On a foggy morning in Gotham City, Schiller stretched and sat up in bed. He had just settled in at Marvel, and after only a few days of relaxation, he noticed the presence of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents near his psychological clinic. Those people were like a piece of sticky gum that one cannot shake off. For an ordinary person, it might feel that way; even Stark, the billionaire of that world, found them bothersome and had no way to deal with them.

But Schiller was different. After being annoyed by the young Batman in Gotham, he could easily pack up and leave for Marvel to enjoy some peace. Now, with the agents watching him in Marvel, he could again choose to leave and come to Gotham to hide. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had no idea how Schiller disappeared without a trace; he left no evidence behind—neither train nor plane tickets, and no sightings at any road intersections—which made Nick Fury more convinced that Schiller was definitely not an ordinary person.

Back in the DC universe, his colleague, the future Scarecrow Jonathan, had not realized that his fear gas had been stolen, as Schiller was not greedy; he only took a small vial's worth. After all, he was not like Scarecrow, who needed the fear gas to create terror attacks; he was just dealing with a few low-level gangsters. He didn’t need any high-tech equipment to spray the gas—just a small spray bottle aimed at an ordinary person's nose would turn the concentrated fear gas into the best weapon, as those gang members could not possibly have reflexes like Batman’s.

While studying this gas, Schiller, despite lacking systematic chemical knowledge, understood the importance of making the most of resources. Besides using it as a weapon to spray on others, he discovered that this initial version of the fear gas seemed impure; it could not only induce fear but also trigger other negative emotions, which was excellent news for a psychologist. After all, if a patient was unwilling to confess their inner emotions, treatment could not proceed.

Schiller found that he could dilute the fear gas hundreds of times and use it as perfume on himself. For some reason—perhaps due to the system—the gas had no effect on him, but it could infect those nearby with a small amount of negative emotion. Indeed, Schiller planned to use this trick on the naïve Bruce, the young Batman.

The current Batman was not yet the perceptive Wayne of later years; Bruce was still too young. Having just traveled the world and learned many skills, Bruce was eager to begin his revenge plan. He donned the first version of the batsuit and took up bat-shaped projectiles to fight crime. To him, spending hundreds of millions on equipment seemed quite simple, yet he had not realized that what truly made him Batman was not these external tools but the spirit deep within him.

Clearly, Batman still had a long way to grow, and Schiller, for his own safety and to ensure a stable life in Gotham, had to take on the role of the young Bruce's spiritual mentor.

It was just another ordinary morning. For Bruce, the chance encounter with Schiller on a rainy night was merely a matter of the previous evening. When Schiller called out his true name, Bruce felt no surprise; he knew this person must have some unusual traits. Perhaps it was a special ability, or maybe magic. During his travels, he had encountered many such individuals and realized that this world was far more complex than ordinary people imagined, with many incredible forces lurking around.

Bruce knocked on the psychologist's door again, and a steady yet deep voice said, "Come in." Somehow, Bruce felt a sense of relief, as the response had come very quickly—clearly, the person inside knew who he was and was willing to let him in.

Batman hated all things mysterious and nihilistic, and so did Bruce. He believed Schiller's attitude meant that perhaps he would tell Bruce what was really going on, rather than continue to evade and conceal, using verbal tricks to lead him in circles.

Bruce sat down across from Schiller once more and said, "Professor, it seems you’re in a good mood today."

"Mr. Wayne, it seems your mood isn't too great today," Schiller replied. "I thought you would come in and pour me a cup of coffee like you did on the first day."

He spread his hands to indicate the empty table. "You know, I specifically didn’t brew coffee this morning, waiting for you to come."

Bruce paused for a moment but still got up to make a cup of coffee for Schiller.

Schiller actually found it interesting to drink coffee brewed by Batman himself, but Bruce thought of it as a test, or a form of mental manipulation, using words to compel the other to act as he commanded. Well, thinking this way might indeed fit Schiller’s character as a crazy doctor obsessed with psychology and psychiatry.

Schiller took a sip of the hot coffee, which dispelled the cold he felt from Gotham's chilly weather. Bruce spoke first: "Why were you there last night?"

"I don’t understand what you mean."

"If you wanted to hide, you should have worn a mask last night instead of choosing to deny it now after I saw your face."

Schiller set down his coffee cup, making a crisp sound on the table, and said, "I'm not denying that you saw me last night. I’m asking you why, with your hundreds of billions, you don’t donate to charity through some foundation, but instead wear a ridiculous tight suit, running through the streets of Gotham in the pouring rain, fighting with some petty thugs?"

Faced with this question, Bruce fell silent.

"This isn'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 fundamental purpose is not to save but to seek revenge."

"That’s your answer to me," Bruce said.

"No, I just saw the answer within you," Schiller replied.

"I don't believe there's such a thing as mind-reading."

"Of course, there's no such thing as mind-reading. Some people just don’t realize that their strong desires can manifest in certain reactions. People always think they hide their inner thoughts well, but that’s not the case."

"Can I learn this ability?" Bruce asked. "This ability to see through people's hearts."

"And then use it to take revenge on criminals?" Schiller asked. "Clearly, you’re thinking too simply. Bruce, perhaps your motivation is revenge, but if you treat it as the driving force behind everything, then it will end up like last night."

Schiller made a downward gesture, and Bruce explained: "After returning last night, I added a cape to my batsuit and planned to design a belt..."

"You know those things aren’t the point. You could equip your hands with iron fists that have thousands of kilograms of force, or add an engine to your boots that lets you leap to the moon. You could even design wings to fly to any planet in the solar system. You can do it, Bruce; I believe you can."

"But that's still not enough, far from enough."

"If I had that kind of power, I could eliminate all the criminals in the world, right?" Bruce asked.

Schiller sighed. Clearly, Batman, who had yet to encounter the Joker, could not imagine how an unarmed criminal, a frail and weak ordinary person with just a bit of acrobatics and fighting skills, could defeat a superhero proficient in hundreds of fighting techniques and capable of a wide range of abilities learned worldwide.

Schiller felt that no matter how he guided the current Bruce, the future Batman, he could only be considered an associate professor in Batman's life; the one who truly taught Batman everything was, precisely, his arch-nemesis, the Joker.

And now, the Joker should still be living a very ordinary life in some circus.

Bruce was still quite arrogant; he asked Schiller to teach him psychology because that was how he was—he learned various skills in different parts of the world. His humility and eagerness to learn did not contradict his arrogance.

Schiller said, "As I said, you can certainly study psychology. Everything is in the textbooks. You can come to my class, memorize the material, do assignments, write papers, and then take the final exam. I'm a professor, and I won’t stop any student from learning."

"You know I don’t want to study that..."

"Then what do you think is left?"

"Your kind of... special ability," Bruce gestured. "I've seen many people around the world with abilities that ordinary people don't have..."

"No, I am not like them. I have no abilities beyond those of ordinary people."

Bruce pondered for a moment, pursing his lips, clearly not believing. But Schiller had nothing further to explain to him. The young Batman was evidently still too naive; he was too straightforward, impulsive, and did not foresee the consequences.

Moreover, he appeared overly impatient. The difficulties he faced in his superhero career only intensified his impatience. Clearly, he thought that if he could learn skills similar to mind-reading from Schiller, dealing with criminals would become much easier, instead of being pushed off a building by a few gang members and falling awkwardly to the ground.

He had not yet figured out what really caused his failures.

Once again, Bruce returned empty-handed from Schiller, who merely told him, even threateningly, to study hard, complete all the courses, and then achieve good grades in the finals.

And Bruce clearly did not absorb any of it.

That night, Schiller went out again; he returned to Jonathan's secret base and stole a considerable amount of fear gas. This time, even Jonathan, no matter how foolish, should be able to see that his rows of test tubes were reduced by more than half.

Schiller was not proficient in any chemistry knowledge; he could not make any modifications or improvements to the special gas, only putting it into different containers or making some simple dilutions.

But there was one thing he could do: use this fear gas to scare Batman.

Soon, Schiller reappeared in the Mawson district. He knew Batman would come here again; Bruce was that kind of person—where he fell, he would insist on getting back up there, unwilling to change places. This was his pride.

The Mawson district was small, containing only six alleys. The building from which Bruce fell was right at the first alley of the Mawson district, where there was a nightclub controlled by the Sewers Gang.

The Sewers Gang was just a small gang in Gotham, as there was a sewer near the Mawson district, and they liked to throw some miserable victims into that sewer. Over time, the sewer became increasingly foul-smelling, so other gangs began to refer to this gang as the Sewers Gang, which they took great pride in.

The first enemy to defeat Batman was clearly not a notorious villain; they were just a bunch of petty thugs smoking upstairs in the nightclub. Batman used his fighting skills to deal with most of them, but due to his lack of practical experience, someone threw lime in his eyes, and he stumbled and fell off the building.

In the early days, Batman had no sidekick, and his equipment was not yet mature, so it was not surprising to encounter trouble in the sewers. However, the Sewers Gang would not have such luck a second time. After leaning against a wall at the end of the Mawson district for a while, Schiller heard terrified screams coming from the nightclub. Soon, the night quieted down, and a small gang that no one cared about vanished from Gotham.

Batman emerged, clearly in better shape than last time. He lowered his head, seemingly still contemplating how to modify his batsuit.

Suddenly, he remembered something and moved forward, turning a corner. He wanted to find that beggar and give him some dollars, telling him that the Sewers Gang had been dealt with, and he would no longer be in danger with the money.

Indeed, he found the beggar in the old spot. She was still tightly wrapped in her blanket, shivering in Gotham's wet and cold night air, and the umbrella Schiller had given her was nowhere to be seen.

Batman handed her the money and said in a low voice, "This district has no gangs left. You are safe now."

The beggar trembled and looked up, but Batman did not see a trace of gratitude in her eyes. To his disbelief, he found only hatred staring back at him from the beggar's eyes.

"Don't you feel happy?" Batman asked.

"Of course not," a familiar voice came from above Batman’s head. Schiller stood on the balcony of the beggar's building, looking down at Batman from the second floor.

"Because of the Sewers Gang's existence, that nightclub had a steady stream of customers every day. Some customers would hold food in their hands, and when they had only a little left, they would casually toss it on the roadside, so the beggar could pick it up and continue eating."

"But now that the Sewers Gang is gone, the nightclub can’t possibly stay open. Without customers, there will be no food."

"But a few hundred dollars is enough for him..."

"Yes, you have the best medical system in Gotham, a private doctor, and a family health advisor. You have never experienced the feeling of having a cold or fever a few times, nor do you know what it’s like for someone to freeze to the point of not being able to stand."

"In your imagination, he could take a few hundred dollars to the nearest supermarket, buy enough supplies, maybe even find a hotel to stay for a few nights, and then cure his illness..." Schiller drew out his words, then continued: "But unfortunately, he can’t even manage the first step."

Batman squatted down, pulling apart the blanket at the beggar's feet, and discovered that her entire lower body had turned purple from freezing. Gotham had been raining for several days, and her legs, soaked in water, were swollen beyond recognition.

Batman, knowledgeable in the theory of surgery, knew that even in Gotham's best hospital, such limbs would have to be amputated.

He fell completely silent, looking at the beggar, who did not clutch the money tightly but let the many dollars fall to the ground. He felt an incredible absurdity, a suffocating shame.

Suddenly, he felt many negative emotions irresistibly consuming his heart, making him want to roar. Batman felt that he had never lost control like this before; he stood up, staggered back a few steps, and then fell to the ground.

Clearly, an unexpectedly tragic ending to a story, combined with a little fear gas-induced negative emotion, was enough to leave Bruce in silence for several days.