The words of Thomas Wayne caused a deathly silence to fall upon the room.
For a moment, it was truly difficult to use fewer than twenty thousand words to describe Ian's complex emotions. He opened his mouth, but then, feeling he must have misheard, snapped it shut again.
"Sorry, you said what?" Ian's hand hovered near his mouth, hesitating, while his eyes, bulging like dragon fruit, betrayed the sheer disbelief within him.
Ian truly found it hard to imagine that the "Simp Tauren" possessed such skill. One had to remember that the guy's vocabulary of flattery consisted only of a few mindless, repetitive phrases. How could such a linguistically challenged demon talk a King of Hell into joining him?
"Your bovine servant apparently spent over three hours in a 'heart-to-heart' talk, convincing Belial, the Prince of Lies, that you are the future of Hell—the successor Lucifer truly favors." Thomas's expression grew even more peculiar as he spoke. He didn't believe a mere low-level demon could deceive the Prince of Lies with falsehoods.
And that was precisely why Thomas Wayne found it so incomprehensible. Even a man as cunning and intelligent as himself couldn't fathom how that low-level demon had swindled the Master of Deception.
"Nonsense. Lucifer wouldn't even share half his mana with me; he clearly just wants to see me suffer in... wait, who did you say my 'trash can' bamboozled again?" Ian suddenly grabbed Thomas's sleeve, the silk fabric sliding through his fingers.
An Armani suit. Clearly another piece of contraband.
"Belial, the Prince of Lies!" Ian didn't even wait for Thomas to respond; he had heard it clearly enough. The boy's eyes glowed unnaturally bright in the dim light. His gold-red pupils were like 200-watt light bulbs.
The glare made Thomas uncomfortable. With a snap of his fingers, a ghost-blue flame erupted from the last embers in the corner of the room to counter the light from Ian's pupils. The two lights cast flickering shadows across Thomas's face.
"So? Why does a single name make you as excited as a hell-cat that smelled catnip?" He leaned back slightly, avoiding Ian's suddenly encroaching face.
Ian let go and began pacing the room, his Nike sneakers making soft crunching sounds on the ash. The grin on his face widened until it was practically ear-to-ear.
"That name is good! That name is wonderful!" Ian muttered like he was reciting an incantation. He turned abruptly, his tone firm. "That name sounds perfect for joining my New Land of Light!"
Ian was not only good at creating alt accounts but also at establishing shell companies. Anyone who had played *Red Alert* knew that a "cunning rabbit has three burrows"—it never hurts to have a few extra bases.
Evidently, a "New Justice League" no longer satisfied Ian. Because he had the "Ultra Dynamite" and considered himself the first Ultraman of the human world, he felt the DC Universe deserved its own Land of Light.
"A great cause awaits me: something no one else has managed—the purification of Hell. Fortunately, I am here. Once I turn Hell into the New M78 Nebula, it will be brighter than Heaven! It'll be a total makeover, a fresh start, a complete transformation... uh, my vocabulary shouldn't be this limited, why am I out of words... anyway, there are many similar American idioms, I won't list them all."
"Mostly, I'm worried your education is too low to understand. In short, it is I—the New King of Hell, Ultra King Ian! The modern master of Hellish renovation, the soul-beautician for demons, the terminator of sin, the purifier of darkness!" Ian rambled on, even pulling a piece of chalk from his pocket to start drawing his business proposal on the wall. His speech was riddled with professional jargon, but Thomas Wayne didn't understand a single word.
Thomas had seen many business proposals in his previous and current lives, but he had never seen anything as chaotic as Ian's "ghost-scribbles." A doodle by a three-year-old Bruce Wayne would have been tidier.
"Wait, are you truly not worried at all? Do you really intend to accept that demon's fealty?" Thomas Wayne pulled a handkerchief from his inner suit pocket to wipe his face. The spittle had been falling like rain. He even suspected Ian was spitting on him on purpose.
"Relax, Brother Thomas. You were the first Demon King to swear fealty to me; no one can shake your status." Ian's expression was as sincere as a twitching livestream salesman.
Thomas's pupils dilated slightly. "When did I ever swear fealty to you?" Thomas was stunned. No matter how hard he searched his memory, he couldn't recall making such an ill-advised choice.
"Don't you want to go to Heaven?" Ian blinked, looking confused.
Thomas Wayne quickly explained, "Oh, no, no, no. I am using this New Gotham to trade for an indulgence. It's a purchase, I didn't sell *myself*." He was clearly afraid that if he didn't explain quickly, the matter would be settled as a done deal. In reality, Thomas was well aware of Ian's nonsensical tactics.
"I think you're just trying to use this to get to Bruce, aren't you?" He didn't just look at Ian with suspicion; he called him out with absolute certainty. One didn't need telepathy to read Ian; "face-reading" worked just fine.
"Uh... Brother Thomas, you really are too smart." Ian gave a sheepish laugh and stepped back. Despite his inward disappointment, he could only offer a clumsy, half-hearted thumbs-up.
Thomas Wayne remained expressionless. "Heh." He adjusted his tie, every syllable dripping with exasperation. "As long as one is a slave, the son of a slave remains a slave. That was a class distinction set by my ancestors."
"You want to use my grandfather's methods against me?" It was unclear what Thomas Wayne was talking about, but truth be told, he had likely reserved a seat in Hell while still in the womb. To be able to grow and manage a city like Gotham—at least making it look decent on the surface—meant he was a natural-born demon manager.
The "Overlord of Gotham" showed off his family heritage, a true blue-blooded American of the old guard. Ian couldn't compete with that, so the boy could only admit defeat.
*When my second brother comes to me for help, as long as he can produce a New Krypton, I can be the Old Prince of Krypton.* Ian secretly vowed to scout several fertile wives for his second brother.
For His second brother, Thanos's serum should be used where it counts.
Ian thought maybe a live-action *My Little Pony* series would be better for his brother's "refined" tastes. A Kryptonian Centaur wasn't out of the question—it counts as a fantasy race—though calling a horse "sister-in-law" would be a bit awkward. Ian felt he really needed to correct his brother's preferences.
Thomas stared at the again-thoughtful Ian, worried the boy was plotting another scheme.
"Seriously, Ian, I hope you can resist the temptation of commanding a Demon Lord. That is the Prince of Lies, a master of deception and intrigue. He has many more tricks than even I do."
"Heaven knows if this bizarre decision of his is actually a plot against you." Thomas Wayne sighed, changing the subject while voicing his internal wariness. He had clearly suffered at the hands of the Prince of Lies before.
"Don't worry, it'll be fine. I have a labor contract, it has a high mage-effect... by the way, the Prince of Lies wasn't from the British Empire or a place like Chengdu in his previous life, was he?"
Ian maintained a bit of caution, but Thomas Wayne couldn't keep up with the leaping logic and didn't quite understand what he was implying.
Of course, the old American "Old Glory" gave an answer. "You might not understand, but Belial and his kind are incarnations of Primal Sin. They aren't like 'post-human' demons like me."
"The concept of a 'previous life' doesn't exist for them." Thomas Wayne educated Ian on the classifications of demons, though Ian had already gained insights into such things through Crowley.
"Then it's fine! I'm completely at ease. I have worldly wisdom, so he definitely can't have more tricks than me."
The room fell into a strange silence. The last spark in the ashes sputtered out. Thomas blinked slowly three times, his confusion unabated. He began to seriously wonder if he had been away from the human world too long and now faced a significant generational gap. Perhaps this was some kind of internet culture expression among today's youth?
"I might really have a generational gap with you young people." He still hadn't suspected Ian's mental state. Brother Thomas was truly a gentle soul.
"It's fine. Your son understands me. He likes me a lot; he's invested in so many of my ahead-of-their-time projects. He clearly has an eye for heroes." Ian was using the chalk to add "auxiliary facilities" to his "New Land of Light"—including but not limited to a "Demon Staff Canteen" and "Hellish Medical Insurance."
Thomas looked at the blueprint taking shape behind Ian. A section labeled "Ian's Happiness House" was particularly eyesore-ish. He didn't dare think about what kind of "happiness" that entailed.
"Where's my Hellcat? Has it been found?" Ian felt he lacked a "hype man" right now, and the Hellcat was even better at "carrying his sedan" than the demon head, Bar. Since it was a car, "carrying" someone was only natural.
At that, Thomas Wayne's mouth twitched subtly. He didn't know how to express his feelings; he was convinced no demons were as sinister as those associated with Ian. The lower demon's head was one thing, but that Hellcat was another.
"It's outside hunting demons like a madman. It seems to think that if it gets strong enough, it can come rescue you. Its radio has been playing some recording about 'ten years a demon of the West, ten years a demon of the East' on loop."
"Uh, I think those were some of your words of encouragement?" Actually, Thomas Wayne wanted to use the word "indoctrination," but he settled for a more euphemistic term.
"That is loyalty!" Ian's eyes lit up instantly like two suddenly ignited jack-o'-lanterns. Thomas Wayne watched expressionlessly as Ian was moved to tears.
"Loyal indeed." The Demon King of the Wayne family added a bit of context. "But I personally stepped in and caught it." He seemed to be recalling the oddity of the demon car; some attribute of it seemed to have a natural suppression effect on demons.
That was definitely not a normal demon car. Of course, considering its owner was the sinister brat standing before him, perhaps "abnormal" was actually the "normal."
"Caught it?" Ian's movements came to a halt. "Where did you park it? It doesn't like paid parking spots; it loves fighting other cars for space." He had long ago mastered the temperament of the demon car.
"I believe I've realized that. It ate all the other demon cars..." Thomas Wayne pulled a pocket watch from his inner suit pocket. "Don't worry, I've been feeding it live hell-hounds. It hasn't tried to escape the garage again for now. You can retrieve it before you leave."
Thomas Wayne clearly knew how effective the "feeding method" was.
"Excellent!" Ian clapped, once again affirming the Hellcat's loyalty. "When I negotiate with my new Auntie again, I'll ask her for some 'Auntie's blood' for it to drink!"
As soon as he said that, the pocket watch slipped from Thomas Wayne's hand. It swung back and forth on its silver chain. His pupils dilated to near-human size.
"Your... new Auntie?" It wasn't surprising that Thomas Wayne had such a big reaction. After all, he knew a bit about the Superman family. The title "New Auntie" couldn't help but make him think of the photo Ian had shown him—the one of Martha and Old Jonathan, where that Martha was definitely not Jonathan's canon wife, Martha.
"Actually, it's not important." Ian didn't know that Thomas Wayne had such a heavy sense of marital crisis; he remembered to keep the matters of the Darkness a secret. The withering of the demon furniture in the room had already proven that the Darkness didn't want others to know her business. Ian couldn't let his Brother Thomas come to harm because of it.
He was very empathetic and considerate of others. However, precisely because of this, seeing Ian acting a bit secretive only made Thomas Wayne's imagination run even wilder.
"I need to go to Heaven! Truly! I need to get to Heaven right now!" Thomas Wayne was panicking. He took off his glasses and wiped them vigorously, as if that could wipe away the terrible associations surfacing in his mind.
"I'm writing a letter right now to tell Bruce to treat his new uncle well." It was clear he was at the point of desperate urgency. Truly, children are always their parents' "surprises."
"But I haven't started my experiment yet. I need to use some imps for testing first." Master Ian was very rigorous about his businesses and didn't want any accidents to happen to his guests. Because of this rigor, a bolt of lightning appropriately streaked across the window, illuminating the spectacular array of expressions on Thomas Wayne's face.
He took a deep breath, then another, and another—this repeated action was particularly rare in the sulfur-choked air of Hell. The sulfur was practically pickling Thomas Wayne, but fortunately, he finally calmed his fluctuating, wild thoughts. He immediately snapped his fingers at the air.
A dark shadow appeared in the center of the room, twisting and squirming as it took shape. A dozen imps bound in iron chains rolled onto the floor like a screaming ball of yarn. Fear was written in their bead-like eyes. At the sight of Thomas Wayne, they collectively lost control of their bladders, emitting a scent that was a mix of rotten fish and spoiled eggs.
"The experimental materials you wanted." Thomas Wayne poked the pile of demons with the tip of his boot in disgust. "Now you should be able to take them back to the living world and start your research immediately?"
His voice held a hint of urging. He was also sufficiently cautious about his own life and didn't want to risk himself—after all, he was once the first Great Master of Gotham. The lives of imps were truly nothing in his eyes.
Ian crouched down, tapping the heads of the imps one by one like he was picking out watermelons. He found a few heads that were indeed suitable for being trash cans.
"Don't be in such a rush. I still have to wait for my Trash King, and Belial—" Ian had promoted Bar; Bar was no longer just a simple trash can. He had become the King of Trash Cans.
"There's no need to wait for him! They will wait for you at the exit of Hell." Thomas Wayne's voice suddenly rose, then he forced himself back into elegance. "I mean, for an event as important as the Indulgence Experiment, how can it be delayed by other matters? This is a truly big business; all of Hell will bow to you because of it."
This wasn't flattery; it was stating a fact. Not a single demon didn't want to immigrate to Heaven. For how many years had even the Kings of Hell been plotting to conquer Heaven?
"Have you found the psychiatrist I asked for too?" Ian picked up a little fellow with six ears from the pile. The latter was using two of its ears to cover its eyes; the guy looked a bit like a character from an alien monster cartoon he had seen before.
"Uh..." Thomas Wayne hesitated, as if he were wary or fearful of something. He appeared quite indecisive and hesitant.
"Don't tell me my psychiatrist has already been eaten? Well, some demons probably do believe that eating a psychiatrist will cure their internal mental illnesses."
"That's called 'eating what you want to supplement'..." Ian didn't have his own kind on his menu, so even though he could understand the theory, he wouldn't put it into practice. A real man knows what to do and what not to do. This was the integrity of the Hellish Ultra King Ian.
Just as he was about to say more.
"Hannibal Lecter!" Thomas Wayne interrupted him suddenly, his speech unusually fast. "Yes, the psychiatrist you wanted." His fingers unconsciously rubbed the edge of his pocket watch. "I've confirmed his location. In fact, he was the first one whose location I confirmed."
The old King of Gotham still seemed quite hesitant.
"And?" Ian set down the six-eared demon and patted away the non-existent dust on his hands.
Thomas Wayne's expression became hesitant again. He looked out the window, then at the floor, and finally at the group of shivering imps—anywhere but Ian's eyes.
"His... uh... situation is a bit special." The King of Hell finally squeezed out an ambiguous sentence.
"More special than my kitty and my trash can?" Ian raised an eyebrow in surprise. He wasn't good at faint smiles, but he was very good at raising an eyebrow. He didn't even like to brag about the fact that he could do an eyebrow dance.
"He is staying in those confessional rooms, but the room he's in is a bit special. My people and I can't get him out." Thomas Wayne sighed. He hadn't expected to run into that kind of situation when looking for a human soul.
"Can't get him out?" Ian felt Thomas Wayne's difficulty and grew even more curious. Did the soul of such a "legal immigrant" from an outer universe receive different post-death treatment from the native souls? Did the DC Universe offer perks to "international students"?
"This..." Thomas Wayne suddenly turned and walked toward the door, seeming wary even of mentioning certain things. "You'd better see for yourself."
Thomas Wayne's Adam's apple bobbed as if he had swallowed a piece of red-hot coal. His wariness was thick, his black gloved hand constantly rubbing the edge of his pocket watch. It was a sign of nervousness.
Ian's curiosity grew even stronger. Without waiting for Ian to ask further, Thomas Wayne opened an unremarkable door, revealing a passage that shouldn't have existed behind it. This was clearly one of Thomas Wayne's abilities.
Entering it, the two of them began to rise from the lowest world of Hell.
Hell. This was not the land of fire and sulfur that mortals imagined, but a maddening collective made of countless stitched-together dimensions. It was like a child crudely tearing up picture books of different styles and randomly gluing the pieces back together into a new collage. Nearby, the spires of an 18th-century Baroque cathedral were impaled into a futurist metal city.
A floating golden slab connected to an inverted palace, the entrance of which led to a desolate snowy plain. All of Hell was like a 3D maze painted by a madman. Ancient Egyptian pyramids extended into Gothic flying buttresses, linking up to a Mayan-style region. The buildings in every region were slowly squirming, like plasticine being kneaded by an invisible hand. Logic was completely discarded here; only power and will could maintain existence.
The various intersections of Hell were being revealed. Ian wasn't surprised. He had long known that Hell was not a single space, but a massive onion with layers upon layers. Each layer contained different dimensions, rules, suffering, and orders. They passed through scorched earth, a sea of floating wraiths, and distorted mirror cities, finally reaching the Upper Hell—a region closer to the "core of rule" than anywhere else. It was also the territory Ian had been in before he fell.
Near Lucifer's throne. The throne floated in mid-air, surrounded by countless burning halos, as if the entire will of Hell were condensed upon it. However, Thomas did not lead Ian toward the throne but pointed toward a dense, neatly arranged rows of "box houses." These were the confessional houses trapping all human souls.
Those houses were like giant coffins, pitch black, their surfaces carved with ancient runes and seals. Each one was an independent cage, yet also an entrance to another world. Looking inside through the windows, one could see an inverted library where books chained to reading scholars. In a desert, a merchant knelt before a self-replicating contract.
This was what an observer saw. The images presented represented the greatest obsessions in the hearts of the trapped souls, shackling them so they could never leave.
"Your doctor is in box number 0." The suit Thomas Wayne had changed into suddenly seeped cold sweat, screaming faces etching themselves into the fabric. Clearly, this "Hell-brand" suit was terrified.
"No one knows who is in Room 0, but even Lucifer hasn't dared to approach..." Before he could finish, Ian's finger was already on the brass handle of Room 0.
"Click." It was a plain brass handle, as common as an accessory in any human apartment, yet at this moment, it caused Thomas Wayne to make a sound of extreme, nervous swallowing.
The door opened. There was no hellish scenery as expected, no flood of rushing wraiths. Only a light—so soft, so warm, like winter morning sunlight filtering through sheer curtains, gently spilling over the threshold. Dr. Hannibal Lecter sat on a sofa inside, wearing his signature, perfectly pressed suit.
His gaze was as calm as water. He looked as if he were still practicing his old profession. A consultant's notebook was spread across his lap, his fountain pen casting a long, thin shadow on the page. Everything was so normal it was as if he were still living in the human world.
"I think I'm starting to understand everything." Ian hesitated for a moment but stepped inside. He looked at the spot opposite Dr. Hannibal; it was indeed empty of people.
But it wasn't completely empty. In this room, which was almost identical to Hannibal's office, the patient's sofa was filled with a glow—purer and more... vast than the light leaking from the door. It had no fixed form, yet seemed to contain all forms; it made no sound, yet felt like ten thousand orchestras playing in one's head at once.
As Ian stared at it, he saw countless possibilities being born and dying within it—a smiling baby growing into a knife-wielding killer, a bleeding rose blooming into a dove of peace. Even all the brilliance of the universe spun within that light. It had no fixed form, yet inexplicably brought to mind a lazily reclining noblewoman. Amidst the shifting light, an occasional glimpse of a feminine silhouette would emerge.
"So, Madam, are you very dissatisfied with your husband?" The psychiatrist was listening intently to something, his pen scratching across the notebook. He didn't notice the intruder behind him at all.
"He is like a cold stone monument!" The light was also focused on the conversation and didn't notice Ian's arrival. She suddenly fluctuated violently, her voice like ten thousand wind chimes vibrating at once.
"That old fossil has been playing deaf and dumb ever since he invented 'Free Will'! He'd at least say 'Let there be light' when creating the universe, but now he's locked me in a place like this!" The light twisted into a whirlwind of rage.
"Please use 'I feel' statements," Hannibal interrupted gently. "Remember our agreement?"
The light fluctuated reluctantly. "Yes, I feel neglected, so I threw a few tantrums. But he shouldn't have locked me directly in Hell. I only wanted to destroy all of you humans."
"It's his own fault for paying too much attention to you." The light didn't just have a feminine voice; it also carried a woman's specific grievances. The image of a "scorned wife" was felt clearly without being seen.
"Creak—" Ian's leather shoe suddenly stepped on a loose floorboard. Dr. Hannibal turned his head sharply.
"Ian? Ian Kent?" He became somewhat suspicious and uncertain, finding it highly unbelievable. He couldn't understand how his patient from the human world had followed him to this place.
"Pardon me, sorry for the interruption." Seeing he could no longer eavesdrop on the gossip, Ian simply strode forward. "I believe I'm the one who had the appointment first."
Ian had indeed made an appointment with Dr. Hannibal before. He had truly traveled over land and sea to see his psychiatrist. Ian turned toward the glow and offered a professional smile.
"Auntie Goddess, you're sitting in my seat." At this moment, "Omniscient Ian" was back online. He had already recognized what species the glow on the sofa belonged to.
The Primal Light. The first ray of light in the world. Also the wife of God, the mother of Lucifer and the archangels—yes, when it came to fetishes, the likes of Jordan or any human legend were weak. Look at God! He had "done" a beam of light! And had many kids!
Based on that alone, it was understandable why there were so many "free" preferences in the human world. After all, humans came from the Creator, God; the preferences had already run into major problems at the source.
"?????" The silhouette within the light stared at Ian. She seemed stunned by this uninvited guest.
"How can you be here?" Dr. Hannibal also couldn't fathom whether Ian had "checked out" too. Though, from what he knew of Ian, it was perfectly logical for him to end up in Hell.
"That, well... my butler, Wayne, will explain the details to you. Let's leave this place first." Ian didn't dare interact with Lucifer's mom the same way he did with the Darkness. This Goddess was truly in her menopause.
One had to know that humans were God's proudest creation, which proved He endowed them with everything He could. Therefore, wouldn't human menopause be a replica of the physiological state He observed in His own wife? Precisely because of this, it wasn't that the Goddess was too "human-like," but rather the Goddess's menopausal state existed first, so humans had it too.
"Miss Misha is worried sick, and so am I. Let's go back to the living world first. I have many symptoms to discuss with you, Doctor. I'll find a handsome corpse for you when we get back."
As he spoke, Ian tried to lead Dr. Hannibal away while the Goddess wasn't looking. However, just as he had pulled Dr. Hannibal from the chair and pushed him out the door... Ian himself hadn't even stepped halfway out.
"Slam!" The door closed suddenly. Lucifer's mom had snapped out of it.
"Auntie? Who are you calling Auntie?" The light instantly contracted into a dense point, its brightness increasing to a level that could sear retinas. Every shadow in the consulting room was evicted. Even the stuffed mouse in the corner showed its skeleton under the intense light.
When Ian turned around, he found the light had condensed into a three-meter-tall humanoid silhouette. Countless light particles swirled violently around her, like a solar prominence about to erupt.
"Human, how did you get in?" The Goddess of Light's voice was now clearly audible—a mature mezzo-soprano with a "high-society" accent, but every syllable was sharp as breaking glass.
"I just opened the door and walked in." Ian pointed behind him, quickly acting as "Honest Ian." The light humanoid visibly wavered, as if the answer exceeded her comprehension.
"I did not agree to let you in! So, how dare you enter?" The Goddess's volume made the books on the shelves shake violently, then burst into flames one after another. Her light was much stronger than Ian's. Ultra-submission.
"Wait, the world is so beautiful; Auntie Goddess, don't be so hot-tempered." Ian raised his hands in surrender, attempting to soothe her. His sweat was truly dripping.
"Do not call me Auntie! You wretched human! You crude creation!" Menopause confirmed. A lash of light struck the ground near Ian's feet, immediately creating a molten trench in the floor.
Ian's eyebrows were singed by the heat, but he took a step forward instead, a plan already forming. Dealing with a Goddess like this required not showing too much cowardice.
"Lucifer and I are like brothers. His mother is my Auntie. It's perfectly logical." Ian spoke righteously, using his "Networking Entanglement" skill once again.
The effect was outstanding. The light suddenly went still. But this stillness was more terrifying than the previous rage, like the absolute calm the second before a supernova.
"Lucifer sent you here? He intended for you to replace Mazikeen in torturing me?" The Goddess's light form contracted to a normal human size, its brightness dropping to the gentle level of a candle flame.
Her voice suddenly became soft as a feather, yet held a chill that made one's spine tingle—this Goddess's lethality was probably higher now than when she was enraged.
"Of course not. Lucifer didn't say anything to me, but communication between 'bros' is wordless. Just because he didn't say it doesn't mean I can't grasp his meaning."
"Dr. Hannibal is just okay; I charge more. So, according to the Super Equation, my medical skill is naturally higher. He wanted me to come and 'care' for you secretly." Ian didn't know why they had grabbed Dr. Hannibal, but he knew his best identity right now was a "mental health expert." Lucifer loved seeing psychiatrists. His mom likely had the same latent hobby.
"Care?" The Goddess let out a cold laugh. The sound caused all the glassware in the room to develop spider-web cracks. These were manifestations of her will, clearly showing the Goddess's emotions had reached a breaking point.
She raised her hand to manifest a gem-encrusted calendar, which was densely marked with red crosses. "This so-called 'care' is sending demons every few days to 'punish' me?"
Ian's peripheral vision caught sight of several charred demon skeletons piled in the corner. Judging by the uniforms, they were the elite of Lucifer's personal guard. To be honest, Ian really didn't want to become one of them. He hadn't felt malice from the Darkness, but this Goddess was different.
"That was all for a reason." Ian squeezed out a distorted smile, winking his right eye frantically. He swallowed hard, the sound of his Adam's apple bobbing exceptionally loud in the silence. "Yes, for a reason. I don't dare say much about the reason." Ian didn't dare speak ill of God either; he could only wink like crazy. Fortunately, Lucifer's mom was as smart as him.
The Goddess frowned and began to hesitate. "He's doing it for his father to see? He still hopes for his father's forgiveness?" Lucifer's mom started off thinking reasonably, but she was about to veer in a dangerous direction again. Ian's temples throbbed. This question was like tap-dancing in a minefield; one wrong step would trigger a dual sanction from Heaven and Hell.
Family conflicts were truly hard to mediate. Even someone as clever as Ian found it difficult. He took a deep breath and decided on a risky move.
"I am the best psychological expert in the world. Lucifer brought me to Hell but didn't take me to Heaven. Isn't it obvious who carries more weight in his heart?" Ian answered with a non-answer, offering a frantic implication that could be interpreted in many ways. He was a man who had truly mastered the art of language. He was at the level of a high-ranking civil servant from a top province.
This cunning false proposition sent the Goddess into deep thought. The light ebbed and flowed like a tide, at times showing the kind silhouette of a noblewoman, at others the delicate lines of a young girl. Ian took the chance to wipe the sweat from his forehead, only to find the beads had already evaporated—he had been active for five or six "two-and-a-half-year" periods, but this was the first time he had encountered such a thorny situation.
"Interesting..." The Goddess's attitude softened suddenly. She reached out a glowing hand to lift Ian's chin, her fingers of light leaving fluorescent fingerprints on his skin. "You are much more interesting than those demons who only know how to scream." According to what he knew from the show *Lucifer*, this Goddess's mental state was much worse than Lucifer's. Heaven knew what she was thinking right now.
"Are you lying to me?" Lucifer's mom's voice suddenly turned gentle. The halo condensed into a pair of near-solid eyes, staring straight at Ian. The gaze felt as if it could pierce his soul, making Ian's hair stand on end.
Ian's Adam's apple bobbed, but he kept that harmless smile on his face. "You are so smart; if I were lying, you would surely notice, wouldn't you?" As he spoke, he sat in Dr. Hannibal's previous seat, his fingers lightly tapping the armrest as if he truly were just a substitute psychiatrist. Not a warrior who had stumbled into a divine seal.
"Hmm?" Lucifer's mom's halo flickered slightly as if considering his words.
Ian struck while the iron was hot, blinking his eyes with a sincere tone. "To be honest, since I started, I've had no bad reviews. If you don't try me out, how will you know I'm not the better choice?" His expression was so earnest. It was as if he truly believed he could be better at soothing a Primordial Goddess than Hannibal Lecter—a man with the genius to switch seamlessly between a cannibal and a top psychiatrist.
Lucifer's mom's halo fluctuated; she clearly wasn't completely convinced. "If you're truly that good, why did you have an appointment with that... what's-his-name doctor?" Even if she had a use for humans, she looked down on them. After all, humans were the culprits who led to her being locked here, and she had looked down on this "proudest creation" of God's since their inception.
Evidently, the marital conflict of the Creator Goddess was similar to most human marital conflicts; the cracks originated from one party not understanding the other's personal hobbies.
"A true master always has the heart of an apprentice," Ian replied without batting an eye. He spread his hands, his tone relaxed, even carrying a hint of genuine pride. "If I don't learn about my peers, how will I know I've already surpassed them?" His confidence was like a supernatural phenomenon; even Lucifer's mom was stunned.
The halo of the Creator Goddess contracted slightly as if re-evaluating the human before her. "There is indeed something unusual about you... yes, very different." She narrowed her eyes of light, giving Ian a meaningful look.
"So, can you calm my anger?" The Creator Goddess sat back on the sofa; she was willing to give Ian a chance because of his uniqueness. After all, that still-immature power reminded her of the ages before the universe was born. Perhaps this was a plot by God, but she felt she needed to think about it.
Seeing the Goddess was no longer violent, Ian immediately entered his role, his expression serious. "No, no one can calm your anger; only you can conquer it." As he spoke, the boy pulled a book from his robe and began flipping through it with a scholarly air.
"What are you looking at?" The Goddess's gaze fell on the book.
"That's not important. What's important is you; I only care about your situation." Ian offered a small smile, not even bothering to hide the title: *The Parenting Bible: How to Deal with Rebellious Children*. Just as he expected, the Goddess despised humans and never paid attention to human writing. She wouldn't deign to recognize human script. She was the first light of Creation, an omniscient being—why would she pay attention to the things owned by her most hated creations? Simply put, because of her disdain for learning, the Creator Goddess was an omniscient-level illiterate. She didn't even give the title a second glance.
"You're right. My situation is the most important; my heart is filled with endless rage." The Goddess was clearly drawn in by Ian's voice and didn't investigate the book in his hands. The doctor before had something similar; perhaps humans just liked spreading books on their laps.
"You mentioned earlier that you felt neglected?" Ian's fingers lightly tapped the armrest, his face wearing that specific "I completely understand you" expression of a professional psychiatrist. He asked in a gentle, guiding tone, using the things he had eavesdropped on while quietly turning the book to the chapter on "Handling Separation Anxiety."
"I can understand how you feel. Being neglected naturally causes anger. It's like a fire, like a storm; it needs an outlet... Don't hide it. If you have grievances, you must vent them. And I am willing to be your listener."
Ian began his first official session of unlicensed medical practice. "Don't hide it; if you have grievances, vent them." Ian's voice was as soft as if he were coaxing a throwing-a-fit child. He sat with his hands folded on his lap, leaning forward slightly—the "Active Listening Posture" emphasized on page 37 of *The Parenting Bible*.
At this, Lucifer's mom's halo trembled slightly. Like a candle flame in the wind. She seemed truly moved. The halo suddenly expanded, and the temperature in the consulting room rose sharply. Sweat beaded on Ian's forehead. But he maintained his professional smile. Fortunately, the Goddess's halo slowly stabilized, condensing back into a clearer humanoid silhouette. Ian gave himself a mental thumbs-up—using a parenting book on the Creator Goddess was outstanding. It was now obvious who Lucifer took after.
"It seems you have some skill. You didn't advise me to endure or to understand that bastard." There was a rare note of praise in the Goddess's voice, as if she had finally found true understanding.
"We shouldn't slight ourselves, should we? Who's right and who's wrong doesn't matter. What matters is that you felt neglected, so you naturally have the right to express your dissatisfaction." Ian offered a gentle smile. He flipped to the page on "Positive Reinforcement," and the halo fluctuated with pleasure like a petted cat. The boy struck while the iron was hot.
"Give him a taste of his own medicine! Auntie, your husband neglected you because he liked humans, so I suggest you find a new hobby and neglect him. Transfer your attention..." Ian continued to practice medicine strictly according to the knowledge he had learned. His words were met with strong agreement from the Creator Goddess.
"A taste of his own medicine! You're right!" The Creator Goddess's voice sounded very excited, repeating the same phrase over and over.
"Wait, that's not what I meant—" Ian's smile froze on his face. He clearly said "find a hobby"; how did it turn into a declaration of revenge in the Goddess's ears?
"I know exactly what you mean!" The Goddess looked at Ian with a strange gaze.
"Hiss—" A bizarre sound of air being sucked in echoed through the room.
The next moment, Ian found himself blinking, and without warning, he had vanished from the room. When he came to his senses, he was standing outside the house where the Goddess was imprisoned.
"Damn it! Give that doctor back to me!" The Goddess's roar came from inside the house, shaking the ground. "You won't even spare a single human for me?!"
At this moment, the cold wind of Hell blew across Ian's sweat-soaked back. The sulfurous air had never felt so fresh. Ian reacted quickly, pulling a roll of A4 paper from his pocket. It was densely covered in neat print, about 20,000 words in total. This was a standardized apology letter he had prepared in advance, specifically for such emergencies.
"Amen!" Ian crouched down and burned the paper. In the firelight, the ordinary words on ordinary paper turned into golden streams of light shooting into the sky.
Thomas Wayne and Hannibal were still standing there dazed. Ian grabbed them both, one in each hand.
"Wait, what happened—" Thomas didn't finish before being interrupted by Ian. He was running very fast and very frantically.
"Run! There are real 'dirty things' in there! Hell is too dangerous! I need to get back to the human world right now!" Ian shouted as he ran, starting to apologize to God frantically in a pious voice. However, after muttering a few sentences, he sadly realized his vocabulary was even poorer than the Tauren demon's.
"So you don't want New Gotham anymore?" Thomas frowned, his "Bat-family-style" suspicion instantly kicking in. "You're not going to go back on your word, are you?" You couldn't blame the Overlord of Gotham for being suspicious; he was too familiar with this kind of Ian-style capitalism.
"It's the New Land of Light! I want it, of course I want it! You go back and help me renovate first; I have a brilliant plan for this city." Ian wrote a business proposal while running. The cover read *The Five-Year Development Plan for the New Land of Light*, with a small note at the bottom: "Note: Final interpretation rights belong to Ian Kent."
"You call this city planning?" Thomas looked at the contents. Even though he had prepared himself, his voice was still shaking a bit.
"Where's the Hellcat?" Ian interrupted, his eyes scanning the surroundings. "Find my car first!" Thomas sighed and turned down a small path emitting sulfur steam. At the end of the road was a neon sign that read "Pet Paradise," with "and Demon Tech Experimental Center" written in smaller letters.
The moment the garage door opened, a dark shadow lunged at Ian. "Meow-ow—!" The Hellcat's cry was the sound of tires screeching on the ground.
"Hey, old partner." Ian walked over with a smile, crouched down, and gently patted the front of the Hellcat. "Did you miss me?" He was glad his "Mount Number Three" had been recovered. The Hellcat rubbed against his hand and purred like it was acting spoiled, its lights glowing like cat eyes.
"Alright, alright, let's go home." Ian popped the trunk—and conveniently stuffed Hannibal inside. The interior was silent. Dr. Hannibal Lecter adjusted his rumpled tie and asked calmly through the gap in the trunk: "Is this your attempt to retaliate because my usual treatment methods are too aggressive?"
"Sorry! Professional habit!" Ian quickly opened the rear car door. "The psychiatrist should sit in the back." He invited Dr. Hannibal inside and prepared to set off immediately. Because of the issues he had sensed earlier, he didn't want to stay in this cursed place for a second longer.
"Why the hurry?" Thomas leaned against the car door, his eyes narrowing. "Who exactly is in there?" He was still curious about what had scared Ian.
"You don't want to know..." Ian jumped onto the roof, the Hellcat's engine immediately giving an excited roar. "Don't go near there again; there's a real super-maniac inside." The Hellcat's tires left four burning tracks on the ground. It charged toward the upper dimensions like an arrow.
When they reached the exit of Hell, Ian slammed on the brakes. His bovine servant Bar was floating in mid-air, facing a demon at least three stories tall. The Hellcat's high beams illuminated the crown set with gems of lies on the opponent's head.
"So, Lucifer has a crush on your master too?" The voice of Belial, the Prince of Lies, was full of disbelief. Bar nodded honestly—every word it said was the truth, which was precisely the best way to gain the trust of the Prince of Lies.
"Let's go! Fast!" Ian did a tail-flick drift, lowering the window to scoop up the demon head. Just as the Hellcat was about to charge through the dimensional gate, Belial suddenly dropped to one knee and shouted frantically.
"Ultra Emperor Ian God! Take me in! I'm very good at intel and espionage; the Kents definitely need their own CIA!" Heaven knows what the demon head had said. He was frantically swearing fealty. Those words spoke right to Ian's heart.
The Hellcat screeched to a halt at the edge of the dimensional rift. "Get in; keep the doctor company." Ian, having reversed, threw a [Labor Contract]. Belial, who already knew from the demon head that this was the same brand used for archangels, signed his true name without a second thought. Seeing the door open, the Prince of Lies consciously shrank himself to the size of a Chihuahua and scrambled inside. He was excited, firmly believing he hadn't boarded a "pirate ship" but a flight to a new era.
"Buckle up." Ian slapped the roof of the Hellcat. "We're going to speed!" The Hellcat broke through layers of dimensional barriers, racing toward the human world. The ticket-coin worked again. Light appeared ahead, and Ian charged back to the human world like he was fleeing for his life.
He couldn't help it. The clever Ian had realized that the power of *The Parenting Bible* had been somewhat abnormal; that psychopathic Creator Goddess wanted more than just to "have a crush" on him—the gates of Hell closed slowly behind them as Ian, riding the Hellcat, burst through the rift like a shooting star and re-entered the living world.
The night wind howled. Ian took a deep breath, feeling the familiar air. With the screech of brakes, he stopped in front of the Murder House. The Hellcat's green cat-eye headlights illuminated the blood-written words on the dilapidated walls, making them even more eerie.
The ghosts in the Murder House instantly went into an uproar. Blood handprints scurried on the walls, the chandeliers swung without wind, and screams echoed from the basement—the souls trapped there were trembling. They felt something even more terrifying than Hell: a genuine Prince of Hell was curled up in the back seat of that car.
That was the true body! How could it enter the human world so easily?! The souls were terrified, screaming about the arrival of the Apocalypse.
"Quiet!" Ian, experiencing huge emotional fluctuations, impatiently honked the horn. The Hellcat gave an ear-splitting engine roar, and the entire house went silent.
"Oh, the human world; the air is full of the scent of lies." Finding that his power was merely suppressed by human rules but not rejected, the Prince of Lies reaffirmed his choice. He wagged his tail like a real Chihuahua. Dr. Hannibal Lecter's face was pale; he was, after all, just a mortal sitting next to a Great Demon of Hell.
"Where are we going?" Hannibal tried to remain calm, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
"Back to my house first. I need to find my big brother to help me pray and communicate..." Ian started the Hellcat again. It seemed to have unlocked a new ability in Hell. It dove directly into space, achieving something like warp-speed flight, bringing Ian to his doorstep in the blink of an eye.
Sometimes things were just that coincidental. Ian's words were cut short. "Boom—" On the horizon, a familiar mushroom cloud was slowly rising.
The brand-new home had exploded. It exploded right in front of Ian.
"This definitely wasn't me! I just got back!" Ian froze. Sweat slid down his nose. How should he put it? He couldn't even pretend. That perfect arc, that precise yield, that perfectly timed explosion... it truly looked like a professional warning.
The Hellcat's stereo automatically played *Homeless*, incredibly mournful. Seeing the stunned old man flying in from the horizon, Ian instinctively turned to flee. The result was obvious. He was caught by the "scruff of the neck" once again.
"It wasn't me! Truly!" Ian tried to defend himself. But his reputation was too outstanding.
"Jonathan and Jordan aren't home, Ian. There's no one else here. Did you blow up our new house on purpose because you wanted to bring out that big house of yours?" Superman's voice was tinged with gritted teeth. He hadn't seen, heard, or sensed anything... the answer was probably obvious. Ian suspected the explosion was the work of certain entities in the shadows. But he didn't dare have evidence.
...
In Hell's box-houses, the lights were bright but the silence was absolute. Every confessional room had its door shut tight, like countless coffins arranged in the void. Suddenly, a shadow condensed before one of the doors and seeped in soundlessly.
Inside, Lucifer's mom's halo flickered slightly. She was facing Hell's loop—that eternal moment of betrayal. The imps around her mimicked the appearance of archangels, mechanically repeating the same phrase: "You are exiled."
She had experienced this loop for countless years. Everyone in Hell knew that those here would constantly repeat the moment they least wanted to revisit. For Lucifer's mom, that moment was being exiled from Heaven. Seeing the imps disguised as angels and God, about to continue this endless cycle, the Creator Goddess was unmoved.
"Get lost!" Her halo flared, the blinding light forcing the imps to retreat. "Your acting is terrible!" She could clearly see their true nature and wasn't tortured by the repetition, though she felt a different kind of discomfort because of it.
"Uh..." The imps looked at each other, not daring to be as arrogant as they were with ordinary people. One of them spoke timidly: "Oh, Your Highness, but the King's orders are hard to disobey..." Their King was, of course, Lucifer. He had a love-hate relationship with his mother and constantly used these imps to bother her.
"Then pretend I'm still there!" the Creator Goddess snapped. Her words were divine decrees. The imps knew how to be "Hell-civil servants," so they immediately began performing to the air. All the imps disguised as archangels and God began mechanically reciting their lines to the empty space: "You are exiled... you are exiled..." This "slack-off" level was quite high.
The Goddess's halo dimmed. She floated into a corner, her thoughts racing. "'A taste of his own medicine'... that's a good idea." She was still thinking when she noticed a faint sound at the door of her prison.
"Click." The seal loosened? The Goddess felt something unusual. She flew to the door and found that the shackles that had bound her for ten million years had actually been unlocked.
"Ian Kent... it must be that doctor. He knew that to cure my mental exhaustion, he had to let me out." Her halo trembled slightly, and her tone carried a trace of gratitude. Less contempt.
The next second, the Creator Goddess charged out without hesitation. She turned into a stream of light and shot straight for the human world.
...
In a hospital intensive care unit, a dying old man suddenly opened his eyes. "Ian Kent!" He (she?) sat up abruptly, his voice loud and booming, not like a dying person at all. Doctors and nurses retreated in terror as the old man ripped off his breathing tube, hopped out of bed, and sprinted down the hallway.
"Ian Kent?!" Ten minutes later, a runaway ambulance hit him (her?).
A few minutes after that, a motorcyclist who had been sent flying opened his eyes mid-air. "Ian Kent! Do any of you know who Ian Kent is?!" He (she?) adjusted his posture in mid-air, landed steadily, and began to sprint. Before the words finished, a runaway tanker truck crushed him. This was another failed attempt to possess a human.
Then, not far away, in Los Angeles's worst bar, neon lights buzzed and the scent of cheap whiskey mixed with blood fermented in the air. A drunken woman suddenly stood on the bar, her eyes bursting with blinding light.
Constantine had half a cigarette in his mouth, his fingers tapping an unlucky rhythm on the bar. The collar of his trench coat was turned up as if he were ready to flee something terrible at any moment—usually a safe bet. In the corner, a woman who should have been dead for three hours suddenly opened her eyes.
"Ian Kent!" Her voice echoed through the club. "I know you're in the human world!" The woman's scream was like glass shards scraping against everyone's eardrums. Everyone stared at her as if she were a madwoman.
At the shout, Constantine's cigarette fell into his whiskey with a mournful hiss. His fingers froze in mid-air, his spine feeling as if liquid nitrogen had been poured down it. There wasn't a trace of emotion; it was pure stress response.
The Creator Goddess flexed the wrists of her new body, a faint golden light showing through the foul-smelling skin. She looked around, her gaze like a searchlight sweeping across every shivering drunk. Finally, she keenly locked onto the man in the trench coat—who was trying to hide his face with a newspaper. Unfortunately, the photo of the Joker laughing on the front page of the *Gotham Gazette* wasn't exactly low-profile.
"Constantine, do you know Ian Kent?" The Goddess's voice appeared in Constantine's ear. He looked up to see the woman who should be dead standing before him. Her essence made him tremble with fear. Constantine's Adam's apple bobbed. Through the gap in the newspaper, he saw curiosity dancing in the eyes of the walking corpse.
"Uh..." As a bastard who constantly moved between Heaven and Hell, he immediately recognized what level of disaster this was—the kind that would make Satan rewrite Hell's fire safety protocols overnight.
"What... what do you want with Ian Kent?" He slowly lowered the newspaper, showing the perfect smile of a professional liar. He didn't dare use any magical means right now. He just wanted to test the situation.
"He did me a big favor; I must reward him." Where the fingers of the corpse touched, golden flowers bloomed on the mold of the bar. Constantine's brain moved at a speed bordering on explosion. Hearing this, he immediately knew what to say.
"That saint! Brave! Decisive! A moral paragon!" Constantine recalled the first time he met Ian, when the mortal boy dared to steal their car. Wasn't that brave and decisive? Evidently, the Hellblazer had also mastered the art of being "honest."
Recalling how he went to sell the car and was chased by Ian, looking pathetic, he spoke of Ian's "warm enthusiasm." He mentioned how he was left hanging, and Ian's lackeys and tag-alongs did nothing to help, only leaving him with a pair of underwear. He concluded that even Ian's friends were "eager to help."
It was all the truth. The Goddess's eyes lit up as if she were hearing a moving story.
"I see. It's no wonder he has these qualities if he's willing to take such risks to help me. It seems all the rare kindness and beauty left in humanity is contained within him alone." She believed Constantine's assessment.
Constantine was about to breathe a sigh of relief. He wanted to ask more. However, "Crack—" The chandelier on the ceiling fell without warning. "Bang!" By the time Constantine crawled out from the pile of broken glass, the corpse was a real corpse again. The bar was so quiet he could hear the ink leaking from the pen in his pocket.
"Oh... God. What did that boy get himself into?" He tremblingly lit a new cigarette, suddenly noticing all the patrons huddling in corners, looking at him as if he were a harbinger of plague. Even Old Jack, usually blackout drunk, was holding up a crucifix.
The bartender silently pushed over a glass of milk. "It's on the house. Don't come back."
"I have to run. I have to run to another planet. Who knows how to get to a parallel universe? Damn it, that probably won't help!" Constantine stared at his pathetic reflection in the milk, suddenly very, very much wanting to call Ian Kent—he really wanted to know how many gallbladders the boy had to be that brave.
...
In the underground labs of LexCorp, the blue flames of the incinerator gave a low roar. Two staff members in hazmat suits were pushing today's failed experimental subjects inside.
"Number 47 failed again?" The young assistant looked at the humanoid creature on the cart. The old employee, cigarette in mouth, waved him off: "Burn it. The boss said all these Kryptonian gene-modded bodies are to be—"
The "corpse" on the cart opened its eyes. "Ian Kent!" It sat up, its rotted vocal cords giving a high-frequency scream. Its eyeballs melted rapidly in the heat, yet it accurately grabbed the young assistant's face shield.
"It's alive!—" The young assistant turned pale with shock. The old employee reacted quickly, kicking the cart. The metal cart slid into the incinerator. As the door closed, they could still hear muffled shouting from inside. "Ian Kent! I know you're—"
The incineration process started, 3000-degree heat turning everything to smoke. The assistant collapsed on the floor: "What... what was that?! Who is Ian Kent?"
The old employee took a long drag of his cigarette: "Listen kid, even though the boss has been missing for a few days... there are taboos you need to know." He lowered his voice. "If you want to get paid this week, never mention the name 'Kent' in our group. It'll make any boss who hears it make you disappear."
This scared the young employee. Just then, a "thud" came from the ventilation duct. They froze, looking up to see the vent cover vibrating rhythmically, as if something were crawling from the depths of the duct. They could faintly hear... "...Kent... Ian... Kent..."
The old employee dropped his cigarette and ran. "Damn it, it's a ghost! A ghost! Leave! I'm taking leave!!" The assistant froze for two seconds, then saw a glowing palm print appear on the incinerator window—he also fled in terror.
Inside the lab, after the body was completely destroyed, the Creator Goddess lost her vessel once more. Meanwhile, the invisible light flowed toward a new body.
...
In a wasteland factory in East Metropolis, gunfire popped like popcorn. One gang was having a "friendly exchange" with another. Suddenly, the gunfire stopped. "Hell..." a bald man with a skull tattoo pointed at a corner. "Boss... is that the traitor we just killed?"
The corpse, whose head should have been blown open, sat up slowly. Bullets clattered out of the hole in her temple like a jackpot from a slot machine. The Goddess flexed her new jaw, the broken bone clicking back into place. She looked around and locked onto a figure humming a song—
"Candied haws~ candied haws~ one bullet, one string~" A witch in a purple cloak was using magic to hang gang members one by one from lamp posts. She looked like she was selling "human meat candied haws." She hummed happily after hanging each one.
"You." The Goddess's voice made the hearts of the three nearest gang members stop instantly. "Diviner?"
The witch stopped humming and turned slowly to see a corpse with half its head rotted away floating toward her. "Technically I'm a witch, but I do divinations... I bought a lot of books." Her wand pointed at the corpse's chest. "Madam? Are you sure you don't need an ambulance?" She was brave and had seen much.
"I'm looking for Ian Kent. Divining his location." She was issuing a command. The witch frowned, instantly alert. "Why is a corpse like you looking for Ian Kent?" The witch leaned back warily.
"I want to thank him for releasing me. He did me a big favor." It was a sincere expression, though the tone was aloof.
The witch's expression changed from alert to understanding. "Oh—you should have said so! Ian is like that, he loves helping strangers." She pointed toward a distant smoking mushroom cloud. "He lives over there. The one whose house blows up every day. We call it the 'Kent-brand Chimney.' He likes lighting 'mushrooms' at home. Sadly, he won't let me join in."
"Good. You are friendly." The Goddess turned to leave, then floated back. Her healed face moved close to the witch. "You are human, right? A human woman?"
"The real deal?" The witch didn't know why she sounded so unsure. She felt immense pressure.
"Do you know the best way to get revenge on someone?" the Goddess asked.
"Depends on the person..." the witch replied.
"For example, my unfaithful husband," the Goddess gritted her teeth.
The witch's eyes lit up. She grabbed the Goddess's wrist. "Sister! I know this one!" She sounded like she was having a girl-talk night. "You sleep with the person he cheated with! I haven't tried it yet, but it's a guaranteed success!"
The "Green Tea" nature of the witch surfaced again; she was excited.
"Hmm, you seem to be an intelligent human." The Goddess hesitated, then patted the witch's head like she was soothing a cat. She turned to leave.
"BOOM!!!" A Boeing 747 veered off course and slammed precisely into the Creator Goddess. The shockwave sent the witch flying twenty meters. When she got up, she only saw a struggling arm sticking out of the wreckage. But soon, it stopped moving. The Goddess was unharmed, but she had become a vegetative state.
...
In Los Angeles, the news was scrolling: "Strange deaths across Metropolis, NY, and LA! All victims shouted 'Ian Kent' before dying!"
Lucifer sat at the bar, staring at the screen. "Oh! No!" He covered his eyes. He was an omniscient being, but he didn't know what happened in that room in Hell to make his mother so obsessed with Ian. This truly made the Demon King overthink.
"That's the seventh one today," the female bartender commented. "Your mom is quite persistent. All of Hell knows she was in the confessional, and now she's out, shouting a man's name..." She smiled meaningfully. "Isn't it obvious?"
Lucifer looked like he had swallowed a lemon. "No, it's not what you think!"
"Don't lie to yourself. He was in Hell for one day. One day. I really want to know what 'ability' he used to make your mom so obsessed?"
"Shut up, Maze!" Lucifer looked up, his eyes crimson. The pressure made the bartender step back.
"Fine, I'll shut up. Doesn't change the fact that someone might be getting a new dad." Maze laughed, taking a photo of the TV. She was probably going to mail the video to every cathedral in the world.
***
Read 30 Chapters early on P-atreon.com/Redestro666