Welcome to Gotham

Schiller woke up. He didn't even need to turn over to know he was back in the simple and honest Gotham City. The smell of kerosene in the air and the perpetually overcast sky outside his window told him he'd damn well traveled back again.

And time hadn't moved at all.

He turned off his alarm and glanced at the calendar. It was the day after he'd traveled to Marvel. This meant that time in the DC world didn't move when he was in the Marvel universe.

Schiller sighed, unsure whether the simple and honest Gotham City or the universe's center, New York City, was more dangerous.

To be honest, while New York was more enjoyable, Gotham was his eternal home. At least the universe mode hadn't been activated here yet; Schiller couldn't deal with the Purple Sweet Potato right now.

He rolled out of bed and got dressed. Gotham University required professors to wear formal attire to class, so Schiller wore a shirt, vest, and suit every day, sometimes switching up the suit style or wearing a trench coat.

Gotham's temperature in September was quite pleasant, not cold. Perhaps because it was a coastal city, a gentle breeze blew through the city, keeping it warm.

As soon as Schiller stepped out his door, he saw someone he desperately didn't want to see—Bruce Wayne.

Schiller turned and headed back inside.

Bruce quickly caught up, shouting, "Professor! Professor! I have some questions about psychology! Can you wait for me?"

Schiller cursed inwardly. There were many teachers near the professor's apartment at this hour, and Schiller couldn't just refuse. He could only say, "Alright, alright, I'm not deaf. Mr. Wayne, let's discuss it in the psychology consultation room."

The two entered the psychology consultation room. Bruce didn't sit down but instead went to make coffee. He brought the hot coffee over and placed it in front of Schiller.

He said, "Schiller Andel Rodriguez, a world-renowned criminal psychologist with four doctoral degrees in psychology. He participated in the investigation and resolution of the famous Bloody Butcher of Keystone City case, the Red Hand serial murders in Imperial City, and the Seaside City dismemberment case. And, most importantly, four months ago, he withdrew midway through the trial of Metropolis's deputy mayor and accepted an invitation to teach at Gotham University..."

"Professor Schiller, can you tell me why you came to Gotham?"

Schiller's hair stood on end. Good heavens, the original host's resume was enough to get him admitted to Arkham Asylum! Even the Joker wasn't as wild as you!

You didn't just participate in one of these terrifying-sounding cases; you participated in a whole string of them! Bruce was holding back when he said that, wasn't he!

Schiller cursed inwardly but maintained a neutral expression. He took a sip of coffee and said, "Gotham is a good place."

"Is it? The city with the highest crime rate in America?"

"That's not important."

"Oh?"

"Metropolis doesn't have a high crime rate, child. Sit down. You think Metropolis is safer than Gotham, right?"

"Isn't it?"

"Not to me, at least," Schiller said.

Schiller had inherited the original host's knowledge and abilities upon arriving, but as for memories, he suspected the original host had lost some crucial memories before his transmigration. At least now, Schiller couldn't recall any details about those terrifying cases; there were vague impressions, but he couldn't quite grasp them.

Schiller knew that the original host must have been involved in an unspeakably complex case and was subsequently ambushed.

Schiller said, "The safety you see is just an illusion, Mr. Wayne. Behind Metropolis's glittering facade lies a darkness you can probably not imagine."

"Then why come to Gotham City?"

"...I think you've looked into my resume, but it's still not detailed enough. I've offended too many people, and only here is safe."

"Why?"

"Only criminals can deal with criminals," Schiller said.

Bruce Wayne seemed shaken by this statement. He said, "Only criminals can deal with criminals, is that it? Professor, do you really think so?"

"Bruce, let's change the subject," Schiller said.

Bruce looked at him, his eyes as dark as Gotham City's sky. Schiller realized he was no longer facing the flippant, playboy Bruce, but Batman—the most complex superhero in history, a dark hero, a genius on the verge of madness, a paranoid individual.

"If you want more from me, you must pay a price," Schiller said.

"What do you want?" Bruce asked.

"What I want, you cannot give me now. You should understand what I mean," Schiller said.

"Then I can give it to you in the future, right?"

"Certainly."

Bruce's expression became unreadable. He said, "Professor Schiller, I regret to inform you that your coffee contains a small concoction of my own making, a nanovirus..."

"Bruce, dishonesty won't get you more from me, child. This isn't one of your tricks to get candy," Schiller said.

"It seems I'm destined to leave empty-handed today," Bruce said.

"That's not necessarily true," Schiller said.

"I hope you can give me a sufficiently good grade during the final exam, Bruce. Prove that you have the desire to learn this skill, and then come back to me," Schiller said.

"I won't waste any more time here," Bruce said.

"You are far from becoming a teacher, Bruce. You are still a student," Schiller said.

"I've already learned the knowledge and skills of the entire world, hundreds of combat skills, detective work, lockpicking, counter-surveillance..."

"Except for Gotham. You haven't learned Gotham yet," Schiller said.

Bruce fell silent. Schiller could see that Bruce was not yet the dark hero Batman he would become. Indeed, the desire for revenge and justice was always in his heart, perhaps even a darker side, but he hadn't yet understood Gotham, this hell of humanity.

Bruce wanted to utilize all the power he could, like Professor Schiller.

Batman was a hero with almost no weaknesses, possessing supernatural intelligence, caution, and meticulousness, capable of rivaling gods with a mortal body. But that was only if he first donned the bat suit, fully becoming the dark knight who spread fear in the night, taking Gotham and all its evils into his grasp, ready to face and fight all the dirty aspects of humanity. But now? Bruce wasn't Batman yet; he had weaknesses.

Schiller suddenly felt fortunate. If he had directly faced the Dark Knight standing in Gotham's shadows, perhaps none of his current methods would have been effective. That's because Batman wasn't Superman; he wasn't a hero of justice, but a complete outlaw.

After Bruce left, Schiller stood by the window for a long time. Perhaps Batman would arrive soon; Bruce couldn't wait any longer.

The next day, Schiller attended class as usual, teaching his first lesson to new students. Unfortunately, his attempt to prevent Bruce from choosing psychology had failed. This young Batman was determined to intrude upon Schiller's peaceful life, reminding him that this place was about to become a mess.

Strangely, Schiller noticed Bruce limping, his right leg seemingly injured, yet he insisted on coming to class. While lecturing, Schiller pondered what Bruce had been up to.

He was heir to billions, the esteemed Wayne family of Gotham City. Could he have been beaten up by thugs?

After class, Schiller rejected Bruce's obvious hint of "Let's talk." He quickly packed his books and lecture materials and left with the flow of students. He had to go out again that evening.

If Gotham City was hell, then Gotham City at night would make even Satan tremble. This city of crime never ceased its ripples of evil. Schiller left the safety of the university and truly entered Gotham City.

He was tracking Scarecrow, Jonathan.

Jonathan wasn't a normal person. He had been committing murders since he was eighteen. So, even though he wasn't Scarecrow yet, he had already begun his experiments with Fear Gas.

Schiller wasn't here to uphold justice or stop him. He wanted to get some Fear Gas for his own protection.

In this dangerous city, a chemist's secret laboratory was considered the safest place to steal from. At least, like Schiller, Jonathan was a civilian, not a burly gangster who relied on fighting and firearms; he only used his mind.

That night, it was raining in Gotham again. The darkness was as thick as ink, and the rain carried a heavy smell of kerosene. No matter how warm it was, the cold September rain still made one shiver. Schiller, wearing a long trench coat and holding a black umbrella, walked through a narrow street. He was gradually getting closer to the location where Jonathan hid the Fear Gas – the basement of a derelict church in a neighborhood. He just needed to wait until Jonathan wasn't there, and then Schiller could smoothly enter and retrieve the Fear Gas.

Suddenly, Schiller's heart began to pound. An image flashed before his eyes: him being hit by an unknown projectile. He instantly turned and "bang," opened his umbrella.

Two projectiles failed to penetrate his umbrella and fell to the ground. Spider-Sense had saved Schiller's life.

Schiller slowly lowered his umbrella, his expression nothing like the gentle demeanor he had during the day. He had almost died.

Anyone who had just been attacked by death would find it hard to maintain a pleasant expression. At the end of the alley, Bruce, clad in his Bat-suit, saw his precisely guided, high-speed darts instantly blocked by the mysterious person opening his umbrella with a reaction so fast it was as if he had foreseen it.

As the black umbrella, still wet with rain, was lowered, the face it revealed was very familiar to Bruce: it was his university professor, Schiller.

It was indeed him, yet it also felt like it wasn't. Schiller's demeanor was completely different from his daytime persona. At this moment, Schiller was more like the person described in his resume, a madman obsessed with criminal psychology.

Schiller took a deep breath and said, "You should know what would have happened if I hadn't blocked it."

"The darts would have stopped thirty centimeters from you," Batman said.

Bruce's voice was also completely different from his daytime tone. Schiller knew he was using a voice modulator.

At this point, Batman was still far from perfect. His Bat-suit wasn't mature enough, lacking a cape and utility belt, and his bat-darts didn't seem very effective. It was evident that the rookie Batman must have gone through some detours. After all, starting the quest to uphold justice in Gotham was like a beginner attempting hell difficulty.

Schiller said, "I need to remind you, Mr. Bat, unlike the affluent areas where you live, the rooftops in the Mossen district have no safety railings. If you fall again, you might rupture your internal organs."

The silhouette opposite him fell silent and asked, "How did you figure that out?"

"You're still too green, hero. The drug you used has almost no taste; it's a high-end chemical agent, not something the poor folks in the slums can afford. And..." Schiller's gaze fell on Bruce's only visible chin. He said, "No one here shaves their beard so neatly and symmetrically."

"Who exactly are you?" Batman asked.

Schiller opened his umbrella again and said, "Go home, Young Master. No one will answer all your questions; I'm not a rookie mentor."

With that, he left in the rain. Batman stood in the alley for a long time. He limped out and turned into another street, where he saw a beggar shivering in the rain.

He took out a wad of cash and handed it to the beggar. Then, he heard the sound of leather shoes stepping in the rain behind him, followed by a sentence that made his hair stand on end: "That's why I said you don't understand Gotham, Bruce."

Batman turned and saw Schiller standing at the intersection. Schiller walked over and handed his umbrella to the beggar. After taking the umbrella, the beggar opened it, shielding herself from the cold rain, and then, trembling, returned the wad of dollars to Batman.

"Why?" Batman asked, taking back the dollars.

"Because this is Gutter Gang territory. If they knew she had such a large sum of dollars, her body would be found in the gutter the next day."

"A large sum of dollars?" Batman's voice held a hint of absurdity. He said, "Thirty-seven dollars?"

"Yes," Schiller said, looking towards the end of the street. "This is Gotham..."

"Welcome to Gotham."