On another smog-filled morning in Gotham City, Schiller stretched and sat up from his bed.
Having just settled down in Marvel and enjoyed a few quiet days, he had already spotted SHIELD agents lingering near his psychiatric clinic.
Those people were like persistent leeches that couldn’t be shaken off.
To ordinary people, that might indeed be the case; even Stark, the billionaire of that world, was thoroughly annoyed by them yet completely helpless.
But Schiller was different.
After being annoyed by a young Batman in Gotham, he could simply pat his trousers and leave, heading to Marvel for peace and quiet.
Now that agents were watching him in Marvel, he could choose to leave again and hide in Gotham.
The SHIELD agents had absolutely no idea how Schiller vanished.
His departure left no trace whatsoever—no train or plane tickets, nor was he spotted at any highway intersections.
This only solidified Nick Fury’s conviction that Schiller was by no means an ordinary person.
Upon returning to the DC world, his colleague, the future Scarecrow, Jonathan, didn’t notice that his fear gas had been stolen.
Schiller wasn’t greedy; he had only taken the amount of one small test tube.
After all, unlike the Scarecrow, he didn’t need the fear gas to perpetrate terrorist attacks.
He only wanted to deal with a few low-level gangsters.
He didn’t require any high-tech equipment to disperse the gas either—a small spray bottle aimed at an ordinary person’s nose was enough.
The concentrated fear gas became the ultimate weapon, since those mobsters couldn’t possibly possess the reflexes of Batman.
While researching the gas, despite lacking systematic chemical knowledge, Schiller at least knew how to make the best use of things.
Aside from spraying it as a weapon, he discovered that this early version of the fear gas didn’t seem entirely pure.
In addition to triggering fear, it could also induce other negative emotions.
For a psychiatrist, this was fantastic news; after all, if a patient refused to open up about their inner feelings, therapy couldn’t proceed.
Schiller found he could dilute the fear gas several hundred times and spray it on himself like cologne.
For some reason—perhaps thanks to his system—the gas had no effect on him, yet it could infect anyone who came close to him with a slight wave of negative emotions.
Yes, Schiller planned to use this trick against the naive Bruce, the young Batman.
The current Batman was not yet the all-knowing “Dark Knight” of the future.
Bruce was still too young.
Having just completed his travels around the world and mastered a wealth of skills, he was desperate to begin his campaign of vengeance.
He put on his prototype Batsuit, grabbed his Batarangs, and set off to fight crime.
In his eyes, throwing hundreds of millions at building gear was the simplest thing in the world.
He had not yet realized that what truly made him Batman was not these external things, but the spirit deep within his soul.
Clearly, Batman’s path of growth was still a long one.
For his own personal safety and a peaceful future life in Gotham, Schiller had no choice but to act as a spiritual mentor for the young Bruce.
It was another ordinary morning.
For Bruce, his chance encounter with Schiller in the rainy night had only happened yesterday evening.
He wasn’t surprised that Schiller knew his real name; he knew this man had to have something unusual about him.
Perhaps it was superpowers, or perhaps magic.
During his travels around the world, he had seen many such people, and he knew that the world was far more complex than ordinary people imagined, with many unfathomable forces peering into it.
Bruce knocked on the psychologist’s door once again.
A steady, deep voice called out from inside, “Come in.”
Somehow, Bruce felt a wave of relief.
The reply had come incredibly fast; the person inside clearly knew who he was and was glad to let him in.
Batman hated all forms of mystery and nihilism, and so did Bruce.
In his view, Schiller’s attitude meant that the doctor might actually explain what was going on, rather than constantly evading, hiding, and talking in circles.
Bruce sat opposite Schiller once again and said, “Professor, you seem to be in a good mood today.”
“Mr.
Wayne, you don’t seem to be in a very good mood today,” Schiller replied.
“I thought you’d make me a cup of coffee like you did on the first day.”
He spread his hands, gesturing to the empty desk.
“You know, I deliberately didn’t brew any coffee this morning, just waiting for you.”
Bruce fell silent for a moment, but he still stood up and brewed a cup of coffee for Schiller.
Schiller actually just thought it was amusing to have Batman personally brew him coffee.
Bruce, however, viewed it as a test, or perhaps a technique of psychological manipulation—using verbal prompts to force the other party into doing what he wanted.
Well, thinking about it that way did indeed fit Schiller’s persona: a mad doctor obsessed with psychology and psychiatry.
Schiller took a sip of the hot coffee, dispelling the chill that Gotham’s cold weather had settled into his body.
Bruce spoke first.
“Why were you there last night?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“If you wanted to hide it, you should have made yourself a mask last night instead of choosing to deny it now, after I’ve already seen your face.”
Schiller set down his coffee cup with a sharp clink against the desk.
I am asking you why, with tens of billions in assets, you don’t donate to foundation charities, but instead choose to wear a ridiculous skin-tight suit and run around the rain-drenched streets of Gotham to trade blows with petty thugs.”
Faced with this question, Bruce fell silent.
“That wasn’t a rhetorical question…” Schiller said.
“You don’t need to think about how to answer, because I will answer it for you.”
“Because your ultimate purpose isn’t to save people.
It is to seek revenge.”
“That is your answer,” Bruce said.
“No, I merely saw the answer already inside your heart,” Schiller replied.
“I don’t believe in mind-reading.”
“Of course there is no mind-reading in this world.
It’s just that some people don’t realize how their deepest desires manifest in their actions.
People always think they hide their inner thoughts perfectly, but they don’t.”
“Can I learn this ability?” Bruce asked.
“This ability to see through people’s hearts.”
“And use it to retaliate against criminals?” Schiller asked.
“Clearly, you’ve oversimplified things.
Bruce, your motive may be revenge, but if you make it the sole driving force of your life, you will end up just like last night.”
Schiller made a falling gesture.
Bruce explained, “When I went back last night, I added a cape to my armor, and I plan to design a utility belt…”
“You know none of those things are the point.
You could add iron gauntlets that punch with thousands of kilograms of force, or boot-thrusters that shoot you all the way to the moon.
You could even design wings to fly to any planet in the solar system.
You can do all that, Bruce—I believe you can.”
“But that is still not enough.
Far from enough.”
“If I have that kind of power, I can eliminate all the criminals in the world, can’t I?” Bruce asked.
Schiller sighed.
Clearly, the young Batman, who had not yet met the Joker, could not fathom how an unarmed criminal—a thin, weak, ordinary person with nothing but a few acrobatic tricks and street-brawling skills—could defeat a superhero who had mastered hundreds of martial arts and learned countless skills from across the globe.
Schiller felt that no matter how much he guided the current Bruce—the future Batman—he would at best be an associate professor in Batman’s life.
The one who would truly teach Batman everything was his arch-nemesis: the Joker.
As for now, the Joker was likely still living an exceedingly ordinary life in some circus.
The current Bruce was still arrogant.
He asked Schiller if he could study psychology under him because that was how he worked—he picked up skills wherever he went.
His eager-to-learn humility did not conflict with his innate arrogance.
Schiller said, “I’ll say it again: of course you can study psychology.
Everything is in the textbooks.
You are welcome to attend my lectures, go home and memorize the material, write homework, submit papers, and take the final exams.
I am a professor; I would never stop any student from learning.”
“You know that’s not what I want to learn…”
“Then what else do you think there is?”
“Your…
special ability.” Bruce gestured.
“I’ve seen many people like this around the world, who possess special abilities ordinary people don’t have…”
“No, I am different from them.
I don’t have any superhuman abilities.”
Bruce paused, pursing his lips.
Clearly, he didn’t believe it.
But Schiller had nothing left to explain to him.
The young Batman was still too green—too direct, too impulsive, and too reckless about the consequences.
He was also far too impatient.
The setbacks in his budding superhero career only fueled this impatience.
He evidently felt that if he could learn mind-reading-like abilities from Schiller, dealing with criminals would become far easier, and he wouldn’t end up being shoved off a building by a few mobsters, falling flat on his face.
He hadn’t even figured out what truly caused his failure yet.
Once again, Bruce left empty-handed.
Schiller merely told him—even threatened him—that he had better study hard, attend all the lectures, and get a good grade on his final exam.
Of course, Bruce didn’t take a single word to heart.
When night fell, Schiller went out again.
He paid another visit to Jonathan’s secret hideout and stole a significant amount of fear gas.
This time, no matter how oblivious Jonathan was, he would surely notice that more than half of his two rows of test tubes were missing.
Schiller didn’t possess any specialized knowledge of chemistry, so he couldn’t modify or refine the gas in any way. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
He could only transfer it into different containers or perform some simple dilutions.
But there was one other thing he could do: use the fear gas to give Batman a good scare.
Before long, Schiller reappeared in Mawson District.
He knew Batman would return here.
Bruce was that kind of person—wherever he fell, he insisted on getting back up right there, refusing to change venues.
Such was his pride.
The entirety of Mawson District wasn’t large, consisting of only six alleys.
The building Bruce had fallen from happened to be in the first alley, which housed a nightclub controlled by the Gutter Gang.
The Gutter Gang was just a minor street gang in Gotham.
Because Mawson District was bordered by one of Gotham’s drainage ditches, the gang loved to throw their unfortunate victims into it.
As the ditch grew increasingly foul-smelling, other gangs began using the term “Gutter” to refer to them.
Rather than being insulted, the Gutter Gang took great pride in the moniker.
The first enemies to defeat Batman were clearly not some famous supervillains.
They were just a bunch of low-life thugs smoking upstairs at a nightclub.
Batman had dispatched most of them with his martial arts, but his lack of practical experience cost him when someone threw lime in his eyes, causing him to stumble and fall off the building.
In his early days, Batman had no sidekick, and his gear was far from mature.
It wasn’t surprising for him to stumble in a minor clash.
However, the Gutter Gang wouldn’t have a second stroke of luck.
Schiller leaned against a wall at the end of Mawson District for a short while before hearing terrified screams echoing from the nightclub.
Soon, the night grew quiet again.
A petty gang that no one cared about had vanished from Gotham just like that.
Batman emerged.
He was clearly in a much better state than last time.
He walked with his head down, seemingly still calculating how to modify his Bat-equipment.
Suddenly, he remembered something.
He walked forward and turned a corner.
He wanted to find the beggar from before, give her some more dollars, and tell her that the Gutter Gang had been dealt with, so she would no longer be in danger holding that money.
Sure enough, he found the beggar in her usual spot.
She was still tightly wrapped in a blanket, shivering in the damp, cold night air of Gotham.
The umbrella Schiller had given her was gone.
Batman handed her the money and said in a low, gravelly voice, “There are no more gangs in this district.
You are safe now.”
The beggar looked up trembling, but Batman didn’t see a single trace of gratitude in her eyes.
To his utter disbelief, her gaze held nothing but raw hatred.
“Aren’t you happy?” Batman asked.
“Of course she isn’t,” a familiar voice called out from above.
Schiller stood on the balcony of the building above the beggar, looking down at Batman from the second floor.
“Because of the Gutter Gang’s presence, the nightclub had a steady stream of patrons every day.
Some of them would carry food in their hands, and when they had only a bite left, they would throw it onto the side of the road.
That way, beggars could pick it up and eat.”
“But now that the Gutter Gang is gone, the nightclub can’t stay open either.
No patrons coming in means no food.”
“But a few hundred dollars is enough for her to—”
“Oh, certainly.
You have the finest medical system in Gotham, private doctors, and personal health consultants.
You’ve rarely even experienced a common cold, let alone what it feels like to be so frozen that you can’t even stand up.”
“In your imagination, she could easily take a few hundred dollars to the nearest supermarket, buy plenty of daily necessities, maybe even find a motel to stay at for a few nights, and recover from her illnesses…” Schiller drawled, then added, “But unfortunately, she can’t even take the very first step.”
Batman knelt down.
He pulled back the blanket around her feet and discovered that her entire lower limbs had already frozen to a deep purple.
It had rained in Gotham for days on end, and her legs, soaked in the water, had swollen beyond recognition.
Batman was well-versed in surgical theory.
He knew that even in Gotham’s best hospital, limbs in this condition could only be amputated.
He fell into a complete silence.
Looking at the dollar bills that the beggar hadn’t even bothered to clutch, letting them scatter on the ground instead, he felt an unbelievable absurdity, a suffocating shame.
He suddenly felt a wave of negative emotions irresistibly devouring his mind, making him want to howl.
He felt he had never lost his composure like this before.
He stood up, stumbled back a few steps, and collapsed to the ground.
Clearly, a tragic story with an unexpected ending, combined with a tiny trace of negative emotions brought out by the fear gas, was more than enough to keep Bruce quiet for a few days.