Gotham City.
On a morning that was not particularly bright but reasonably warm, Schiller set down his coffee cup as he heard the clicking heels of his colleague, Anna.
A moment later, an American sweetheart with blonde hair walked in, her face dark with irritation.
“Those damn lazy bums at the freshman registration desk took the day off,” she said.
“Go fill in for them today.”
“On my way,” Schiller replied.
“This coffee’s on your tab.”
“You’re never getting a chance with me!” Anna yelled after him.
Schiller happily walked out of the café with his coffee, glanced up at Gotham City’s perpetually overcast sky, and began his fifth day in this world.
In his previous life, Schiller had been a psychologist.
After a plane crash, he had been unceremoniously dumped into this city known for its damnably “simple and honest folk.” Fortunately, he hadn’t ended up as a hero or a villain, but rather as a leisurely, tenure-track university professor—practicing his old trade as a professor of psychology.
Just as Schiller was relishing the prospect of another day of slacking off, a chime sounded in his mind:
[Peter Parker has sent a chat request.]
Heading toward the registration desk, Schiller replied in his thoughts, *What’s up, Peter?*
“Hey!
I’m starting my internship at Oscorp tomorrow!
You have no idea how rare of an opportunity this is for me!
And Gwen…
I mean, she’s going too!
We’ll be there together, it’s just amazing!
We can discuss genomic helices, all those awesome giant machines…”
Schiller silently thought to himself, *No girl wants to discuss that with you.
Wake up, Spidey.*
Ever since arriving in this world, Schiller had been equipped with an American Comics Chat System.
The first person he had unlocked was Peter Parker, the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.
For the past four and a half days, this chatterbox had been rambling on about how much he liked Gwen, how he wanted to ask her out, and all the agonizing adolescent doubts holding him back.
Schiller offered a few encouraging words to Peter as he arrived at the registration desk.
Taking a seat, he organized the forms and waited for this year’s freshmen to arrive.
Oddly enough, in all the days Schiller had been here, he had never seen the Bat-Signal light up the sky, nor had any supervillains shown up to wreak havoc.
Life had been so peaceful that Gotham almost seemed truly peaceful and honest.
Soon, students began trickling in with stacks of paperwork.
Schiller’s job was simple: record their names and assign their dorm rooms.
“Next!” Schiller called out without looking up.
A long line had already formed in front of him.
A young man sat down across from him.
Schiller asked, “Name?”
“Bruce Wayne.”
“Bruce…
Male Dormitory Building 2, Room 306…” Schiller jotted it down automatically, then his pen froze.
He calmly raised his head to take a look.
The young man had striking blue eyes and dark hair, remarkably handsome.
Schiller asked, “Wayne?”
“Indeed.
I’m Wayne.”
Schiller repeated, “Male Dormitory Building 2, Room 306.
Didn’t you hear me?
Take your form and move along.
People are waiting behind you.”
Now it was Bruce’s turn to be stunned.
Taking the form, he asked, “Which department do you teach in, Professor?”
“Psychology.
Don’t take my class, kid,” Schiller said.
Bruce’s curiosity was piqued, but Schiller only felt resigned.
So Batman was only just starting college!
No wonder there was no Bat-Signal!
How could his luck be so atrocious?
The moment Batman entered university, he had transmigrated into a university professor!
Schiller was well aware of how dangerous the Batman storylines were, especially with this eighteen-year-old brat Bruce right now—an insufferable playboy!
Bruce said nothing more.
He took his paperwork, offered a word of thanks, and left.
After wrapping up the freshman registration duties, Schiller prepared to head back to the faculty apartments for a nap.
Suddenly remembering he had left his keys in his office, he headed up the stairwell and ran into a tall, slender professor coming down.
“Hey, Jonathan,” Schiller greeted him.
“Here to pick something up too?”
“Yes.
Did you forget your keys in the office again?”
“Yeah.
Anna rushed me out earlier and I left them behind.
I’ll grab them and head right down.
See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.”
The moment Schiller brushed past Jonathan, an icy chill crept up his spine.
Jonathan…
Jonathan Crane!
The supervillain Scarecrow!
With his back turned, Jonathan didn’t notice Schiller looking back, staring fixedly at him.
If he hadn’t learned today that Batman was only a freshman, Schiller wouldn’t have made the connection.
Memories regarding the Scarecrow surfaced in his mind: Professor of Psychology at Gotham University, holder of doctorates in psychology and chemistry, and the future mass murderer who terrorized the city with fear gas—Jonathan Crane!
Schiller took a deep breath, maintaining his steady pace as he continued upstairs.
Right now, Jonathan wasn’t the Scarecrow yet because Bruce was only eighteen, hadn’t graduated, and hadn’t become Batman.
Jonathan wasn’t a world-renowned psychologist yet either; he was merely mildly distinguished within the academic circle of emotional psychology.
Schiller, in fact, was far more famous than him…
Schiller was currently a world-class authority on criminal psychology and abnormal psychology, a distinguished psychological researcher, and the most renowned psychology professor in Gotham.
That explained why Jonathan’s attitude had been quite polite just now…
But what good did that do?
Schiller didn’t know how to synthesize poison gas!
He was a pure humanities scholar, while Jonathan held a doctorate in chemistry!
As the old saying went, learn your math, physics, and chemistry, and you could travel the world without fear…
Schiller knew all too well that the bloody curtain on the grand stage of Gotham City was about to rise.
Right now, he was nothing more than a frail academic who struggled to move a heavy chair, a pure intellectual.
Forget facing named supervillains—even the background thugs and street mobsters from the comic panels could kill him with a single stray bullet!
His concerns soon materialized.
The following morning, as Schiller settled in for another routine shift of slacking off at the university psychological counseling clinic, he had just brewed a cup of coffee when a crisp knock sounded at the door.
“Professor Schiller, may I come in?”
Schiller took a deep breath.
*Do students actually come to this broken counseling clinic?
I’m only here to kill time, you know?
Ever heard of paid leave?*
Outside the door stood Bruce Wayne!
Gritting his teeth, Schiller could only say, “Please, take a seat.
What psychological issues bring you in for counseling today?”
“Can’t I just come by for a chat even if there’s no issue?” Wayne spread his hands, exuding the effortless demeanor of a playboy.
Schiller adjusted his glasses and said, “This clinic is designated for student psychological counseling.
If you don’t have a problem to consult on, you may leave.”
Schiller could have sworn his tone was drier and more perfunctory than an airline safety announcement, but Bruce still asked with keen interest, “Alright, then let me ask a question.
What do you believe is the meaning of life?”
Schiller inhaled deeply and opened the American Comics Chat System in his mind.
He recalled that after advising Peter Parker on his romantic dilemmas, he had earned a single random chat opportunity.
He quickly typed out a query in his thoughts:
*An orphan whose parents were murdered, who swore to take revenge on all criminals yet disguises himself behind a playboy persona, is asking me what the meaning of life is.
I want him to stop bothering me in the future.
How should I answer?
Waiting online, pretty urgent.*
A reply appeared almost immediately:
“I am a teacher.
Regarding your question, I believe you should maintain ample patience and offer psychological guidance to this unfortunate child from two perspectives…”
Schiller checked the name beside the dialogue box: Charles Xavier!
Professor X!
No wonder.
The founder and headmaster of The Institute—this truly was his old trade.
As Schiller looked at the avatar, he noticed it was clickable.
He tapped Charles’s avatar in his mind, and a prompt popped up:
[First chat grants a random duplication of one ability from the chat target (Basic).
Duplicate?]
Without fully understanding, Schiller clicked “Yes.”
[Telepathy (Basic) loaded.]
Schiller’s vision blurred for a moment as an overwhelming cacophony of noise rushed in.
Countless unfamiliar emotions flooded his consciousness, leaving him momentarily disoriented.
After taking a while to adjust, Schiller realized he had indeed acquired a portion of Professor X’s power.
Telepathy was Charles’s signature ability, powerful enough to brainwash all of humanity when amplified by Cerebro.
What Schiller had obtained, however, was an extremely weakened version.
He could only vaguely perceive another person’s emotional state and catch fleeting surface thoughts that flashed across their mind, rather than directly and clearly reading their inner monologue.
Still, that was more than enough.
Schiller focused his attention on Bruce and discovered that the young man’s current emotions were intensely turbulent—far from the cynical, carefree persona he projected.
Based on Batman’s history, he had likely just returned from years of traveling the world and mastering various disciplines.
Enrolling in university was merely a cover for his Bruce Wayne identity.
The real Batman already despised this thoroughly mundane, boring daily life; every drop of his blood was screaming for “vengeance,” screaming to “avenge against those criminals.”
In Bruce’s eyes, the professor across from him seemed to have suddenly fallen into quiet contemplation.
Schiller possessed a somewhat distinctive pair of gray eyes.
When those eyes locked onto him, Bruce’s sharp instincts set off internal alarms—he felt as though he were being scrutinized, stripped bare, and seen through.
Then, Schiller spoke: “Perhaps you have been waiting for someone to give you this answer—an affirmative answer.
If receiving it gives you more things to occupy your time so you stop bothering me, then I am willing to give it to you.”
“Oh?
And what is that?”
“Vengeance,” Schiller said, staring directly into Bruce’s eyes.
As Bruce’s expression darkened abruptly, Schiller held his gaze and repeated, “The meaning of life is vengeance.”
Ignoring Bruce’s face, which had turned as stormy as the Gotham sky, Schiller added, “Are you satisfied now, Mr.
Wayne?”