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"No matter what, the new principal's campus alcohol ban was still being pushed forward in an orderly fashion.
Any vehicles or shops selling alcoholic drinks were forbidden near Gotham University. All gatherings and parties would be inspected, and the dorms would be searched as well. They wouldn't confiscate large appliances, but every drop of alcohol would be dug out and students would be severely disciplined.
Of course, the students had no real power to resist. Gotham University might have produced the villain Scarecrow, but most of its students were still relatively obedient.
But obviously, this ban cut into someone else's cake.
Everyone knew what kind of city Gotham was—its drunks didn't wait until after graduation to start drinking.
Tens of thousands of alcoholics in Gotham kept countless bars and liquor stores alive, and every year tobacco and alcohol sales made up a huge portion of the city's tax revenue.
Sure, you could ban students from drinking. But without them developing the habit, who were the liquor dealers supposed to sell to?
Students were the easiest targets. Any habit they picked up during this period could follow them for life—drinking included.
If they started at twenty, they might spend tens of thousands—or even hundreds of thousands—of dollars on alcohol in their lifetime. Each drunk would pour half their paycheck into bottles of every kind.
And the profits? Scooped up by the cartels. They would reinvest, build bigger factories, hire those same alcoholics for low wages, and in exchange hand them a couple of cheap bottles at the end of each shift.
What a perfect industry chain. And all it took was selling cheap, tasty beer near Gotham University. Start with beer, then move to distilled liquor, then to the hard stuff.
For centuries, Gotham had always worked this way. If you stopped those people from corrupting students, Gotham would've turned into some wholesome, civilized city long ago.
Schiller knew this perfectly well, which was why he never intended to play the role of a dutiful teacher here. Gotham was no place for clean seedlings to grow—only the wicked and the criminals could survive.
Turn Gotham University into a utopia? Don't make him laugh. Naive graduates wouldn't last a year in this city.
It was all just one massive whirlpool, dragging countless smaller ones inside. No one could escape.
Ever since Schiller had sent Bruce that expulsion notice, the principal rarely mentioned involving him again. But because the ban had disrupted a lucrative chain of interests, the principal had no choice but to find himself another helper.
"Hello, I'm Harvey. Harvey Dent. A lawyer, specializing in criminal litigation and judgment."
Schiller shook his hand, but before he could speak, Harvey continued:
"I've heard of you. You did good work in Blüdhaven—got that damn serial killer tried and locked away. He's still rotting in prison."
His speech was fast, very much like a lawyer's—measured tone, firm words. He went on:
"But I have to say, your handling of Gotham University's alcohol ban hasn't been as sharp as your performance in those cases. Saving this city's future is as important as catching criminals, isn't it?"
Schiller let go of his hand, pressed his lips together, and said: "Maybe."
Harvey caught the reluctance in his tone and frowned. "I've heard stories about you from down south. But you don't seem quite as zealous against evil as the rumors made you out to be."
"More importantly," Schiller asked, "who's been spreading those stories?"
Harvey froze. "Didn't you say them yourself?"
He gave Schiller a once-over. Schiller didn't look like a sharp detective or a righteous judge. He looked refined, scholarly—exactly what his profession suggested.
Harvey was smart. "You mean someone's deliberately spreading stories about you? But why? To make you famous? What would they gain?"
Schiller motioned for him to sit, then sat opposite. "Maybe you only know the first half of the story. Later, during a case in Metropolis, I was set up. That's why I came to Gotham. That wasn't good news. Clearly, those people still haven't let me go."
Harvey paused. "Sorry… then you probably shouldn't stay in the spotlight. But that's okay. I'm Gotham University's new legal adviser now, and I fully support the alcohol ban. Having a drink isn't a crime—I drink too—but students bingeing at their age? That's unacceptable."
His speech was always clear, logical, and firm, giving people a natural sense of security. If Schiller hadn't already known Harvey would become Two-Face, he'd never have linked him to that coin-flipping madman.
Two-Face was a complicated villain. He was the only one Batman ever truly tried to save—many times, without success. That failure cut deeper than any defeat at the Joker's hands.
Because Harvey Dent had been a good man. Gotham's White Knight.
Batman was deeply shaped by him. When Maroni scarred Harvey in court and drove him mad, Batman realized, once and for all, that without power, without force, law and judgment meant nothing.
A vile criminal had publicly maimed a righteous prosecutor—and paid no price. No one dared to put him on trial again.
Schiller placed his hands on the desk and looked Harvey in the eye. "Mr. Dent, I think you understand Gotham better than that new principal. You must know how many interests you're threatening."
"I know. But I don't care," Harvey replied.
Schiller sighed, removed his glasses, and slowly wiped them with a cloth. "Perhaps you really are ready to bear the price of upholding justice?"
"You sound like you know that price well."
"Of course. I've just been lucky."
"Then I believe I'll be the same," Harvey said. Yet his voice was still empathetic: "I don't blame those who give up on this road because of the dangers. They've already done their best. I don't know how far I'll make it either. But in this world, you don't have to reach the finish line to count as a victory."
Schiller didn't press further. He shook Harvey's hand again, and Harvey left. For the first time, Schiller hadn't tried to manipulate someone with words or force his persuasion.
He'd once heard a line that stuck with him: Don't try to remind someone walking in darkness that they're blind sighted.
So he wouldn't try to correct Harvey, wouldn't say: Your efforts will be useless in Gotham. Every act Harvey took was right, every choice righteous. But sadly, this was Gotham.
The White Knight couldn't save Gotham. And the Dark Knight might not either.
Harvey truly was charismatic. Unlike Daredevil, Matt, who preferred lone battles, Harvey excelled at using every resource around him. He mingled effortlessly with students and faculty; even the staff adored him. Mrs. Murphy praised him a dozen times a day and wanted to set him up with her daughter.
Most students, though upset their hidden alcohol was seized, still admired Harvey—viewing him as a successful, kind, elite professional.
Within days of arriving, Harvey was welcomed by nearly everyone.
Principal Sheddon grew even gloomier. He'd sought a pawn, not someone who'd steal the spotlight. He wanted a scapegoat to take the hits while he reaped the benefits.
But just as Schiller had been too harsh, Harvey was too popular—overshadowing him completely.
Hardly anyone knew the principal's name. But nearly everyone knew Harvey Dent, the new legal adviser—an educated, well-paid, kind-hearted lawyer.
And Harvey was close with the toughest people: Schiller and Bruce. Schiller would discuss ideals with him, their similar education making them peers—they'd both been at Columbia, and could reminisce about campus days.
As for Bruce, he felt an instant kinship with Harvey. They could talk about anything. On justice, Harvey offered perspectives that deeply inspired Batman.
Where Schiller's conversations had been like cryptic riddles—leaving Bruce to stew on his own—Harvey was different. He answered thoroughly, never mocked, never disrupted Bruce's rhythm. He listened, shared his views, then carefully compared them, noting where they aligned and where they didn't. If agreement wasn't possible, they simply held their differences for the next talk.
Who wouldn't want a friend like that? Wise, steady, warm, empathetic, knowledgeable. Far preferable to the nerve-grinding sessions with Schiller.
Schiller himself was relieved. With Harvey around, Bruce no longer pestered him daily. The psychology office was finally quiet.
In the following days, only Gordon showed up. He came with an invitation—after all, he'd just been promoted, and quite dramatically too. A celebration was in order.
Gordon didn't have many friends, and colleagues at the precinct eyed him with jealousy, so inviting them wasn't ideal. He chose to invite Schiller and Bruce instead.
Bruce, in turn, introduced Harvey to the policeman. The two hit it off instantly. In many ways, Harvey and Gordon were a perfect pair—so alike, though Harvey leaned radical and Gordon more cautious.
They clicked immediately. Bruce, meanwhile, was left out. Schiller sipped his drink, looking at Bruce standing outside the psychology office door like a drenched stray dog.
"Let's see… the homeless mutt finally remembered where its trash heap was. Should I feel honored?" Schiller said.
"Hey, don't put it like that," Bruce protested. "Harvey's great, sure—but I still think you're the stronger one, Professor, when it comes to professional skill."
"Thank you for the compliment," Schiller replied. "But your credits this semester are still going to be wiped clean."