OBS Chapter 4563 The Day of Brightest Day (22)
Chapter 4563 The Day of Brightest Day (22)
Chapter 4563 The Day of Brightest Light (Twenty-Two)
The night on the Red Sea was bright, and the low-rise city buildings in the distance could be vaguely seen disappearing into the drifting pale blue mist. Moonlight fell on the sea and reflected onto the fishing rod. Deathstroke rested his hand on the railing by the deck, shaking the few remaining beers in his can, while Schiller sat in the cabin looking at a map.
They certainly didn't come here voluntarily; it was just that traveling by land was no longer an option. The entire city of Hegada was under strict lockdown, the army was searching house to house, and every outsider was a prime suspect. The Egyptian police, like notorious vultures, were always looking for trouble to extort money and favors. Under these circumstances, driving north was extremely difficult.
So they had no choice but to seek refuge at sea again, returning to the Red Sea, which was quite an ordeal. Before the port of Hegada was blocked, the two managed to acquire a small yacht for tourists to go fishing, allowing them to resume their journey to Cairo.
While night fishing, Deathstroke pondered Schiller's words. It wasn't entirely his own choice, but Schiller seemed to have imbued his language with a kind of magic, making it not only incredibly penetrating upon first hearing but also lingering in his mind, always echoing.
Deathstroke couldn't believe it was made up. This was precisely because he was a man over fifty, with extremely rich social experience, and had seen all sorts of people, many of whom matched Schiller's description. Deathstroke could even accurately determine which war they had lost.
This theory effectively explains the behavioral patterns of many people, revealing a deeper logic behind seemingly irrational hysteria. Because of this, it is exceptionally persuasive and doesn't seem like a fabricated theory made up just to fool someone.
So now Deathstroke faces two possibilities. If that's true, then his problem might indeed be so. In the first half of his life, he lacked control to the point that by the time he reached fatherhood, he hadn't been able to successfully teach his son in this regard, which would have been an obvious tragedy.
If this was just something Schiller made up to fool him, then Deathstroke has nothing to say. Schiller was able to concoct such a complete and logically consistent scheme in such a short time, taking into account Schiller's circumstances. He must have expended countless hours and sacrificed countless brain cells just to spite him. It's as if he was willing to force himself to win a Nobel Prize just to fool Schiller.
When dealing with this kind of person, taking a step back only makes you angrier, but if you slap him, you always feel a bit guilty. This lavish hospitality clearly demonstrates how much he values you. Although, it's probably best to avoid this kind of attention.
Deathstroke wanted to press Schiller for answers, but felt it wouldn't yield any positive results. He wanted to forget about it and end the conversation, but the words kept swirling in his mind.
He was starting to believe Schiller's pretense about dissociative identity disorder. This Schiller was completely different from the previous one. They'd been on the ship for an hour and a half, and all he'd done was figure out how to avoid trouble on the Red Sea and get to Cairo—no fishing, no beer, no cigars. Deathstroke thought he should be in church singing hymns by now.
“Hey, kid.” Deathstroke felt he could call him that, but not the other one. Strangely, they were both actually young people. If one had to say they were two personalities of the same person, they shared many similarities in age and mentality.
But for some reason, Schiller made him feel dangerous, as if he wasn't really that young. He was just pretending to be young and energetic because it was something he could use to deceive many people and make them willingly take the bait.
Deathstroke had lived far too long; his fully unleashed mind allowed him to vividly recall how he aged. This wasn't referring to his modified body, which remained unchanged, even strengthened by training. Rather, it was his spirit that aged before his body. Humans are not an immortal race—mental aging is truly terrifying.
When they clearly feel that they can no longer give anything and must instead take from society without restraint in order to maintain a slightly decent life, this sense of frustration can easily overwhelm the elderly. It is precisely for this reason that they crave more emotional comfort. Some people turn themselves into emotional black holes, wanting to suck up all the good moods of those around them, because only in this way can they feel their own existence.
This phenomenon occurs in everyone who ages, regardless of social class. As long as one hasn't developed an immortal mindset, there's always a devastating emptiness, even for Deathstroke. His numerous near-death experiences were related to this.
At that moment, Deathstroke felt like a ravenous vampire, except that he wasn't feeding on human blood, but on all things beautiful. He wanted to be among lively, strong, and clever young people, pretending he was still one of them, pretending he had never grown old.
He got to know many birds in Gotham. Although he rationally knew it wasn't true, Deathstroke would occasionally have the rather wicked thought that perhaps Batman also used them to combat aging. He would say it was duty and love, but he did indeed become younger because of it.
Schiller's demeanor perfectly matched the vampires' expectations. He was even so straightforward and undisguised that he laid out all the qualities that could appeal to people, like putting ten lures on a fishing hook: sequins, feathers, artificial fish... as if using such exhaustive methods to lure people in.
He must have succeeded many times before; Deathstroke doesn't even need to overthink it to imagine how those people, through their folly and greed, stepped into a deadly trap. They don't deserve sympathy, but they deserve to learn from their mistakes.
But the one looking at the map in the cabin now is different. He's truly a young man. In the prime of his life, when he should be striving for his career, there's no time for sentimentality. He doesn't believe in the idea that "the process and experience are what matter"; if he could teleport directly to the finish line in a race, he definitely would.
This is what real young people are like. The previous one wasn't. It's just that because normal young people are like this—rushing around, overly focused on their own lives, and unwilling to offer any emotional value to those aging people who are about to be eliminated by society—Schiller's trap seems particularly tempting. These two seem to be at odds, but in reality, they cooperate seamlessly. One tells you that reality is cruel, while the other tells you you're lucky to have received special favor. A fist on the left, a knife on the right; high damage with the left hand, high damage with the right. I wonder which universe's geniuses gave birth to these two.
Schiller heard the tolling of the bell, but without looking up, he said, "Thank you, but no need."
Do you know what I'm going to do?
“Smoking, drinking, fishing, or just talking. None of that, thank you.” Schiller continued his diligent study of the Red Sea map. It was a blank map, containing nothing but topography, but Schiller had already marked all the danger zones on it.
This is actually very difficult because the situation is too complicated. The two armed groups have not stopped fighting and are fighting even more fiercely, causing all cargo ships to detour but not knowing where to go. Egypt has also been drawn in and forced to blockade its ports, causing more ships to return to port without reason. Their deployment of the coast guard to search for the assassins has further fueled public panic.
Their small, dilapidated yacht only had one gear, which was used for playing fish. The only thing they had that could be considered armored was the chairs to tie the anglers to the boat; nothing else.
Crossing the perilous Red Sea in such a small boat is virtually an impossible task. Deathstroke never expected to rely solely on this. The danger is the same no matter which path they take. So now Schiller seems to be trying to find something to do to escape boredom.
Who actually kills time by working? Deathstroke was genuinely puzzled. But Schiller did, and intended to continue doing so.
Deathstroke walked over, snatched the map from in front of him, looked down at him, and said, "No cigarettes, no alcohol, no fishing rod. But we have to talk to you."
“Here we go again.” Schiller’s expression had shifted from impatience to despair. He stood up, spreading his hands as he walked onto the deck. “I don’t understand what’s so special about me. I’m just an ordinary agent, nothing special.”
“I’m not interrogating you!” Deathstroke shouted at him. “All our conflicts stem from your refusal to communicate and your unilateral decisions. Isn’t that right?”
Schiller turned back and gave him a mocking smile, a rare occurrence for him: "No wonder your son doesn't want to acknowledge his father. I can only believe that you're willing to turn yourself into a pure machine of violence because you'd be even less likable if you didn't."
That was a bit too harsh. Deathstroke practically clenched the railing into steel. He had to retract his assessment that the Schiller before him was better, and was even more convinced that they were indeed one person—both so adept at stabbing others in the heart.
Schiller walked to a chair on the forward deck and sat down. The sea breeze ruffled his hair, and his gray eyes appeared even more silvery-white in the moonlight, making him look younger and more capable—he would fit right into any spy movie.
Deathstroke was frustrated because he had to admit that parts of his parenting failures were manifesting in his relationship with Schiller. He seemed unable to communicate with truly young people. Even though he now looked younger, he was still Deathstroke; nothing had changed.
“Then let’s talk about Batman,” Deathstroke said. “Where did he go? And why did Wonder Woman give you the job?”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head,” Schiller said. “For some reason, Batman can’t come back right now, and the Justice League has to deal with everything. They think I might be a good help.”
"If you don't take this job, is it possible that Robin will come instead?"
“If I don’t accept this commission, it won’t exist.” Schiller seemed to be talking nonsense again. But after so many times, Deathstroke finally learned to take these ramblings as seriously as possible.
"What is their ultimate goal?" Deathstroke asked.
“That’s great, you’ve finally found your mind again.” Schiller seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “When you’re no longer confined to your family, you’ll be more of a father than ever before, just like now. Your charm will always lie in your career.”