Chapter 999

Schiller tilted his head slightly, pressed his lips together, then said: “Hmm… there are still a few additional clues—for instance, Mrs. Das actually belongs to the Medusa clan; she has a son named Etrigan. The relationship between Pelis, Mrs. Das, and Etrigan should be the internal breakthrough.”

“Now, the clues are truly exhausted.” Schiller stared at Batman, and Batman stared back at Schiller; after several more minutes of mutual glares, Schiller spoke again: “...One last thing: the version of me under Pelis’s control is dangerous—he specializes in conspiracy, excels at lurking behind the scenes to disrupt the situation, and is skilled at long-term planning—but he has weaknesses. As for what they are, you’ll have to find them yourself.”

After speaking, Schiller stared at Batman, and Batman stared at Schiller; they continued locking eyes. Schiller frowned, sounding displeased: “You must understand—we’re the same person. I can’t reveal my own weaknesses to an outsider...”

Schiller sighed. “Fine. Consider this a bonus from this therapy session: the weakness of conspiracy is that it cannot take the stage. If you kill Pelis, he can’t become king himself—he must find another monarch. And if you kill that monarch too, he still must find the next one.”

“Of course, you could try finding him a monarch like your helicopter engine—someone utterly righteous and single-minded. He’s not good at persuasion.”

Schiller kept staring at Batman, and Batman kept staring at Schiller. Schiller pressed his fingertips to his brow. “There’s nothing more. You’re going to avenge me—why would I lie to you?”

After speaking, Schiller began pacing in place, looking down at the footprints he’d left. “Do you remember if I ever told you this isn’t a child begging for candy? Are you lingering here because you want me to write you a guide on how to defeat myself?”

“You seem dissatisfied with the therapy. Of course I know—you’re dissatisfied with my teaching and treatment. But when we first met, what did I tell you?”

“Don’t take my class, kid!”

“You chose the class yourself. Your curiosity, your attention toward me, burdened me with an unsolvable curse. Yet I still diligently taught you—even used my professional knowledge to give you psychological therapy... Don’t look at me like that. Are you asking for medication?”

“I have prescribing authority, but I must remind you—I haven’t written a single prescription in nearly ten years. If you’re not afraid of dying, I’ll mail the prescription to Wayne Manor.”

“I’m an incredibly forgiving person—almost virtuous in my recompense for harm. You must understand my therapeutic approach...”

“So how is your wound?” Batman interrupted Schiller’s rambling, staring into his eyes.

Schiller’s pacing halted abruptly. He exhaled, steadied himself on one foot, turned, crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes, and fixed Batman with a stare.

“Didn’t you hear me before? I said I’d be taken away by agents, captured by General Corruptheart, and these wounds? They’re just a necessary part of my fusion.”

“So you don’t feel pain?”

Schiller froze—more accurately, stiffened. He pressed his lips together, looked at Batman, and asked: “What did you say?”

“You have pain sensation, don’t you?” Batman stared back into his eyes.

Schiller gave a ludicrous smile, lowered his head, blinked, and spoke as if sighing: “Why don’t you just ask me, ‘Do you bleed?’”

Schiller lifted his upper lip, baring his teeth, and stared into Batman’s eyes: “You know I don’t play that game. I have no morals. I’m not haunted by conscience. ‘Be a god or be a man?’—that question means nothing to me. You haven’t found a good blade.”

“This isn’t a blade,” Batman said, inhaling deeply, locking eyes with Schiller. “I just want to know if you’re in pain now—and how your wounds are healing.”

Schiller stared straight at Batman, then slowly uttered one word: “Go.”

He turned and walked toward the castle. Batman followed. Schiller ignored him completely.

Schiller sat at the far end of the long table in the foyer, dumped the cold food from his plate, and used his gaze to command the demon behind him—commanding General Corruptheart to bring him fresh assistance.

Batman walked to the right side of the table and sat in the first seat on the right. Schiller’s hand with the fork paused briefly, then resumed focusing on his plate.

“You’re tense,” Batman said in a low voice. “Facial expression unnatural, limbs slightly trembling, muscle tension and twitching, elevated heart rate, rapid breathing...”

“If I saw these terms on your exam paper, I’d be pleased,” Schiller said without changing expression. He placed a perfectly cubed piece of meat into his mouth and began chewing.

“Your chewing frequency has changed,” Batman observed his movements. “You’re having an anxiety attack. Why?”

“I often have anxiety attacks when I’m with you. If I were grading your thesis at Arkham Asylum, Brand would be astonished why all the anti-anxiety meds vanished overnight.”

“You’re talking more,” Batman said. “Heart rate increased, nerves overstimulated, blood flow accelerated.”

He glanced at Schiller’s hands. “Followed by dry mouth and reduced appetite. Now, the volume of food on your plate is two-thirds less than usual. If you don’t want to eat, stop repeatedly cutting it.”

*Clang.* Schiller’s knife scraped the surface of the plate. He sighed, set down his utensils. Though his fingers trembled, he wiped his mouth with a napkin.

Schiller turned to Batman. “I already told you—you’re unsuited to be a psychologist.”

As he spoke, he rose and walked over to Batman’s side.

In the next instant, Batman turned his head—a sharp dinner knife embedded itself less than a centimeter from his neck. Schiller released his grip, looked down at Batman, and said: “I told you before—before therapy begins, you should secure your patient.”

Schiller straightened, inhaled deeply, then calmly returned to his seat. He gripped the chair back, pulled it forward, took a new dinner knife from the demon’s hand, and stared at Batman’s neck.

“You should understand—the wound the agent gave me was entirely within my plan. Guilt is your emotion—but my weapon. Yet this knife isn’t aimed at you. Constantin is my target.”

“So you needn’t feel guilty. Nor need you direct more attention toward me. I’ve already witnessed the power of your attention.”

Schiller seemed to relax. All signs of anxiety vanished. He ate steadily from his plate. Batman reached out his right hand, pulled the dinner knife from the left side of the table.

“Why won’t you believe I truly care for you?” Batman tossed the knife onto the table with a *clang*. Schiller’s hand froze instantly—then resumed normal motion. Batman watched him and said: “...Heightened alertness?”

“You have autism. Your own emotions are weak—but your ability to become a psychologist proves you can still perceive others’ emotions. That’s why you had the anxiety attack just now.”

“Your logic tells you I can’t care for you—but you sensed my care, didn’t you?” Batman shook his head. “This stark contrast triggered an allergic reaction—like you have to broccoli...”

“You’re overthinking,” Schiller replied without expression. Silence fell. Minutes passed. Then Batman suddenly asked: “Between my concern and broccoli—which do you fear more?”

Schiller instinctively opened his mouth—but made no sound. Batman saw his lip movement and froze. Then he exclaimed in shock: “...The word you were about to say wasn’t broccoli?!?!!!”

Batman inhaled deeply, caught his breath, calmed his shock, then slowly said: “You actually think my concern is scarier than broccoli?!?!!”

Batman felt his thoughts growing chaotic. The absurdity of this entire situation exceeded his imagination. He recalled the origin of it all.

Zatanna had approached him, inviting him and Constantin to track down the Ultimate Evil Curse. When he learned that Zatanna possessed the ability of astral projection, he agreed.

He agreed because he wanted to enter Schiller’s Mind Tower—to find out what Schiller feared.

Then, inside Schiller’s Mind Tower, they endured a series of turbulent adventures—and finally reached a ridiculous conclusion: Schiller feared broccoli.

At the time, none of the three took the answer seriously. Batman even suspected it was a prank Schiller had set up to humiliate them—like the madman always did.

But what followed was even more unexpected: Schiller truly feared broccoli.

A world-class psychological expert, renowned detective, criminal mentor—a madman who thrived and even led trends in Gotham—should, in any fictional work, have a deeper, symbolically rich weakness.

Like childhood trauma. Emotional wounds. A hidden scar from an unknown crime...

But never—never—a common, ordinary vegetable: broccoli.

Yet Schiller truly feared broccoli.

After confirming this fact, Batman truly felt a sense of absurdity. Reality is often more ridiculous than fiction—because reality doesn’t need logic.

To exploit Schiller’s weakness required none of the massive cost Batman had imagined. The cost of crafting one Batman cape could buy a mountain of broccoli.

Batman thought this was already insane. But just now, Schiller’s instinctive reaction revealed reality was even more insane.

Schiller feared Batman’s concern more than broccoli.

Meaning Batman didn’t even need a mountain of broccoli—just a mouth.

And when Batman realized this, his first reaction was equally dizzying.

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The answer he had desperately sought—simple, almost laughable.

But even funnier—he resisted using this answer.