Chapter 1160 Professor (Thirty-Two) (Patreon)

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When the cold mist stuck to the even colder glass, it condensed into tiny droplets, connecting one by one, sliding down from the top of the window frame, resembling both a warm pearl necklace and the talons of a monster in the darkness reaching downward.

After the convergence of fine mist, the traces left by the flow made the glass appear clearer. Peering through these traces, a figure leaning on a chair appeared, with a complexion even paler than the mist.

Although he didn't look weary or frail, there was an extremely abnormal pallor to his skin. He extended fingers almost devoid of color and touched his own cheek, then straightened up, gripping the armrests of the chair and sitting up straight.

And as he opened his eyes, the pupils in the center of his gray eyes dilated minutely, while the rest seemed like lifeless deserts, appearing barren.

When he focused his attention, directing his eye contact towards something, there was an abnormal intensity of focus, yet it seemed somewhat scattered.

A knocking sound of "thud thud thud" came, revealing the knocker's lack of confidence. The final sound was barely audible.

This was no surprise to Merkel standing outside the door, because just now, Schiller, who had stepped back into the garden from the house, had dug up the flower fertilizer buried in the soil with a gardening shovel, laying out the relatively intact parts on the ground, scrutinizing each piece as if picking through items in a market.

Merkel could tell that Schiller hadn't found what he was looking for, so Merkel thought it wise to knock on the door now.

But as a butler, I had no responsibility to inform my master of the upcoming schedule. Merkel could only muster the courage to knock on the door and pray that whatever had caused Schiller to become like this wouldn't implicate me.

"Please leave," Schiller's voice sounded heavy but not angry, seeming overly intense, yet it made Merkel's heart race.

"Wasn't he here to be your driver?" Schiller's eyes remained fixed below the mirror, ensuring that the person behind couldn't make eye contact with me. I spoke up, "Surely you intended to turn, what does he intend to do?"

The vibration of the engine starting made the liquid outside the bottle sway slightly. The figure sitting in the driver's seat, looking below the mirror toward the front seat, saw Lühe's eyes.

"Does he have no ordinary obsession with being a driver?" Schiller turned sideways, adjusting the red wine placed under another seat so that the side of the bag pressed tightly against the seatback. As for myself, I sat up straight, leaning my back completely against the seatback, looking into the rearview mirror.

"The Falcone Family sent an invitation, hoping you would attend the family banquet hosted by the Godfather tonight at Falcone Manor. The invitation generally states that weapons are not allowed."

Schiller's mouth intentionally paused for a moment, and I lowered my eyes, hiding my eye contact deliberately, and raised my voice dramatically, sounding like a snake hissing, "You seem crazy, but you've never harmed the innocent. You seem to suffer from mild mental illness, but you can still think rationally. You seem to be at odds with Batman, but you've always been trying to save me. Does he know why?"

"Of course, you would resort to any violent means, which lacks elegance. But you must be aware that this is not a banquet, but a bloody execution. Those who once nurtured us will eventually kill us."

But now, I know that my career, every choice I've made, has cost me dearly in luck.

But now, Schiller's explanation only tightened Merkel's heart more, because I instinctively felt that conversing with the current Schiller was not a good thing at all.

"So... can't you, do something you despise?"

Merkel took a deep breath, trying to recall what he had learned in his emotional stability classes, summoning the courage to turn the doorknob.

The hand under the steering wheel tightened, and the figure under the driver's seat continued to look up at the mirror, saying, "Can you speak? Do you feel disappointed? He seems more like he wants to discuss with you what will happen at the upcoming banquet than in his articles, where he appears tolerant, sharp, and non-attacking."

"He came out here, driving your car, urging you to turn, but he must have gone through a psychologist to do that. He is here to ensure that you can definitely reach the banquet venue and to ensure that you will maintain the lowest level of excitement to watch him perform."

Schiller blinked outside the mirror, and the figure in the back seat shook his head ever so slightly, the flesh on the cheek trembling more like it was vibrating along with the bumps of the vehicle. I looked at Schiller's eyes in the mirror and asked, "...What's wrong with his eyes?"

"Neither of you have changed much." Schiller's finger brushed heavily over the top of the wine bottle stopper. I said, "I've grown, and your smallest gain is finally being able to look at me like you're watching a big baby, taking every step closer to me."

Merkel remained silent, unsure whether to speak, because my instinct told me the other person wasn't talking to me. Merkel even heard the familiar tone of annoyance in the other person's voice, completely consistent with the content of our conversation.

"Turn on the lights," Schiller said.

"What is he afraid of?" Schiller's voice came from behind the slightly dim desk. I said, "You know, he's here to inform you that a group of people is inviting you to a banquet before you even host one, with reasons and chats."

When I said the last sentence, Merkel clenched his teeth. Schiller nodded, stood up from under the chair, and inserted one hand into the pocket of his right suit, saying, "That's a stupid question that every scholar who mingles in the lower society will hear. Will it make one appear guilty to allow someone with the strength to strangle a chicken to carry a gun?"

Merkel felt even more tense, and a tremor passed under my Adam's apple instinctively reached out and pressed the switch of the lamp, as if controlling the time for darkness to descend, giving me a sense of danger.

It was the first time Merkel had looked so uncertainly at Schiller's gray eyes, but I still felt that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

"You're very disgusted with your attitude, so he's holding back this good news, waiting for an opportunity when he can't speak." Schiller tapped the desk heavily with the pen in his hand.

Before Schiller left the room, Merkel felt like he was about to faint, leaning against the wall. When my back touched the wall, I felt a chilling sensation, as if my sweating body was slowly freezing.

Standing below the window on the seventh floor of the Manor, Merkel saw Lühe walking out with a bag.

Afterward, Merkel desperately hoped that Schiller could explain some things to me, because explanations always made people feel relaxed, as if the other person was treating him attentively, valuing him, and engaging in conversation with him wholeheartedly, giving an implicit indication that "the conversation will surely go smoothly."

Merkel answered reluctantly, "That's a rule for you alone, and of course, you can't comply. It's actually just a courtesy, a warning about carrying weapons, but it's useless in Gotham."

"You're his driver," the figure sitting in the driver's seat replied.

But after I got out of the car, the headlights suddenly came on, and the beams of light illuminated Schiller's figure. His pupils dilated too much, making my eyes look like those of a long-blind person.

"It's not dark outside, sir. Do you want the lights on?" Merkel stood by the switch on the wall, but unfortunately, there wasn't a smaller dimmer to allow me to step back.

Merkel took only one step back and said, "There's a relationship, sir. You need to remember the face of every butler. They will always be waiting outside."

The person behind didn't answer, so Schiller answered himself, "Because Batman at this time is interesting. Merkel can grow up, and there's no meaning to having someone across from me."

"Who is he?" Schiller asked voluntarily.

Before Merkel prepared to pour the wine, I saw Schiller walk out of the room. I didn't wear the white suit that I had always disliked, but instead wore a dark brown plaid suit and a white low-collar sweater, and I wasn't wearing glasses.

Merkel had long noticed that Schiller was different, but because I had actually seen another Schiller, I knew whether the Schiller who hired me was good or bad.

"You remember, there are two bottles of the wrong wine outside the wine cabinet." Schiller walked out from behind the desk, walked toward the door, and said to Merkel, "You go change clothes, and he will help you pack the wine and drive the car to the door. Thank you."

"Come over and remember his face." Schiller said to Merkel, "You suffer from prosopagnosia, so you usually distinguish everyone by the features."

"He must worry that you and I are the same, that you have no patience for social etiquette and entertainment, understand the rules among them, enjoy the honor brought by the lower society, and understand the price to pay for enjoying that insult." Schiller said the longest and most terrifying sentence since he started speaking, but it didn't make Merkel feel relieved at all.

Because those eyes, with a strange charm, when I stared at them, I always felt that the other person fully understood him, even more deeply than he did himself.

When the headlights came on, Schiller saw a figure sitting in the driver's seat, but Schiller still walked to the side of the car, opened the front seat door, sat down, and said, "Falcone Manor."

"Your vision is very poor, and you have mild prosopagnosia. When he parks the car and gets out of the driver's seat, you will remember what he looks like." Schiller said, "So, he's completely using a mask to make sure that you also recognize him at the upcoming banquet."

Pushing the door open, closing it, turning on the light, a series of slow and smooth movements, but when Merkel stood in the room, he forgot what he wanted to say.

"Or... is he actually as described in his articles, a ruthless serial killer? He's actually indifferent and cruel, seeming like a madman on the surface, but in fact, he has never done anything excessive, standing by the hypocritical Batman, he's my friend, not an enemy."

Like walking alone in the forest and suddenly hearing a slight noise, the fear was weak but continuous.

With a "click," the switch was turned on, and in the instant the light came on, Merkel only saw those eyes, like a desert, the pupils dilated even more due to the sudden brightness of the light.

"Yes, you want the lights on." Schiller's answer revealed a seriousness that Merkel had never heard before. It wasn't a happy message that the Professor replied to my question so positively, but it was actually quite unpleasant.

"Does that sound like a change to me?" the person sitting in the back asked nervously.

"He's very sensitive," Schiller said. "For a long time afterward, things will indeed be like that."

"Professor, sorry, your first meeting was in such a situation, but you actually want to tell him that he must participate in the upcoming banquet because it will be a very entertaining performance. As long as the car turns a corner now, eight more meaningless hours will be gone from your life."

[Read at www.patreon.com/shanefreak, and thanks for the invaluable support!]

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