Chapter 973

When Batman woke again, a dim glow appeared before his eyes; he rubbed his eyes with his hand, then looked at his palm, still marked with scrapes and specks of sand.

He remembered seeing Schiller swallowed whole by a giant sandworm, then leaping onto its back, gripping the spike on its head, and punching its eye—the sandworm, in agony, burrowed straight back underground.

The tunnel the sandworm traveled through underground had been long excavated; gaps remained between its massive body and the walls, so Batman wasn’t thrown off.

But the rapid passage through such narrow gaps left Batman with multiple abrasions; finally, when the sandworm burst back to the surface, a hard layer of earth slammed into Batman’s head, knocking him unconscious.

Recalling these events, Batman forced his eyes open and saw two torches burning on the wall before him; moss filled the cracks of broken bricks, and icy puddles stained the floor.

He had just sat up when a familiar voice came from behind: “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

Batman turned and saw Schiller standing behind him; Batman narrowed his eyes and asked: “You’re okay?”

“Of course I’m fine,” Schiller shook his head, looking at Batman. “When the sandworm bit me, I realized its muscles weren’t tensed—it wasn’t biting hard, gaps remained between its teeth. It didn’t seem to want to eat me, so I didn’t dodge.”

“I told you before—you should recover your sanity faster, stop clinging to those traumatic memories. I’m not a weak, innocent victim who needs saving…”

“So where are we now?” Batman asked in a hoarse voice. Schiller shook his head. “I don’t know.”

He then looked up, scanning the room. It was a typical cell: three walls of black stone bricks, the front wall barred with iron grates, a small door set into them, locked with a massive padlock.

Two torches mounted on the inner walls provided dim light; beneath their glow, two straw mats lay scattered on the floor, and beneath them, traces of blood seemed visible.

Schiller glanced at Batman’s face and shook his head. “Alright. Given your mental state, I’ll handle this one.”

He knelt halfway, touched the edge of the straw mat, and said: “This is likely a vine from Hell, processed and woven into mats. Judging by the plant ecosystem on the hill we came from, we’re probably far from where we landed.”

“Each mat is about two meters long, but this is Hell—so the demons once imprisoned here were likely small, human-sized species, nothing like the demon soldiers we saw on the battlefield.”

Schiller lifted the mat and studied the bloodstains beneath. “From the direction of the blood flow, if the occupant was a humanoid, the wound must have opened on his back, soaking through the mat and seeping onto the floor.”

Schiller exhaled, coughed twice. Batman finally snapped back a little; he glanced at the discarded mat and said: “There’s some kind of organic tissue in the gaps—looks like leftover wound debris.”

He knelt too, peered into the mat’s seams, pinched a drop of blood between his fingers. “Looks like whip wounds. The prisoner lay here, rolled over, the wounds split open, bleeding through to the floor.”

“So we can confirm this was a cell that once held a small, tortured demon,” Schiller added.

“Listen, Batman—you should realize the situation is grim. Before you go playing savior to those petty other personalities, shouldn’t you first figure out how to get us both out of here?”

Batman didn’t look up. “This blood pooled here—it means he lost mobility. And this mark on the floor? That’s where the demon was dragged out…”

“Which means this isn’t an abandoned prison. There are guards here. The sandworms are probably how they capture prisoners, and the captives are locked up here.”

“From the dragging trail, the demon who dragged him wasn’t much larger—certainly not significantly bigger than the small demon. Otherwise, he could’ve just picked him up; no trail would’ve been left…”

“The guards here might carry keys. If we can subdue one first, we can…”

As he spoke, Batman looked up at Schiller and saw him leaning against another wall, letting moss from the wall smear his suit jacket.

Batman noticed Schiller’s breathing was irregular. He looked at Schiller and asked: “What’s wrong with you?”

“Allergic reaction. Ignore me. Keep talking,” Schiller said, taking deep breaths. But Batman narrowed his eyes. “Whether psychological stress or physiological allergy, once removed from the allergen, the reaction shouldn’t remain this intense.”

Batman truly doubted the nature of Schiller’s allergy. Earlier, trapped in that city full of Brussels sprouts, it might’ve weakened him—but now they were in Hell. After so long away from the allergen, why such a strong reaction? It puzzled Batman.

Schiller kept his head down, so Batman couldn’t read his expression. Just as he was about to press further, a series of footsteps approached the door. He lowered his voice sharply: “Stay put. Draw his attention.”

Then, using the wall’s corner for cover, he leapt onto the raised doorframe, perfectly hidden in the blind spot of the entrance.

A moment later, a demon with dark green skin and two long tusks opened the cell door. As Batman and Schiller had guessed, it stood over two meters tall, with massive feet, extremely long arms, and looked like a gorilla.

It bared its tusks, shoved the door open, seemingly puzzled by the other prisoner’s absence—but as it stepped inside, a shadow fell behind it.

Batman extended his arm, gripping the demon’s throat tightly, then sliced its throat with the sharp edge of his gauntlet.

Splattered blood made Batman frown. Schiller, still seated, seemed better; he coughed twice and said: “You’re wondering why a Hell demon can be killed by a throat cut?”

“Cough cough—everything in existence was created by God. God’s design logic remains consistent; His aesthetics haven’t changed much. So whether Heaven, Hell, or the mortal realm, creatures’ forms, properties, and abilities are remarkably similar.”

“The operating principles of Heaven, Hell, and the mortal realm are fundamentally the same. Different races, different forms—always the same internal strife and competition. In some ways, Hell is even better than the mortal realm.”

Batman glanced at the guard’s corpse, then searched his waist for keys. He walked to the cell door, peered outside, and said: “I don’t hear patrol footsteps. We can leave.”

“You can go first. But I need to stay here a while longer,” Schiller said, still looking down.

“What’s really wrong with you?” Batman stared at Schiller. “This doesn’t look like an allergic reaction’s side effect.”

Schiller’s shoulders trembled, but not from weakness—he coughed violently and said: “Forget it. If you need my help, just say so. I think I can…”

He hadn’t finished when Batman turned and walked away, leaving only one phrase echoing in the empty cell: “I’ll check the outside first.”

“...He’s always like this, isn’t he?” Schiller muttered between breaths. “No, you can’t deny the results of my teaching. We both know what he was destined to become…”

Schiller’s shoulders trembled again—but not from weakness or cold. He kept his head down, shadow masking his face. But if one looked closely, beneath the shadow, the corners of his mouth were lifted high.

Batman, leaving the cell, followed the narrow prison corridor to the surface. Standing in the doorway’s shadow, he looked out—and saw what appeared to be a minefield, demons of all kinds moving between the mines.

Among them were overseers in uniforms, and slaves chained, covered in wounds. Batman’s underground prison sat behind one of the mountains, so he couldn’t see the full layout of the minefield.

Batman stood at the entrance, observing the patrol routes. The guards here were clearly unprofessional—patrols were mere formalities. Five-man squads wandered lazily, distracted and careless.

Batman easily slipped past them, reached the other side of the mountain, and climbed up the wooden scaffolding supporting mining machinery to halfway up the slope.

Then he took the mine elevator to the summit. From here, the entire minefield lay bare: three large mountains, five small ones, mining machines stretching across the horizon.

The demons mining here weren’t of one race—some had green skin, others red; some walked on two legs with two arms; others resembled giant fleas.

Most conspicuous was a massive mine gate on Batman’s right rear, built from hundreds of logs, inscribed with a string of Hellish script. Batman didn’t recognize it, but the connected letters resembled Latin—transliterated, it read “Townsont Mine.”

Batman silently memorized the mine’s layout and devised the safest escape route. It wasn’t difficult—most demon guards were negligent; their patrols were even looser than the Blackwood family’s estate in Gotham’s North District.

Seeing the giant sandworms crawling through the minefield’s sands, Batman realized they were likely the mine’s method of capturing slaves—its master commanded them to burrow through Hell’s dunes, snatch lone demons in their jaws, and drag them back to become miners.

These giant sandworms were powerful and swift. If they weren’t dealt with, even if they escaped, they’d likely be recaptured.

As Batman pondered how to eliminate them, suddenly he saw a familiar figure appear among the slave workers. Batman gasped aloud:

“Alfred?!!”