Chapter 2242: Battle of the Twin Cities! (73)_1

Pain reminded Constantine of that pact.

Not the one that Shiller once carved into his heart; that one had no particular significance, only more or less altering the relationship between the two of them. Or perhaps it hadn't changed at all—it was more like an "official explanation".

The new pact came from the "Last Supper" in the magic realm. There, everyone consumed an excessive amount of reindeer meat, culminating in madness and death. That day, Azazel was also present.

Yet the scapegoat lamb did not stay long. He quickly returned to his Demon Palace to savor the decadent feast which he had not experienced in a while. Constantine and Shiller stayed behind.

By then they had drunk some alcohol, sparking a conversation. But Constantine didn't consider it a psychotherapy session, because he was not dealing with the usual doctor or professor, but a morbid Shiller.

The environment at that time was too chaotic for psychotherapy. They had a table full of reindeer meat, radiating an ominous aura, and another holding gruesome remnants of limbs. The latter belonged to mages who had succumbed to euphoria in their newly gained powers.

They sat on either side of the long table, stacked with bodies like a small hill. Constantine could only glimpse Shiller through the gaps, impeccably dressed as he was.

Buzzed and intoxicated, Constantine lost his mind.

"Tell me, who am I? Shiller."

"You're drunk." The ever-interested psychologist adjusted his cuffs and neckerchief, acting colder than usual.

"I don't want to argue with you, but you think this amount of alcohol can defeat me? It fell just at the first crevice of my brain."

"That doesn't mean you're not drunk."

"Indeed." Constantine didn't deny it. He leaned to one side, picturing the carnage within his view, dopamine flooding his brain, pushing his limited reason to the edge of a cliff.

It wasn't alcohol, nor was it drugs. Yet, it was more enticing.

Constantine was not a sufferer of the loner syndrome; he had abundant emotions—from a human evolution perspective, manipulation had been controlling the human race for thousands of years before the advent of modern medical science.

"How do you feel now?" asked Shiller.

"Feeling too good." replied Constantine.

Constantine saw Shiller smile, and that's when he realized, he was in an absolute trap.

His body was no longer drug-dependent. He was psychologically clean, so Shiller needed him to become addicted to something else.

Given Shiller's profession, Constantine knew what that would be, and at that moment, he could deeply feel the thirst emanating from every bone joint.

"It's too late."

Constantine dropped his head, letting himself lean towards one side of the chair, one of his shoulders jutting out as if it were a piece of cured meat hanging on a hook.

But soon after, he laughed. His laughter grew lower and lower, yet the resonance intensified, seemingly dispelling the ominous atmosphere of the meat dishes before them.

The laughter abruptly ceased.

They returned to their respective positions. Constantine raised his head and said, "I've been waiting for this day for a long time."

"They were once your comrades and friends."

"Never. All my friends were dead before this." Constantine inhaled deeply and said, "Getting involved with me is like a game of natural selection."

"Selecting the worst?"

"Selecting the better." Constantine mumbled heade down, "I am an absolute mess, an open book, a rotten person to the core. Anyone who can see past my addict exterior to my true self is both intelligent and clear-headed."

"For a good person, if they see what I do will benefit the world, they will help me, even if it means sacrificing themselves. Many heroes are like that."

"But if I am the universally recognized scum, their sacrifices for me will become a laughing stock to the public. This entirely eliminates the possibility of them becoming famous for their good deeds. Therefore, those who would still do it must be people who don't covet fame or benefits--truly noble people."

"But they are not doing it for me, usually not." Constantine shook his head, "They are for what I am doing, not for me as a person."

When Constantine noticed a prolonged silence from Shiller, a moment of apprehension surged over him. However, soon after, he heard Shiller speak.

"You're weaving a lie to confuse me. You want me to believe that your emotional void comes from the fact that you were never definitively chosen by anyone. It's a very good explanation."

"You have such childhood traumas - your father chose your brother over you, you were weird and solitary in your youth, had some friends but never had deep connections. You were never the first choice, only a backup's backup."

"You never really had a good reputation in the magic realm. Only when things worsened to a point where they had no choice but to come to you, they would swallow their distaste and contact you."

"Even those heroes, willing to sacrifice for you, as you said, they do so only for the sake of the cause, not for John Constantine, the person."

"Why wouldn't it be that way?" Constantine asked, "All of it makes perfect sense, doesn't it?"

"You should go find Arrogant's high disciple." As Shiller caressed the glass, "He's the Master of the School of Behavioral Analysis. He would give you such a conclusion."

"But what kind of conclusion would you draw?"

"Your first question."

"'Tell me, who am I'?"

"Why should I tell you?"

Constantine stared straight at Shiller, once again realizing that he was dealing with the most troublesome of the multiple Shillers.

Unlike Professor Shiller driven by academic research needs, or Dr. Shiller who saw psychotherapy itself as a pleasure,

he was manipulative and embodied the primal apathy of an individual with Asperger's syndrome. And it is this detached ability, unperturbed by emotional agitation, that allowed them to manifest their manipulative tendencies in reality.

They could watch others crumble with complete apathy, unaffected in the slightest. Constantine's displayed confusion, pain, and excitement did not affect Shiller at all, making Constantine feel like he was trying to move a mountain with a twig. This unshakeable heaviness made him realize that without paying a price, he would gain nothing.

But John Constantine was considering more carefully than when he offered his own organs to angels and demons, not only because Shiller was now his master, but also because he wanted the best return.

Regarding this question, Shiller would only answer once. If the price wasn't enough to tempt him, and Constantine only received perfunctory words, there wouldn't be a second chance.

John Constantine's Adam's apple bobbed slightly.

"What do you want?"

For the sake of caution, he asked as plainly as possible. One could say that he was respecting the other's thoughts, right?

"Your first question."

Again, Constantine thought somewhat despondently, am I really going to have to consider every syllable when speaking to him like a devout believer?

Wait, that's probably right. Constantine thought about how he used to deal with demons and angels, considering every word meticulously, almost as if it has become his instinct.

Obviously, he was once again deceived by Shiller's human skin.

With some annoyance, Constantine sighed inwardly, thinking that he needed to get rid of his inherent impressions quickly and could not be so careless next time.

Yet, he resignedly repeated again.

"'Tell me who I am'?"

"Think again."

Constantine was stunned.

"'Tell me who I am, Shiller'?"

"Don't call me by my name directly."

Constantine felt irritated, not because of this demand, but because he just reminded himself to choose his words as prudently as possible and had committed the same mistake again.

Of course, he should be irritated by this demand, but he had heard more humiliating requests from demons and angels, so it didn't matter so much.

"I'm sorry," he apologized smoothly.

"Think again."

John Constantine was extremely exasperated.

He felt like an insect, grasped by its wings from behind, this terrifying insecurity making him feel suffocated.

But he knew he had to endure. Even if he retreated a single step, or even half a step, or even the distance of a grain of sand, he would be scornfully brushed off.

Constantine knew that Shiller was planning to do just that, pressuring him to back off, avoiding answering any of his questions. He was fighting for his right to be seen directly.

It sounds pitiful, but in fact, it was the opposite. This was the pinnacle of Constantine's status in others' eyes, at the very least he was an insect, not a piece of shit.

Smart people wouldn't play with shit, kind people wouldn't fiddle with insects, yet smart and kind people always wanted to save insects, this was something Constantine found bothersome, until Shiller appeared.

Shiller didn't save him to let him be saved. He only wanted to see Constantine's reaction after being saved, or to put it bluntly, he just wanted to manipulate him.

This meant that, genuinely, Constantine didn't owe him anything, which created a possibility that they would be evenly matched. He wanted to take advantage of that possibility.

Constantine drew a deep breath.

"I apologize sincerely, Doctor. May I call you that?"

"Your second question."

"'What do you want'?"

Constantine looked at Shiller, asked somewhat suspiciously, "Is this your condition?"

His subtext was really, "Is it that simple?"

Shiller nodded.

Meanwhile, Constantine was trying hard to figure out the trap hidden in the short sentence. But the sentence contained too little information. He scrutinized every single letter of each word and found no place where a trap could be hidden.

"A discount?" he tried to ask.

"The punishment will be severe."

"How severe?"

"You'll regret it."

"Regret what?"

"Rashly thinking you could have a discount," Constantine heard Shiller say lightly.

"Did anyone else have that? Bruce?"

"He got too many concessions from the other side of me, he didn't."

"So, this is my discount."

As John Constantine stepped out of the seaside cabin, he only wanted to punch his past self—such a rash thought!

But it was too late. Now his heart, as it continually throbbed with pain marked by Shiller's precise knife-skills, reminded Constantine time and time again of who he had fallen prey to, and how many times he had done so in the same way.