Chapter-67 | Black Sun & Bat Light... (1)

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On a gray and chilly morning in Gotham City, students at Gotham University began their psychology final exam. As Professor Evans distributed the test papers, a sudden cry echoed through the classroom, followed by the sound of heels on the marble floor. Everyone fell silent as Schiller walked in, carrying an umbrella.

Schiller surveyed the room, noting with satisfaction that the students were focused on their writing. He planted the umbrella on the ground, placed his hand on the handle, and announced, "This exam will last for 1 hour and 40 minutes. You may turn in your papers early, but I'll be here until the end, so make sure you've written enough for me to grade. And please write neatly, no fancy fonts, and make sure your name is clearly written, your legal name, not a nickname."

With that, the classroom fell into complete silence, broken only by the sound of pens scratching against paper. Gotham University had never had such a studious atmosphere in a classroom. Bruce looked up from his test and noticed the student sitting to his right. This was the nephew of the East Side Hyena, a notorious bad boy known for smoking, drinking, and fighting.

But at this moment, the bad boy sitting next to Bruce was still busy at work, despite his brain being clouded by alcohol and tobacco. Sitting on Bruce's left was a famous graffiti artist at Gotham University, known for his graffiti that often covered the walls. Even though graffiti is prohibited on campus, he spray-painted a large painting of his head in the corridor of the President's Office. He was so focused on drawing various patterns on his test paper that he couldn't write the first argumentative question.

Bruce, with his sharp eyes, noticed that he was drawing a portrait of Schiller, but it was different from the usual graffiti. Under the portrait of Schiller, there was a black sun and particle-like patterns surrounding him. It looked strange and handsome at the same time. He wondered if Schiller would appreciate his elaborate creation and give him a few extra points.

After half an hour had passed, more than two-thirds of the class were still writing, which was a miracle at Gotham University. In the past, during final exams, students would often be absent, and even those who did show up would leave within the first 10 minutes after finishing the easy multiple-choice questions. After 20 minutes, the classroom would be almost empty, with only a few students left who didn't have any plans after the exam and used the quiet to sleep.

When the papers were finished, no one dared to leave. Instead, Schiller nailed them all up, checked the number of copies, checked the names, and left the classroom with a stack of papers in his arms. The classroom exploded like a bomb that suddenly went off.

But now, as Bruce looked up at his watch, 40 minutes had passed and surprisingly, half of the class was still writing. None of them dared to turn in their papers early, even though most of them were exhausted and struggling to come up with something to write. They were still biting their pens and sitting in their seats, trying to squeeze out a few more words to make the professor less angry when he saw their answers that were somewhere between illiterate and semi-literate.

In fact, even the introductory textbook on psychology, with all its proper nouns, names, theories, and definitions, was difficult. Not just for these uneducated Gotham University students, but even those from prestigious American schools would have to pre-study before conducting a special lecture, otherwise they would easily fall into a mental blank. Memorization, for these students whose brains had not worked at full capacity for a long time, was a difficult task in itself. This was a challenge on its own, let alone trying to recite it in a couple of weeks.

By the time an hour had passed and most of the class had stopped writing, Bruce jotted down the names of those who were still buried in their writing. He then jotted down the draft paper. They would be the backbone of his future psychology club. He also wrote down the name of the graffiti artist, thinking that society always needed the publicity of artwork. After waiting for 1 hour and 40 minutes, when the professor finally said "close your papers," the classroom erupted with the sound of relieved exhalations, indicating that they had been pushed to their limits.

"Oh no! I don't know half of the fill-in-the-blank questions, this is the end!" "Damn it, I memorized the definition of psychology last night! But I didn't take the test? I should have known I shouldn't have delayed so much in the front!" "I wrote the answer to the second expository question on the fourth one. I'm sure I won't get a single point on the expository question!" "Did any of you prepare your graduate applications? Evans, did you write one? My dad told me yesterday that if I can go to grad school with this brain, I might as well expect our dog to climb trees! But my dog is a Corgi ..." "I still owe two papers that I haven't turned in, and I have to make them all up before the holidays, or I'll be too scared to have any fun this holiday ..."

Several people gathered around Bruce's table. They were Bruce's first invited members of the club. The graffiti artist Renny, with a fluorescent yellow forehead guard, said, "Professor will like my painting, I can see, he is a person with artistic cultivation."

"But he'd probably prefer to see your correct answers." Bruce said.

"Come on, I don't know anything about it, and reciting it would pollute my brain." Renny rubbed his nose; he was a typical Teutonic species with green eyes and a little freckle and wore reggae-style clothes.

"And who says that's not the right answer? Who says you have to write to answer a question? It's the same with drawing, I'll pass!"

"Okay, I'll pay you to paint a poster for me, something big and impactful, to promote this club, for whatever price you want, but I want it to be shocking enough." Bruce said.

A few heads came together and muttered. "What? You mean you want to ....." "You're a genius ....." "Add me to the list, I'm coming too!" "This is a big surprise .... yes, I think it will work ...." "Maybe he'll give us a passing grade for the sake of this ....."

A few days later, Schiller was grading papers while accumulating anger strips. Although he had expected the level of these uneducated students at Gotham University, he still did not expect them to test this poorly. He did not want to be polluted by these academic trash and planned to work overtime today and grade all the papers in one go, then give most of them a failing grade.

Suddenly, he heard a sharp beep outside his office window, something like a fire siren, but shorter and sharper. Schiller stood up and looked out the window, noticing some lights waving in the darkness, far from streetlights, as most teachers and students had not yet left the school.

He heard a cacophony of people at the bottom of the building, as if someone was calling out his last name. Schiller put down his pen and left his desk to walk over to the window. The entire side of the building across the street was wrapped in a huge curtain. Schiller had heard someone say earlier that it was a wall renovation in progress and he didn't often walk that way, so he didn't pay much attention to it.

But as he walked to the window, the curtain on the opposite wall instantly fell down, revealing a huge graffiti as high as a seven-story building. A row of spotlights suddenly lit up underneath, illuminating the whole side of the building as bright as daylight.

It was indeed a huge graffiti, the bottom was the back of Schiller, while the top was a black sun filled with countless strange patterns. The sun was surrounded by several circles of flames composed of golden patterns, and Schiller's figure was standing in front of the black sun. Schiller's figure was almost integrated into the background of the black sun, or this huge and incomparable sun, like his shadow.

Schiller stood in front of the window, he was first shaken by the high-powered spotlights, and as soon as he opened his eyes, he saw such an image.

Schiller: "..."

Symbiote: "... Wow."

Schiller looked down to see a group of people excitedly waving at him from the bottom of the building, looking at the graffiti that read, "Join the psychology club and face the heart and this black sun." They were most of the psychology students at Gotham University, which also included Bruce Wayne.

Schiller looked up again and looked at the black sun made up of countless bizarre patterns. This sun was filled with an outlandish horror aesthetic that rendered people unable to move their eyes when they saw it. It was as if their souls were being sucked in by it. It was terrifying, bizarre, absurd, but full of the beauty that makes people fall deep into it and can't get out.

Schiller recalled that the original meaning of "Gotham" is "village of fools", and it is indeed full of all kinds of ridiculous fools. Life does not know where it will lead, death does not know where to end. Furthermore, it is full of all kinds of geniuses, all with unparalleled talent, and all with a fascinating life force.

Nevertheless, Schiller was intrigued by this bold and eccentric absurdity, which is full of such a special vitality that one cannot find anywhere else in the world. Compared to countless masters, it was like a terrible vine surging up from the bottomless abyss.

Schiller knew more than these students, but he had just learned that he had not yet learned one thing - he had not yet learned Gotham. Everyone who lives here is crazy, but sober at the same time. This city of darkness does not need anyone to correct it; they exist in the abyss, leading a twisted and bizarre life.

This vitality grows out of darkness, and the people here use madness as an edge that strikes straight at the heart of anyone. As Schiller glared straight at the black sun, he thought perhaps the people here are incomparable geniuses. The only fool is himself, i.e. everyone outside the comic delusion of being the savior. The people here, with brains that do not know half the theoretical knowledge of psychology, see through their professors as if they were mind readers.

The black sun is also the sun, which is a more accurate description of Schiller. What Schiller incarnated, indeed, would not be a blazing sun, but a sun that would not shine, nor have heat, a black sun.

After a few minutes, Schiller wrote a line with his finger on the fog-filled glass - "You passed." In an instant, a violent cheer erupted downstairs, under the black sun, as if the people shining under this never-brightening star were reveling in the celebration of new life.

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