Chapter 1684: Bruce Wayne and the Chamber (Part 10) (Patreon)

In DC World With Marvel Chat Group : Table of Content/Chapter List

XXX-----XXX-----XXX-----XXX

“What truly defines madness?”

Schiller stood up from the sofa, walked over to the screen, and scanned the room with his distant, gray eyes. It was as if he was looking at something beyond those present, yet everyone in his gaze felt an unspoken shift. This time, the Pathos that appeared did not radiate the usual calmness and mystique, but rather brimmed with a kind of passion that ordinary people couldn't quite decipher.

He stood at the center of the room like a great orator, questioning the crowd. He seemed to be eagerly awaiting an answer, but it was clear that he was even more excited to interpret the answers others would offer. This intense desire to comment and express made him resemble both an introspective artist delving deep within himself and a relentless hunter in search of answers.

“From a pathological perspective, all perceived madness stems from malfunctions in the way the brain operates,” Bruce was the first to respond. However, everyone knew that this highly logical view would soon take a twist. Sure enough, the word "but" appeared like a hunting dog chasing a rabbit, in a way that was almost impossible to anticipate.

“But,” he continued, “the most meaningful part of studying madness isn’t about understanding how a disordered brain functions after the fact, but rather about uncovering how it reached that point in the first place. This involves a complex interplay of sociology, psychology, and psychiatry—a truly interdisciplinary field.”

“And if any researcher overlooks this process, glosses over it hastily, or compresses it into a brief timeline explained away by some vaguely defined mystical entities, then I would argue we are straying farther from understanding madness itself.”

Schiller nodded slightly, but refrained from immediate commentary. Instead, he turned his gaze to Pamela, who appeared to agree with Bruce's perspective yet carried an expression that indicated she had her own thoughts to share. After organizing her words, she spoke:

“The moment of madness is like a dividing line. The world before and after that line is entirely different for the individual. But what we call 'art' is not found in what comes after the line, but in what led up to it—in the first half of the madman’s life, when he was still considered sane.”

“Suffering doesn’t necessarily build strength, but tragedy inevitably births art. What we need to savor are the parts of a madman's earlier life that reflect the disfigurement of human societal structures, the disappointment in interpersonal connections, and the loss of integrity in self-reflection—these are the tragic elements inherent in the human race.”

“If the towering achievements of human civilization symbolize the miracles wrought by our logical minds, then the madness born from such tragedies represents the abyss beneath our feet. It reveals how chaos can create art. Except for a few bombastic rhetoricians, anyone would have to acknowledge that this chaos is part of the beauty within human thought.”

Bruce turned his head to look at Pamela. He knew that while she didn’t fully grasp Schiller’s Temple of Thought, she had still managed to articulate an astonishingly precise metaphor that captured the essence of Schiller's thinking. It was as if this insight was a divine inspiration—a gift of madness that no amount of rational analysis could replace.

“But typically, the gods I refer to—the ones we understand from our realm—these entities capable of driving people to madness often dwell deep within the stars. It’s not that they intentionally drive humans insane; it’s simply that humans, in their attempt to understand these beings, are driven to madness due to their inability to truly grasp their existence. They’re more akin to natural disasters that manifest in ways beyond human comprehension.”

Strange spoke, but he wasn’t trying to absolve these gods of responsibility. Rather, he sought to understand why this happened and to uncover the significance behind these experiences of madness that most people couldn’t comprehend.

“I understand what you mean,” Constantine nodded. “These beings just exist, and it’s humans who go mad trying to comprehend them. This madness is not something they impose upon us. So then, whose sin is it really?”

“Is it?” Schiller asked, tilting his head. “That child—the girl who attacked Harley—did she go mad because she connected with an entity from the stars? And what about the one before her?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” Strange admitted. “The connection with demon gods often feels like fate. It’s hard to determine whether it’s the worshiper who finds the god, or the god who chooses the worshiper. Often, these pairings result in accidents—a mismatch of sorts. And because these demon gods are so powerful, it’s always humans who end up getting hurt.”

“But we can’t shield every child, turning them into delicate flowers in a greenhouse to prevent them from ever encountering the powerful entities of the cosmos. For humanity, that would be nothing more than a slow death. Eventually, someone has to face them.”

“Do you truly believe the recent rash of violent incidents at the school is merely the result of failed attempts to communicate with demon gods?”

Strange fell silent. It was clear that he could sense the dangerous aura emanating from Schiller, who clearly held a different opinion. And the truth was, Strange himself couldn’t be completely sure that these incidents were simply accidents.

“This brings us back to the question of what madness truly is. Let’s set aside philosophical and symbolic interpretations and focus on the tangible reality: when a mentally unstable person attacks someone, is there a discernible pattern in their choice of victims?”

Everyone present furrowed their brows, faced with a difficult question they couldn’t ignore. Constantine hesitated before saying, “I’ve heard that many mentally ill patients attack others because they see hallucinations, where other people appear as monsters.”

“But are the hallucinations they see consistent? Are they destined to only perceive weaker individuals or those unable to retaliate as monstrous threats?” Schiller asked sharply.

“Utter nonsense,” Strange shook his head. “That’s simply impossible. If neural disorders disrupt the visual and auditory pathways, then the resulting hallucinations and sensory distortions would be entirely random. If there were any consistency, it wouldn’t be called madness.”

The frowns on everyone’s faces deepened further. Clearly, they were starting to realize something unsettling—why were the attackers in these school incidents so deliberate in targeting younger students?

---

“We often hear about cases like these,” Schiller began pacing before the screen, lowering his head slightly. “A mentally ill person runs into the streets wielding a knife, injuring women, the elderly, or children, only to be found not guilty due to their condition.”

“But in truth, any responsible psychiatrist would be reluctant to diagnose someone like that as being in a psychotic episode at the time of the attack. This is because a truly disordered mind doesn’t choose its victims selectively.”

“Most aggressive behavior displayed by those with mental illness is more a matter of self-defense triggered by perceived threats. The majority of injuries caused by such patients occur in close proximity to healthcare workers during sudden, physical outbursts.”

“No true lunatic, in the midst of an episode, would be able to wield a sharp weapon, successfully unlock a door, rush down a staircase without tripping, and then sprint onto the street to carefully select a nearly defenseless target to attack. Claiming mental illness is merely an excuse,” Schiller said, turning to look at Bruce.

Bruce shrugged indifferently. “Like the Joker. He’s the opposite of insanity — meticulously logical, carefully planned, and showing no symptoms of neurological dysfunction. He’s just an innocent anti-social personality.”

Zatanna picked up on the underlying message of their conversation, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “Indeed, if the madness you’re talking about is caused by glimpsing something indescribable lurking in the depths of the stars, then how could the attacker in the hallway still wield a magic wand and cast spells?”

“In fact,” Constantine added objectively, “both magical attacks were executed with great precision. The first aimed for the head, and the second even showed signs of predictive targeting. I don’t know how skilled your Space sorcerer apprentice is, but over here, he’d be considered quite proficient. Not everyone can shoot with such accuracy.”

“This is a guided, intentional form of madness,” Schiller concluded. “It’s not innocent chaos or disorder. What enrages Harley and the others from Gotham is that he uses madness as a disguise for his crimes. He’s desecrating the art born of human tragedy.”

“Why would he need to hide behind such excuses?” Pamela retorted coldly. “If he possesses the power to drive people insane, why not just destroy what he wants to destroy openly? Or is he actually afraid?”

“Alright, let me sum this up.”

Constantine let out a helpless sigh, feeling trapped in the absurdity of being the most normal human in this room. He doubted whether true art could emerge from such tragedy, but he was starting to feel as though he was going insane himself. Thus, he had to organize his thoughts:

“The mastermind behind the campus attack — let’s hypothesize that it’s some powerful being like a demon god — didn’t simply drive those students mad by his mere presence. Instead, he may have been controlling and manipulating them to feign madness while committing the crimes.”

“And you,” Constantine swept his gaze across the room, “you admire the tragic stories that lead to madness and can appreciate the art born from it. You see the mastermind’s use of madness as an excuse for his actions as a severe desecration of half of humanity’s intellectual achievements.”

Schiller turned his head, seemingly surprised by Constantine’s ability to summarize so succinctly. He gave him a brief glance, while Constantine’s inner state was something like: “I’d love to crawl into a hole, but even if there were a million holes here, I’m not sure I could escape.” So, he just slumped there, remaining silent.

“In Gotham,” Pamela spoke in her typically detached tone, “we are more exposed than others to this kind of art. We walk down this road, until one day we cross a boundary line, and for the rest of our lives, we take pride in having contributed to the creation of this art of madness.”

Bruce, almost instinctively, said, “We accept that we become monsters shaped by the tragedies of our early lives. Whether others understand or not, we take pleasure in appreciating this art... just like... just like the Bat.”

Everyone understood his metaphor. They also understood that this was the path he was destined to take — a path every Gothamite must walk. Once they’ve completely crossed that line into madness, it is the tragedies of their past that imbue their insanity with an artistic quality, a creative spark that continues to burst forth. This spark allows them to still appreciate beauty.

It’s precisely this capacity that sets them apart from other madmen, enabling them to craft a unique kind of lucid madness — even genius — that brims with vitality, representing half of humanity’s intellectual accomplishments. It’s an obsession, almost.

“Let’s talk about Ms. Harley Quinn,” Schiller’s voice echoed through the room.

At that very moment, the snowstorm that had been raging on the screen above the Himalayan Mountains finally subsided, revealing a night darker than any storm.

Meanwhile, the person at the center of their discussion — a girl named Harley Quinn — stepped out of her dorm room into the pitch-black darkness.

[I will increase the frequency once my exams are over!]

[Read at www.patreon.com/shanefreak, and thanks for the invaluable support!]

XXX-----XXX-----XXX-----XXX

Next Chapter =>Chapter 1685: Bruce Wayne and the Secret Chamber (XI)