That shot startled every Batman in the room.
It blew a bloody hole straight through The Batman Who Laughs's head—clean, decisive, merciless. From raising the gun to pulling the trigger, there had not been the slightest hesitation, no chance for anyone to stop him. More importantly, it gave no lofty meaning to the choice of life or death, nor did it carry any philosophical intent of discussing righteous judgment. It was so casual that it seemed almost contemptuous. To Batman, it was practically a provocation.
Batman did not kill. This was the principle of every Justice Batman. Countless arguments had been fought over this principle by every individual and faction, enemy and ally alike, on both sides of the wall, spawning endless complications and troubles. Anyone who understood this principle—anyone who understood Batman—had to think twice and proceed with utmost caution whenever taking action related to it.
Perhaps they also held a particular fixation, whether on killing or not killing. More than the act of murder itself, they wanted to know how Batman would react to his stance on the matter. At its core, they wanted Batman's attention. Not killing was obedience; killing was rebellion. Batman had always set the standard.
As a result, anyone who dared to attempt to take another person's life in front of Batman had far more on their mind than murder. They carried an almost theological philosophical air, making them seem brooding, melancholic, and excessively eager to assert their presence.
But Schiller was different. There was no prison of thought in his mind, no moral shackles around his arms, no emotional ties between his fingers. The gunshot was not a judge's gavel, and the bullet was not a train carrying ideas—this shot was nothing more than pure killing.
Because it was pure, it was sharp.