Chapter 943: The Mystery of Shiler

“Aaaahhh… uh! Mmm!”

Constantine, who had just shouted out, was yanked over by Batman and had his mouth clamped shut.

Shiler, standing by the door, turned his head; the restraint suit binding his wrists had long straps designed to lock his hands in place, but the straps themselves could move freely, like flexible whips, lashing toward Constantine.

After the initial shock, Constantine didn’t hesitate—he rolled sideways, clearing the hospital bed in front of him, then shoved the nearby cabinet with all his strength.

The cabinet didn’t hit Shiler, but as it fell, its contents spilled out, blocking his view; within those few precious seconds, Constantine grabbed Batman and bolted out of the room.

“The passage is in that room—we have to go through him to get out,” Batman said, following behind Constantine. “That’s the emergency exit. Where else are you going?”

“Emergency exit?!” Constantine raised his voice. “Didn’t you see I just came from there?… No, he’s coming again—we need to go downstairs!”

Saying this, Constantine gripped the stair rail, halted his momentum, then dashed down the stairs.

The emergency lights in the stairwell cast a faint glow through the narrow space; at that moment, Batman noticed that most of Constantine’s right side was soaked in blood.

Perhaps because this was a memory space, Batman didn’t smell the blood—but he heard Constantine’s labored breathing, clearly indicating his condition was poor.

Batman’s expression grew graver, yet he quickened his pace, running down the corridor while scanning the surroundings, and soon realized that nearly every room on this floor was dark, except one utility closet at the far end.

Just as Constantine was about to burst into the closet, Batman blocked him—he listened carefully, then peered through the window on the door, saw no one or traps, and only then did they both rush inside.

Batman immediately found the switch and turned off the light; the two held their breath as the “tap-tap” footsteps grew closer, then farther away, and after the sound vanished, Constantine exhaled deeply—but swayed unsteadily, nearly collapsing against the wall from exhaustion.

Batman peered again through the door’s window at the corridor—Shiler’s figure was gone—so he turned the light back on, and saw that Constantine had a deep gash running from his sternocleidomastoid, across his chest, down to his waist, bleeding heavily.

“You might be wondering why a soul can get injured—but let me tell you, this isn’t just some game,” Constantine pulled a cigarette from his trench coat pocket, took a drag, and regained some focus. “Here, you bleed and hurt—or worse.”

“So what exactly happened to you?” Batman asked.

Constantine exhaled another plume of smoke, tilted his head slightly, watching the thin cigarette smoke shift shapes under the light before dissolving into the air.

The glow from the incandescent bulb reminded him of the sphere of light that had sucked him through the tunnel earlier.

When Constantine landed, he wasn’t as lucky as Batman—he didn’t fall onto a soft bed, but onto cold, hard ground; the instant he hit, he clutched his waist and screamed.

“Jesus, I’m too old for this shit,” Constantine gasped as he sat up, rubbing his aching shoulder blade with one arm while hammering his neck with the other—likely twisted during the fall.

Watching the fading light points above him, Constantine realized he hadn’t been unlucky—he’d fallen from at least two meters high.

He thought: Well, of course it’s Shiler—he hates everyone equally at every moment, never missing a chance to humiliate someone, even if they’re unconscious.

Constantine stood up, sneering. He hadn’t come here to steal Shiler’s umbrella—even if it had exorcism power, he wasn’t interested. But though the umbrella wasn’t his goal, he’d still come to steal something.

Shiler had used the umbrella’s exorcism power to knock the cursed soul out of Constantine and absorbed it into the umbrella’s shaft.

But Constantine knew the cursed soul was a “spirit”—it needed human souls for energy, and couldn’t remain bound to an object forever. That’s why horror films always showed cursed objects clinging to their owners, refusing to leave.

Constantine didn’t know Shiler had made a deal with Mephisto, traveled to another world, and gathered a whole horde of Hydra souls to feed the cursed spirit, keeping it full for half a year.

Constantine assumed Shiler was feeding the cursed soul with his own soul energy.

In occult circles, “souls” and “spirits” weren’t considered evil—they were more like wild animals in nature, driven by instinct to hunt. But ordinary human souls were too weak to sustain powerful spirits, leading to gradual weakening and eventual death.

But Constantine knew Shiler was extraordinary—he believed Shiler’s soul energy was more than enough to feed the cursed soul, which was why he’d allowed Shiler to take such a powerful entity in the first place.

When the cursed soul had clung to Constantine, it hadn’t tormented him out of hatred—it was just starving, unable to find food, because Constantine’s soul was riddled with holes, too damaged to even bite into.

Constantine had been so broken because the cursed soul was his twin soul—identical to his own. Within himself, he couldn’t locate the cursed soul, so he couldn’t expel it, and the two ended up torturing each other.

But after Shiler broke the cycle with the umbrella, Constantine hatched a new plan: such a powerful cursed spirit—he couldn’t possibly ignore it. But if he reclaimed it, he still couldn’t feed it.

So he came up with a brilliant idea: since Shiler had taken it, he must have recognized its power—perhaps, for its strength, Shiler would willingly sacrifice his own soul energy to feed it.

Once the cursed soul was full, it wouldn’t torment its host for a while—and if Constantine could reclaim it during that window, he’d possess a powerful spirit with no side effects.

In occult circles, many collected spirits or souls as pets or assistants, but nearly all captured ones were weak, useful only for reconnaissance, offering no other aid. The cursed soul was different.

Constantine knew how unique his soul was—and a soul identical to his own, even if he was no longer human, could deceive demons hungering for his essence.

In short, he wanted to use the cursed soul as bait. If he ever couldn’t pay his debts, he could even use it as a scapegoat—endless uses, endless benefits, with minimal cost. How could Constantine not covet it?

Of course, he knew sneaking into Shiler’s soul was dangerous—but he had one piece of information the other two lacked: Shiler was probably being held back by the Green.

As a once-in-a-century genius of the occult, Constantine accessed power levels few could reach—after all, from Heaven to Hell, everyone loved Constantine.

In this regard, even Zatanna fell short—she was merely well-connected due to her noble lineage, with wide human networks and better rumors. But Constantine could truly be called a denizen of the spirit realm.

He knew the Green’s true tier—so when his allies hunted him, he sensed something wrong: if the Green truly wanted to kill him, would it really use such outdated methods as vines and plants?

Combined with the fact that the Green had appeared at Gotham University, Constantine deduced: the Green had likely targeted Gotham University students, and protective Shiler had directly clashed with it.

Zatanna didn’t know Shiler; Batman didn’t understand the occult. But Constantine, familiar with both sides, realized the moment he learned this: his chance had arrived.

The Green wasn’t easy to fight—if Shiler wanted to face it head-on, he’d have to summon other personality traits from the Tower.

Constantine knew human souls had bandwidth limits—they couldn’t simultaneously unleash full power on one target while maintaining another connection.

So if he entered Shiler’s soul now, it would likely be the safest moment.

The plan had seemed logically sound—he figured that even if he failed to find or retrieve the cursed soul, escaping would be no problem.

After all, if Shiler was busy fighting the Green, he couldn’t possibly cross the entire spirit realm to hunt him down—then he’d just hide in Hell for a couple days.

The plan was perfect—but execution had a few… minor hiccups.

Constantine, still on the ground, hands on hips, surveyed his surroundings—and realized he was in an abandoned warehouse: vast, high-ceilinged, nearly pitch-black, radiating an empty, eerie dread.

He planned to head toward the door crack where a sliver of light leaked in—but after two steps, he tripped with a loud “thud.”

As he rose from the floor, he rubbed his arm again—the pain from his fall hadn’t faded, and he couldn’t help crying out as he landed.

Scrambling to his feet, Constantine turned to see what had tripped him.

But the next second, he froze—faint light revealed that what had tripped him was a corpse.