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On a gloomy and chilly morning in Gotham City, the students of Gotham University gathered for their psychology final exam.

As Professor Evans distributed the exam papers, a collective sigh and murmur swept through the classroom. Then, from outside the door, the echoing sound of leather shoes on the marble floor filled the air. In an instant, the classroom fell into complete silence.

Professor Schiller, carrying his umbrella, entered the classroom. He noticed everyone diligently writing and nodded in satisfaction.

Placing his umbrella firmly on the ground, he rested his hand on its handle and stood at the center of the classroom. "The duration of this exam is 1 hour and 40 minutes," he announced. "In theory, you can submit your papers early, but I find proctoring here quite dull. If you turn in your papers early, I will certainly start grading them ahead of time."

"At the very least, ensure that the content you write is enough for me to read until you exit this classroom."

"Additionally, although I haven't assigned specific seating, it would be best if you refrain from whispering to one another. Maintain neat handwriting on your answer sheets, avoid using ornate fonts, and most importantly, please write your full legal names. I mean the names on your legal documents. Don't make me repeat the same request I had to make during the first week of classes, reminding you not to use nicknames."

"Now, begin your examination."

The entire classroom fell into a profound silence, with only the sound of pens scratching against paper.

Never before had any classroom at Gotham University witnessed such an intense atmosphere of study. In the midst of writing, Bruce glanced up and noticed a troublesome youngster from the East District, the nephew of a local troublemaker who had a penchant for cigarettes and alcohol, sitting in front of him. Despite his rebellious nature, he was diligently writing, and Bruce wondered if his alcohol and cigarette-fueled brain was somehow managing to support him through the exam.

To Bruce's left sat a well-known graffiti artist from Gotham University. He was renowned for his wall art, often leaving walls in a chaotic state. He even sprayed a comical caricature of the principal in the hallway during Seldon's campus alcohol ban.

But now, he seemed to be struggling, unable to answer the very first essay question. Instead, he was creating various designs on his answer sheet.

Bruce, with his keen eyesight, glimpsed at his work and saw that he was drawing Professor Schiller. Unlike his usual satirical graffiti, this portrayal depicted Schiller with his back to a black sun, arms outstretched, surrounded by patterns resembling tiny particles. The whole image looked eerie yet strikingly cool. Bruce wondered if Schiller would appreciate the extra effort and give him a higher score.

Half an hour passed, and surprisingly, more than two-thirds of the students were still writing. This was nothing short of a miracle for Gotham University.

In previous final exams, several troublemakers would be absent right from the start. Seats would remain vacant. Within two minutes of starting, some students would finish writing their names and leave.

Ten minutes later, many would guess their way through the multiple-choice questions, put down their pens, and hand in their papers, exiting the classroom.

Historically, after twenty minutes, only a handful of students would remain, and they wouldn't be working on the essay questions. They would simply take advantage of the quiet classroom to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

But now, Bruce glanced at his watch after 40 minutes had passed, and remarkably, half the students were still writing. None dared to submit their papers early. While most were on the brink of mental exhaustion, they clenched their pens, hoping to squeeze a few more words onto their answer sheets, trying to present answers that weren't too far from being illiterate or semi-literate, hoping to appease Professor Schiller when he eventually read their responses.

In truth, even for an introductory psychology textbook, the various specialized terms, names, theories, and definitions were challenging. For these Gotham University students, who were more accustomed to avoiding scholarly pursuits, recollection was a daunting task. Memorization, for minds that hadn't seen much action in a while, was a Herculean effort, especially when cramming in just one or two weeks.

After an hour had passed, the majority of students had put down their pens. Bruce jotted down the names of those still fervently writing on a piece of scratch paper; they would become the backbone of his future psychology club.

After a moment's thought, he included the graffiti artist's name on the list. After all, a club needed someone with artistic flair for promotion.

Finally, after a seemingly endless 1 hour and 40 minutes, when Professor Schiller firmly placed the words "Time's up" on the floor, the classroom erupted with relieved sighs. It was evident they had been on the brink of insanity.

Even after collecting their papers, nobody dared to leave until Schiller had stapled the exams together, checked them, and ensured everyone's names were legible. Only then, carrying a stack of answer sheets, did he exit the classroom. As soon as he left, the classroom exploded with chatter and commotion, like a bomb had just gone off.

"Oh no! I didn't know most of the fill-in-the-blank questions! I'm doomed!"

"Damn it, I crammed all those psychology definitions last night, and they didn't even come up on the test? I should've spent less time on them in the beginning!"

"I accidentally wrote the answer to the second essay question in the space for the fourth! What am I going to do now? I'm sure to get a zero on that essay!"

"Any of you applied for postgraduate programs? Evans, did you? My dad told me yesterday that if my brain were to attend postgraduate school, we might as well expect our dog to climb trees! But my dog is a corgi..."

"I still owe two papers, and I have to complete them before the break. Otherwise, I'll be anxious throughout the entire vacation, and there won't be any fun..."

Several students gathered around Bruce's desk; they were the first members he had invited to join his club. Renny, the graffiti artist with a fluorescent yellow headband, declared, "Professor will appreciate my artwork; I can tell he's a person with artistic sensibilities."

"But he might prefer to see the correct answers," Bruce replied.

"Forget it; I'm clueless. Memorization will contaminate my brain," Renny said, rubbing his nose. He was a typical Germanic type with green eyes and a few freckles, dressed in a reggae-style outfit.

"And who says that isn't the correct answer? Who says you have to write to answer questions? Drawing is just as good; I'll pass!"

"Alright, I'll pay you to create a larger and more impactful poster for our club's promotion. You can set the price as you wish, but I want it to be truly awe-inspiring," Bruce said.

Leni snapped his fingers and said, "Rich person, you've come to the right place! Nobody in all of Gotham understands the art of awe like me!"

Several heads huddled together, whispering excitedly.

"What? Are you saying you want..."

"You're a genius..."

"Count me in; I want one too!"

"This is a big surprise... Right, I'm in too..."

"Maybe, in exchange for this, he'll pass us..."

A few days later, Schiller was grading papers and accumulating frustration as he had anticipated the subpar performance of the students at Gotham University. However, he hadn't expected them to perform this poorly.

Not wanting to let these academic underachievers further taint his mind, Schiller decided to put in extra hours today, planning to finish grading all the papers in one go and give a failing grade to most of them.

Suddenly, he heard a sharp, piercing sound from outside his office window. It sounded somewhat like a fire alarm, but shorter and sharper.

Schiller stood up and looked out the window, noticing some lights swaying. It was still early in the evening, not yet dark enough for streetlights to come on, and most teachers and students were still at the school.

He heard a commotion below, as if someone was calling his name. Schiller put down his pen and left his desk to go to the window.

The entire side of the building across from him was covered by a massive curtain. Schiller had heard it was for a wall renovation, but he didn't usually take that route, so he hadn't paid much attention.

As he approached the window, the curtain suddenly dropped, revealing an enormous graffiti painting. It was as tall as seven stories, with Schiller's silhouette at the bottom and a black sun with countless intricate patterns above it. A row of spotlights below lit up, making the entire side of the building as bright as daylight.

The graffiti depicted Schiller's silhouette nearly blending into the black sun's background, as if the sun itself was his shadow.

Schiller, momentarily blinded by the high-powered spotlights, blinked and was met with this astonishing sight.

Schiller: "..."

Symbiote: "Wow."

The side of the graffiti read, "Join the Psychology Club, confront the hearts, confront this black sun. - Blue Devil Leni"

Schiller lowered his gaze and saw a group of excited people waving at him from below. They were mostly psychology majors from Gotham University, including Bruce Wayne.

Schiller looked back at the black sun composed of countless eerie patterns. It exuded a strange and terrifying aesthetic that held one's gaze captive, as if it were about to draw one's very soul inside.

Terrifying, mysterious, bizarre, and absurd, yet filled with an irresistible beauty.

Schiller recalled that "Gotham" originally meant "fool's village," and indeed, it was full of all sorts of absurd fools, lost in life and uncertain of death.

But at the same time, it was filled with geniuses who possessed unparalleled talents and an enchanting vitality.

Schiller found himself captivated by this bold and eccentric absurdity, a special life force unlike anything in the world, like a terrifying vine climbing out of an endless abyss, or a masterpiece equal to countless masters.

Schiller knew more than these students, but he had just realized that there was one thing he had yet to learn—

He had not yet learned Gotham.

Everyone living here was mad, yet also sane.

This dark city didn't need anyone to set it straight; its people lived in such madness within the abyss, cultivating a twisted and enigmatic vitality.

This vitality grew out of the darkness, and the people here used madness as their blade, piercing straight into the hearts of anyone they encountered.

Schiller stared directly at the black sun. Perhaps, everyone here was an incomparable genius, and the only fool was himself, along with anyone outside the comics trying to be a savior.

People here, with brains devoid of even a shred of psychological theory knowledge, read minds as if it were a natural talent.

The black sun was still a sun, and it was a strikingly accurate depiction of Schiller's profile.

Schiller's incarnation, indeed, was not the scorching sun but a sun that would never shine, a black sun.

After a few minutes, Schiller used his finger to write a line on the mist-covered glass: "You all pass."

In an instant, the building erupted with enthusiastic cheers. Under the black sun, it seemed like the subjects illuminated by an ever-dark star, celebrating a new beginning.