Gotham City.
A morning that was neither bright nor particularly gloomy, just… another morning in the city of Gotham.
Schiller set down his coffee cup when he heard the sharp clicks of high heels. Moments later, a blonde American sweetheart stormed in with a scowl and snapped:
"The damn slackers at the freshman registration desk all called in sick. You're covering for them today."
Schiller said pleasantly, "On it. The coffee's on you then."
"You'll never get me to date you!" Anna roared.
Schiller cheerfully grabbed his cup and strolled out of the café. He glanced up at Gotham's eternally overcast sky and thought: Day five begins.
In his last life, Schiller had been a psychologist. After a plane crash, he got isekai'd into this quaint and rustic cesspit of a city. Thankfully, he wasn't a hero or a villain—just a safe, stable university professor. In his own field, no less: psychology.
He was happily preparing for another day of blatant slacking when his "system" went ding-dong:
[Peter Parker has sent you a chat request]
Schiller, on his way to the registration hall, answered in his head: What's up, Peter?
"Hey! Tomorrow I start my internship at Oscorp! You don't know how huge this is for me! And Gwen—uh, I mean, she's going too. We'll be there together! We'll get to talk about genome helices and those amazing machines—"
Schiller sighed inwardly. Kid, no girl on Earth wants to hear you talking obsessively about genome helices. No cap.
Ever since he arrived here, Schiller had been blessed—or cursed—with a "Chat System." His first unlocked contact was none other than Peter Parker. This chatterbox had been pouring his teenage heart out for four and a half days straight: how much he liked Gwen, how badly he wanted to ask her out, and how utterly terrified he was to try.
Encouraging Peter along the way, Schiller finally reached the registration desk. He sat down, shuffled some forms, and prepared to meet the incoming freshmen.
Curiously, he'd been in Gotham almost a week and hadn't seen the Bat-Signal once. No villains causing trouble either. Life here felt almost… wholesome.
Soon, students trickled in carrying stacks of paperwork. Schiller's job was simple: record names, assign dorms.
"Next!" he called without looking up. A boy sat down.
"Name?"
"Bruce Wayne."
"Bruce… Male dorm, building two, room 306…" Schiller scribbled automatically. Then his pen froze mid-stroke. Without betraying much, he lifted his head. Black hair, blue eyes. Handsome as hell.
"Wayne?" Schiller asked.
"That's right. I'm Wayne."
"Dorm 2, room 306. Didn't you hear me? Grab your form and get moving. There's a line behind you."
Now it was Bruce's turn to be stunned. He picked up his form, then asked, "Professor, which department are you in?"
"Psychology. Don't take my class, kid," Schiller replied flatly.
Bruce was intrigued. Schiller was exasperated. Of course, Batman is just starting college. No wonder there's no damn Bat-Signal yet.
What rotten luck—Batman goes to college, and he gets isekai'd as a college professor.
Schiller swore to himself: he wanted nothing to do with Gotham's blood-soaked chaos. He just wanted to coast in a tenured position, drawing a salary while napping through life.
He knew exactly how dangerous Batman's story was. He had zero interest in befriending Bruce—especially not this arrogant 18-year-old playboy version.
So Schiller stayed icy, even warning Bruce not to attend his classes. The last thing he wanted was to hear the Joker's voice blaring over the campus PA system.
But of course, that coldness only piqued Bruce's curiosity. After all, he was Wayne. Gotham's golden boy. Nobody ever failed to give him special treatment.
Still, Bruce didn't push. He thanked Schiller, took his form, and left.
Later, after finishing registration, Schiller remembered he'd left his keys in his office. Heading upstairs, he ran into a tall, lanky professor.
"Hey, Jonathan. You here to grab something too?"
"Yes. You forgot your keys again, Professor Schiller?"
"Yep. Anna rushed me out this morning, and I left them behind. I'll be down in a sec. See you tomorrow."
"See you."
As they passed, a chill crawled up Schiller's spine. Jonathan… Jonathan Crane.
The Scarecrow.
Jonathan hadn't noticed Schiller's stiff gaze burning into his back. If Schiller hadn't just learned Batman was only eighteen, he might not have remembered. But the memories clicked into place: Professor of psychology, doctorates in psychology and chemistry, the man who would one day unleash fear toxin upon the world—Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow.
Schiller inhaled sharply, forced his steps to stay steady, and continued upstairs. Crane wasn't Scarecrow yet. Bruce wasn't Batman yet. Jonathan was still just a minor academic with a modest name in "emotional psychology." For now, Schiller was actually more famous.
In fact, Schiller was currently Gotham's most renowned psychology professor—a world-class expert in criminal and abnormal psychology.
And Jonathan had been downright polite to him just now.
So what? Schiller thought bitterly. I'm a literature guy. He's got chemistry. When push comes to shove, the guy with the lab is the one cooking fear gas.
Once again, math, physics, and chemistry proved their supremacy.
Schiller knew it well: Gotham was a stage where the bloody curtains were about to rise. And he was just a frail academic. He could barely lift a chair. Against mobsters with guns—forget the named villains—he was already dead meat.
And sure enough, the nightmare came knocking on the very next morning. Schiller was in the psych consultation office, just settling in with a coffee, when there was a knock at the door.
"Professor Schiller, may I come in?"
Schiller froze. Crap. A student actually showed up? I came here to slack off, not to work. Ever heard of paid vacation?
At the door stood Bruce Wayne.
Grinding his teeth, Schiller said, "Come in. Sit. What psychological issue would you like to discuss?"
"Can't I come just to chat?" Bruce shrugged, exuding Playboy charm.
Schiller adjusted his glasses, resisting the urge to strangle him. He spoke as dryly and boringly as possible, hoping to kill the kid's interest:
"This office is for counseling students with actual problems. If you don't have one, you may leave."
He was sure he sounded more lifeless than an airplane safety announcement. But Bruce just leaned forward, intrigued:
"All right then. One question. What do you think is the meaning of life?"
Schiller took a deep breath. This had gone far enough.
He wasn't the protagonist. He didn't have plot armor. Getting tangled up with Batman was a death sentence.
He hurriedly pulled up his Marvel Chat System. Thanks to his "help" with Peter Parker's love life, he'd earned a random contact slot. Quickly, he typed:
"Help. A kid whose parents were murdered, who swore vengeance on all criminals, but hides behind a Playboy mask, just asked me the meaning of life. I want him to never bother me again. How should I answer? Urgent."
The reply came fast:
"As a teacher, I believe you should approach this child with patience, guiding him gently from two angles—"
Schiller wailed inside. What saint did I roll?! This is Batman we're talking about! Am I supposed to just say, 'Cheer up, kiddo'?
He checked the username. Charles Xavier. Professor X himself.
Of course. The saviour-complex headmaster of the X-Men Academy.
Noticing the profile icon was clickable, Schiller tapped it. A new prompt appeared:
[First chat: You may copy one random ability (basic). Copy?]
He clicked "Yes."
[Telepathy (Basic) acquired.]
Suddenly, his vision blurred. A flood of emotions and static thoughts crashed into his mind. After some struggle, he realized he really had gained a sliver of Xavier's power.
Not full-on mind control, but enough to vaguely sense emotions and fleeting thoughts.
That was more than enough.
Focusing on Bruce, Schiller sensed chaos beneath the mask. The kid wasn't half as carefree as he looked.
Given Bruce's history, it made sense. He'd just returned from years of training abroad. College was nothing more than a cover. Deep down, he loathed normal life. Every drop of his blood screamed: Vengeance. Revenge on every criminal.
To Bruce, the gray-eyed professor across from him seemed to fall into a strange, thoughtful silence. When Schiller's unusual eyes locked onto him, Bruce's instincts flared. He felt as if he were being pierced, seen through.
Then Schiller said calmly, "Maybe you've been waiting for someone to give you that answer. If having one will keep you busy and, most importantly, keep you from pestering me, then fine—I'll give it to you."
"Oh? And what is it?"
"Revenge," Schiller said flatly, staring into Bruce's eyes. Under Bruce's sudden shadowed expression, he repeated with emphasis: "The meaning of life is revenge."
Ignoring Bruce's face—dark as Gotham's sky—Schiller added:
"Are you satisfied now, Mr. Wayne?"