Chapter 993

“Before that, I have one question for you, Batman—do you think you’re special?” Schiller smiled as he looked at Batman.

“Everyone thinks they’re special,” Batman replied in a low voice. “Because people can only perceive themselves; to each person, the world consists only of themselves and others who appear in their lives as supporting characters.”

“An interesting perspective,” Schiller remarked. “It seems you’re interested in cognitive theory, but what I mean isn’t rooted in cognition—it’s in reality.”

“Perhaps,” Batman said, exhaling deeply. The exhaustion from his drained strength had loosened his tense mind, making his brain’s language centers more active—he was more talkative than usual.

“The richest man in the world is special wherever he goes—even in Gotham,” Batman said, staring at the reflection on the tableware, his gaze distant. Schiller raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t expect your first identity to be the richest man in the world.”

“Because all my plans to reform Gotham revolve around one word—money,” Batman said, releasing the breath he’d held, sounding like a quiet sigh.

“Four years ago, you never imagined you’d be sitting in the villain’s room, right after a life-or-death battle, discussing money with your psychology professor—and still being broke.”

Batman covered his eyes with his gauntlet and asked, “Why do you say you’re a victim of Batman? What did I do?”

Schiller picked up his cutlery again and began slicing the food on his plate. “If you’re curious about that, let’s first talk about broccoli. How did you and those two fools break into the Tower? And why were you rummaging through my room?”

“We each had our own goals,” Batman said honestly. He glanced upward, as if recalling, then added, “Zatanna truly wanted to save the world—though her methods… were unusual.”

“Why did Zatanna come to me?” Schiller asked.

“Zatanna came to us. She said a vile curse had been hidden in Gotham all along—that Gotham’s current state is inseparable from this curse.”

“Constantine thought there was merit to her claim. And you yourself once said Gotham’s condition was influenced by the occult.”

Batman looked up at Schiller. “So—is the stronger curse you mentioned the same as the vile curse?”

“I think you’ve misunderstood,” Schiller said, grasping the causal chain he’d implied. “The curse I hold came from Constantine—it’s the vengeful spirit of the brother he murdered in his mother’s womb. Constantine called him Thomas, but I dislike that name. You do too, don’t you?”

Rarely, Batman’s expression didn’t change. Unlike before, when hearing his parents’ names triggered his classic grimace, he rested one hand on the chair’s armrest and said, “We assumed the curse in your umbrella was the vile curse.”

Schiller paused his motion, then looked over his glasses at Batman. “So you wanted my umbrella? Hasn’t my past restraint been a strong enough warning to you greedy intruders?”

Batman’s fingers stilled on the armrest. “No stronger warning is needed.”

Schiller turned his gaze away, showing a faintly disgusted expression. “I can tolerate Zatanna—because she’s exactly like you were at eighteen. Identical.”

“Those with power always trust their abilities most. When things slip beyond their control, they don’t question how they use that power or whether their beliefs are flawed—they always look for flaws in others, right, Batman?”

Batman coughed lightly twice. They hadn’t mentioned the past four years—but every sentence touched on them.

“You should be grateful, Batman. At any one time, I can only tolerate one such fool. If you were still like you were then, someone would be in danger.” Schiller placed a piece of subcutaneous tissue in his mouth, carefully rearranged his food, and whispered:

“But you slipped into my room so easily—surely that’s tied to my own negligent counterparts. Perhaps they let you in on purpose—they’re curious about my current state too.”

Batman’s fingers stilled again. He stared at Schiller’s face. Was it his imagination, or did Schiller’s expression occasionally flicker with a manic smile—less frequent now, less wild, as if undergoing a transformation?

“Merkel mentioned you’ve changed greatly over these four years. Is it related to the mad persona inside you?” Batman asked.

“That circles back to the first question,” Schiller said without looking up. “Do you know you’re special?”

But he didn’t wait for Batman’s answer. He continued on his own. “Whether you know it now or not, when we first met, you didn’t know.”

“Otherwise, you wouldn’t have asked me that question—and I wouldn’t have become Batman’s victim.”

“Question?” Batman repeated the word, puzzled. He recalled asking Schiller something the first time they met. He repeated it: “...What is the meaning of life?”

“Revenge,” Schiller said, setting down his cutlery and sighing softly. “That’s what I answered you. But I shouldn’t have answered at all. Perhaps you asked just to test my expertise—but the impact of that question was far greater than you imagined.”

“Gotham is special. Everyone trapped within it has the chance to go mad. When I first arrived, I was just an ordinary citizen. But everything ended the day you appeared.”

“Understand this: it wasn’t the Joker who chose Batman—it was Batman who chose the Joker. That madness virus was born from your attention. The moment you saw me and became curious about my identity, my personality traits were already contaminated.”

Batman frowned deeply. He never believed in fatalism—but when his professor said it, he felt Schiller wouldn’t speak without reason. He knew Schiller didn’t believe in fate either.

“Perhaps you find it hard to accept, but you must remember—you’re special. Your attention toward anyone can drastically alter their fate—including mine.”

For some reason, I knew you’d come eventually. Before I even saw you, my mind was filled with ways to avoid meeting you—I hate being dragged into whirlpools.

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“If I’m to participate in something, I prefer to do so proactively. I think you’ve already noticed that.”

Schiller looked at Batman. Batman nodded. He was certain: this professor disliked surprises. He preferred everything under control—or rather, he preferred creating events over merely participating in them.

“But when you appeared, I was unprepared. In that instant, the mad virus infected me—and my thoughts twisted. Like every Joker, I used a simple psychological suggestion to draw your attention.”

“And to test my expertise, you asked that question—the root of all these changes.”

“Perhaps you already know—the fragment of my personality infected by the virus was also part of arrogance. Half of arrogance. I am the other half.”

“After the virus infected him, to ensure I retained clear consciousness, the Superego forcibly locked him away—and assigned the other half of arrogance—myself—to take his place.”

“But it wasn’t that simple, Batman…” Schiller tightened his grip on the knife, his gaze hostile as he looked at Batman.

“Your question then became a curse—a task I must complete.”

“If you don’t find the answer—if you don’t discover the meaning of life—then the other half, tainted by the madness virus, and I, cannot be restored to wholeness.”

“You sound like you’re dreaming,” Batman said. “I don’t mean this couldn’t happen—I mean neither of us can explain how this situation came to be.”

“What’s so special about my attention? Why did it produce a unique virus? Why did that question become a curse?” Batman fired off a string of questions—but didn’t expect Schiller to answer.

He broke his silence, bluntly stating: “In every event we’ve shared, you’ve always made judgments neither participants nor observers could perceive. I once thought you could foresee the future—but later, your actions showed you couldn’t.”

“If you won’t press this question, there’s no need to ask about its mechanics,” Schiller said. “I want to explain this more than you want to hear it—but the answer is: it cannot be explained.”

Batman narrowed his eyes. Before he could speak, Schiller continued: “Leaving facts aside, do you know? Every Joker has a destiny—bound to Batman.”

“He will answer one of your questions, make you recognize some truth, stir your emotions, or teach you something.”

“If he’s your friend, he’ll stay with you until you’re no longer Batman. If he’s your classmate, he’ll learn with you, grow with you. If he’s your teacher...”

Batman heard Schiller sigh deeply—as if lamenting his own cursed fate. “I am the Joker. The Joker is me. We are one person, one fragment of personality. So we share the same destiny.”

“If I weren’t so special—if I didn’t have that Tower of Thought, and a calm, decisive administrator—I would have answered your question in a far more powerful way.”

Before Batman could ask, Schiller spoke: “...You wouldn’t want to know the method he intended to use.”

Seeing Schiller’s expression, Batman knew the answer swirling in his mind would be more shocking than the food on his plate or the corpses behind him.

“Thank the calm, decisive Superego—he locked that madman away. But the cost is...” Schiller paused, then fixed his gaze on Batman’s eyes. “I must complete the Joker’s task.”

“I must teach you, in a gentler way, how to find the answer to this question—what is the meaning of life?”