Relativity once told the world: wherever a "Crouching Dragon" exists, a "Fledgling Phoenix" is bound to spawn.
Clearly, Madison was that Fledgling Phoenix. Her way of thinking could no longer be summarized by the phrase "bold as heaven"; it truly gave Ian the feeling of a "beauty that has never tasted death."
"Stop!"
Ian was quick as a flash. He crumpled the note into a ball and shoved it into his mouth, his cheeks bulging like he had transformed into a living blender. As he chewed, he spoke in a muffled, indistinct voice.
"Little brat, you're speaking 'New Era English,' right? What you just said actually meant that we need to love God and donate more money to repair a few churches, right?"
He winked frantically at Madison, but the rebellious girl was busy scribbling and didn't see his desperate will to live. Her response remained enthusiastic.
"No! I said we should overthrow the old churches and build a new religion for you—how about I write the New Bible? Oh, I'll definitely have the chance to be the first Pope!"
As a quintessential blonde girl, Madison's brain was indeed different from normal people's. A normal person's brain has folds, while girls of her type have brains that are perfectly smooth.
"What? You want to organize students to clean the holy icons? What a pious and wonderful idea!" Fine beads of sweat broke out on Ian's forehead. He wished he could sew Madison's mouth shut right now. Perhaps this was "reaping what one sows"; he had been Manipulating Madison daily, and she had finally reached a level of wisdom that surpassed him.
"I'm not talking about God! I'm talking about you! *You!*" Madison bit her pen cap and looked at Ian, who was wiping sweat with a tissue. She handed him her portable mini-fan.
"Gosh, your 'New Era English' is so fluent. You're saying we should 'overthrow' those stale religious rituals? Like burning incense, kneeling, and chanting? That's great; modern people really should simplify the process of faith. You're advocating for a 'spiritual worship' of God, saying we can't just love Him with our mouths, right?"
Ian pretended that the words entering his ears automatically translated into a different meaning.
"No!" Madison remained radiant with passion. She even poked Ian's throbbing temple, as if expecting something magical to pop out of his head.
"I mean physical overthrow! Blow it up! Burn it! Turn the old churches into ruins!" The girl really should have gone to Gotham to study under Harley Quinn for a few semesters. She would certainly have been Harley's star pupil.
"Oh, 'turn into ruins'? So it's a prototype of 'Ruin Worship'? A post-modern religious art? You're guiding people to find the essence of faith in God through ruins. Deep, very deep. But I still think Grade 56 concrete mixed with Italian pasta, using Wayne Industries' steel bars as a side dish, better reflects our culinary pursuits."
Ian couldn't come up with a quick wit, so he had started talking nonsense.
"Look at the totem pole I designed—the top is you stepping on God." Madison pushed her sketchbook toward Ian, who promptly ate the page, washing it down with bottled water.
"Yes, yes, yes! Designing the church gutters in the shape of doves! A very retro beauty; in the Bible, the dove symbolizes the Holy Spirit!" Ian wanted to strangle Madison, but with so many classmates fooling around, he had to maintain his "good student" image.
"I said 'God,' not 'gutter'!" Madison looked in surprise at Ian, who seemed mentally unstable for some reason.
"Yes, yes! God bless you!" Ian pressed his hands together in prayer, his Super-Intelligence doing its best. "You're suggesting we hand out blessing cards at the church!"
Some "Yellow Robes" are truly terrifying to wear. Ian was now deeply empathizing with the likes of fallen emperors and tragic historical figures. He realized who the most "ambitious" person in the classroom was. He had heard of a mother gaining status through her son, but this was the first time he'd seen a seatmate wanting to gain status through Ian.
"I can really contact a reliable stonemason."
"You want to have a tea party with angels? Nice."
"I said blow up the Vatican!"
"A French fry charity sale!?"
"Where are there fries? No, wait... let's talk business. Think about it: believers kneeling! Sacrificing! Singing hymns for you—how majestic! If that doesn't work, we can assassinate—"
"Embroidery! Embroidering new vestments for the hardworking priests! Fine, I'm willing to pay!"
"Ian, we need to hold a coronation ceremony for you."
"Ah! Coronation? You mean the 'rite of responsibility'? It's a symbol of 'duty upon one's shoulders'? You're reminding me that as the son of Superman, I need to take on more social responsibility and be crowned for justice, right? That fits Catholic core values; I should become a moral role model."
...
Clouds drifted past the window. The two were having a conversation at cross-purposes. Madison said her piece, but it didn't affect Ian's "understanding"; he could always take her heaven-defying words and, through the excuse of "New Era English," translate them into meanings like "respecting God" or "building statues for God."
Madison persisted. Because final exams were approaching, she had actually read a history book recently and knew that this "he-declines-while-she-insists" segment was a necessary part of the process.
Madison felt she and Ian were collaborating perfectly.
However, little did she know that Ian's CPU was severely overloaded from trying to save the situation; it was practically smoking. At that moment, the school bell rang sharply, serving as a lifesaver.
The history teacher walked into the classroom clutching his lesson plan.
The moment he pushed the door open, the rising tide of whispers in the room hit the pause button. Madison regretfully stuffed the note titled "Steps to Blow Up the Vatican" back into her pencil case. Ian took the opportunity to swallow the three notes he was holding—resulting in an ink-flavored burp.
For normal middle school students, the teacher's authority still held weight.
"Class."
The history teacher, wearing a gray suit and gold-rimmed glasses, cleared his throat. His voice was low and magnetic. "Today, we are discussing—the origins of World War II."
The room was silent. Only the sound of chalk making its first mark on the blackboard echoed.
The chalk screeched across the board, writing "Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, 1939" in large letters. Ian stared at the photo of Stalin and Hitler shaking hands in his textbook. His brow furrowed involuntarily.
The textbook used two whole paragraphs to describe how the treaty "broke the European strategic balance," but only mentioned the specific date of Germany's blitzkrieg on Poland in a tiny footnote. Truly American.
"On August 23, 1939, the Soviet Union and Nazi Germany signed the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact..." The teacher explained according to the text. "On December 7, 1941, Pearl Harbor was attacked, and the United States officially entered the war, injecting powerful strength into the anti-fascist alliance. It's fair to say that without U.S. participation, the outcome might have been entirely different. In fact, the righteous United States didn't want to join the war, but..."
During the lecture, Madison tried to pass more notes to Ian, but Ian didn't even look; he just ate them all. His proficiency was so high it was almost heartbreaking.
The history teacher paced to the center of the room, his leather shoes tapping a hypnotic rhythm on the floor.
"As President Roosevelt said, the kind-hearted United States was forced into the war." His shadow stretched longer in the sunlight. When he walked past the large sign prepared for Christmas in the back, his stiff, upright back changed.
It transformed into the back of a silver-haired old man.
Wrinkles emerged on the man's face like scars left by time.
Simultaneously.
Time in the classroom froze as if it had become an oil painting. Madison's ballpoint pen tip hovered three millimeters above the paper; a tiny black dot of ink remained suspended in mid-air.
Outside, a sparrow was frozen at the moment of takeoff, every feather on its spread wings clearly visible. Ian could even see flakes of dandruff suspended between the hair strands of the student in the front row.
Like snowflakes on a pause button. Chalk dust hovered in the air, unfallen dust solidified in the light, and on the playground outside—where the PE teacher wasn't "sick"—students running were frozen in mid-stride.
"She draws quite well."
When the aged voice sounded in his ear, it was as gentle as an autumn breeze.
However, Ian's spine stiffened inch by inch. The old man who had suddenly appeared in the classroom was standing between him and Madison. A wrinkled finger was lightly tapping Madison's "New Church Design"—right next to the Vatican demolition point circled in red ink, where a smiley-faced Ian had been drawn.
"..."
Ian's neck made a rusty, mechanical "creak" as he slowly turned toward the source of the voice. His movements were as stiff as a robot just learning to mimic human expressions.
He had never been this constrained. Even facing the King of Hell, the Prince of Lies, or the Goddess of Creation, he could talk and laugh freely. But now, facing this seemingly ordinary old man, he couldn't remain calm at all.
Yes, the old man looked unremarkable. He wore a faded linen robe, and his silver-white beard reached his chest, each strand shimmering with stardust-like light at the tip. He looked like an ordinary rural pastor—if you ignored those deep eyes.
In those gray-blue pupils, Ian felt he could see the beginning and end of the universe—and, of course, the beginning or end of his own life.
"..."
Ian looked at the old man with eyes full of terror. He wanted to speak, but his throat seemed to have a mind of its own. The entire classroom remained deathly silent.
"Actually, you don't need to be so nervous."
The old man smiled softly, picking up Madison's sketchbook to browse. The pages made a soft rustling sound as he turned them. "In your heart, do I really have such a petty personality?"
This was likely a life-or-death question.
"No, of course not!" Ian's voice suddenly returned, accompanied by a suspicious swallowing sound. "I'm crying tears of joy; these are all my excited tears."
He wiped his "streaming" face, the sweat he flicked away solidifying into tiny crystals in the air. The old man just looked at his performance with a half-smile.
"It's like this, I was completely dragged into this involuntarily—" Realizing who he was facing, Ian was more restrained and guilty than ever before. He switched into "frantic explanation" mode.
But the other party raised a hand to interrupt him.
"You can actually relax a bit. I won't take my anger out on you. This is all my own fault; I messed things up." The old man spoke in a gentle voice.
Ian didn't dare believe it.
"You are burdened with a myriad of affairs, and your family doesn't understand your pains, but I understand completely—" Ian hurried to suck up. He was glad he knew how to flatter.
However, before he could finish, the old man interrupted him again.
"Are you trying to be a 'Green Tea'? Pretending to be understanding, and then talking to me about how we can have a 'family' bond?" the old man asked suddenly, his tone like he was discussing the weather. He perhaps truly understood Ian and had predicted his move, stopping it before it happened.
Ian gave a sheepish laugh. He felt guilty for being seen through.
"I wouldn't dare, I wouldn't dare. I just want you to know that I am actually just a helpful Ian. I'm different from Napoleon, or the French philosopher Sartre, or Zeus."
Ian weighed things for a long time but didn't use the brave Madison as a shield. The public relations skills he learned from the entertainment industry ultimately lost their place because of his conscience.
"I am certainly willing to pretend to believe you." The old man chuckled, and the temperature in the classroom rose a few degrees. The ink droplets suspended in the air began to fall slowly.
But time remained strangely frozen.
"Oh, by the way, that book... is it useful?" His gaze swept across the half of the Childcare Bible sticking out of Ian's pocket. The title "Guide to Dealing with Rebellious Children" was particularly eye-catching.
"It's... quite useful," Ian replied dryly.
"Then I'll go buy a copy when I go out."
The old man talked to Ian as if they were chatting about family matters. So, Ian cautiously tested the waters.
"So... are we cool now?"
As he spoke, he watched the old man's expression. The old man gave him a deep look that made Ian feel like his soul was being scanned by X-rays.
"If you're referring to my willful wife, I still hope it's not just 'cool' between us." The old man was blunt, yet spoke with a certain roundabout feeling.
Naturally, because this was a moment of crisis for an animal, Ian's Super-Intelligence ran at full speed, and he immediately understood. He nodded like a chicken pecking at rice, frantically expressing his inner thoughts. "I get it, I get it! My relationship with the Goddess Auntie is strictly a pure doctor-patient relationship! It will never change!"
He truly didn't like older ladies. Much less a genuine "Mafia" wife like this. If we're talking about who can play the dirtiest tricks, any being in the universe would lose to the one standing before him.
"Then we are cool."
The old man remained open about what he cared about. However, beings like them always have some quirks; after saying that, he proceeded to ask Ian a question despite knowing the answer.
"Do you think I'm being petty?"
This sudden question was inevitably another trap. Fortunately, Ian was a cut above the rest and immediately realized the gravity of the situation, shaking his head like a rattle.
"How could I misunderstand you? Everything has its own deep meaning! Just like... just like..." He glanced at the WWII chapter in the history book and used a perhaps appropriate analogy.
"Just like Churchill saying we shall fight on the beaches, while secretly preparing for the Normandy landings!" This was truly a flash of wit; the Super-Intelligence didn't fail Ian's trust.
"Nice flattery."
The old man smiled while stroking his beard, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Actually, I'm not just worried about her wanting revenge. Often, I don't quite understand her thoughts." He sighed, a sound that made the light in the room dim.
Upon hearing this, Ian was stunned. He hadn't expected to hear such human-like confusion from the Creator.
The old man reached out and brushed over the frozen desk. The inverted cross Madison had drawn halfway suddenly turned into a quite legitimate-looking architectural design for the "Ian Cathedral."
"Women are just like that; hard to understand," Ian said quickly, his fingers unconsciously curling the edge of his textbook, the paper making a soft "rustle." This was because of extreme nervousness.
"Then it seems when I created woman, it was very realistic." The old man spoke the true reason why human women were difficult to deal with. His joking comment seemed to reveal an earth-shattering fact. All those strange personalities of human women originated from the blueprint of the Goddess of Creation.
Visible from this, what kind of personality the Goddess of Creation must have. Thinking this way, Ian's gaze toward the old man gained a bit of sympathy. It must be said that in terms of endurance, the inventor of endurance is indeed the strongest. The old man didn't mind Ian's inner mumbling; after a jest, he fell into nostalgia.
"I actually remember the first time I met her..." Sunlight shone through the window onto the old man's silver beard, each strand reflecting a different luster.
Ian's Super-Intelligence immediately entered high-speed mode. He quietly pulled out a notebook and began scribbling on the desk, looking like he had entered "Doctor Ian" mode.
The old man continued to reminisce. "Back then, there was nothing but endless, empty void. Then she appeared... and before long, we created and lit our first universe."
"That was a truly wonderful time. However, happy lives are always short. When she created the first galaxy, she added too much pink. She said it didn't fit celestial aesthetics, so she directly triggered a supernova explosion, turning the planets into a fireworks display."
The old man seemed to be talking to himself, or as if he had finally caught a "laborer" who could listen to his troubles. Ian's mouth twitched, trying to maintain a serious expression. He now knew how the concept of "Marriage is the tomb of love" was born. Everything came from metaphysics, from the rare affairs of the Creator's family.
"Later we had a few children. Our favorite, of course, was Samael—well, Lucifer." The old man's gaze pierced through the walls, looking toward some distant dimension. "She said the Morningstar should shine, so she gave the boy six glowing wings." The old man shook his head helplessly. "And the result? Rebellious adolescence for three trillion years."
Ian really didn't want to hear these things, but he felt a strong sense of déjà vu. It sounded just like how his dad, Clark, often complained to Ian about how he accidentally roasted the Christmas turkey with heat vision when he was a kid. Sure enough, with this kind of nagging vibe, his Superman dad truly had the potential of a God!
"This sounds like you need some family counseling services," Ian blurted out. His mouth was too fast, and he immediately wished he could bite his tongue off.
Unexpectedly, the old man just nodded slightly. "What are you writing?"
He was definitely asking despite knowing.
"Uh... a solution to your family conflict!" Ian slammed the notebook shut and added quickly, "I mean, it's actually a solution for the crisis I'm currently facing too!"
"Oh? Your crisis?" A hint of playfulness flashed in the old man's eyes.
"No," Ian corrected hastily, "Our crisis."
The old man chuckled at those words. God looked at Ian with great interest, but his non-response was a response in itself. He seemed curious, but was actually hinting for Ian to continue.
"My solution is, of course, to have you two reconcile! she loves you, you love her! Now we just need an opportunity. Even without a sweet drink, it should be sweet!" Ian swallowed hard, hesitated, and then continued, "Now we just need an opportunity, and... for you to slightly bow your head."
This was absolutely an audacious statement in the eyes of any believer. The old man didn't confirm or deny, just lightly tapped his finger on the podium, each tap subtly changing the vibration frequency of the atoms in the room. Ian knew this was a signal of permission. Like deciphering Batman's silence, he quickly organized his words.
"Of course, we all know you will always win. You are the true ancestor of the Winning." Ian peeked at the old man's expression. After confirming there were no signs of thunderclouds gathering, he continued. "So, we can take some small preventive measures."
Ian paused again, waiting for a response. However, the old man was the most authentic "riddler"; he naturally wouldn't speak, but the clouds outside began to form a question mark shape.
Only then did Ian dare to continue. "First, you definitely still have feelings for your wife; you just can't quite drop your pride..." As Ian spoke, he used his foot under the desk to kick the "pen of sin" Madison had dropped further away. He was certain it was that pen that brought God to his door.
While silently shifting the blame, Ian didn't stop talking. "So, to prevent losing respect, we can arrange for you to 'lose' your belt." Ian continued to scribble in his notebook with his "pen of kindness."
"Belt?" The old man was slightly taken aback.
"Yes!" Ian became more and more excited, as if a switch had been flipped. As a fellow creator, God listened intently, not interrupting Ian's flow, letting him play to his heart's content.
"You just need to pretend you didn't notice it was missing. This isn't far-fetched. In the East, the house of the Grand Supreme Elderly Lord was emptied and he didn't notice—certainly, you can fail to notice your belt is missing too."
"This belt falls into the mortal realm, and then a mortal finds it—say, just some forty-year-old man, definitely not a brat like me."
"Then, this mortal will be influenced by God's will, becoming gentle and affectionate. He will go dance with the Goddess Auntie, reminisce about the past... and that 'first meeting' line you just said should be included too. However, that later part about supernova explosions and such shouldn't be mentioned at all."
Not just a script, Ian even drew storyboards in his notebook. Many writers actually have a dream of being a director, whether they are five feet tall or not.
The light in the classroom flickered with his description.
"You can express a bit of apology for neglecting her at the ball," Ian spoke as fast as if he were reading the Declaration of Independence. "If my Goddess Auntie accepts, everyone's happy, and the mortal is your incarnation. If she doesn't, then the person who found the belt is just a mortal influenced by divine power."
Ian's consideration was quite thorough. "Do you understand what I mean?" He looked at the old man standing by his desk.
After listening, the old man was silent for a moment.
"If I am not yet so old as to be senile, I wouldn't remember incorrectly—this thing called logic was invented by me." What an authoritative statement. The old man's response was flawless, and he even pointed at the portrait of Einstein on the back wall, as if saying he invented Einstein too.
God's voice was always incredibly gentle. However, his way of speaking always required others to understand the meaning behind it. Ian didn't like playing with such riddlers, but he still had to pretend to be enthusiastic and ask.
"So, what do you think of my plan?" Ian's face still held the enthusiasm of a professional matchmaker. He knew if this deal went through, his status in the field of psychology would undoubtedly become the strongest psychiatrist.
"Heh, the Grand Director of DC, huh?" God looked down at his linen robe, where there was indeed a belt. "Like the example you gave, I might pretend not to notice my belt is lost."
Another response that needed decoding. Ian's temples were throbbing, but he immediately followed up: "Then it's a deal! Give me a little time to prepare!"
"Let's end this farce!" He reached out his hand to the old man, wanting to reach a cooperation, but after thinking of something, he immediately pulled his hand back.
"Are you worried I'll take the opportunity of the handshake to crush you, and then pinch you back to your original shape?" The old man didn't even need eyes to have the ability to see through Ian. Of course, it was mainly because Ian truly had a personality where he couldn't hide things; everything was "written" directly on his face.
"In your heart, am I such a cowardly person?" Ian, whose thoughts were exposed, tried to stay calm.
"What? You say you want to turn into a mouse?" The old man suddenly imitated Ian's "hard of hearing." He raised his finger, scaring Ian so much he quickly used a few classmates he wasn't familiar with as shields.
"You see, do I still need to say it?" The old man didn't actually strike. He looked more like a mischievous old prankster who had succeeded. After letting out an undisguised opinion of Ian, he walked toward the classroom door.
Just as he was about to vanish through the doorframe, the old man suddenly turned back and looked at Ian. Then, he raised his hand, his gaze sweeping over Madison, who was still in time-stasis.
"This interesting girl actually didn't lie to you; she really does know a tight-lipped old stonemason." Seeing Ian about to "cry" through all his skin again, God finally laughed and disappeared at the door. When Ian finished wiping his sweat and wanted to explain, the old man had already vanished into the aura outside the doorframe.
"Class, let's continue with WWII—"
Time resumed its flow. The history teacher's voice suddenly rang out again, as if the conversation just now had never happened. Ian was stunned for a second, then found a line of gold-leafed words on his notebook.
[I left the belt for you in your school locker.]
Just as Ian stared at the handwriting, letting out a silent sigh of relief and feeling lucky to have finally passed a hurdle, Madison, who had also returned to normal, suddenly snapped back to her senses. She looked in confusion at her half-drawn demolition diagram, which had turned into a church architectural design.
"Huh? When did I sign up for an architectural design class?" Perhaps Madison was similar to Detective Kogoro Mouri; she actually thought the blueprint was a talent she displayed while "sleeping."
"Forget your architectural planning; let's talk about something else." Ian silently stuffed the notebook with the script into the innermost layer of his backpack, suddenly missing the days when he only had to deal with aliens—at least then he didn't have to be a marriage counselor for the Creator.
"Huh? Why do you seem to be cheerful again?" Madison bit her pen cap and scrutinized Ian. She could always detect his mood changes immediately.
"I've always been cheerful!" Ian suddenly straightened his back, his voice an octave higher, clearly entering "stubborn" mode. "I'm 'Cheerful Ian' every day!" He pulled an exaggerated smile, the corners of his mouth nearly reaching his ears.
"Secretary Madison, don't wait for tonight. Let's skip class this afternoon! Skip class to give lessons to the angels, and you skip class to find that old stonemason who promised you." Ian changed his mind.
Upon hearing this, Madison's blue eyes instantly shone like real gems. "You finally thought it through? I knew the history books wouldn't lie to me!" She lowered her voice excitedly, tilting her head as her golden ponytail swept over another draft paper full of demolition plans.
"What made you change your mind suddenly?" Madison felt that under a momentary change, Ian looked completely different from before. Ian's gaze unconsciously drifted toward the classroom door—there was still a hint of afterglow there.
"The real Grand Director of DC made me change my mind," he spoke softly.
"What?" Madison looked blank, but soon became excited again. Ian's words were a bit inexplicable to Madison, but she was used to this kind of thing.
"So how do we fool the angels? Think of three hundred plans quickly." Madison always believed in Ian's wisdom; she felt if needed, Ian could come up with three thousand plans.
"Clever Ian has a brilliant plan. I only need to tell the truth, and the angels will believe me." Ian remembered that God had just personally dubbed him the second Grand Director of DC. Rounding it off, the angels would have to work for him for a lifetime.
Morning classes continued. Sunlight from outside shone through the glass onto the desks, and the air was filled with the atmosphere of approaching Christmas. When the bell rang to end class, Lillian in the front row suddenly turned around, her red pigtails sweeping across Ian's desk.
"How are you spending Christmas?" She waved the phone she had secretly brought into school; the screensaver was a sparkling Christmas tree. "My dad said he's taking us skiing in Switzerland."
"Switzerland? A nice place too. But this year my dad promised to take me to the North Pole to find Santa Claus." Madison would never be absent from such a moment of competition.
"There is no Santa Claus in the world," Lily-but-not-Miss-Potter rolled her eyes.
"Who says there's no Santa Claus? My mom still firmly believes there is." Mark from the football team chewed gum and chimed in: "My dad is also ridiculous. To humor my mom, he's preparing a ridiculous party this year, requiring everyone to dress up as Santa—even my Golden Retriever has to wear a red hat."
This guy didn't know if he was complaining or showing off family happiness.
"Metropolis will definitely have a Santa Claus this year." Ian, whose mood had lightened a bit, also joined the chatter, his tone full of firm conviction.
"Man, how old are you and you still believe that? Last year I stayed up until 3 AM and only caught my dad stuffing a game console into my sister's sock," Mark snickered as he recounted his experience.
"I believe it!" Madison suddenly looked up, the utility knife in her hand "clicking" open, scaring Mark and Lillian out of the classroom. Everyone knew the local junior high had a crazy "Green Tea" woman.
Seeing the others leave, Madison lowered her voice, her eyes glowing. "Ian, are you going to be Santa Claus?" Her eyes were as bright as if she had discovered a new continent. "You'll give gifts to well-behaved children, and you'll give AIDS bombs to naughty children." The witch lady still loved playing with AIDS.
(T/N:- 😐)
"It's the traditional Santa Claus kind who gives gifts," Ian held his forehead. He turned to Madison, thoughtful, and then suddenly invited her in a low voice. "Want to join? A Santa Claus who appears on Christmas should also take an apprentice. Santa Claus can train a Christmas Witch for the girls."
Ian thought his plan was brilliant. He was mainly worried about the increasingly politically correct America; this year or next, some "feminists" might go to court to sue Santa Claus for sexual harassment.
Ian's invitation made Madison torn, her expression looking like her mouth was stuffed with sour lemons. "I want to go too, but I guess I won't have time." She pulled out her phone and swiped a few times. The schedule on the screen was densely packed, especially around Christmas, and almost all the destinations on the schedule were Los Angeles.
"Crowley scheduled so many movie shoots for you?" Ian spoke in surprise.
"Actually, there are only 6 for now. But I've finally stepped into Hollywood, and that has caused some problems." Madison showed Ian the details of her schedule. "Ever since I became obsessed with money, went astray, and started the 'righteous' path of helping a kind sister get pregnant, many stars are now looking for me to have children."
"Those guys all seem to have 'middle-schooler syndrome'; many people made appointments to get pregnant on Christmas Day, thinking they can carry a Jesus." Madison's voice carried a bit of the fatigue of hard work.
"What?" This time it was Ian's turn to be dumbfounded.
"Unexpected, right? I didn't expect it either." Madison proudly spun her phone, the charms on the case rustling. "I'm doing very well in Hollywood with pregnancy magic."
Luckily it wasn't the kind of situation Ian imagined. Thanks to his super-brain's early prediction, he hadn't let the witch next to him learn gender-swapping magic in his magic notebook.
This is why many famous masters are unwilling to teach students real skills; the potions Ian got from Thanos hadn't even debuted and it felt like they were already being pushed out of the market by the witch.
"Fortunately, Lord Ian doesn't care about money and never likes touching it." Ian consoled himself. When the lunch bell rang, Madison had already packed her backpack full of dangerous items.
"I'm going to contact the old stonemason." Madison was still a bit different from Ian; she didn't understand the principle of "every grain is hard work," so she wouldn't be like Ian—even though he was rich, he still had to finish the school lunch he deserved.
Ian watched the girl's golden ponytail disappear around the corner of the corridor, then turned and blended into the cafeteria. After eating his fill and downing fifty people's portions by himself, he skipped the afternoon classes.
"Unexpectedly, I've finally gone bad too." Ian didn't dare think before that he would miss any class; he felt he might have lost his mind in power recently. This matter would take drinking two bottles of Trump-recommended disinfectant to clean his soul.
[Berserker EXP +1]
[Savage Tyrant EXP +2]
[Berserker EXP +1]
[Savage Tyrant EXP +2]
...
As they say, bits and pieces add up. Since no big events happened these past two days and he couldn't open treasure chests, Ian found a cheap substitute. It was a choice of wisdom, better than nothing.
Soon, Ian rode his Hellcat to his New Heaven factory. He inspected the Angel-made products, which were certainly of finer quality. The product pass rate was very, very high, and Ian was very satisfied. So he decided to reward the angels with a grand meeting and had the supervisor angel gather all the angels.
"I just had afternoon tea with my Uncle God. He said you've been performing well recently, but you must keep working hard!" Ian jumped onto a temporary podium made of packing boxes and clapped his hands. Five hundred angels immediately retracted their wings and formed a square formation, some even pulling out small notebooks to take notes.
He started with a bang. A commotion rippled through the angel formation. Ian snapped his fingers. A holographic projection showed the "Five-Year Development Plan for the Heaven Factory." In the "Employee Blessings" column, it was written in bold: Sunday overtime can be exchanged for Heaven Points; 100 points for 1 minute of meeting St. Ian.
"We want to build an innovative enterprise that surpasses Silicon Valley!" Ian's speech was getting better. "Don't ask what New Heaven can give you; ask what you can give to New Heaven! The goal for the next quarter is to increase our market share—"
The speech centered on struggle and hard work was something Ian learned from Twitter while in the car. The effect was outstanding. Except for Michael, who was living his second life in greasy CEO clothes, the other angels were all impassioned. Just as he reached the climax of his speech, a phone ringtone interrupted his passionate words.
The caller ID showed a Batarang icon.
"Hello, Bruce?" As soon as the call connected, Ian had already begun to change how he addressed him.
"Your marketing director, Don Draper, said..." Batman's voice came through a voice changer, with the screams of criminals in the background. "You canceled our outsourced customer service and replaced them with a 'more grounded' team?"
Ian made a "keep clapping" gesture to the angels. He walked to the edge of the new holy water pool. "Exactly what it sounds like. Don't worry, the new customer service still uses Wayne Tech." He gave a guarantee.
"I screened all qualified outsourcing teams." Batman's voice carried a dangerous calm, but also a slight hint of confusion. "Not a single qualified outsourcing team has received an order from you."
This was naturally something Batman, with his lack of imagination, couldn't find out. Ian didn't know how to explain it. He could only speak in a gentle, roundabout tone.
"Uh, Bruce... find a place to park your wheelchair. Your health isn't great, so no need to kneel. Your Uncle Ian has something to tell you."
It was Ian's first time being an elder like this, and he was a bit shy, not speaking boldly enough. Of course, even so.
"??????"
On the other end, the sound of Batman's wheelchair rolling over a criminal's palm could be heard. He didn't speak. He just let out a familiar, heavy "Nine Dragons" breath.
Mainly, Bat-wisdom had already let this Gotham King sense that something bad was about to happen.
***
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