Days as a Spiritual Mentor in American Comics

"Batman? I haven't heard that name in a long time. I remember... about 15 years ago, a madman who called himself 'Saint' defeated Batman. Since then, no one has heard from him again. The Saint Church took over Gotham, capturing and executing all dissenters. Since then, Gotham has become a thoroughly dead city..."

A thin wisp of smoke drifted from the bony fingers, with sparkles reflecting in the puddles between the mossy stone bricks, carrying an indescribable sense of desolate twilight.

The old man, huddled like a bag of bones in the corner of the wall, finished his last cigarette. A boot crushed the cigarette butt that had fallen from his hand. Pale fingers took a ring from the old man's palm. Inside the ring was inscribed a line of small text—"God Bless the Kane Family."

Schiller looked up, flocks of Black Shrikes swooping over the peaks of the church. The sky was shrouded with clouds. When he arrived, the nighttime rain had just ceased. The moist masonry, the scattered corpses, the fleeing and calling, and the ever-present glow of fire made him feel as if he had returned to the fourteenth century, when life was as ephemeral as straw.

There was no Batman here. Schiller stood at the entrance of the alley, quietly gazing at the words on the ring's band. He had anticipated this, but he hadn't expected that the 'Saint' who took over from Batman would perform so poorly. A victory turned the entire city back four hundred years, back to the era when the church ran rampant and plagues were everywhere.

No trace of modern technology was visible on the street. There was no electricity, no skyscrapers, let alone the high-tech equipment Batman had installed in the city. The entire city was as black as ink, as silent as death. No wonder several rescue teams had met their demise here.

The lack of modern technology meant a lack of supply for equipment. Schiller was no exception. He only carried a G19 with a magazine capacity of 15 and its matching silencer, along with 60 bullets, some gunpowder for reloading bullets, a carbon fiber tactical dagger that could be concealed in a boot, two burning flares, two adrenaline shots, two cure potions, and a small amount of morphine for pain relief.

Schiller was dropped in a ruin on the outskirts. On his way into the city, he saw many bodies lying by the roadside, some still fresh. After a preliminary examination, he concluded they all died from trauma inflicted by melee weapons, with no signs of poisoning, and mostly from blood loss.

The deceased varied in race and age, but without exception, most showed signs of malnutrition. This indicated that the city's supplies were strictly controlled. Forget about weapon supplies; even food and water were hard to come by.

Though Battleworld might issue tasks and sometimes supply equipment, it didn't endow people with superpower to forgo food and water. All survival supplies needed during a mission had to be acquired by the player. For most short-term tasks, players typically brought their own compressed food or nutrient solutions; for long-term tasks, they had to rely on searching for supplies in the instance world.

Determined for swift victory, Schiller didn't bring any food or water, and even carried very few weapons and medicines. He had to complete his mission before these resources ran out.

Upon landing, he received his main task—"Rescue Batman, Restore Order in Gotham."

Upon arriving in this world, Schiller had some speculations about the storyline. And after listening to the old man from the Kane family, he became even more convinced: this was likely the world of the Dark Multiverse's "Broken Bat."

In the story of "Fall of the Dark Knight," Batman's spine was broken by Bane, taking him a long time to heal. Death Angel Paul obtained Batman's cloak, but failed to inherit the will of the Dark Knight. He became a tyrant who enforced violence with violence, killing all criminals, throwing Gotham back into chaos and turmoil.

The returning Batman defeated the Death Angel, restored order in Gotham, and led the entire city out of the shadows.

Sounds lovely, doesn't it? But unfortunately, this is the story of the bright multiverse. In the Dark Multiverse, the returning Batman failed to defeat the Death Angel and was defeated instead.

The Death Angel amputated his limbs, cut away most of his muscles, replaced his original spine with an artificial one, and opened his skull to replace the brain matter with synthetic matter. And so Batman was imprisoned for 30 years.

During these 30 years, Batman not only suffered physical torture—his body was repeatedly restored and mutilated—Death Angel also continually tormented his mind, making him aware of the tragedies happening in Gotham, yet unable to intervene.

30 years later, a young man named Tone led the few rebels in Gotham against Death Angel, attacking the Central Cathedral and rescuing the imprisoned Batman. Lady Siwa provided Batman with nano-equipment to restore his body. The whole city awaited the Bat Light to shine once more.

But unfortunately, Batman had gone completely insane from the inhumane torment of the past 30 years. He emerged only to kill Tone and Lady Siwa and ended the "Saint Batman" role played by the Death Angel along with his Saints Order, ruling Gotham with the same cruelty, plunging the city back into darkness.

After having understood the overall plot, Schiller needed to know where the Robin Squad and the Arkham Knight Universe's Batman had failed. He had some theories, but no evidence for now. His purpose in coming here wasn't to reminisce about the past; he had to act swiftly and decisively.

Wasting no more time, Schiller checked his equipment, tightened his trench coat, pulled down the brim of his hat, chambered a round in his pistol, and walked toward the street corner.

His silhouette was caught in the light from an old projector. In a dim space with towering Gothic spires, several figures sat high on chairs floating in mid-air. Their shadows stretched long, projected on ancient and decaying walls. As the light from the projection before him shifted, the elongated pale face of the figure sitting center-most was illuminated, revealing a spiked steel eyepiece and a gaping maw.

"Our old friend has finally arrived," he said with a smile, "Schiller Rodriguez. Let me introduce him to you all—he... is nothing! Hahahahaha!"

The figure sitting to his left squinted his eyes. With round goggles like those of an owl, the figure said in a low voice, "Have you forgotten the trouble that Batman in metal armor caused us last time, Laughing Bat?"

"So what?" The pale figure called "Laughing Bat" grinned and laughed again, "Didn't he still slink away? That expression was really hilarious! I can't wait to watch the highlights from last time again..."

"Sounds like you all know him." The Batman sitting to the right of the Laughing Bat was strong, but dressed differently from the others. More than Batman, he resembled the Dark Monarch, Darkseid. His gaze crossed over the Laughing Bat in the middle and looked at the figure sitting to the left of the Laughing Bat who had just spoken, "Night Owl?"

"I once teamed up with him in the same quest," Night Owl said in a deep voice.

"Sounds like it didn't end well," the strong Batman said again, "I hope we won't resort to the Anti-Life Equation this time."

"Stop thinking about the Anti-Life Equation." An ethereal voice came, but there was no one in the seat from which it originated, only the faint silhouette of a bell tower cast behind, "Laughing Bat, you said this quest would attract many Batmen to rescue, but so far, we've only seen one. The others are just inconsequential small roles. If this continues, when can we weaken Batman's effective strength?"

"What's the rush?" The Laughing Bat crossed one leg over the other, lifted his lips, revealing more blood-red gums, and said, "The big fish will be on the hook soon. We just need to wait patiently."

"Don't forget our deal," said a Batman sitting at the edge, wearing a red cloak and dressed somewhat eccentrically, "You promised me that I would rule this city forever, that's why I agreed to let you use it as a hunting ground. That damn Batman last time made too much noise here. We must act swiftly this time."

With that, he swung his cloak and came down from his seat, leaving the room without looking back. The Laughing Bat's face suddenly darkened, and he cursed in a low voice, "What a fool. If I didn't need bait to attract the Multiverse Batmen, I would have torn him to pieces the first time I met him!"

"Calm down," Night Owl said, "After all, he's not Bruce Wayne, but Paul. He can't help being a little stupid. But once the few critical Batmen fall here, he won't be needed anymore."

"That day won't be far off," the Laughing Bat said, rubbing his hands, "Now, let's watch Schiller Rodriguez's performance. How does he plan to rescue the pathetic Broken Bat? With his psychological knowledge? Hahaha..."

Bam!

The laughter abruptly stopped amid the dull gunshot.

Schiller lowered his eyelids, put away the gun, and without even looking at the figure he had shot down, walked toward the room. There was some chaotic footsteps from upstairs, and another cult member in a red robe rushed down in a hurry.

"You..."

Bam!

He also fell on the staircase, his body rolling down. Schiller stepped forward, dug the bullet out of his heart with a dagger, placed it back into the magazine, and wiped his bloodied hands with his red robe as he proceeded up the stairs.

The last cult member in the house had just opened the door when another "bam" sounded, and he fell as well. This time, the bullet went straight through his eye socket into his skull. Schiller had to pick up a nearby chair, smash his head open, and retrieve the bullet from the brain matter.

"Within seven steps, the gun is fast and accurate," he mumbled to himself, then entered the room with the cult members.

They were eating. On the table were two half-cold sandwiches and some canned beans. Schiller didn't even glance at them, but found a long knife set down beside the seat. He picked it up and checked it, though seemed dissatisfied with the weight, so he put it down.

On another table, he found a fist blade, with a handle below and a sharp double-edged dagger above. He weighed it in his hand, seemed satisfied, and put it into the pocket of his trench coat.

After coming out, he climbed two more flights of stairs, opening the door to the rooftop. Schiller stood on the rooftop, overlooking the surroundings.

The surrounding buildings had been mostly demolished, with almost all structures over five stories high reduced to ruins. This one he was standing on was the highest building he could find, and in contrast, the towering Gothic-style Central Cathedral made itself particularly conspicuous. It seemed to be telling the player that what they were looking for was there.

Schiller didn't hesitate. He rushed toward that direction at his fastest speed.