Chapter 962: Schiller

“Alright, let me see—what should I do first?” In the dim basement, Constantine sat in the center, staring at the chaotic pile of magical components, stroking his chin. “Should I summon the Green of All Things to restore the broccoli, or should I find Schiller and rescue him first?”

At that moment, Constantine remembered Schiller’s earlier reaction. He sighed. “I really should’ve read more books. I had no idea allergic reactions could be this severe. I thought he’d just complain a couple of times.”

“Then again, just like I hate sweet wine—if there’s only one glass, I can pretend not to see it. But if I had to swim in a pool of sweet wine, I might go mad too… Forget it. Let’s fix the broccoli first. Otherwise, I don’t know how that petty bastard will get back at me.”

Saying this, he stood up and began rummaging through the magical components, planning to set up a summoning array to call forth the Green of All Things, dissolve their prior pact, and restore the broccoli.

But just then—CRASH—the basement door was kicked open. Constantine jumped, stepping back silently. When he saw it was Batman, he exhaled in relief, pressing a hand to his chest. “It’s you. You scared me half to death. I thought the devil had come back.”

“But seriously, next time, can you open the door more gently? Luckily, I didn’t set any traps on it this time—otherwise, you’d have been launched into the Pacific.”

Constantine turned toward Batman, standing in the shadows. With his extraordinary spiritual awareness, he saw a terrifying black tide behind Batman.

He stepped back two more paces, pressing against the wall corner, and stared at Batman. “What’s wrong, Bruce? You… you’re upset?”

“Find Schiller’s location.” Batman’s voice was low and hoarse. “Find his location, as fast as you can.”

Constantine was nervous, but he still pointed at the pile of magical components. “Oh, right—I’m working on it. I was about to summon the Green of All Things to deal with the broccoli.”

“I said find Schiller’s location.” Batman repeated. Constantine frowned. “Even if you want to rescue him from the agents, you still need to remove his allergen first. Otherwise, even if he returns to the manor, he’ll still be suffering.”

“The broccoli was my fault. I’ll clean up this mess. I’ll get swindled again by the Green of All Things—let me see, who should I use to pay this time?”

Constantine tried to refocus on the materials on the ground, but the next second, a rush of wind whistled past his ear. He turned—and saw a flash of light. A batarang was embedded in the crack between the bricks behind him, less than two centimeters from his ear.

“Batman! What the hell are you doing?!” Constantine shouted. “You nearly cut off my ear!”

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“Alright, I know you’re angry. I shouldn’t have made so much broccoli and caused Schiller’s allergy. But I didn’t know his reaction would be this bad—it was an accident! And there’s still time to fix it. You don’t have to kill me, do you?”

“Find Schiller’s location.” Batman repeated again. Then he added: “Schiller is badly injured. Only you can find him fastest. Do it now.”

Hearing the tremor in Batman’s voice, Constantine frowned, his expression turning serious. He stepped forward. “You mean Schiller is hurt? Those agents dared to injure him?”

Seeing Batman’s face, Constantine didn’t ask further. He immediately began preparing the magical components, arranging them as he spoke: “I think you already noticed—the fastest way for magicians to locate someone is through the Spirit Realm.”

“In the Spirit Realm, we can directly pinpoint a person’s soul, ignoring all physical barriers, and travel there instantly.” Constantine arranged some branches into a circle, then fetched several spices.

“But only souls can walk the Spirit Realm—and ordinary souls can’t interfere with the physical world.” Constantine handed Batman a vial of spice. “But if you infuse your soul with extra power, it can temporarily gain substance. With your soul’s strength, just a tiny bit of magical energy will let you knock out every one of those agent fools.”

“Alright, prepare.” Constantine stepped into the circle. Batman followed. Constantine crouched, pressing five fingers to the ground, ready to channel energy into the components. But after a few seconds, he let out a confused “Huh???”

He pulled his hand back, took several deep breaths, lit a cigarette, then said: “You got me too tense. My magical energy isn’t flowing right. No problem—we’ll try again.”

Constantine crouched again, fingers touching the ground. Seconds passed. Still no reaction. He switched hands, changed posture, replaced every component—but nothing worked.

He stood there, bewildered. “What’s going on? Why can’t I use magic anymore?”

He stared at his hands in disbelief, clenched his arms—but no light appeared. He closed his eyes and meditated on countless demonic sigils—still nothing.

In that moment, he was even more panicked than Batman. He immediately turned to Batman. “Something’s wrong—something’s happened to the occult world. Quick, we need to find Zatanna. She’ll know what’s going on.”

Before Batman could move, Constantine bolted for the door—but quickly ran back. “Where did you hide Zatanna? Take me to her!”

Then he realized: “If you want to save Schiller, Zatanna is the only answer. Even if the Spirit Realm and magic are gone, she can still scry. She’ll find Schiller’s location.”

The two left the basement, went upstairs, and boarded the Batcopter back to the Batcave. Zatanna was idly playing cards. Seeing them rush in, she looked them over with a frown. “What’s wrong? Why do you both look so pale?”

“Zatanna, quick—can your magic still work?” Constantine asked anxiously. Zatanna was baffled. She pointed at Constantine. “Let’s hang you!”

Constantine instantly dangled upside down. Zatanna shrugged. “It’s working fine. What’s your problem, Constantine?”

Constantine crashed to the floor. He didn’t bother fixing his clothes. He yanked a talisman from his pocket.

He hurled it hard—*snap!*—but nothing happened. No ignition. He threw it again. Still nothing. He kept flinging it until the paper talisman tore apart. Constantine stared in disbelief at the shredded fragments on the floor.

Zatanna now realized something was wrong. She stepped forward, studying Constantine. “What’s happened? Your magic failed?”

Ignoring Constantine’s dazed state, Batman stepped forward to Zatanna. “Find Schiller. He may be in danger.”

“Schiller’s in danger?” Zatanna tensed. “What happened? Did those black mages attack him?”

“No. The FBI agents took him—and injured him. He’s badly hurt. If we don’t find him immediately, he might die.”

Zatanna frowned. “Alright. There are two ways to locate someone with magic: either enter the Spirit Realm, or use divination.”

“The Spirit Realm is faster—we can directly track the soul’s aura, ignoring all physical barriers, and arrive instantly. But to interfere with the physical world, you need extra magic. Divination tracks directly in reality—it’s slower, but needs no extra energy.”

“Spirit Realm.” Batman spoke immediately. “I’ll compensate you for any energy you expend. Go now.”

Hearing Batman’s tone, Zatanna turned to him, studying his eyes. “Bruce, what’s wrong? Do you remember our first meeting? You’ve become just like you were then.”

“Your soul is drowning in sorrow and desperation—it’s on the verge of breaking. You can’t keep going like this. Relax… calm down…” Zatanna waved her hand before Batman’s eyes. A magical glow softened his spirit, preventing his mind from snapping.

Unlike Constantine, Zatanna didn’t use components to enter the Spirit Realm. Instead, she made the other two sit on chairs. Her body glowed—and their souls instantly left their bodies, entering the mist-shrouded Spirit Realm.

Zatanna led the way. They flew for a while. Batman felt them pass through buildings, pierce through the ground, descend underground, then rise again.

Their souls glided between streets—then stopped.

At the end of an alley stood a red phone booth, just like every old one in Gotham. The red paint had peeled away. The glass was caked in thick dust.

A figure leaned against the booth’s side. Blood stained the floor inside, flowing out through the open door into the rainwater outside.

A massive wound gaped at his neck. The strips of cloth wrapped around it did nothing to stop the bleeding. His dark suit was soaked dark red.

Clearly visible: one arm hung limp. The other rested on his shoulder—as if trying to press the wound. But there was no doubt—he had stopped breathing.

Batman froze, unable to believe it.

Zatanna’s face darkened with sorrow. She tapped his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I think he’ll… wait—Bruce, you told me about blood coagulation. Based on the clotting, he just died, didn’t he?”

Batman remained motionless. But Zatanna grew urgent. “If he just died, where’s his soul? It should still be here! If we find his soul, maybe we can still save him!”

Batman turned sharply to her. Zatanna had already drifted around the phone booth, searching for Schiller’s soul. Batman followed. Zatanna searched as she explained:

“Ordinary souls don’t get claimed quickly. They’re not attractive enough for demons or angels to come specially. Usually, they linger for twenty-four hours—or longer.”

“From the blood coagulation, this professor probably died less than an hour ago. He’s not Constantine—no demons or angels were waiting around him before he died. Even devils have to travel. How could they arrive so fast?”

“Where is he?!” Batman nearly screamed. “Where’s his soul?!”

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“Don’t panic.” Zatanna searched as she spoke. “It has to be nearby. He had no magical power—he couldn’t have drifted far. Maybe he’s clinging to something nearby… No, nothing here…”

Suddenly, Zatanna sniffed. “I smell demons. Yes—definitely them. Those lazy bastards from Hell—why are they here so fast?”

“Find him! Chase him!” Batman ordered. Zatanna opened her mouth—but Constantine spoke first: “Hell’s Edge.”

“Hell’s Edge!” Zatanna raised her voice. “Yes! That’s it. We must go to Hell’s Edge—it’s the boundary between the mortal world and Hell, not yet under Hell’s jurisdiction!”

Constantine continued: “If we intercept the demons there and reclaim the soul, Hell can’t claim it. There’s still hope!”

“Go now.” Batman stared fixedly at Zatanna. She hesitated—then stamped her foot. “Fine. I’ll teleport you.”

The next second, she waved her hand, summoning a ring of fire. Their souls flew into it. Instantly, they arrived in a pitch-black space.

A barren black wasteland stretched before them. Constantine pointed. “That way leads to Hell. To catch them, we must take the shortest route.”

They sprinted forward. The landscape remained unchanged—gray, lifeless.

Suddenly, a flash of fire appeared ahead. Batman squinted. No path remained. Far on the horizon, a river of lava poured from the sky.

They stood at the base of a sheer cliff. Before them loomed a massive overhang, towering above the glowing lava.

“That’s Hell,” Constantine said. “Jump from this cliff, and you enter Hell. Be careful—don’t fall. Don’t let a demon grab you.”

“Wait—who’s that? …Schiller! Schiller!”

!”

At the very top of the cliff stood a dark silhouette.

Against the towering cliff and the roaring river of lava, Schiller’s figure seemed tiny—and yet profoundly great.

Constantine saw countless demonic hands erupting from Hell, straining upward, desperate to grasp Schiller.

Then, from the dim sky above Hell’s Edge, a beam of light pierced through the clouds. Countless white arms emerged from the holy radiance, reaching to touch Schiller’s face.

Constantine suddenly realized—every figure here, from Heaven or Hell, was someone he knew. All his old creditors.

Then Schiller’s voice echoed across the boundary of Heaven and Hell:

“I’ve called you all here today for one thing. I know my good friend Constantine owes you all a great deal—and he has no intention of paying.”

“But it doesn’t matter. Just now, I died.”

“You’ve seen many things in my soul—your longed-for sins, your longed-for redemption.”

As he spoke, Schiller’s soul burst into flame.

In the roaring fire, a towering spire rose on the cliff at Hell’s Edge. Countless sins and good deeds, countless stories of grudges and debts, drove every demon and angel mad.

Schiller’s figure reappeared. He turned his back to all the demons and angels, arms outstretched. The fire behind him outlined his silhouette.

He stood atop the cliff, looking down at all the visitors—like a king about to be crowned. His first words shook both Earth and Heaven:

“I will use my soul to repay all of Constantine’s debts.”

“From now on, what he desires but cannot obtain shall be granted. What keeps him awake at night shall vanish.”

“He shall be freed from his cursed fate of unrest, from the evil he was born with. He shall—be reborn!”

As Schiller’s words faded, Constantine froze for a moment—then wildly scrambled up the cliff. Schiller stepped back one pace, to the very edge, watching Constantine calmly.

Constantine stared into Schiller’s gray eyes, shook his head, and instinctively whispered:

“No…”

Schiller opened his arms, slowly leaning backward. Constantine lunged to the cliff’s edge—but his hand grasped nothing.

Constantine crawled to the edge, peering down. Hell’s flames roared. In the shifting light and shadow, Schiller’s figure fell like a migrating goose slipping beyond the horizon.

“No!”

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Constantine’s roar shattered hell.

At that moment, Constantine felt a shadow pass over his head.

Batman leapt from the cliff’s edge, plunging into the abyss, as lightly as when he had once descended from the rooftop on a cold night, yet carrying the force of a thousand tons.

At that moment, Constantine saw Schiler, as he fell, wear a mad, triumphant smile.

The master he had once sincerely sought to save, the savior who now offered his soul to repay all debts, fell beside him into hell.

Constantine felt a blade pierce straight through his heart.

Precise, elegant, a single fatal strike.