[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel":3,"chapter-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-961":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"chinese","My Life as a Mental Mentor in Marvel",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},2323529,4544,"Chapter 961: Seller","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-961",961,"\u003Cp>Scott froze for a moment upon hearing this, then lowered his voice: “Are you insane? You’ll die!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As his grip tightened further, Seller struggled to breathe, gasping: “So… you must decide now—bet that your shaking hands, holding this sharp military knife against my neck, won’t slice my trachea or arteries…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Aren’t you afraid I’ll kill you?!” Scott gritted his teeth.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You won’t. As a seasoned agent, you know better than I do, cough… he’ll stand across from you, trying to talk to you—precisely because your knife is at my throat. If I die, you’ll have to pray that the crocodile monster isn’t hungry right now.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Scott’s fingers visibly trembled. He saw that after subduing all the agents around, the terrifying creature was walking toward him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though he was an elite agent with years of service, his entire career had only involved fighting vicious or cunning ordinary humans—not creatures like this.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Even in Gotham, Killer Croc’s appearance was terrifying enough; the fact he couldn’t even land a job as a gang thug showed that even Gotham’s hardened citizens found his looks too extreme.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Watching the towering monster approach, Scott forced himself to take deep breaths, commanding his mind to calm so he could control his trembling arm.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As Seller said, a hostage is only valuable alive. One twitch of his hand now could mean two corpses.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“If you have no experience with this, do exactly as I say,” Seller swallowed, voice dry. “Hold the knife upright, drive it straight in three centimeters behind the scar, then pull it out immediately.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As Batman and Killer Croc closed in, Scott knew he had no choice.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Before acting, he glanced at Batman. The instant Batman caught his gaze, a single syllable escaped him:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“No…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Uh!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Blood sprayed instantly. Batman, rushing toward Seller, now bore a fresh crimson gash across his black chestplate—like the setting sun over Gotham, slowly swallowed by darkness.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In that instant, in the dark underground chamber, layers of earth collapsed beneath him. Batman realized he stood on a bridge, feet above the Gotham River bathed in sunset.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This tributary flowing into the sea from Gotham was always damper and murkier than other rivers, for too many bones lay buried beneath hidden silt, never seeing daylight.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Batman remembered the last time he imagined so much blood—standing in a dark alley, watching a pearl necklace fall to the ground.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It reminded him of Gotham’s winter snowstorms and the distant moon hanging high above.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Now he saw mist rising from the river. Soon, thick fog sealed all sight. The faint hiss of a smoke grenade jolted Batman awake—his chair was empty. The kidnapper and hostage were gone.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Killer Croc coughed twice, waving smoke from his face. “That sneaky bastard used a smoke grenade?! Batman, you okay? You—”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Batman stood still, shaking his head hard. Killer Croc’s gaze fell to his arm. Even through fabric, Batman’s muscles were taut, trembling faintly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Wei Lun, Wei Lun…” Batman suddenly spoke, turning to Killer Croc, locking eyes with him. “You smell the blood, right? Follow it. Catch them. Now!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Killer Croc hesitated, then sniffed. “There’s a scent… I think it’s this way!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He pointed. Without hesitation, Batman sprinted forward—but as he entered the corridor, thick smoke surged out. Without an oxygen mask, he had to retreat.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Killer Croc peered inside, choked out, coughed twice. “Damn it. They’re smart. In enclosed corridors, smoke’s worst—wipes out my sense of smell. I can’t smell anything now…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Bang!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Batman punched the wall. His voice trembled: “That wound may have hit an artery or trachea. Immediate first aid is essential.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Arterial bleeding might still be treatable. But if the trachea’s damaged, blood flooding in causes mechanical asphyxia. If fully blocked, the heart stops in a minute. Death is certain within three.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Find him… find him!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Batman turned, sprinting out another exit. As his mind—containing all the wisdom of the universe—spun at maximum speed, time itself seemed to slow.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When Venom had bonded to him before, it couldn’t overcome his willpower, so it never manifested symbiotic traits—like taking control of his body, forming armor, or rapid healing.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And the gray mist was utterly unlike Venom. Batman hadn’t realized Seller’s ability to turn into mist came from the same symbiote.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He assumed it was like Constantine’s magic—requiring conscious activation and control.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Previously, Batman had noted Constantine’s weakness: if you broke his limbs or silenced him before he cast, most spells failed.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A mage’s weakness has always been his body. Once injured, unable to perform precise movements, he loses all chance to recover.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>By analogy, if Seller had merely been mentally unstable and caught off-guard by agents, now his severely injured body likely meant he’d lost all resistance—plunged into grave danger.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Seller’s claim to be a Central American revolutionary leader during his arrest was likely to protect Alfred. He may have thought exposure was inevitable, so he took on a vital identity to shield his comrades.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Now Batman understood: he wasn’t racing the agents. He was racing time—or rather, the speed at which Seller’s life drained away.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>On the other side, Seller sat against a corridor wall, hand pressed to his neck. Scott tore his shirt hem into strips to bandage him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Your nervousness exceeds my expectations, Agent,” Seller said, wrapping the bandage while pressing the wound. “One more tremor, and we’ll meet in hell.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Scott cursed. “You’re the craziest man I’ve ever seen! What the hell are you trying to do?!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Me?” Seller pretended to wrap the bandage, then used gray mist to seal most wounds, leaving only superficial ones bleeding. He leaned back against the cold, dry wall, staring at the ceiling. “Agent, your truth serum concentration is high. Isn’t this the perfect time for interrogation?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“To hell with interrogation!” Scott snapped, staring at Seller. “Is now the time? That damn crocodile man, that bat-suited lunatic—what the hell are they?!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Why are they chasing us? How do we get out of here?” Scott kept breathing deeply, trying to calm himself.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But this underground tunnel was no place for humans. Prolonged exposure created immense psychological pressure. Scott felt his senses amplified—every whisper, every draft, made him tense.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Don’t panic. Relax. Like me.” Seller pulled a cigarette from his suit pocket. Scott’s eyes widened. Seller shook his head. “Where’s your lighter?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Light my cigarette, sir. Then I’ll recover faster—and as you wish, follow you out of this hellhole.” Seller’s speech remained strained, rapid but punctuated by long pauses. As the cigarette lit, Scott saw his hand shaking violently.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“How are you feeling?” Scott glanced at the blood on his neck. “Don’t die here. Please don’t…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Don’t worry. I won’t die.” Seller coughed hard. Blood instantly soaked through the bandage, seeping out again. His voice was hoarse and trembling—like a junkie Scott had seen countless times.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“High-dose barbiturates caused bronchial spasms, breathing difficulty. Heart rate irregular. Body temperature dropped two degrees. If you can get me an epinephrine shot, I’d feel better.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Before Scott could reply, Seller rushed on: “But I must say, as a drug for interrogation, this really relaxes me. My mind urges me to speak…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“What will you say?” Scott finally steadied himself, sitting opposite Seller, watching the flicker of his cigarette. “How did you organize and lead the Central American revolution?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Forget those boring things.” Seller shook his head, struggling to raise his trembling arm to bring the cigarette to his lips. His arm shook, making his lips tremble too—he had to grit his teeth to keep the cigarette from falling.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His voice became muffled, as if squeezed through clenched teeth: “You’ve met many high-IQ criminals—graduates of elite schools, gifted, successful, no coercion, no pressure. They simply chose crime.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“When you face them, you’re baffled: Why waste such talent? Why not cherish God’s gift? You think they’re born evil—even worse than ordinary criminals…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“But you’re jealous. Jealous they have everything you lack—and waste it recklessly…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Talent, youth, friendship, love…” Seller’s voice echoed through the narrow corridor, coated in a hazy, ancient gray.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Scott’s reason told him not to believe this madman—but he was like a man lured by a demon, listening to his story.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“How you view these high-IQ criminals—that’s how I view you, ordinary people…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You, born monsters, disgusting worms, stupid, filthy trash…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Seller began gasping again, his excitement flaring despite the overdose of sedatives. The cigarette’s flame trembled like a brush painting in air.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You never realize how much you have—a strong, vibrant body, a vigorous soul, a heart full of raw emotion, a mind that forgets…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Seller breathed deeply, his words fragmenting between breaths. Then suddenly, he fell silent—as if the drugs’ effects had once again suppressed his frenzy. After a pause, he continued:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Ordinary people sacrifice extraordinary talent, live ignorant and lost—but happy. Madmen possess far greater ability, yet must face madness and chaos their whole lives, unable to clearly feel emotion…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Schiller breathed deeply again and again, his words breaking apart between breaths, but suddenly he fell silent, as if the drug’s effect had once more suppressed his agitation; after a moment of silence, he continued:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I’d accepted that you can’t have both. Then one day, someone stood before me—and shattered that belief. Because he had everything.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“It’s hard to say which of the two is more unfortunate.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Seller’s eyes widened, unfocused—as if hallucinating in his neural frenzy. He spat the word like he’d chewed each letter, dripping with irrational malice.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“He has it all: reason and emotion, logic and intuition, intellect and feeling…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“He can possess supreme intelligence without the emotional void of extreme rationality. He can focus with ruthless precision—and still be bound by moral justice…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“The first time I saw him, I knew: he was this man. A damned lucky bastard. A creature favored by God…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Seller coughed softly again. “But I saw a terrifying future in him. Do you know? Do you know?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“It shocked me. Because from that future, he shouldn’t have started so high. He shouldn’t be normal. He shouldn’t have had it all…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“And what confuses me more: how, in just a few decades, did he waste it all?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“At eighteen, he was still just a genius hero with minor trauma.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“By forty…” Seller’s voice sank, then emerged from nothing: “By forty, he became a madman like me…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Seller gasped again, as if battling fearless hallucinations. Then he smiled—a grotesque thing. “And I understood: it was Batman. Batman made him this way.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Batman made him descend into madness during humanity’s most precious twenty years.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Batman made Bruce spend twenty years crawling from sunlight into shadow, shedding armor, donning restraints.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Batman turned a perfect genius I longed for into me.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“When I realized this, I heard the world’s greatest joke—and I laughed.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You’re insane,” Scott said, watching him. “You’re delirious. Stop believing your hallucinations. It’ll only worsen your condition.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“That’s what I meant—you’re far more professional than he is.” Seller forced calm again. “If he heard this, he wouldn’t call it nonsense. He’d memorize every word, search for anomalies, figure out what’s really happening.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“That’s why he can never be a psychiatrist!” Seller raised his voice. “Because the first rule of psychiatry is: never believe a patient’s madness. Not a single word.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“That’s why every madman in the world can be a psychiatrist—and he can’t.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Seller spoke in fragments, but Scott understood none of it. He vaguely sensed Seller was talking about the man chasing them—but couldn’t grasp his connection to Batman.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After Seller mentioned that rule, Scott grew more conflicted. He felt Seller was hinting at something—but according to that rule, he shouldn’t believe a word, since Seller was clearly insane.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Scott had seen countless criminals react to truth serums: some refused to speak as if the drug did nothing; others circled every question, returning always to the same point.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>After Schiller stated this rule, Scott became even more conflicted; he always felt Schiller was hinting at something, yet according to this rule, he shouldn’t believe Schiller, for Schiller was plainly insane.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He changed the subject, then rambled—complaining, cursing, lamenting. He was being interrogated, yes—but his interrogator was likely his own hallucinations, with no relation to reality.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But Shieler created a new style.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He would change the subject and begin complaining, cursing, and sighing to himself; he was indeed being interrogated, but the interrogator might have been the hallucinations he saw, with no connection whatsoever to reality.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>For a period of time afterward, Scott tried using his trained interrogation techniques to steer the conversation back on track, but it had no effect whatsoever.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>All he achieved was that Schiller shifted from one topic to another, hurling at strangers Scott had never heard of—and never imagined—vile, cruel language Scott had never conceived possible.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Honestly, Scott had never imagined English could contain such a vast lexicon of insults and sarcasm.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At first, he regretted not bringing a recording device; later, he decided this secret setting was perfect—if anyone overheard, they might face even more terrifying pursuit.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Thus, he reached a conclusion: perhaps from start to finish, Schiller had been speaking nonsense—he was not an organizer or leader of any Central American revolution, merely a deranged, incoherent madman.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Scott stood up, turned to Schiller, and said, “You’d better say the same thing during your interrogation in Washington. Then they can issue you a psychiatric diagnosis and send you to a mental hospital for treatment instead of prison.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Schiller finally grew somewhat quiet. He sat where he was, head bowed, expression unreadable. Scott bent down to him and said, “Get up, Professor. We need to leave.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“No, no, you shouldn’t rush me like this,” Schiller swallowed and said. “You haven’t gotten to the point at all. This falls far below the standard of a professional agent.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Scott sighed and crouched down, staring at Schiller’s face, asking with the patience reserved for the mentally ill: “Then, Professor, what do you want me to ask? Or what do you wish to answer?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He shook his head. “Don’t you see yet? I don’t need to ask. Say whatever you want. Normal people can’t disrupt you—because you’re a madman.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Yes, I am a madman,” Schiller turned to Scott and said. “I’ve introduced you to many of my friends, but I forgot one—a child I love most. His name is Jason.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Schiller staggered to his feet. Scott exhaled in relief, turned, and walked forward, saying as he went, “Professor, you’re finally willing to move. We must hurry and leave…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But the next second, he felt Schiller press against his back. Before he could react, a tie wrapped tightly around his throat.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As he tightened the tie, Schiller whispered into Scott’s ear: “Jason… Jason… a good boy. He always remembers every word I say.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Eh eh eh!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Pale knuckles turned bloodless from strain; the dark pinstripe tie sank deep into the Adam’s apple. After Schiller released his grip, Scott collapsed silently to the floor—but Schiller did not leave.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He acted as if he had no memory of what he had just done. He crouched beside Scott and said, “Forgive my rude words just now. I never spoke ill of my friends—they are all good people.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Schiller reached out, placed his palm over Scott’s eyes, pressed the bulging globes back into their sockets, and closed his eyelids.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Then he rose, leaned against the corridor wall, and shuffled slowly into the depths, leaving only a low voice echoing:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“But I have a blade made solely for good people—precise, elegant, lethal with a single strike.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Its name is guilt.”\u003C\u002Fp>",2583,"2026-06-20T16:39:22.658Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","149072a046c8e8902ba4cedbc90bb98ac2d6b57555e128954007b39ad4390c6e","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-962","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-960",1000,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fmy-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-cover.jpg"]