He's Not Batman Yet

A Gotham City morning still shrouded in haze, Schiller stretched and sat up in bed. He had just settled down in Marvel, barely enjoying a few days of peace, when he spotted S.H.I.E.L.D. agents lurking near his psychological clinic again.

Those people were like stubborn taffy that couldn't be shaken off. For ordinary folks, maybe that was true—even that big-shot billionaire Stark from that world found them endlessly annoying yet utterly helpless.

But Schiller was different. After being pestered by the young Batman in Gotham, he could simply pack up and leave, slipping off to Marvel for some quiet. Now that Marvel had agents tailing him, he could just as easily choose to leave again and hide out in Gotham.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had no clue how Schiller vanished. His departure left no trace—no train or plane tickets, no sightings at any highway intersections. This only cemented Nick Fury's conviction that Schiller was no ordinary man.

Back in the DC world, his colleague, the future Scarecrow Jonathan, hadn't noticed his Fear Gas was missing. Schiller wasn't greedy; he'd only taken the amount of a single small test tube.

After all, unlike Scarecrow, he wasn't planning to use Fear Gas for terrorist attacks. He just needed to deal with a few low-tier gang members. He didn't require any high-tech equipment to spray the gas—just a small spray bottle aimed at an ordinary person's nose. This concentrated Fear Gas became the perfect weapon, since those gang members could never match Batman's reflexes.

While studying the gas, Schiller lacked any systematic chemistry knowledge, but he at least understood the principle of making the most of things. Beyond using it as a weapon to spray at others, he discovered this early version of Fear Gas wasn't entirely pure. Besides inducing fear, it could also trigger other negative emotions. For a psychologist, this was the best news possible—after all, if a patient refused to confess the emotions in their heart, treatment couldn't proceed.

Schiller realized he could dilute the Fear Gas hundreds of times and wear it like perfume. Somehow, likely thanks to the system, the gas had no effect on him, but it could infect those who came close with a small dose of negative emotions.

That's right, Schiller planned to use this trick on the inexperienced Bruce—the young Batman.

The Batman of now wasn't the all-knowing old master of later years. Bruce was still too young, fresh from traveling the world and learning a full set of skills. He was eager to start his revenge plan, donning the earliest version of the Batsuit and grabbing batarangs to fight crime. In his eyes, throwing hundreds of millions at gear was the simplest thing in the world. But he hadn't yet realized that what truly made him Batman wasn't these external trappings, but the spirit deep within him.

Clearly, Batman's path to growth still had a long way to go. And Schiller, for the sake of his own safety and a stable life in Gotham down the road, had no choice but to take on the role of young Bruce's Mind Mentor.

Another ordinary morning. For Bruce, meeting Schiller in the rainy night was just last night's affair. Schiller had called out his real name, and Bruce wasn't surprised. He knew this man had to be something out of the ordinary.

Maybe it was a superpower, maybe magic. On his travels around the world, he'd met plenty of such people. He also knew this world was far from the simple place ordinary folks imagined—many incredible forces were watching it.

Bruce knocked on the psychologist's door again. From inside came a steady, deep voice: "Come in."

Somehow, Bruce felt a sense of relief. The reply came quickly, clearly indicating the person inside knew who he was and was happy to let him in.

Batman hated all mystery and nihilism, and so did Bruce. In his view, Schiller's attitude meant he might finally explain what this was all about, rather than keep stalling and hiding, using verbal tricks to dance around the subject.

Bruce sat down across from Schiller again. Bruce said, "Professor, it seems you're in a good mood today."

"Mr. Wayne, it seems you're in a bad mood today," Schiller said. "I thought you'd make me a cup of coffee like the first day."

He spread his hands, gesturing at the empty table. "You know, I deliberately didn't brew coffee this morning, waiting for you to come."

Bruce paused, but still got up to pour Schiller a cup of coffee.

Schiller just thought it was amusing to get coffee brewed by Batman himself, but Bruce saw it as a test—or a kind of mental manipulation technique, using words to force the other into obeying commands. Well, thinking that way probably fit Schiller's character design better: a mad doctor obsessed with psychology and psychiatry.

Schiller took a sip of the hot coffee, which dispelled the chill spreading through him from Gotham's cold weather. Bruce spoke first:

"Why were you there last night?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"If you wanted to hide, you should have worn a mask last night, instead of showing me your face and only now denying it."

Schiller set down the coffee cup with a crisp clink on the table. He said, "I'm not denying you saw me last night. I'm asking you, why would you, with hundreds of billions in wealth, not donate to charity foundations, but instead put on a ridiculous tight suit and go to Gotham's streets in the pouring rain to trade punches with small-time thugs?"

Faced with this question, Bruce fell silent.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question..." Schiller said. "You don't need to think about how to answer, because I'll answer for you."

"Because your fundamental goal isn't rescue—it's revenge."

"Is that your answer?" Bruce asked.

"No, I just saw the answer in your heart," Schiller said.

"I don't believe in mind-reading."

"Of course there's no such thing as mind-reading. It's just that some people don't realize how their inner, intense desires manifest. People think they hide their hearts well, but that's not the case."

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

"And use it to take revenge on criminals?" Schiller asked. "Clearly, you're oversimplifying this. Bruce, maybe your motive is revenge, but if you let that be your sole driving force, you'll end up like last night."

Schiller made a downward gesture. Bruce explained:

"Last night when I got back, I added a cape to my Bat-armor. I'm also planning to design a utility belt..."

"You know those aren't the point. You could add a gauntlet with thousands of kilograms of striking force, or boots with an engine to launch you to the moon. You could even design wings to fly to any planet in the solar system. You can do that, Bruce—I believe you can."

"But that's not enough. Far from enough."

"If I had that kind of power, I could eliminate all criminals in the world, couldn't I?" Bruce asked.

Schiller sighed. Clearly, the Batman who hadn't yet met the Joker couldn't imagine how an unarmed criminal—a scrawny, weak ordinary man with just a bit of acrobatics and fighting skill—could defeat a superhero who'd mastered hundreds of combat techniques and learned abilities from all over the world.

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 his archenemy, the Joker.

And right now, the Joker was probably still living a very ordinary life in some circus.

Bruce was still arrogant. He asked Schiller to teach him psychology, because that's how he'd learned all his skills around the world. His humility and eagerness to learn didn't actually conflict with his pride.

Schiller said, "As I said, you can certainly learn psychology. It's all in the textbooks. You're welcome to attend my lectures, go home and memorize, do homework, write papers, then take the final exam. I'm a professor; I won't stop any student from learning."

"You know that's not what I want to learn..."

"Then what else do you think there is?"

"Your... special skill." Bruce gestured. "I've met many such people around the world. They have abilities ordinary people don't..."

"No, I'm different from them. I have no extraordinary abilities."

Bruce paused, pursing his lips. Clearly, he didn't believe it, but Schiller had nothing more to explain. The young Batman was still too green—too blunt, impulsive, and reckless.

And he seemed far too impatient. The setbacks in his superhero career only aggravated this impatience. Clearly, he thought that if he could learn skills like mind-reading from Schiller, he'd have an easier time dealing with criminals, instead of being shoved off a building by a few gang members and landing pathetically on the ground.

He still hadn't figured out what had actually caused his failure.

Bruce left Schiller's place empty-handed once again. Schiller only told him—even threatened him—that he'd better study hard, finish all the courses, and get good grades on the final exam.

And Bruce clearly hadn't listened to a single word.

That night, Schiller went out again. He snuck into Jonathan's secret base and stole a large amount of Fear Gas. This time, even Jonathan—no matter how slow—had to notice that two whole rows of his test tubes were missing, more than half of them gone.

Schiller wasn't skilled in any chemical knowledge. He couldn't improve or modify this special gas in any way; he could only put it into different containers or do some simple dilution.

But there was one more thing he could do: use that Fear Gas to scare Batman.

Soon, Schiller appeared again in Morsen District. He knew Batman would come back here. Bruce was that kind of person—wherever he fell, he had to get back up in the same place, refusing to switch locations. That was his pride.

The entire Morsen District wasn't large, just six small alleys. The building Bruce had fallen from was right at the first alley of Morsen District, where a nightclub was controlled by the Gutter Gang.

The Gutter Gang was just a small-time gang in Gotham. Since Morsen District bordered one of Gotham's drainage ditches, the Gutter Gang liked to throw their unfortunate victims into that ditch. The ditch grew increasingly foul, and other gangs started using "Gutter" to refer to them. The Gutter Gang was smugly proud of that name.

The first enemy to defeat Batman was hardly a famous villain—just a bunch of thugs smoking on the roof of the nightclub. Batman took down most of them with his fighting skills, but lacking real combat experience, someone threw lime in his eyes, and he stumbled and fell off the building.

Early Batman had no sidekick and his gear wasn't mature. It wasn't strange for him to capsize in a gutter. But the Gutter Gang wouldn't get a second chance like that. Schiller leaned against the wall at the end of Morsen District for a while, then heard terrified screams from the nightclub. Soon, the night fell silent. A nobody gang no one cared about vanished from Gotham.

Batman walked out. His state was clearly much better than last time. He lowered his head, still figuring out how to modify his Bat-gear.

Suddenly, he remembered something. He walked forward, turned a corner, wanting to find that beggar again and give him some more dollars, telling him the Gutter Gang was dealt with and he'd be safe with the money.

Indeed, he found the beggar in the same old spot. She was still wrapped tightly in a blanket, shivering in Gotham's cold, damp night air. The umbrella Schiller had given her was gone.

Batman handed her the money and said in a low voice, "There are no more gangs in this district. You're safe."

The beggar trembled and looked up, but Batman saw no gratitude in her eyes. He couldn't believe it—her eyes staring at him held only hatred.

"Aren't you happy?" Batman asked.

"Of course he isn't." A familiar voice came from above Batman's head. Schiller stood on the balcony of the building above the beggar, looking down at Batman from the second floor.

"Because with the Gutter Gang around, that nightclub had a steady stream of customers. Some customers would carry food in their hands, and when they had just a little left, they'd toss it on the roadside. Then the beggar could pick it up and eat."

"But now that the Gutter Gang is gone, the nightclub can't keep running. No customers means no food."

"But a few hundred dollars is enough for him to—"

"Yeah, you have the best medical system in all of Gotham, private doctors, family health consultants. You've never really experienced a few colds or fevers, let alone know what it feels like when a person is frozen stiff and can't stand up."

"In your imagination, he can just take a few hundred dollars to the nearest supermarket, buy enough supplies, maybe even find a motel for a few nights, and cure his illness..." Schiller dragged out his words, then continued:

"But unfortunately, he can't even take the first step."

Batman crouched down. He pulled back the blanket at the beggar's feet and saw her entire lower limbs were frozen purple. Gotham had been raining for days, and her legs, soaked in water, were swollen beyond recognition.

Batman was well-versed in surgical theory. He knew that even in Gotham's best hospital, such legs could only be amputated.

He fell completely silent. Looking at the many dollar bills the beggar hadn't clutched in her hands but let scatter on the ground, he felt an unbelievable absurdity, a suffocating shame.

Suddenly, he felt countless negative emotions irresistibly devour his heart, making him want to roar. Batman felt he had never lost his composure like this before. He stood up, staggered backward a few steps, and collapsed onto the ground.

Clearly, a story with an unexpectedly tragic ending, plus a bit of Fear Gas stirring up negative emotions, was enough to keep Bruce quiet for a few days.