When Schiller woke up, he didn’t even need to turn over to know he was back in wholesome, kindly Gotham City.
The tang of kerosene in the air and the perpetually overcast sky outside the window told him he had damn well transmigrated back again.
And time hadn’t moved at all.
He turned off the alarm clock and checked the calendar.
It was the morning after the night he had traveled to Marvel, meaning time stood still in the DC world while he was over there.
Schiller sighed, momentarily unsure whether the “wholesome” Gotham City was more dangerous or the center of the universe, New York City.
To be honest, while New York offered better luxuries, Gotham was forever home.
At least cosmic-scale threats hadn’t unlocked here yet; Schiller certainly couldn’t deal with the Purple Sweet Potato right now.
He rolled out of bed and dressed.
Gotham University required its professors to wear formal attire to class, so Schiller wore a shirt, vest, and suit jacket every day, occasionally changing suit styles or wearing a trench coat over them.
Gotham’s September temperature wasn’t bad—not too cold.
Being a coastal city, a light breeze blew through, keeping things relatively warm.
The moment Schiller stepped outside, he saw the one person he least wanted to see: Bruce Wayne.
Schiller turned right back around.
Bruce quickly caught up and called out, “Professor!
Professor!
I have a few questions about psychology I’d like to ask you!
Could you wait a moment?”
Schiller cursed inwardly.
With plenty of teachers around the faculty apartments, he couldn’t just refuse outright.
He could only say, “Alright, alright, I’m not deaf, Mr.
Wayne.
Let’s talk in the counseling office.”
They went into the office.
Bruce didn’t sit down, instead taking the initiative to brew coffee and set a hot cup before Schiller.
“Schiller Andel Rodriguez,” Bruce said.
“World-renowned criminal psychologist, holder of four doctorates in psychology-related fields.
Participated in the investigation and solving of the famous Keystone City Bloodman Massacre, the Hub City Red Glove Serial Murders, and the Coast City Underground Dismemberment Case.
And, most importantly, four months ago, during the middle of the Metropolis Deputy Mayor’s trial, you resigned from your position and accepted an appointment at Gotham University…”
“Professor Schiller, can you tell me why you came to Gotham?”
Schiller’s hairs stood on end.
Good lord, the original body’s resume was practically an admission ticket to Arkham Asylum!
Even the Joker wasn’t this unhinged!
You didn’t just participate in one terrifying-sounding case—you participated in a whole string of them!
And Bruce was probably holding back, wasn’t he?
Schiller cursed bitterly in his mind, but his face remained expressionless.
Taking a sip of coffee, he said, “Gotham is a fine place.”
“Is that so?
The city with the highest crime rate in America?”
“That’s not important.”
“Oh?”
“Metropolis doesn’t have a high crime rate.
Sit down, kid.
You think Metropolis is safer than Gotham, right?”
“Isn’t it?”
“At least not for me,” Schiller said.
Schiller had inherited the original body’s knowledge and skills, but as for memories, he suspected the previous owner had lost a crucial portion before the transmigration.
At least right now, Schiller couldn’t recall a single detail about those gruesome cases—there were vague shadows, but nothing he could grasp clearly.
He knew the original owner must have been entangled in an indescribably complex case and suffered a foul stroke.
Schiller said, “The safety you see is merely on the surface, Mr.
Wayne.
Behind that—behind Metropolis’s glamorous facade—lies a darkness you probably can’t even imagine.”
“Then why come to Gotham City?”
“…I suppose you looked into my background, but it still isn’t detailed enough.
I offended too many people.
This is the only safe place.”
“Why?”
“Only criminals can deal with criminals,” Schiller said.
Bruce Wayne seemed visibly shaken by those words.
“Only criminals can deal with criminals…
Is that so?
Is that how you see it, Professor?”
“Bruce, let’s change the subject,” Schiller said.
Bruce stared at him, his eyes as somber as the Gotham sky.
Schiller realized he was no longer facing the cynical playboy Bruce, but Batman—one of history’s most complex superheroes, a dark knight, an incomprehensible paranoid, a genius separated from a madman by a hair’s breadth.
“If you want to get more from me, you’ll have to pay a price,” Schiller said.
“What do you want?” Bruce asked.
“What I want is something you can’t give right now.
You should understand what I mean,” Schiller said.
“So I can give it later, correct?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Bruce reined in his expression, making it impossible to tell what he was thinking.
“Professor Schiller, I’m afraid there’s a little trick of my own making in your coffee.
A nanovirus…”
“Bruce, dishonesty won’t get you any further with me.
Kid, this isn’t a little trick you can use to beg for candy,” Schiller said.
“It seems I am destined to leave empty-handed today,” Bruce said.
“Not necessarily,” Schiller said.
“I hope you can give me a good enough performance on the final assessment, Bruce, to prove you have the mind to learn this skill before you come looking for me again.”
“I won’t waste any more time here,” Bruce said.
“You’re still far from becoming a teacher, Bruce.
You’re still a student,” Schiller said.
“I’ve mastered knowledge and skills from all over the world—over a hundred fighting styles, detective work, lockpicking, counter-reconnaissance…”
“Except Gotham.
You haven’t learned Gotham yet,” Schiller said.
Bruce fell silent.
Schiller could tell that Bruce wasn’t yet the Dark Knight of his later years.
Indeed, thoughts of vengeance and dispensing justice burned constantly in his mind, along with perhaps an even darker side, but right now he hadn’t yet understood what Gotham—this hell of human nature—really was.
Bruce wanted to leverage every available resource, including Professor Schiller.
Batman was a hero with virtually no weaknesses—frighteningly intelligent, meticulous, a mere mortal standing shoulder-to-shoulder with gods.
But the prerequisite was that he had to put on that batsuit first, fully transform into a knight of the dark spreading fear in the night, embrace Gotham along with all its sin, and resolve to face and fight every piece of filthy human nature.
But now?
Bruce wasn’t Batman yet.
He had weaknesses.
Schiller felt a surge of relief.
If he had to face the Dark Knight who stood in Gotham’s shadows right off the bat, none of his tactics would work.
Batman wasn’t Superman—he wasn’t a righteous hero, but a total outlaw.
After Bruce left, Schiller stood by the window for a long time.
Perhaps Batman would arrive soon.
Bruce couldn’t wait much longer.
The next day, Schiller held class as usual—the very first lecture for the freshmen.
Regrettably, his attempt to stop Bruce from taking psychology had failed.
The young Batman insisted on intruding upon Schiller’s peaceful life, serving as a constant reminder that things here were about to turn into a muddy mess.
Curiously, Schiller noticed Bruce limping.
His right foot appeared injured, yet he insisted on coming to class anyway.
While lecturing, Schiller pondered: where had Bruce gone?
Sitting on billions as old-money royalty in Gotham, could he really have been beaten up by street thugs?
When class ended, Schiller ignored Bruce’s obvious “we need to talk” hints.
He quickly gathered his books and lecture notes, slipping away with the crowd of students.
He had an errand to run tonight.
If Gotham City was hell, then night in Gotham was something even Satan would fear.
The city of crime never ceased its reverberations of sin.
Schiller left the safe haven of the university and stepped into Gotham proper.
He was tracking Scarecrow—Jonathan.
Jonathan wasn’t a normal human being; he had started committing murder at eighteen.
Even though he wasn’t Scarecrow yet, he had already begun his fear toxin experiments.
Schiller wasn’t here to play hero and stop him.
He wanted to secure some fear toxin for self-defense.
In a city this dangerous, a secret laboratory run by a chemist was considered the safest place to steal from.
At least Jonathan, like Schiller, was an academic—not some burly mobster.
He didn’t know combat or firearms, relying solely on his mind.
That night, it rained in Gotham again.
The night was dark as thick ink, the rain heavy with the smell of kerosene.
No matter how mild the city got, the cold September rain still made a person shiver.
Wearing a long trench coat and holding a black umbrella, Schiller walked down a narrow street.
He had gradually narrowed down where Jonathan hid the toxin: in the basement of an abandoned church in the district.
As long as he waited until Jonathan was out, Schiller could step in and claim the fear toxin.
Suddenly, Schiller’s heart began to pound rapidly.
A vision flashed before his eyes—an image of himself being hit by a concealed weapon.
He spun around instantly and snapped his umbrella open.
*Snap!*
Two projectiles failed to pierce the umbrella and clattered to the ground.
Spider-Sense had saved Schiller’s life.
Schiller slowly lowered the umbrella, his expression a far cry from his gentle daytime demeanor.
He had almost died.
Anyone who had just survived an ambush would hardly look pleasant.
At the end of the alley, Bruce, clad in his batsuit, watched as his precision-guided, lightning-fast batarangs were blocked in an instant by the mysterious figure’s umbrella.
That reaction speed was as if he had foreseen it.
As the rain-soaked black umbrella lowered, the face revealed was one Bruce knew all too well: his university professor, Schiller.
It really was him, yet it didn’t seem like him at all.
Schiller’s aura was entirely different from the daytime.
Right now, he looked far more like the man described in his file—a lunatic obsessed with criminal psychology.
Schiller took a deep breath and said, “You should know what would have happened if I hadn’t blocked that.”
“The dart would have stopped thirty centimeters away from you,” Batman said.
Bruce’s voice was also completely different from daytime.
Schiller knew he was using a voice modulator.
The Batman of right now was still far from complete.
His batsuit was unrefined, lacking both cape and utility belt, and his batarangs didn’t seem particularly effective.
It was clear this novice Batman had taken a few wrong turns.
After all, embarking on a quest for justice starting in Gotham was like a rookie jumping straight into hell-tier difficulty.
Schiller said, “I should remind you, Mr.
Bat, that unlike the wealthy district where you live, the rooftops in the Mawson District don’t have guardrails.
If you carelessly fall off again, you might rupture your internal organs.”
The dark figure opposite remained silent before asking, “How did you tell?”
“You’re still too green, Mr.
Hero.
The medication you used has almost no scent—a high-end chemical agent that the poor devils in the slums could never afford.
And…” Schiller’s eyes settled on the exposed portion of Bruce’s chin.
“Nobody around here shaves their beard so neatly and symmetrically.”
“Who are you really?” Batman asked.
Schiller reopened his umbrella.
“Go home, young master.
Nobody is going to answer your every question.
I’m not a rookie mentor.”
With that, he walked away into the rain.
Batman stood in the alley for a long time before limping out, turning down another street.
There, he saw a beggar shivering in the cold rain.
He pulled out a wad of cash and handed it to the beggar.
Then he heard the sound of leather shoes stepping through the rain behind him, followed by a sentence that made his hairs stand on end:
“That’s why I said you don’t understand Gotham, Bruce.”
Batman turned to see Schiller standing at the intersection.
Schiller walked over and handed his umbrella to the beggar woman.
She opened it to shield herself from the freezing rain, then tremblingly handed the stack of US dollars back to Batman.
“Why?” Batman asked, taking back the money.
“Because this is Gutter Gang territory,” Schiller said.
“If they found out she had that much cash, her corpse would be floating in a drainage ditch by tomorrow.”
“A lot of cash?” Batman’s voice betrayed sheer absurdity.
“Thirty-seven dollars?”
“Yes.” Schiller looked toward the end of the street.
“This is Gotham…”
“Welcome to Gotham.”