More and more blood was draining from Shiller's body, the large quantity needed for the blood-letting making the process exceedingly slow. While other players had already started their games, Shiller's table was still fixated on the draining tube.
The scene also drew the attention of many, but since there were hardly any byes this round and most people's arms were fixed to the table, they could only cast curious glances over at Shiller.
As blood continued to flow, Shiller's arm grew paler and paler, and the alarm bells in Bruce's mind made him want to yank his arm free and jump ship to escape.
"It's time to verify our guess," Bruce heard that dangerous voice inside his head say, "Where exactly does Shiller's mysterious psychoanalytic ability come from?"
"You know how risky this is," another, more rational voice said. "We could write it all off as natural talent. Isn't that what we do with our detective abilities?"
"Of course not, we follow logic, we have evidence."
"But that assumption is completely absurd," Bruce took a deep breath and said to himself, "Are you suggesting that those psychoanalytic results with an 80% accuracy rate are nothing but the delusions of a mental patient during an episode?"
"When all other possibilities have been eliminated, whatever remains, no matter how absurd, must be the truth. Ready to take a bet?"
Bruce took a deep breath, feeling sweat on his palms, and said, "Even if it's true, we still can't know the deeper reasons. Hallucinations can't just happen to align with reality, and neuroscience has no answers for that."
"But this will let us know how to avoid being analyzed."
Bruce startled because he realized, how could the Batman from the Prime Universe, aware of Shiller's mysterious psychoanalytic ability, be so comfortable with him, when as the most suspicious and private Batman, he detested being scrutinized?
Could it be that Batman had long known the source of Shiller's psychoanalytic ability and was confident he could prevent it from being activated while together?
The pacifying gestures at their first encounter, the clothes and the red wine, the cautious choice of words, the respectful demeanor – were they all to keep Shiller's mind stable? As long as he was stable, his psychoanalytic ability wouldn't activate?
Bruce had to admit, he did want to take the risk.
There were too many mysteries surrounding Shiller, including his past, his understanding of others that went beyond the facts, his grand Tower of Thought. But for Bruce, what he most wanted to know was where exactly Shiller's far-too-accurate psychoanalysis method came from.
He had long resigned himself to the fact that it wasn't a skill that could be learned, but whatever the case, he had never considered that the answer might be the most absurd one, that rather than talent, it could just be the hallucinations of a desperate madman.
So he pulled his gaze back, took a deep breath, stopped looking at the blood-letting machine, and tried to remain as calm as possible while searching for the profoundest answers from the deepest Abyss.
At 200 milliliters, Shiller's lips felt chapped, his mouth as if aflame, and with each breath from the trachea and throat to the nasal passages it felt like cutting with a knife, a pain that somehow sharpens the mind.
"You signed 'the sea' on the back of the invitation, thinking it's my opponent this time, so you designed this game. No matter how much blood is drawn from me, you could still face me like a Warrior. But deep down, you know you are still a coward because that's not your blood – it belongs to the sea."
The burly man opposite his eyes widened, hesitating with his hand on the controller button, as he originally intended to press a 1 followed by three 0s.
"Stop pretending; you know you've always been weak. You tell everyone you represent the sea's will, that you'd do anything to protect the ocean, but deep down, you're acutely aware that the ocean doesn't need your protection."
"But you know the ocean has never chosen you, even if you're its only choice now, it still refuses to fully heed your command. You think it's because you haven't done enough, so you came here and made sure I did too."
The burly man narrowed his eyes, looking at Shiller and said, "I just wanted to retrieve what rightfully belongs to the sea from a shameful thief."
"No, you don't believe it belongs to the sea," Shiller shook his head.
At 400 milliliters, his heartbeat finally began to slow, replaced by the increasingly calm ripples in his field of vision, the intermittent clarity among the waves now gone, turning into a blur.
His chest felt a profound hollowness, sinking, compelling one to hunch over and fall, a desire for death creeping in, seeking release.
Memory Fragments stirred in the lake of his tranquil vision, sweeping across the blurred ripples, like microbes moving under a microscope.
"You think it belongs to Atlantis."
The burly man's hand clenched suddenly.
"What did Arthur tell you? That damned traitor!"
"Calm down, Orm, are you discontent with your title as Ocean Master now? Do you want to be Aquaman? Or a sea god?"
"I told you, I just want to retrieve what you land people stole from the sea, you damned landlubber! You have deceived us!!"
Orm's roar became more and more distant, and in the sweeping Memory Fragments before Shiller's eyes, the name Orm Marius, the Ocean Master, echoed again and again.
Orm was Arthur's half-brother, born of the previous Queen of Atlantis, Atlanna, and the captain of the Guard, Ovak. He was a full-blooded Atlantean.
In the comics, Atlanna died in an accident, and some close to the palace accused Orm of the deed, which Orm denied. Later, fearing an invasion of Atlantis by surface-dwellers, he launched a war between the sea and the land, even clashing with the Justice League, nearly submerging the continents.
However, he and Arthur did not become estranged brothers. From beginning to end, the two merely disagreed on their attitudes toward surface dwellers. Orm did not crave the throne and even voluntarily abdicated when Arthur returned, recognizing Arthur as Aquaman.
But what Shiller saw was different.
At 500 milliliters, Orm's form began to cast an anxious shadow; his flames burned more intensely than anyone's, and to Shiller's surprise, Orm's flames were also red.
That indicated that the emotions surging within him were not greed, but pure rage—he wanted revenge.
Something was not right, greatly differing from the facts.
Orm had no one to avenge against, at least not at this stage. Arthur had not yet returned to Atlantis; their paths had barely crossed, and even when they did, Orm had never clashed with Arthur over power matters.
Moreover, Orm was not yet convinced that the surface dwellers were intent on destroying Atlantis; he felt more disgust than hatred for them, emotions that could not possibly fuel such fierce anger and desire for vengeance.
Shiller struggled to prop himself up, fixating on the blood-drawing tubing. He wasn't thinking about stopping; instead, he was wishing that the damn machine would work faster, much faster—he was close to seeing what lay behind the flames.
At 600 milliliters, Shiller started to feel numbness in his lips, a gradual loss of sensation in his limbs, his tongue unable to move freely, his throat nearly unable to make a sound.
His heartbeat slowed down, and he was besieged by an indescribable cold that left him completely frozen, his eyes and consciousness beginning to scatter.
Orm before him had completely transformed; his skin was peeled away, showing a woven pattern of deep red and blue beneath. There was a black hole on his chest, with numerous fingers probing the edges of the wound.
Within the hole, sea water swirled, and in it, Shiller saw the topology of the Mariana Trench.
Blood continued to flow, albeit very slowly. Now, all eyes in the room focused on this spot, everyone wanting to know just how much more blood this madman would draw.
Shiller kept his eyes on the tubing, faster, still faster.
As his heartbeat became more lethargic and the edges of his vision no longer blurry but starting to swirl with blackness, increasingly narrowing, Shiller knew that when his field of view could only accommodate one person, it would be time.
When the bright red blood reached the 700-milliliter mark on the pump scale, Shiller suddenly heard a faint whisper of wind. It was too late to reach for the blood-drawing tubing now; three Batman darts, coming from three different directions, sliced the tubing into three pieces.
The splattering blood drops were cast against the backdrop of everyone's shock, One Hand pressed down on the side of the pump's tubing, an arm supported the falling Shiller, and a fist knocked out the staff member.
The sudden turn of events stunned everyone. Spectators scattered, security armed with weapons rushed in, and those moving counter to the crowd started running toward the exit, knocking over tables and bottles, scream, roars, and curses filled the air—it was as if the second floor had turned into a suddenly boiling pot.
"Quiet! Everyone quiet down!!!" An old man with a trident symbol on his forehead appeared on the central High Tower, but his shouts had little effect, especially when a certain group of contestants, following someone's orders, began to deliberately create chaos.
"I said, QUIET!!!!"
With the roar, myriad visible, powerful ripples emanated from the old man, instantly knocking the crowd to the ground. They crawled, then their bodies violently jerked, and nearly all the guests on the ship were shaken to the floor.
Bruce, Beihan, and the Prime Universe's Batman wearing the Mosasaur mask were caught off guard and fell to the ground as well.
Inside the VIP room, the person in the Megalodon mask who dashed to the glass narrowed his eyes.
Now he understood why Shiller had bought him a VIP ticket.
"The day is bright, the night is vast,
Malignant spirits and monsters, nowhere to hide,
Rebellious rogues, fear my divine light,
Green Lantern's light shines forever, its brilliance everlasting!"
Green light instantly filled the entire venue, a huge shark phantom descended from the sky, and a figure radiating intense green light landed before the old man.
The old man's eyes widened in an instant, but quickly, a sly sparkle flashed through them. The golden trident symbol on his forehead glimmered, and the figure vanished in an instant. Orm, too, disappeared with the crowd on the deck.
Meanwhile, Stark, who had just reached the engine room of the Dakotazo, watched helplessly as some energy entwined around the engine disappeared; the golden light flashed and was gone. The abnormal readings on the Stark Battle Armor's sensors lasted for less than a second before returning to normal.
In the staff lounge, Natasha, who stumbled a bit from the shaking, wiped the blood that had splattered on her face and cursed through gritted teeth as she looked at the Agent who had just broken his spine from the abrupt motion.
Remembering the two names he had just mentioned, Natasha no longer hesitated, completely ignoring the chaos coming from above and heading upstairs as quickly as possible.
Upon returning to the hall, Natasha's gaze immediately locked onto two black figures. They hastily retreated to a corner of the wall, and Natasha quickly followed.
At that moment, giant waves surged outside the ship.