Chapter 995: The Battle for Gao Ta (30)

Batman remembered his initial question: Was he sick?

Batman snapped out of his daze and looked at Schiller: “...Am I sick?”

Schiller, mid-meal, froze. He slowly turned his head toward Batman, the fork suspended in midair—neither raising it nor lowering it—stuck there rigidly.

Batman’s question left Schiller speechless. Like a parent unsure how to respond to a child bullied at school, Schiller casually continued eating and asked: “Did someone say something to you?”

Schiller’s reaction made Batman narrow his eyes. Schiller kept slicing the meat on his plate, then offered a universal answer: “You’re fine. We’re alike.”

“Looks like I really am sick,” Batman said bluntly. Schiller’s hand paused again. “If you were another student, I’d ask for a self-report. But with you? I don’t expect anything.”

He set down his utensils, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and looked at Batman: “Though I hold a license as a psychologist, I’ve never formally diagnosed you—because I’m genuinely afraid that after I hand you a diagnosis, you’ll ask me what the root words mean.”

Batman clearly heard the sarcasm in Schiller’s tone. He opened his mouth to reply, but Schiller raised a hand to stop him, then rubbed his temples: “Wait. This won’t work. I’m a doctor—I need patience with my patients...”

“Alright. I’m a licensed psychologist. You can trust my expertise. If you’re free now, listen to my advice...”

To Schiller’s surprise, Batman straightened his back, leaned against the chair, and assumed a posture of attentive listening. Schiller shook his head: “You need to relax. Good thing the new grilled meat’s here—we can eat and talk.”

He signaled the demon to place some grilled meat on Batman’s plate. Batman picked up his utensils but showed no intention to eat. He kept staring into Schiller’s eyes, tense as a student waiting for exam results.

“Don’t be nervous. I’m a psychologist—I won’t issue a critical condition notice. Honestly, I’m glad I’m diagnosing you now. Four years ago, the pathological analysis alone would’ve given me carpal tunnel.”

Schiller’s tone relaxed considerably, radiating an inner calm. “If you showed no abnormalities in childhood and were never diagnosed, you’re likely not on the spectrum—that is, unlike me, you don’t have autism.”

“Congenitally intact, traumatized later. Traumatic stress disorder is unavoidable here. Your symptoms are obvious—especially re-experiencing. For years, you’ve never escaped the shadow of that alley.”

“Second, delusional disorder. I assume you’ve studied its definition, but it’s inseparable from your original psychological trauma and subsequent symptom expression.”

Schiller lightly tapped his plate with his fork: “After your trauma, you spent a long time in isolation. In that state, you had urgent needs to resolve—your revenge plan.”

“But you were too young then. Your actionable steps were few, your conversational partners minimal. Prolonged immersion in fantasy bred cognitive rigidity, triggering subsequent delusional disorder.”

“In delusional disorder, I believe you lie between persecutory and grandiose types.”

“First, you overestimate others’ malice, harboring irrational fears about extreme evils that have no realistic chance of occurring.”

“Second, you overestimate your own abilities—believing yourself energetic, sharp-minded, omnipotent.”

“To some extent, your fears and your confidence are rational—but if they exceed a threshold and persist, they may cause neurological and brain pathology. That’s something you wouldn’t want.”

“Of course, there’s also generalized anxiety disorder—like mine,” Schiller said. At this, Batman raised an eyebrow. Schiller anticipated his thought and spoke first:

“You think anxiety means rapid heartbeat, nervous tension, cold sweats. But your most obvious symptom is hypervigilance—heightened sensitivity to external stimuli, frequent startle responses.”

“Of course, your high innate IQ suppresses emotion through logical processing, so your emotional expression is muted—but it still exists.”

“This may also stem from depersonalization-derealization disorder—excessive focus on your surroundings.”

“In short: delusional disorder makes you believe extreme evils could strike at any moment, triggering anxiety and hypervigilance. Meanwhile, depersonalization-derealization makes you notice every rustle, question reality’s authenticity, and spiral into persecutory delusions—a loop.”

“At the same time, grandiose delusions make you believe you have the capacity to handle any imagined extreme threat—so you obsessively devise solutions to such events.”

“Prolonged cycling through these thoughts breeds cognitive rigidity and mental drift, worsening symptoms.”

After listening, Batman fell silent for a moment, then said: “My willpower has been tested by the Green Lantern ring. I’m not saying it’s the only standard—but I believe my willpower exceeds normal limits...”

“That circles back to your favorite cognitive theory,” Schiller replied patiently. “If your cognition is fundamentally flawed, the stronger your willpower, the faster your symptoms deteriorate.”

“I feel I can’t experience certain emotions,” Batman described as accurately as possible. “My reason tells me I should be happy or sad—but I feel nothing. Like a car without an engine.”

Schiller paused, as if thinking. “Then I retract my earlier conclusion. You may indeed have some spectrum traits—but your extraordinary IQ may have masked their impact, delaying detection.”

“Simply put: your reason analyzes what emotion another person should feel—and what you should feel—and you simulate it. Correct?”

Batman recalled: “As a child, my parents made me play with other kids. I decided I should lead them. So during chases, I acted excited; after winning, I acted joyful. But I felt nothing.”

“So it’s true,” Schiller nodded. “Same with me. But differently—I have weak emotions myself, yet I’m acutely sensitive to others’. That’s why I can be a psychologist.”

“Actually, if you’ve mastered performance, there’s no need to treat autism—because autism therapy teaches you how to mimic normalcy. You’ve already done it well. That’s not urgent.”

“I suggest you first address your delusional disorder—the one causing chronic hyperarousal and abnormal behavior. Otherwise, it’ll interfere with your emotional expression,” Schiller said, looking at Batman. “You prioritize fantasy over reality. When you had no attachments, it didn’t matter. But do you truly have no attachments?”

“Forget the practical challenges of saving Gotham. Education for Elsa and Dick is an insurmountable hurdle.”

“You can’t keep imagining that someday someone will harm them, or they’ll face some great trouble—and then deduce what to teach them based on imagined outcomes.”

“True education focuses on the present: What do they need now? What are they expressing? What emotions are they conveying? Respond to those emotions and behaviors—that’s how you help them build stable personalities.”

“If you only see their future and ignore the emotions they’re offering now, you’ll easily cause personality defects. No matter how many survival techniques you teach them, they’ll ultimately collapse under irrational decisions born of those defects.”

After hearing this, Batman fell silent for a long time. He thought of his parents—especially his mother.

Thomas occasionally talked to him about the future, encouraging him to study hard, master survival skills, become an excellent person. But Martha rarely spoke of such things—she only responded to every small action he made.

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Batman didn’t know whether he missed these two people—or the responses and understanding he received for every glance, expression, and movement before the two gunshots.

After that, it never happened again.

In a sense, Batman was misunderstood—but that doesn’t mean his stubborn choices were uncomprehended. On the contrary, his friends understood precisely these choices others couldn’t.

Gordon understood his justice. Harvey understood his philosophy. Alfred understood his hatred. But human understanding isn’t only about grand things. Those subtle emotional responses are the truest source of safety.

Batman gave no response to the diagnosis—as if accepting it. But Schiller thought it a good start: the hallmark of delusional disorder is lack of insight. If he didn’t argue, it meant he was beginning to heal.

But then Schiller spoke: “Batman, do you know? You’ve made me unhappy.”

Batman looked at Schiller, puzzled. Schiller set down his utensils, wiped his mouth, and said: “I invited you to dinner. You’re not eating. Don’t you think that’s rude?”

Batman instinctively glanced at the food on his plate, then at the General of Rotting Heart hanging on the hook. His reason told him: it’s a demon, no different from the beef or lamb he usually ate.

But the General of Rotting Heart was a quintessential humanoid demon. Batman felt a visceral revulsion at the clearly visible joint structures on his plate.

Seeing Schiller’s threatening gaze, Batman remained unmoved. Tolerating Schiller’s behavior was already his limit.

The next second, Batman’s throat was clenched. A demon’s elbow crushed his neck. He struggled fiercely—then was thrown, chair and all, hard onto the floor beside him.

“Crash.” Batman felt a heavy blow to his head. As his vision darkened, he saw the glint of shoes beneath a suit pant leg.

The last thing he saw was Schiller crouching, the fork approaching, meat being shoved into his mouth.

The last thing he heard was Schiller’s smiling voice:

“You’ve eaten enough of the workers’ meat. Now, taste the flavor of your own class.”