Chapter 951

But at the same time, Batman, putting himself in Schiller’s position, understood that for someone trapped in such thoughts, repeatedly telling them “You’re wrong, this won’t work,” or “You must do this or that,” is useless.

Their paranoia is beyond cure; no matter who gives them advice, they’ll assume every suggestion hides a trap—Batman once thought exactly that.

He’d seek advice from many people—Gordon, Harvey, Schiller—but he never fully trusted their suggestions; after synthesizing and rethinking them, he’d analyze the advisors’ personalities, their tone, their wording, to uncover traps that didn’t even exist.

It sounds like ingratitude, but in this state, it’s more like compulsion—he couldn’t control himself, couldn’t stop thinking, one plan after another, one contingency after another, spinning endlessly in his mind.

Batman certainly wanted to save Zatanna; even though they were no longer lovers, they were still friends—old friends—and he didn’t want to see her walk down a path of self-destruction.

Like Schiller, Batman didn’t want the world to have another madman, strapped in a restraint chair, staring at the moon.

Since forceful advice wouldn’t work, Batman didn’t plan to beg Zatanna to return, like Constantine had; instead, he told her: “If you have another way, try it—but I believe you’ve already realized Professor Schiller isn’t ordinary.”

“Constantine and I have seen the full structure of the Thought Tower—a vast, unimaginable edifice. Fragments of his personality dwell within it, their number uncountable, perhaps hundreds or thousands.”

“His memory space must be perilous beyond measure. We only explored the surface and encountered so many dangers—if you wish to go deeper, you must prepare.”

Batman rarely spoke so much at once; he was never a talkative man. After he finished, Zatanna thought carefully, then frowned and said: “You’re right. The memory fragments we’ve already seen show he’s a madman, a criminal, a killer—with high professional skill.”

“But I still think it’s worth trying. We don’t intend to provoke him—just to glimpse the one thing he fears most. If done carefully, we won’t be detected.”

Hearing this, Batman asked, puzzled: “You can see what he fears most?”

“Everyone has something they fear, don’t they? The weakness items we’ve collected—objects that left psychological scars—like the restraint suit, perhaps symbolizing his unhappy life in the asylum; the butcher knife, his dark memories of being experimented on; the blocks, his childhood trauma…”

“These are weaknesses and shadows, but they aren’t what he fears most. When anyone asks themselves, ‘What do I fear most?’ they have an immediate, instinctive answer—that’s usually the truest fear.”

Zatanna turned to the floating light points and said: “Memories aren’t complete or continuous. Many believe their recollections flow smoothly, but they’re actually fragments stitched together.”

“What stitches these fragments into coherent memories is called a memory path—the mental cue a person uses to recall a specific memory.”

“Some follow chronological order: morning, then noon, then night. Others follow logic: cause first, then effect.”

“These memory paths can become our pathways. Each fragment can be a springboard. If we orient correctly, we can leap and shuttle endlessly until we reach the moment he asked himself, ‘What do I fear most?’”

“Then, in that single instant of memory, we’ll find his first, instinctive answer—that’s what he fears most.”

Batman understood Zatanna’s explanation—it simply made human thought more tangible, another way of interpreting human memory.

“The only question is—do you still have the strength?” Batman looked at Zatanna’s pale face. “From your description, constant leaping and shifting must drain immense energy.”

Zatanna pressed her lips together, unwilling to show weakness. She lifted her chin slightly and said: “I can’t be weaker than an ordinary person’s will, can I, Bruce?”

Seeing her stubborn expression, Batman had words on his tongue but couldn’t speak them. Her decision likely stemmed from wanting to prove her sudden departure wasn’t without reason—that she truly did her best to protect this world.

Standing beside them, Constantine sighed. “Alright, alright—you two are both righteous messengers. Guess I’ve got no choice but to risk my life for you.”

“Honestly, if it weren’t for that Ultimate Evil Curse you mentioned—something that could destroy the world—I’d never have come here. But since we’re here, let’s see what Schiller fears most.”

Zatanna waved her hand, and countless memory orbs swirled around her. White light spread, forming a storm around the three. She raised her voice: “Prepare yourselves—we’re beginning the transit!”

After a blinding flash of white, Batman found himself in a weightless space, with the scenery rushing backward.

Zatanna led, Batman and Constantine flanking her, flying behind as they darted through countless orbs—like a ship navigating a starfield.

One orb after another receded before Batman’s eyes. In fleeting glimpses, he saw fragments of Schiller’s past—stories he’d never known.

Schiller reading, Schiller in an exam hall, Schiller driving, Schiller sleeping…

Time slipped like a white horse through a gap. Memories flowed like light. In the soul’s flight, memory became the finest scenery—like scenery flashing past a train window: not breathtakingly beautiful, yet evoking the quiet sorrow of faded photographs.

As Batman immersed himself in observing each orb’s contents, Zatanna ahead suddenly shouted: “Prepare to land!”

Batman held his breath. The next second, intense weightlessness slammed into him. A flash of white—when his feet touched ground again, the first sound he heard wasn’t his footsteps, but Zatanna’s scream.

“Aaaaaaaaaa!”

Batman whirled around—but before he saw Zatanna, he saw Schiller, clad in a restraint suit, masked.

Before he could speak, Constantine’s cry came from behind: “Zatanna!”

“You jumped wrong?!”

“I didn’t!” Zatanna, dodging restraint straps, shouted: “I followed the compass! The psychic magic’s directional guidance is flawless!”

“Then why are we back here?!” Constantine turned into a smoke clone, appearing elsewhere—only to be whipped against the wall by a restraint strap the next second.

Batman stared. They were back in the same memory space—the same observation room. They’d just fallen out of the same door they’d entered before.

No time to think. The three fled again. Even at full strength, they’d barely held their own against Schiller. Now, exhausted and drained, direct confrontation was impossible.

They bolted into the basement tool room. Zatanna gasped: “How? The compass pointed here—I couldn’t have misjudged…”

She pulled out a glowing magical compass, whispering: “This was left by the Archmage Merlin—it can’t be wrong…”

The metallic “click-click” sounded again. Zatanna gritted her teeth, waved her hand—a storm surged—and they were back in transit.

Zatanna pulled out another compass, staring fixedly at its needle: “I won’t misread it again…”

“Prepare to land!” she shouted again. The next second—same dizziness, same white light, same thud, same scream…

Batman was certain—the confusion on Schiller’s face wasn’t an illusion. They were back in the observation room again.

This time, Zatanna didn’t look shocked. She declared firmly: “This proves the place we’re seeking is right here!”

“First, lose him—I’ll guide us with the compass!” Zatanna shouted. They ran again. This time, perhaps provoked, Schiller’s pursuit intensified. They circled the building several times before shaking him off.

Constantine was nearly collapsed. He looked at Zatanna: “You should’ve used this plan earlier—we wouldn’t be this battered…”

“No one can foresee the future,” Zatanna sighed. “At least now we know the layout.”

She held the compass, its glow flaring. The needle spun wildly, then settled on one direction. Zatanna pushed open the door again, sprinted to an intersection, and pointed: “This way!”

She turned and ran. The other two followed. After another long loop, Zatanna stopped in the hallway. “Wrong. It should be here—but why is there no room?”

“Upstairs or downstairs,” Batman said. As Zatanna opened her mouth to ask, he added: “Downstairs. Remember the exit we found before…”

Zatanna’s eyes widened in realization. “The thing Schiller resists most… Yes! The exit here might connect to two paths—one to the buffer zone, the other to the room we need!”

“Go!” Zatanna sprinted again, racing down the stairs to the first floor—just as Schiller patrolled past. The three had to run faster.

Schiller’s speed increased. The restraint straps nearly brushed Zatanna’s hair. With her last strength, she dashed into the cafeteria.

Instantly, a white storm engulfed them. The transit lasted less than a second. When they landed again, they stood before a door.

Zatanna could barely move, but she gripped the doorframe, stood, and gasped: “Fine… he’s ruthless…”

“Now, let’s see what such a terrifying professor fears most.”

The other two were nearly spent too—even Batman, who’d been in best condition, bore most of the attacks. Wounds on his arm and waist had soaked his suit in blood.

He too was curious about the answer. When Zatanna explained her leap-plan’s principle, Batman had thought of one question.

Would Schiller’s belief of what he fears most, others’ belief of what he fears most, and what he truly fears most—all be the same?

Clearly, the door before them would answer the first question: what Schiller believes he fears most.

This still intrigued Batman. If such an answer existed, Schiller wasn’t as flawless in his speech as he appeared.

It might not defeat him—but it could mock him.

The next second, Zatanna pushed open the door. The three stepped into the radiant room.

First to catch their eyes: grass, blooming flowers in sequence, distant trees. But none compared to the colossal object before them.

It was a giant, magnificent, towering, sky-blocking—cauliflower.

It was a gigantic, magnificent, towering to the clouds, blotting out the sky—broccoli.