Chapter 959: Schiller's Razor (Part 1) (Patreon)

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When Scott heard those words, he first froze for a moment, then lowered his voice and said, "Are you insane? You'll die!"

As his grip tightened around Schiller's throat, it became increasingly difficult for Schiller to breathe. He spoke intermittently, "So... you must make a decision now. You're trembling even more than I am, holding a sharp military knife to my neck. It won't harm the airway or arteries if you stab it in..."

"Aren't you afraid I'll actually kill you?" Scott gritted his teeth and asked.

"You won't do that. As an experienced Agent, you know better than I do," Schiller gasped again and continued, "He'll stand against you, trying to communicate because your knife is at my throat. If I die, you can only pray that the crocodile monster isn't hungry anymore."

Scott's fingers were visibly trembling as he saw the terrifying monster approach after subduing the surrounding Agents. Despite being an elite Agent with years of service, his adversaries had always been various ruthless or cunning individuals, never something beyond reason like this monstrous creature.

Even in a city like Gotham, Killer Croc's appearance was intimidating enough. It was evident from the fact that he couldn't even find work as a gang enforcer. Killer Croc's visage was too ahead of its time even for the cold-blooded residents of Gotham.

As he watched the towering monster approach him, Scott took a few deep breaths, forcing his brain to calm down, hoping to steady his trembling arms.

Just as Schiller had mentioned, a hostage's value only existed as long as they were alive. The consequence of his hand shaking now could be two lives lost.

"If you don't have experience in this, follow my instructions," Schiller swallowed hard and said in a hoarse voice, "Hold the knife in your dominant hand, insert it directly from the scar's backside, about three centimeters in, and then immediately pull it out."

As Batman and Killer Croc closed in, Scott knew he had no choice.

Before taking action, he glanced at Batman, and in the instant they locked eyes, a syllable escaped his lips:

"No..."

"Arghhhhh!"

In an instant, blood splattered, and Batman, who had rushed towards Schiller, bore a fresh scarlet mark on his dark chest armor. It was like Gotham's twilight being gradually consumed by darkness along the river at sunset.

In that moment, deep underground, the layers of earth collapsed heavily. Batman found himself standing on a bridge, overlooking the Gotham River bathed in the glow of the setting sun.

This tributary that flowed into the sea from Gotham was always damper and murkier than other rivers, for it concealed many unburied bones hidden beneath its secret sands, never seeing the light of day.

Batman remembered the last time he had such vivid fantasies about blood; it was in a dark alley when he saw pearls fall to the ground.

It reminded him of Gotham's winter with its endless snowflakes and the moon hanging high in the sky.

Now, he saw fog rising from the river's surface. Soon, the thick mist blocked all sight. The faint sound of a smoke grenade being deployed snapped Batman back to reality. At that moment, the chair in front of him was empty, and both the captors and the hostages had disappeared.

Killer Croc coughed hard a couple of times, using his hands to disperse the lingering smoke. "That cunning bastard used a smoke grenade?! Batman, are you okay? You..."

Batman, still standing in place, shook his head vigorously. Killer Croc's gaze landed on his arm. Even through the fabric of his suit, it was evident that Batman's arm muscles were tense, and he was beginning to tremble slightly.

"Waylon, Waylon..." Batman suddenly spoke, turning his head to look at Killer Croc, fixing him with a burning gaze. Then he said, "Can you smell the blood, can't you? Follow that scent, catch up to them, quickly!"

Killer Croc hesitated for a moment, then sniffed the air and pointed in a direction. "There's a faint smell. Let me see... it should be this way!"

With that, he indicated a direction, and Batman rushed toward it without a second thought. However, as soon as he entered the corridor, thick smoke billowed out. Since he didn't have an oxygen mask, he had to retreat back into the room.

Killer Croc peered into the corridor and was also forced back by the smoke. He coughed a couple of times and said, "Damn it, they're clever. In these sealed passages, thick smoke is the last thing you want. It also impairs my sense of smell. I can't smell anything now."

"Bang!"

Batman punched the wall, speaking in a slightly trembling voice, "The wound from earlier may have hit an artery or the trachea. We need to provide immediate first aid."

"Arterial bleeding might still be salvageable, but if the trachea is injured, a large amount of blood will rush into the airway, causing mechanical asphyxiation. With the airway completely blocked, the heart will stop within a minute, and death is certain within three minutes."

"Find them... find them!!"

Batman turned and rushed out of the room again. As his highly intelligent brain worked at its peak speed, time seemed to slow down.

When Venom had once parasitized Batman's body, it had no room to exert its properties fully because Batman's willpower was overwhelming. As a result, it couldn't manifest symbiote-like abilities such as taking over the host's body, forming armor, or rapid regeneration.

Grey Mist, on the other hand, had entirely different characteristics from Venom. Batman hadn't realized that Schiller's ability to transform into Grey Mist came from a symbiote similar to Venom.

He had assumed that this ability, like Constantine's magic, required conscious activation and control.

Batman had previously written about Constantine's vulnerabilities, emphasizing that if you could interrupt his actions or prevent him from making any movements or sounds before he cast his spells, most magic would fail.

Sorcerers' weaknesses had always been their bodies. Once their bodies suffered severe damage, they couldn't perform intricate movements, making them susceptible to defeat and eliminating any chance of a comeback.

By analogy, if Schiller had only been in a weakened mental state, and the Agents had seized the opportunity, now, with his severely injured body, he might be completely defenseless and in grave danger.

The reason Schiller had revealed the identity of the Central American revolutionary leader when he was apprehended by the Agents was likely to protect Alfred. He probably believed that his own exposure was inevitable, so he decided to claim an important position to ensure the safety of a crucial comrade.

Now, Batman understood that he wasn't racing against the Agents but against time, against the rapid loss of Schiller's life force.

On the other side, Schiller sat down on one side of the corridor, holding his neck. Scott tore a piece of cloth from his clothing to bandage Schiller's wounds.

"You're more nervous than I imagined, Agent," Schiller said while holding the wound and wrapping the bandage. He continued, "If your hand trembles one more time, we'll meet in hell."

Scott cursed under his breath and then asked, "You're the craziest lunatic I've ever met! I just don't understand, what are you trying to accomplish?"

"Me?" Schiller pretended to be nonchalant as he wrapped the bandage, using Grey Mist to heal most of the wounds, leaving only some superficial ones to continue bleeding. He sat in the dim corridor, his back against the cold, dry wall, looking up at the ceiling as he spoke.

"Agent, I must admit, the concentration of the truth serum you used is quite high. Don't you think now is a good time for interrogation?"

"To hell with interrogation!" Scott looked at Schiller with frustration. "Is this the time for interrogation? What's the deal with that damn Crocodile Man and the lunatic dressed as a bat? Why are they after us? How can we get out of here?"

But the underground tunnel environment was not conducive to human survival, and prolonged exposure could put significant pressure on one's emotions. Scott felt that his senses were heightened; any slight movement or sound made him nervous.

"Don't be nervous; you should relax, just like me," Schiller said, taking a cigarette from his suit pocket. Scott widened his eyes, but Schiller shook his head, saying, "What happened to the lighter you used earlier?"

"Light a cigarette for me, sir. It'll help me recover faster, and then, as you wish, we can leave this cursed place."

Schiller's speech was still challenging, with a rapid pace but long pauses between sentences. With the flicker of the ignited cigarette, Scott noticed that the hand holding the cigarette was trembling violently.

"How are you feeling?" Scott glanced at the blood on Schiller's neck and continued, "You better not die here. You better..."

"Don't worry, I can't die," Schiller coughed hard, and instantly, the blood soaked through the bandage again, flowing from the wound. His voice became hoarse and trembling, like that of a drug addict Scott often encountered.

"But, the high dose of barbiturates has caused my bronchi to spasm, difficulty breathing, and my heart rate is irregular. My body temperature has dropped by about two degrees. If you could get an adrenaline shot, I think I'd be better."

Scott was about to speak, but Schiller continued in a rapid pace, "However, I must admit that as a drug for interrogation, it does make me feel relaxed. My mind urges me to say something..."

"What do you plan to say?" Scott finally regained some composure, sitting across from Schiller, watching the flickering flame of the cigarette. He asked, "How did you organize and lead the Central American revolution?"

"Let's not talk about those boring things," Schiller shook his head. He struggled to insert the trembling arm holding the cigarette into his mouth, and even his lips began to quiver with the arm's movements. He had to bite his teeth to keep the cigarette from falling.

His voice became muffled, like it was squeezed out through clenched teeth, and he said, "Perhaps you've encountered many highly intelligent criminals, graduates of prestigious schools, gifted and talented, who have achieved great success without any external coercion or environmental pressure. They choose the path of crime."

"When you face them, you can't help but feel puzzled. Why would they waste their talents like this? Why not cherish the gifts God gave them? You might think they're born evil, even worse than ordinary criminals..."

"In reality, you envy them, envy everything they have that you don't. But they recklessly squander these precious things."

"Fate, youth, friendship, love..." Schiller's voice echoed through the narrow corridor, as if it were coated with a layer of misty and antiquated dust.

Scott's rationality told him not to believe the words of a madman, yet he found himself listening to his story as if he were being lured by a devil.

"How do you view these high-intelligence criminals is how I view you, ordinary people..."

"You, born as such, make me sick, you disgusting vermin, foolish and filthy trash..."

Schiller began to breathe heavily again, seemingly getting excited once more. Even an overdose of sedatives couldn't quell his fervor. The flame of his cigarette flickered as if it were painting in the air.

"You never realize how much you possess—a robust and lively body, a vigorous soul, a heart filled with surging emotions, and a brain that forgets..."

Schiller continued to take deep breaths, his words fragmented within the pauses of his breathing. But suddenly, he grew quiet again, as if the effects of his excitement had once more been suppressed. After a brief silence, he continued:

"Ordinary people sacrifice their extraordinary talents to live in ignorance and confusion, yet they find happiness. Lunatics possess abilities far beyond the ordinary but must confront madness and chaos throughout their lives, struggling to grasp their emotions..."

"It's hard to say who is more unfortunate between the two."

"I had accepted that both of these realities couldn't coexist until one day, someone walked up to me and shattered my perception because he possessed it all at once."

"Batman..."

Schiller's eyes widened as if he saw some hallucination amidst his frenzied mental state. When he uttered the word, it seemed as though he was chewing each letter, filled with inexplicable malice.

"He possesses everything—reason and emotion, logic and intuition, intellect and empathy..."

"He can enjoy remarkable intelligence without the emotional detachment that extreme rational thinking would bring. He can focus on calculations while having a sense of justice that restrains him from crossing ethical boundaries..."

"The first time I saw him, I was certain he was such a person—a damned lucky one, a creation favored by a biased God..."

Schiller coughed twice, and then he said, "But when I saw a terrifying future in him, do you know? Do you know?"

"That shocked me because, from such a dreadful future, he shouldn't have had such a high starting point. He shouldn't have been a normal person, shouldn't have enjoyed it all..."

"What puzzled me even more is that, despite having it all, he managed to waste it all within a few decades."

"At the age of 18, he was still a genius hero with some psychological trauma."

"But by the time he was 40..." Schiller's tone gradually lowered, then suddenly reappeared. "By the time he was 40, he had become a lunatic just like me."

Schiller gasped for breath again, as if he were battling relentless hallucinations. Then, he revealed an ugly smile and said, "And then I realized it was Batman, Batman who made him this way."

"It was Batman who led Bruce from the sunshine into the shadows, who made him shed his armor and don restraint."

"It was Batman who turned a perfect genius I had dreamt of into me."

"When I realized this, it was as if I had heard the biggest joke in the world, and I laughed."

"You're insane," Scott said as he watched Schiller. "You've started to talk nonsense. Don't believe the hallucinations you're seeing. It will only worsen your condition."

"That's what I'm saying, you're much more professional than him," Schiller replied, struggling to regain composure for a moment. Then he continued, "If he hears these words, he won't consider them nonsense. He'll remember every word and find anomalies in them, understand what's going on."

"So, he can never become a psychologist!" Schiller raised his voice and said, "Because the first rule of a psychologist is not to believe the insane ramblings of a mental patient, not a single word."

"That's why all the lunatics in the world can become psychologists, but not him."

Schiller had been speaking intermittently, but Scott couldn't quite grasp what he was getting at. He vaguely sensed that Schiller was talking about the person pursuing them, but he didn't understand the relationship between Schiller and that Batman.

After Schiller mentioned this rule, Scott felt even more confused. He felt like Schiller was hinting at something, but according to this rule, he shouldn't believe Schiller's words right now, as he appeared to be a madman.

Scott had encountered countless criminals who displayed various reactions during drug interrogations. Some remained silent as if the drugs had no effect, while others continued to evade questions, circling back to the starting point.

However, Schiller had created a new style. He would change the topic and then launch into a rant, insults, and exclamations on his own. He was indeed undergoing an interrogation, but the subject of his interrogation seemed to be the hallucinations he saw, completely unrelated to reality.

In the following period, Scott attempted to use his learned interrogation techniques to steer the conversation back, but it was futile. What he learned was that Schiller kept changing topics, using words Scott had never heard of and insulting people he had no knowledge of.

Honestly, Scott had never imagined that English could have such a rich vocabulary for insults and sarcasm.

At first, he regretted not bringing a recording device, but later he realized that the current secret setting was perfect for this. If anyone involved heard this, they might face a more dreadful pursuit.

So, he concluded that from start to finish, Schiller was talking nonsense. He wasn't an organizer or leader of the Central American revolution; he was just a mentally unstable madman.

Scott stood up, turned to Schiller, and said, "You better say the same things during the interrogation in Washington. That way, they can diagnose you with a mental illness, and you can receive treatment at a psychiatric hospital instead of being sent to prison."

Schiller finally grew somewhat quiet. He sat down, lowering his head, his expression murky and unclear. Scott sighed, crouched down, and looked at Schiller's face, asking patiently, "So, Professor, what do you want me to ask? Or what do you want to answer?"

Schiller shook his head and said, "Haven't you noticed? I don't need to be asked. You can say whatever you want because normal people can't interfere with you. You're a lunatic."

"Indeed, I'm a lunatic," Schiller turned his head to look at Scott and said, "I've introduced you to many of my friends, but I forgot one person, my favorite child. His name is Jason."

Schiller staggered to his feet from the ground, and Scott sighed in relief. He turned around and started moving forward, saying, "Professor, you're finally willing to move forward. We need to leave here quickly..."

But the next moment, he felt Schiller approaching from behind. Before he could react, a tie tightened around his neck.

As Schiller applied pressure, he whispered in Scott's ear, "Jason... Jason... A good child always remembers every word I say."

"Ughhhhh!!!"

Scott's pale fingers turned bloodless as the dark checkered tie embedded deep into his throat. After Schiller released his grip, Scott collapsed to the ground, silently.

Schiller acted as if he had no awareness of what he had just done. He crouched down, looked at Scott, and said, "Forgive my earlier impoliteness. I would never speak ill of my friends behind their backs. Each of them is a good person."

He extended his hand, covering Scott's eyes, pushing the protruding eyeballs back into place, closing the eyelids.

Then, he stood up, leaning against the corridor wall, and walked unsteadily towards the depths. Only his deep voice remained echoing:

"But I have a blade specifically for dealing with good people. It's precise, elegant, and deadly."

"Its name is Guilt."

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

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Next Chapter>>Chapter 960: Schiller's Razor (Part II)