lights in the room flickered twice and went out.

Instantly, Batman heard a strange noise—like metal being torn and twisted, grating on the nerves; he immediately thought of Zatanna’s “weakness item.”

Batman glanced at the straitjacket, swiftly folded it, took the notebook box from the second shelf, placed the garment inside, and bolted out the door.

He wasn’t wearing his Batsuit, nor did he have night vision; the corridor was pitch black—he could barely see—but seconds later, he heard a “tap-tap-tap” sound, like something being dragged along the floor.

Batman suddenly recalled: the ends of the straitjacket’s sleeves had metal cuffs to restrain the patient’s arms; when those cuffs struck the edge of a step, they made precisely this sharp, ringing sound.

Holding the box, Batman sprinted toward the end of the corridor; as he turned to descend the stairs, he saw—flickering with the lights—a figure in a straitjacket standing at the corridor’s far end.

He stood just over 1.8 meters tall, extremely thin, with no visible muscle—nothing like Batman’s strength.

Without hesitation, Batman turned and ran.