Chapter 994: The Battle for Gao Ta (29)

When he heard the word “gentle,” Batman let the term linger on his tongue again, but this time he made no sound—he could see that, as the conversation deepened, the professor’s mood had grown sour.

Yet if things were truly as he claimed, this was indeed an unwarranted misfortune—the teacher at the new student registration desk had taken leave at the worst possible time, but ultimately, Batman had arrived at an even worse time.

After abandoning further scrutiny of the word, Batman began to recall how Schiller had taught him as a professor.

Before pondering this question, he had to first determine whether Schiller had truly taught him at all.

After reflecting, Batman found the answer was yes—but the word “teach” itself warranted reconsideration.

During his freshman and sophomore years, Schiller never tutored Batman’s academic work, but in every major case Batman investigated during that time, Schiller’s presence always appeared.

The most vivid memory was when Fish, the female boss of the Living Hell, died; Batman conducted a series of investigations, only to find the culprit was Schiller’s umbrella.

Later, Schiller and Jack dug out the Laughing Egg deep within his mind, just as the Yellow Lanterns invaded; Batman and others fought in dreams, and in the end, Schiller produced Aisha.

Afterwards, Schiller went to Metropolis, and Batman was forced to trace murder case clues within the mayor’s estate; then, the Cat City Gotham trip still stemmed from Schiller provoking the Dream of a Thousand Cats.

The first half of the slum journey had nothing to do with Schiller, but the second half delivered Bruce a fatal blow.

And this time, Batman fell into Hell because Schiller had fallen into Hell.

Looking back carefully, it seemed that whenever Schiller appeared, Batman always learned something.

The detective’s wisdom in unraveling clues layer by layer, the skill to navigate strange dreams, the courage to fly into the abyss’s depths and confront reality’s madness, the strategy of participating in large-scale wars, the insights gained from witnessing revolutions…

In the earliest events, Batman still held firm to that answer—he sought revenge against criminals—but after countless highs and lows, grand and turbulent events, Batman realized he no longer had a definitive answer.

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Earlier, in the mine shaft, Batman had already rethought this question: What was he fighting for? What was his ideal? What was his philosophy?

Revenge? Saving Gotham?

When these two answers came to mind, Batman instinctively felt dissatisfied—he couldn’t quite say where this dissatisfaction came from, as if such answers were unworthy of his long, arduous, and weathered journey.

Batman felt that after so much, no one could define their life with a single word or goal.

The less one has experienced, the smaller the world one knows, the easier it is to slap on a narrow label, then rigidify one’s thinking toward that label, seek belonging within circles sharing the same label, and sever all chances of reselection, charging forward unswervingly down that path.

But if one’s journey has been thrilling and tumultuous enough, if the scars left from hacking through thorns and the courage and wisdom forged along the way are abundant enough, one cannot be satisfied with the hollow achievement of a tiny label—that is why the righteous path of humanity is one of hardship.

Batman felt similarly: if he poured all he had learned onto goals like revenge against criminals or saving Gotham, he always felt he had been cheated.

He had seen the sunset over the Living Hell, the boundless black tide in the dream world, danced with cunning and deceit in Metropolis, struggled against poverty and weakness in the slums, listened to the roar of rock in Cat City, and witnessed blood-red sunsets in Hell.

He had walked so far, suffered so many wounds, learned and understood so much—just to strike down criminals on the streets?

Seeing Batman lost in thought, Schiller let out a soft cough and said: “Your current thoughts and reflections are answering my own state.”

“The version of me infected by the virus gave you the answer you most wanted to hear at the time, but you and I both know it wasn’t the correct answer—not for everyone, and not for you,” Schiller sighed, then added:

“But for a long time afterward, you believed it—or rather, you had always thought this way. For that, I had to take many actions to erase the wrong answer, shake your conclusion, and only then could you truly pursue the correct one.”

Schiller glanced down at himself, slowly suppressing the slightly manic smile on his lips, and said: “And just after you finished your slum journey, I achieved breakthrough progress in something I had long tried and failed at.”

“Fatalism is always obscure and mystical, but I have another way to check your state: as long as I attempt to merge with the Joker Schiller—the infected half-fragment—I can judge whether you’ve made new progress by how smoothly the process goes.”

“After you returned from the slums, I tried again as usual—and discovered, for the first time ever, we could briefly fuse.”

“But then, other problems arose,” Schiller shook his head, somewhat helplessly. “The software license was granted, but the hardware couldn’t merge so easily.”

“When I first arrived in Gotham, the Superego realized this was an extremely dangerous city; it needed powerful personality fragments to support my actions and keep me from falling into danger.”

“But many powerful fragments were too aggressive—once released, I’d be safe, but Gotham University would be in danger. So the Superego selected Pride, a negative trait but not overly aggressive.”

“Yet due to certain special reasons, the complete Pride fragment couldn’t directly surface into conscious awareness, so the Superego split it in two.”

“The Superego isn’t a single personality fragment—it’s the collective consciousness of all fragments, equivalent to my soul’s administrator, possessing immense power and authority.”

“Therefore, when splitting the fragments, the division was thorough, and the Superego used a mysterious force to rapidly heal the wounds, leaving not a single scar.”

“So when I tried to merge with the other half-fragment, I discovered we had become two complete fragments—reuniting them was extremely difficult.”

“You should know that in plant grafting, both sides must have wounds for fusion to be possible—that is, in our full states, fusion is impossible.”

“After Constantine filled the city with broccoli, you only saw me weakened—but the other half-fragment, Joker Schiller, was equally weakened.”

“At that moment, I realized the opportunity had come: we were both in extremely weakened states; if I could artificially create wounds, we’d have a chance to merge again.”

“That’s why I let the FBI agents take me—I thought they’d smoothly deliver me to Washington and interrogate me, which might stimulate my psyche and create the wounds needed for fusion…”

Schiller shook his head helplessly: “But I never imagined the people they sent couldn’t even leave Gotham.”

“The interrogation plan failed. I had to find another path. If bound by the body, we needed psychological stimulation to create trauma—but without the body, we could strike the soul directly and make wounds.”

Batman and Schiller locked eyes; Schiller spoke: “So I killed myself and fell into Hell.”

“The instability you observed in me earlier was precisely because we were attempting fusion,” Schiller glanced at General Corrupt Heart and added: “After arriving at the mine, I realized the opportunity had come—this brutal mine owner should be able to create wounds I’d find satisfactory.”

Schiller looked down at the metal clasp on his collarbone and said: “He did well—but unexpectedly, wounds alone still weren’t enough for smooth fusion, because during fusion, I needed to replenish vast amounts of energy.”

Schiller peeled off the lower fatty portion of a slightly charred piece of meat, skewered it with a fork, and put it in his mouth: “So I asked him for some additional help.”

“Perhaps you’ve heard that powerful demons can devour weaker demons—but human souls can do the same. We can devour demons too.”

“Of course, human soul strength can never match a demon’s,” Schiller glanced again at General Corrupt Heart and smiled: “But humans excel at using tools.”

“Even if I could devour an entire demon, I wouldn’t resort to such barbaric methods. Humans use utensils to eat—chew slowly, savor. We’ve long left behind the age of raw flesh and blood.”

With that, Schiller took the plate from the stranger demon’s hand, placed the freshly roasted belly meat onto his own dish, cut it into small pieces, and put them in his mouth.

Batman remained in a daze of thought; after hearing Schiller’s account, he finally understood why this professor seemed to harbor a grudge against him—it wasn’t just seeming, Schiller truly did.

Batman was certain that when Schiller taught him to seek this answer, he had definitely settled personal scores—but he had no proof, and he suspected the teaching contained not a shred of genuine instruction.

At first, he thought Schiller was a criminal who targeted him for disliking vigilantes; later, he thought Schiller was a lunatic who targeted him for disliking normal people—but now it was clear Schiller’s actions had clear motives and goals.

All seemingly abnormal targeting stemmed from the events of their first meeting—cause and effect matched, logic coherent.

That is, Schiller may be insane, but his actions toward Batman were not caused by madness.

Then if Schiller’s behavior was normal, who was the one who wasn’t?