Chapter 944: The Mystery of Schiller

Before Constantin could even ponder what this corpse before him might be, he heard the roar of an engine drawing near, followed by the sound of a car door opening—someone was coming.

Constantin glanced around and noticed a pile of scrap piled deep within the warehouse.

He had no time to think—he sprinted over and ducked beneath a plastic tarp. Instantly, blinding light poured through the gap where the roller shutter had risen, turning the floor white as snow.

The blood spreading across the floor resembled plum blossoms blooming in winter. Constantin’s pupils contracted—from his angle, at least seven or eight corpses lay sprawled across the warehouse floor.

The newcomers were a man and a woman. Backlit, Constantin couldn’t make out their faces, but they spoke English with the same British accent as his own, so he caught every word of their conversation.

“Laura, I told you before—Patient One shouldn’t be released this early. When we brought him back, his behavior exceeded all our previous test subjects. And he has high-functioning autism—his mental state was already unstable…”

“Enough,” the woman said. “It was our joint decision. Didn’t you want to see Patient One’s strength?”

She tilted her chin toward the corpses and turned to the man. “See? This is him—our most successful experiment to date. Fifteen years old. Killed eleven trained, armed, fully loaded security personnel with nothing but a knife…”

At those words, Constantin frowned deeply. He turned his gaze elsewhere—sure enough, bullet marks scarred the warehouse walls.

But from the blood patterns, none of the bullets had struck anyone. Every corpse on the ground died from blade wounds—the blood had sprayed so far because of the slashing cuts.

“Patient One…” Constantin whispered to himself: “Who are they referring to? If this is Schiller’s memory space… could it be Schiller himself?”

At that moment, the woman named Laura spoke again: “The results are impressive, but the security detail the old man sent to escort us are all dead here. But he had it coming—who let him interfere with our experiments?”

The man beside her shook his head, dissatisfied. “We barely had enough personnel to spare. You just wasted so many…”

“But it was worth it, wasn’t it?” Laura shrugged, crouched beside the corpses, and examined the wounds. “What a beautiful cut—elegant, precise, one strike to kill.”

“Enough with the admiration,” he said. “I’ll call someone to clean up these bodies. Then get Patient One to the target location fast—otherwise, if anyone here finds out, it’ll be a problem.”

Laura scoffed. “A country this poor? What energy do they have left for security? Don’t worry—they’re not even looking at us. Honestly, I say we run a few more trials.”

Hearing their conversation, Constantin felt puzzled. He looked up again at the warehouse, then turned his head—and spotted two flyers on the wall. Of course, Constantin didn’t know these were called “flyers,” but he could clearly read the Chinese characters written on them.

“This isn’t Britain?” Constantin muttered under his breath. “Could these people be British spies?… Oh, God, what nonsense am I saying? How could there be legitimate British spies?”

Soon after, another group arrived. The roller shutter fully opened. They began removing the corpses. As flashlight beams swept closer, Constantin realized he needed a way out.

He was here to find the Cursed Soul, not to learn about Schiller’s past—he only wanted to leave this place as quickly as possible.

But as he considered whether to use unconventional means to escape, he saw the warehouse door transform into a bright square—and a shadow suddenly appeared within it.

From his build, the figure was frail, under 1.8 meters tall, with no trace of physical training. In the fleeting flash of car headlights outside, light swept across his face—Constantin realized this wasn’t Schiller, at least not in appearance.

But he wasn’t purely Asian either—he looked mixed-race. What struck Constantin most was that, in that fleeting glimpse, he saw the boy’s eyes: identical to Schiller’s gray eyes.

A master of the occult, Constantin knew the saying “the eyes are the window to the soul” wasn’t merely metaphorical. If the human soul had any outward manifestation, it was the eyes.

If Constantin encountered a soul in the Spirit Realm and wished to find its earthly counterpart, the best method was to observe its eyes. Those with high spiritual perception could see the soul through the eyes—and Constantin was among the most spiritually perceptive.

The instant he saw the boy’s eyes, Constantin knew—he must be Schiller. But why did Schiller in this memory space look different from his real self?

Constantin thought it might be due to personality differences. He had encountered patients with dissociative identity disorder—each personality had a different appearance, even a different soul-form.

Just as Constantin was about to delve deeper into this thought, the Schiller standing at the door gave no one time to think.

Constantin saw he held a long blade resembling a cleaver—about the length of a forearm. It looked incongruous with his frail frame. But soon, Constantin had no time to ponder incongruity.

The highway outside streamed with cars, their high beams flashing past the warehouse entrance.

The flowing light brushed gently over the cold blade. Constantin saw the knife’s surface reflect neon glimmers—then the dazzling reflections vanished, replaced by a sea of crimson.

The instant they noticed the intruder, the man and woman drew their pistols—but it was too late.

The cleaver swung horizontally—the light sliced through air, severing one man’s wrist. The boy rolled aside to evade the other’s shot, then struck again.

As the cleaver was withdrawn, a wet “slish” echoed. The illuminated floor bore the blade’s trail like calligraphy—bloodstains bold and fierce.

He spun back, retreated into the blind spot of backlighting, slipped behind the man, and drove the sharp cleaver into his body—then released the hilt.

Only when the corpse collapsed did he step on the man’s spine to yank the blade free.

Constantin swallowed hard. He knew now was not the time to emerge.

But the boy seemed to sense another living presence in the warehouse. As he advanced toward Constantin with the blade, Constantin knew today would end badly.

Of course, Constantin was a magician—even in this memory space, he could wield magic. A flash of fire appeared behind Schiller; his hands glowed golden.

He raised his hands, turned them gently—and a golden magical array materialized between them. “Zheng!” The blade struck the array. Sparks flew—and the light illuminated Constantin’s face.

His appearance was worn and weary. The boy opposite was gaunt, pale. When their two sickly faces met, Constantin felt the boy’s innate madness and evil ignite instantly.

The array solidified into a beam, grazing the boy Schiller’s ear. He turned his head slightly, watching where the light struck—instantly, a charred mark appeared.

The cleaver’s hilt spun from index finger to pinky and back to index finger. The moment the boy’s bony fingers gripped the bandaged hilt, Constantin retreated again—fists clenched, another beam shot forth.

The boy Schiller lunged again. Constantin conjured a magical shield to block—but then he saw the boy smirk.

The next instant, he surged sideways at a speed Constantin could barely perceive, hurling the cleaver.

Constantin twisted his shield desperately—but it shattered instantly. As the blade struck him, he realized: it was far heavier than he’d imagined. Schiller’s strength was far greater.

The blade sliced through his skin, kept flying, and clattered to the ground just right of him.

Lying on the ground, Constantin screamed, gasping heavily. He saw the boy Schiller walk over, pick up the blade, and turn to study him—when suddenly, Constantin smirked.

A chain of lightning leapt from his body. When it struck the boy’s feet, it paralyzed him for an instant. Another flash of light sent him flying. Constantin staggered to his feet, grabbed the blade, and said:

“What a fine blade…”

The instant his fingers touched the hilt, he knew—he had found the “weakness item” Zatanna had mentioned. But that also meant this world would become even more terrifying.

Injured, Constantin didn’t linger. While Schiller was still stunned from the blast, he sprinted out of the warehouse and yanked the roller shutter down.

As he stole a car, he saw a figure standing in the dark warehouse doorway, watching him—but not following.

Constantin’s fingers tightened on the hilt, then relaxed. He hung the long blade inside his trench coat, stole a car, and drove toward an unknown intersection.

As the car sped down the highway, Constantin confirmed: this wasn’t Britain. The unfamiliar architecture, unreadable mystical script, car radio music utterly unlike British stations…

For the first time, Constantin felt curious about Schiller’s past: why did he have a personality shaped in an Eastern nation? And why did he ultimately end up on America’s East Coast—in Gotham?

But what troubled Constantin more was this: who were the man and woman with British accents in the warehouse? What were these “experiments”? And who was “Patient One”?