Chapter 1177 Professor (40)_2

Bruce looked at Shiller's chest. Extracting the bullet would certainly expand the wound, and he had just finished cleaning up the blood and preparing for this step; his hands were covered in Shiller's blood.

Shiller's condition wasn't much better. Although the bullet hadn't hit his heart, it had lodged itself deep; without professional equipment, the extraction would certainly result in significant blood loss.

Shiller's shirt was already soaked in blood. Bruce's ears rang again, and a hazy halo appeared before his eyes.

The next instant, the sofa Shiller was sitting on morphed into a red telephone booth. The blood was just as prevalent, Shiller's face just as pallid.

Bruce closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head. Then, holding the scalpel, he turned to Rhomann. He trapped in the series of illusions of Louis's aging face in the attic, the mocking laughter of the owl, the chill brought on by the rain in Gotham…

Immersing oneself fully in psychological therapy wasn't a good thing. Listening to other people's secrets doesn't just feed one's curiosity. Without professional training, stepping into other people's minds, understanding their thoughts, bearing their emotions, that was extremely dangerous.

The weaknesses of Batman all resided in his heart. An attempt to comprehend insanity like this would surely lead to mental instability. The sight of the wound, the sound of gunshots, the smell of blood would only exacerbate the illness.

As Bruce slowly clenched the hand holding the scalpel, Shiller, whose head was bent down, heaved a light sigh. He turned to Rhomann and motioned towards the sofa opposite him. "Sit down," he said.

Rhomann set the gun down, panting heavily, and it took a while before he calmed down.

But instead of settling into the sofa, he walked straight towards the chair behind the desk, lounging back in it and gave himself a spin around.

Bruce, knife in hand, suddenly relaxed his grip. He walked over and sat down opposite Shiller. He unbuckled his suit's shoulder straps and started rolling up his shirt sleeves.

"Why won't you come over?" Shiller took a fresh towel from Harley and began to wipe the blood from his neck.

The moonlight in Gotham was brighter than sunlight. Shiller sat alone on the sofa, facing the moonlit window. His features seemed to blur in the light. His eyes, sunk deep under his brow, glowed like a lighthouse in the night.

"Why should I do what you say?" Rhomann rested his hands on the armrests of his chair, leaning forward to look at Shiller. "You're not even a good therapist, you can't distinguish who needs treatment more. You're like those damned sycophants, you only leer around Wayne."

Before Shiller could respond, Bruce, rolling up his sleeves, turned to Rhomann. He said:

"You attribute your motives for your actions to me because you're shirking responsibility. And you believe that you have to take responsibility for it because you are still trapped in the morality of ordinary society, feeling guilt, shame, and remorse."

"You're forever stuck in the morality of ordinary people, you've never scorned or ignored them. You belong with them, not with us."

Across from him, Shiller shot him a blank look. "I vaguely heard someone accuse me of plagiarism."

"Just now, yes, thanks." Bruce stretched out his bloodied hand, grabbed a cup of water, and drained it in one swig. As he did this, Shiller watched him, his hand halted its action with the towel. He looked at Bruce and asked, "What on earth are you doing?"

"I've had enough!" Standing up, Bruce wiped his mouth with his sleeve and directly said to Shiller, "I'm sick of all you nutjobs."

He gestured at Shiller and then at Valentine, who was still on the floor. "You and you, your nonsense logic and your evil theories...no one but you would believe in them. Stay in the asylum and discuss those all you want. I'm leaving," he finished.

But, just as Bruce reached the door, the barrel of a gun pressed against his waist. Slowly, Bruce raised his arms and closed his eyes, then let out a sigh.

"Rhomann, surely our feud doesn't have to escalate to this point?" Bruce said, "The fact that your father always compared you with me isn't your fault or mine; it's a failure of his parenting. You should think about what's best for the Sionis family instead…"

"Why don't you understand, Bruce? I'm not jealous of you!"

"You're jealous of me," Bruce interrupted, slightly turning back to him. "But what you're jealous of isn't my wealth, it's my talents, my intelligence, and my mental disorders."

With lightning speed, Bruce spun around, staring Rhomann in the eyes. "You're envious of my abnormality because you think it's cool."

"Including wearing a bodysuit, roaming around Gotham like a madman during the night. You think that, in comparison to your everyday life of hiding in the mansion, listening to your father's lectures, this behavior is far more intriguing."

"You're just as childish as Rhomann, just like Thomas. You and Thomas are exactly alike. The first reaction you had when you discovered I am Batman was not to scorn me for seeking trouble, but to desire to replace me and become a madman who roams the darkness."

Bruce put his arms down and dropped his shoulders. Looking at Rhomann, he sighed and said, "I really suggest you look at Gotham's tourism development plan and then consider if you're really up for standing guard on a rooftop for four hours every night before you act on these intentions."

Rhomann was stunned into silence by Bruce's barrage of words.

When a loud 'bang' sounded out, Rhomann slowly fell, and Shiller, already half-bowed, held his chest wound with one hand and a lamp with the other, the pole of which was bent from just having been used to hit someone over the head.

All expression disappeared from Bruce's face. He lowered his gaze to Rhomann on the ground before lifting his eyes to Shiller.

"What are you two performing? A comedy routine?" Harley sitting on the side of the sofa opened her hands inquiringly. Bruce shook his head. He looked at Shiller and said, "I know you didn't really want to give him psychotherapy. So, I decided to cooperate with you and knock him out directly."

Unexpectedly, Shiller also shook his head. His hand gripping the back of the sofa, he slowly hunched down and said while looking at the floor, "You didn't discern my intentions and decide to cooperate with me. You're actually hoping that having cooperated with me to disable him, you'd get a say in what to do with him and prevent me from taking anything from his body."

With great effort, Shiller straightened up and said, "These endless days won't end until the final banquet comes. You can stay here for as long as you want, but I need to go rest."

After his words, Shiller propped himself against the wall, taking slow steps towards the back of the office to a resting lounge.

Bruce's hand smeared with blood, heard the lock clicking shut. He flung the scalpel onto the nearby sofa and started dealing with the two men sprawled on the ground.

But he'd barely even lifted Rhomann's arm when he heard a crash. The glass in front of him shattered as an intruder burst in, his face wrapped in bandages, one leg a prosthetic, and his eyes full of madness and cruelty.