Chapter 950: What Schiller Fears Most (Part 2)

Batman had intended to speak when Zatanna was downcast, urging her to give up, for his purpose in coming here had already been achieved, and he never truly believed Zatanna’s plan could succeed.

But unexpectedly, Zatanna shoved him away and said with renewed determination: “If that’s the case, then I must find out what secrets this mysterious Professor Schiller is hiding—what his weakness is.”

“If the Curse of Ultimate Evil falls into the hands of someone like him, something horrific will surely happen—I must stop it!”

Seeing the resolute expression on Zatanna’s face, Batman, who had just been embraced by her, found it hard to speak now.

But unexpectedly, Constantine coughed twice and said: “Little Zat, you can see too—he’s no ordinary man. Maybe we should just… call it off this time.”

Constantine also wanted to leave; though they hadn’t obtained the Cursed Soul, they’d secured leverage over Batman—enough for a profitable return. His goal had largely been met, and he never believed Zatanna’s plan would succeed.

But Zatanna glared at him and said: “Do you think I’m like you? I don’t aim to retreat.”

Then she walked back to the light orbs, glanced at the block in her hand, and murmured: “A block? Let me think… No, no—lying to a child is wrong, but an exchange? Maybe that’s acceptable.”

She pulled over another memory orb, smaller than the others; the screen unfolded, and Zatanna constructed a child’s bedroom scene.

She muttered to herself: “This block must’ve been important to young Schiller. If I offer it in exchange for the umbrella, he’ll trade it, right?”

Immediately, young Schiller appeared in the memory space, and a woman teacher, identical to Zatanna, entered, holding a block. She knelt, looked into young Schiller’s eyes, and said: “Little Schiller, do you want this block?”

Young Schiller looked into Zatanna’s eyes and nodded. Zatanna smiled gently, stroked his head, and said: “Then trade me your umbrella for it, okay?”

Young Schiller glanced at the large umbrella clutched behind him, then looked back at Zatanna and shook his head.

“Why won’t you trade?” Zatanna still smiled softly, eyes half-lidded. “It’s not raining today—you can play safely indoors. Come on, give me the umbrella…”

Schiller stepped back slightly and shook his head again, but his gaze never left the block in Zatanna’s hand. Zatanna felt this might be her best chance, so she extended her hand further.

But unexpectedly, Schiller snatched the block from her hand with lightning speed and ran to the corner.

Zatanna’s eyes widened in anger. She stepped forward two paces and said: “How dare you steal? That’s wrong! Children must be polite!”

But young Schiller, crouched in the corner, held the block in one hand and the umbrella in the other, staring fixedly at her. Zatanna wanted to step closer, yet feared provoking him.

Helpless, she reset the scene again. This time, she didn’t extend her hand far—she gripped the block tightly, denying Schiller any chance to snatch it. Then she and Schiller stared at each other for three hours.

Of course, these were three hours within the memory space; in the soul buffer zone where Zatanna and the others stood, only about twenty minutes had passed.

Finally, the screen went dark. Zatanna gave up. She stood motionless, dazed: “I don’t understand—how can a child so young have such intense focus? He watched my every move for three hours straight. The moment my fingers loosened or I blinked, he snatched the block…”

“Many autistic children possess higher focus than their peers; when deficient in one area, they excel intensely in another,” Batman said.

Zatanna looked utterly exhausted—not just from the energy drained by repeatedly resetting the scene, but because anyone facing Schiller endured psychological torment.

Batman saw her expression and knew her nerves were stretched taut, on the verge of snapping. Prodding her now would be a terrible idea.

Sure enough, he heard her whisper: “I must resolve this curse. It’s my duty. It’s my fate…”

“Bullshit fate!” Constantine, lying on the ground recovering strength, raised his voice: “Why won’t you understand? Those elders who told you this didn’t want you to save the world—they just wanted to use you to save themselves!”

“Constantine!” Zatanna nearly screamed: “Do you think I’d become someone like you? I’m not you—I’ll use my gift to protect this world. I’ll never walk down that path!”

Constantine closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell faintly. “Perhaps your desire to protect the world is real—but the ones who set this goal for you, taught you the methods and skills… they never truly wanted to protect the world.”

“Are you talking about my father?!” Zatanna’s voice cracked. She glared at Constantine: “No matter what, what my father and I do is to protect others—not like you!”

Constantine offered no rebuttal. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and said: “Are you mistaken about justice and protection in the magical world? We’re just cursed, pitiful creatures. Don’t imagine yourself noble.”

Batman saw Zatanna’s twisted expression. Through her exchange with Constantine, he guessed that Zatanna, born into a prestigious lineage, had been raised since childhood with the belief that she must use her immense gift to save and protect the world.

Perhaps those who instilled this belief had ulterior motives—or perhaps their motives were pure, but the truth didn’t match their claims.

Constantine had repeatedly stressed that magical talent is like a curse, constantly driving one toward the abyss. Zatanna seemed to believe she’d be the exception—but Constantine was deeply pessimistic.

“You should conserve your strength, Little Z. Use it to protect yourself—not to drive yourself mad chasing some abstract justice.”

Zatanna’s expression flickered with emotion. For an instant, Batman saw vulnerability—but it vanished instantly.

This female magician, always wearing a playful smile, never stopped performing—as if on stage, focused, vibrant, never still.

First came the news of the Ultimate Evil Curse; she rushed to Gotham without pause. Then she expended immense energy to seal the spirit fog around Gotham. Finally, her attempts to find flaws in the memory spaces failed…

This string of setbacks left Zatanna deeply anxious. A voice inside her constantly urged her: if she couldn’t solve this alone, catastrophe would follow. If she didn’t give everything, if she made even the smallest mistake, the world would end, humanity would perish.

Batman understood this emotion all too well.

Batman was never good at comforting others. He could only shift her focus his way. So he spoke:

“Staying here won’t yield further progress. We should return to the real world—that’s the most rational choice.”

He looked at Zatanna and Constantine: “Both of you are in poor condition. We need rest. Let’s go back.”

Constantine nodded, rose from the ground, and prepared to leave. But Zatanna, standing silent, took a deep breath and exhaled, then said: “If you’re leaving, I can send you back first—but I must stay.”

“Even if I can’t obtain the curse’s medium now, I must learn how to restrain him. Otherwise, when disaster strikes, it’ll be too late.”

“Little Z, listen to me—dragging this out is pointless. It’ll hurt you badly,” Constantine said, staring into her eyes. “I know you still have a trump card—but it’s not worth it.”

“Nothing’s not worth it. I’ve said it—I’m giving everything I’ve got,” Zatanna refused to yield. “If you want to leave, I’ll send you off now—but I will find the flaw in these memory spaces.”

Zatanna’s stubbornness exasperated Constantine. He shot Batman a glance, urging him to intervene. But when Batman stepped forward, he said: “Do you still have strength left? If so, carry out your plan.”

“Are you both insane?!” Constantine exclaimed. “Even if you stay here for hours more, what will you gain? Just repeat the same failures over and over…”

But Zatanna spoke: “No. Since things have reached this point, I think we must use more radical methods.”

“You mean you have another approach?” Batman asked.

Zatanna sighed: “I don’t want to do this—it goes beyond memory alteration.”

“What you’ve seen so far—me creating fictional memory spaces, implanting false memories into their inhabitants—doesn’t significantly affect true memories.”

“Because it only alters the surface layer of consciousness, never touching the deeper layers.”

“But Xinling magic can do far more. We can follow the path of memory deeper still, to uncover its hidden secrets.”

Zatanna sighed softly: “If we can’t get the curse’s medium through deception, at least we can find a way to restrain him—something to stop him when he tries to act.”

Seeing Zatanna’s expression and hearing her words, Batman felt a strange sensation—he saw his past self in her.

Suspicious, obsessive, paranoid, wanting everything to obey his will, demanding contingency plans for every possibility, needing to uncover the weaknesses of anything beyond his control—or else he couldn’t sleep or eat.

Now Batman clearly understood how his own personality had formed: driven by rage, vengeance, and the desperate need to save Gotham, he’d pursued perfection with unbearable anxiety over any failure to achieve it.

Then what was forcing Zatanna down this path toward the abyss? And what could save her?

Batman suddenly realized: from an outsider’s view, such people are not likable. He finally understood why Schiller and that ever-smiling madman kept insisting: “The one who dresses as a bat is the real lunatic.”

Because such people truly look like lunatics.