Chapter 949: What Schiller Fears Most (Part 1)

Batman stepped forward and looked at Zatanna. “I think, actually, it could be...”

Zatanna looked exhausted; repeated teleportations had drained much of her strength. Creating a false memory required not only energy but also intense focus, and Batman’s interruption at this moment distracted her, so she paused her actions and turned to him.

“Bruce, I’m busy with something important. If you really have advice, can you wait until I’m done? You’re distracting me.”

Seeing Zatanna’s pale face, Batman ultimately said nothing more. Constantine also opened his mouth to speak, but seeing Zatanna’s weary expression, he stayed silent.

Zatanna picked up the knife again, selected another light sphere, and gently closed her hand—the sphere dispersed into a screen.

Zatanna’s brow was deeply furrowed, her expression serious. As she thought, Batman saw a room appear on the screen.

It was a typical British-style parlor in a Gotham mansion: a full sofa set and a small round table near the entrance, rows of bookshelves further in, and at the very back, a dark desk surrounded by bookshelves, cluttered with letters, ink screens, globes, and other items.

Finding a suitable setting, Zatanna exhaled in relief, but quickly resumed her focus, continuing to arrange other details.

To fake a murder scene, a corpse was necessary. It seemed Zatanna had never seen many ordinary dead bodies; she stood before the screen for a long time, finally producing only a fat man resembling a politician, laying him flat on the ground.

“Alright, corpse is done. What else? Oh right! Wounds and blood. Let me see... wound on the chest, blood spilled on the floor...” Zatanna muttered to herself as she worked.

She laid the fat man’s corpse flat on the ground in a star shape, then carved a large hole in the center of his chest and scattered some blood beneath his body.

Batman, standing behind her, could no longer watch in silence. He spoke up.

“Zatanna, theoretically, if someone’s chest had a hole this large, they wouldn’t bleed just this much.”

Zatanna froze, then looked at Batman in surprise. “How do you know that?”

“You’ve been away from Gotham too long.” Batman said only that. Zatanna was baffled, but she humbly accepted the suggestion and increased the amount of blood.

“Also, if you plan to make this knife the murder weapon, don’t give him a wound that looks like it was made by a shotgun blast.”

“And if someone suffered such a blow to the chest, blood wouldn’t spread evenly in a circular pattern on the floor. There’d be more than just blood—there’d be organ fragments. Besides, you shattered his ribs; there must be bone shards...”

“Bruce!” Zatanna raised her voice. “If you’re dissatisfied with me, just say it outright!”

“Fine, I admit it—leaving without telling you was my fault. Sorry. Happy now? Don’t interrupt me while I’m working!”

Zatanna sharply turned her head away, but after a moment’s hesitation, she followed Batman’s advice—made the wound smaller, changed it to a stab wound near the heart, and stopped spreading the blood evenly.

Then Zatanna rolled her eyes and created a trail of footprints on the floor, and some handprints on the nearby table. “If he was in a hurry to cover up evidence, he’d be more frantic—then he’d forget the umbrella...”

Just as the scene was nearly complete, Schiller suddenly appeared in this memory space. He wore his usual suit, but half of it was soaked in blood—from the left side of his chest down to his right wrist.

In his right hand he held a long knife, also caked in blood. Before him lay a corpse with a pierced chest, blood pooling at his feet and staining the soles of his shoes.

Schiller, appearing in the space, first froze—then, as if implanted with a memory, completely forgot he had abruptly entered.

He glanced down at the corpse at his feet, then at the knife in his hand, then again at the blood on his shoes.

He made a look of deep revulsion, stepped back slightly, dropped the knife, and muttered, “What is this?”

He took a deep breath, but showed no panic—only stood still, looked up at the ceiling, and made a cross over his chest. “If I am guilty, God will punish me—not make me witness such a corpse...”

“My God!” Schiller shook his head and sighed. “What kind of person would, in such a clean, orderly room, wield such a heavy blade and drive it straight into someone’s heart? This is just...”

Hearing this, Zatanna exhaled in relief—his reaction was normal. But then she saw Schiller in the screen scanning the room and continuing: “And this room has only one door, thick window glass, high floor, no balcony, no ventilation shafts...”

Zatanna’s smile froze. “He’s just complaining about the room’s layout, right? Right?”

“Forget it. Let’s start modifying the memory...” Zatanna forced herself to ignore the oddities and whispered.

Suddenly, Schiller in the screen froze, then muttered to himself: “Did I do this? Did I kill him?”

Schiller wore a look of deep confusion, scanned the surroundings and the corpse at his feet, then stared at his own bloodied right hand.

Zatanna expected shock, panic—but instead, Schiller muttered:

“But I always use my left hand for cases. No idiot uses his dominant hand to kill.”

Outside the screen, Zatanna frantically smeared the image. “Wait, wait! What did he just say? Left hand for cases? He’s done this before?!!”

“My God! Bruce! Your professor is a murderer?!”

She didn’t even look at Batman’s expression—she frantically shifted the blood to his left hand, then reset Schiller back to his initial arrival state.

The earlier sequence repeated exactly. This time, Schiller didn’t question the blood on his hands—he looked down at his own chest and said: “Why is the blood on my shirt different in coagulation from the blood on the floor? Did he die two hours ago, then splash blood on me?”

Zatanna panicked again, but as she tried to correct it, she realized she had no idea what blood coagulation differences even meant.

So she turned to Batman. He gave her a brief explanation of how human blood changes after leaving the body. Zatanna’s head spun. She raised one hand.

“Stop. Just tell me the conclusion: what color and viscosity should I set the two types of blood to?”

Batman walked over and guided Zatanna in adjusting the blood’s color and thickness. After much effort, they finally got it right. Zatanna reset Schiller back to his arrival state.

But Schiller once again unbuttoned his suit, examined his shirt—the blood inside hadn’t been adjusted. Zatanna had to rework the bottom layer’s color again.

Finally, the blood test passed. Reset again, Schiller stopped focusing on blood color and viscosity—he turned to the wound.

He crouched beside the corpse, staring at the stab wound to the heart. “Pierced the heart. One strike, fatal...”

Then Schiller picked up the knife he had dropped and plunged it again into the heart.

The next scene shocked her even more: Schiller, holding the knife, ripped out the corpse’s heart.

Outside the screen, Zatanna’s eyes widened, she gasped. “Oh my God! What is he doing?!”

“The man’s dead—he’s mutilating the corpse?!!”

!

But even more shocking: as he tore out the heart, Schiller muttered: “Though I remember no grudge, since I killed you, consider yourself lucky.”

“I won’t be like those inexperienced fools, leaving you alone here, your body as ugly as when you lived. That’s cruel. I’m not that kind of man.”

“Whatever our feud, it’s settled. I’ll give you a dignified end.”

“You should pray to God for me. When your body is found, it might be the brightest moment of your life... thanks to me. Thank me.”

Zatanna stood frozen outside the screen. Then she shuddered violently, snapped back to awareness, and with trembling fingers pointed at the screen, turning to Batman.

“I told you—he’s not ordinary.” Batman spoke calmly. He thought: even this Schiller wasn’t yet insane. After all, the memory of how the pathological Schiller treated the owls of Metropolis still burned vividly.

“The police are coming... the police are coming... the police are coming...” Zatanna chanted. “You can’t be caught... you can’t be caught... you can’t be caught... so run... run... run, run, run! Oh God! Stop! You have to leave now!”

Zatanna could no longer hold back—she clutched her throat and began retching.

Finally, after several minutes, Schiller stood up. Zatanna exhaled. “The mind magic is working. Hurry—hide the weapon! You need to hide the weapon now!”

!

But the next second, Schiller gripped the knife’s hilt with both hands, raised it high—and with a wet “schllll,” blood splattered across the screen. In a sea of red, all saw Schiller sever the man’s head.

Then Schiller carried the head to the desk, placed it upon it, dragged the remaining corpse to the office chair, and laid it down.

He walked to the desk, studied the scene, seemed unsatisfied, shook his head, stroked his chin, then reached out and shifted the head slightly left—aligning it with the body.

“What the hell is he doing?!”

Zatanna screamed. “Why is he playing with corpses?!”

! “Put the head down!”

After aligning the head, Schiller seemed to recall something amusing. He smiled. “A man who called himself the nation’s brain... now without his brain... wait, head and brain aren’t the same thing...”

Outside the screen, Zatanna’s eyes widened as she watched Schiller straighten his suit tie, pick up the knife he’d dropped, and walk back toward the head.

Zatanna frantically shut the screen, stood frozen, breathing heavily with lingering dread.

Then she turned to Batman, eyes wide, shaking her head rapidly, staring into his eyes. “Bruce, no wonder you’ve changed—you had a professor like this!”

Then Zatanna took a deep breath, her expression hardening. “Don’t worry, Bruce—I’ll save you from this evil man.”

Batman slightly pursed his lips, opened his mouth, then closed it, returning to his classic downturned-mouth expression. He shook his head. “You’d better reconsider...”

But Zatanna suddenly rushed forward, cupping Batman’s face. “I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have left! I knew my father’s problems would drag you down!”

“Oh my God, Bruce...” Zatanna embraced him. “I can’t believe you ever met someone like this. I should’ve stayed beside you to protect you...”

Batman’s face darkened—not because of Zatanna, but because behind her, Constantine held a glowing magical recording pen, smiling brightly at him.