Ian took the teacup from the demon butler, keeping the opportunity to bestow "grace" upon Shiva for himself.
His fingertips lightly brushed the rim of the cup as steam rose, the tea's aroma laced with a faint hint of sulfur—hell-exclusive tea wasn't something just anyone could drink. Only high-quality individuals who owed "God Ian" a favor were granted a taste.
"What happened to your third eye?"
Ian didn't hand over the tea immediately. He held the cup, letting the destitute god watch—a classic application of psychological leverage. Tea that is too easily obtained is tea that uninvited guests fail to cherish.
"My eye? Oh, right, my Eye of Destruction." Shiva habitually touched his bruised third socket, his mouth twitching as he began to sob even harder.
"Your father did this!"
Shiva was snitching.
"Oh?"
Ian raised an eyebrow. The steam from the tea blurred his vision, making his eyes look even more surprised.
"Do you see why I only have two hands left? If I hadn't severed my limbs to escape, I wouldn't have made it at all! He almost followed this avatar back to my true body!"
"Damn super-vision! I knew nothing but monsters came from outer space!" Shiva's expression was filled with lingering fear, his voice thick with indignation.
"My father doesn't normally hit people." Ian naturally knew which side to take; the god before him wasn't even a casual acquaintance.
Upon hearing this, Shiva became even more resentful.
"He said I startled the wild elephants he wanted to interview! He wouldn't even listen to my explanation! I told him I was a respectable god, and he said he hits exactly the kind of people who claim to be respectable gods!"
Shiva's face was a portrait of grief and anger. It wasn't surprising he got beaten; Clark hadn't been in the best of moods since learning he had to interview African elephants this morning.
"And you didn't fight back?" Ian blinked, trying his best to keep his laughter confined to his throat.
"Fight back? I did! Didn't I tell you? I had to leave two arms behind just to get away." Shiva's face fell instantly, as if a sore spot had been poked.
He actually had a specific "fighting back" strategy. Truly an Ancient God.
"If it weren't for that disaster years ago—also caused by an alien monster—that broke all our kind and drained our strength, your father's punch wouldn't have been able to swell my eye." Shiva's tone was full of regret. He firmly believed that at his peak, he could have tanked several thousand of Superman's punches without losing.
"You're very impressive then." Ian nodded, his tone sincere as he gave a thumbs-up.
"Of course. I am the most powerful god on Earth."
"Alright, let's talk about my brother Jonathan. You're saying he's borrowing so much power that you're being drained dry every day?" Ian had roughly grasped the situation. He had summarized a beginning, middle, and end from Shiva's fifty-thousand-word lamentation.
Ultimately, it was a case of the "Free Will" gifted by God going a bit too far.
"Is that 'borrowing'? That's robbery!" Shiva's voice rose several decibels. He finally received the tea Ian handed over, though he didn't realize what kind of "karma" he was incurring by drinking it.
This deity, who symbolized procreation and creation while wielding the authority of destruction and rebirth, grew more aggrieved as he spoke. He sipped the tea to calm his nerves while launching into another repetitive round of complaints.
Ian understood the gist: God had given Jonathan a belt, and his brother could indeed transform into an "Armored Warrior." However, while his brother thought he was under the protection of the gods, he was actually forcibly "borrowing" power from whichever god he "believed in"—Free Will can be interpreted in many ways.
The "Will to Freely Borrow Power" is, after all, still Free Will. Because the one who issued the blessing was a being whose word became law, Shiva had no choice even if he was unwilling.
"Can you go back and talk some sense into him? After all, I wasn't the one who snuck into your brother's room to eat his curry rice last night." Shiva looked at Ian with a face full of woe.
The air suddenly went still.
Hannibal's ghost drifted a bit further away, pretending he didn't exist. The Chihuahua Belial and the demon Bar did the same; smart people knew when to play dead during discussions involving God and Ian.
"Ahem." Ian coughed twice, trying to change the subject. "That's not important."
He spoke solemnly, though he felt a bit guilty. Ian didn't think it was his fault. Everyone knows staying up late makes you hungry. Coming back from saving the Marvel Universe and eating two bowls of his family's curry wasn't exactly a crime.
"How is that not important?!" Shiva jumped up, his withered finger trembling as he pointed at the air.
"Whoever ate his curry should be the one lending him power! It wasn't me!" This Ancient God was truly shaking with rage, looking absolutely pushed to his limit.
Ian blinked. He keenly captured a key piece of information—it was clear Shiva didn't actually know who had eaten the curry.
"It's different." Realizing the other guy was bluffing, Ian immediately became righteous. He shook his head slightly and whispered in a serious tone, "The god who ate that curry has too many followers and is very petty. I can't let my brother worship Him."
This wasn't because he thought being worshipped himself was beneath him. Ian was mostly afraid Jonathan would go snitch to their parents. Besides, even a bunny girl doesn't eat the grass near her own burrow; he certainly couldn't turn his family members into his own believers. Otherwise, family bonds would get... complicated.
"Many followers? Petty?" Shiva gasped, as if he had suddenly divined a cosmic truth. "Hiss~~~ So it was *Him* who ate the curry!"
He deflated like a punctured balloon, collapsing onto the floor with a vacant stare, clearly thinking of the most untouchable existence in the world.
"Yes, exactly. It was Him, no doubt about it."
Ian nodded heavily, his expression grave. Sensing the "beautiful misunderstanding" Shiva had fallen into, he immediately employed the strategy of going with the flow.
It worked perfectly. Shiva didn't suspect a thing. The two reached a silent agreement not to mention that name. Ian was especially cautious; even when shifting the blame, he wasn't as direct as he usually was with others.
After all, a petty person understands another petty person best.
At this moment, Ian felt a deep realization: the Creator Goddess must be in love with him because God wasn't just like him in His love for writing—their personalities were likely two peas in a pod.
In a certain sense, God could be called "Little Ian."
Though this made Ian feel a bit slighted, he showed his magnanimity and decided not to dwell on it. But just as he was immersed in his own broad-mindedness, Shiva suddenly sat up.
The guy broke into tears.
"You must help me! Ian Kent! You must! If you help me."
"..."
Ian rarely had moments of such utter speechlessness.
Seeing Shiva still crying, Ian could only advise him earnestly: " my brother borrowing a little of your power is for the sake of doing justice."
"You get at least ten percent—no, maybe five percent—of the merit. So, as a god, you can't be too stingy. Haven't you heard what Douglas MacArthur once said? 'The peak births fake users, but the dusk witnesses the pious believers.' In an age of lost faith, a believer as pious as my brother is hard to come by."
Ian looked down at this creator of the Cosmic Dance, the master of destruction and rebirth. He was truly considering the other party's perspective—all the god was giving was divine power, while Jonathan was giving away his *faith*!
"Who is MacArthur? I don't know him; he's talking absolute nonsense!" Shiva's face turned green, his teeth gritted as he squeezed out the words.
"It's fine if your brother borrows power to transform... but after he transforms, he takes all comers! No matter how ridiculous a wish someone makes, he says, 'Lord Shiva will answer you!'"
"Do I want to answer? Don't I know my own mind?!" Shiva grew more excited, his voice cracking. "He answers prayers in my place, and my divine power just goes *whoosh whoosh whoosh* out the door..."
He wailed again, tears mixing with ash to create ridiculous mud streaks on his face.
This was indeed genuine grievance. The Free Will Jonathan possessed already had the universal flair of the "American Lighthouse"—the victim had zero decision-making power while Jonathan "subbed" for Shiva to answer prayers. Of course, Jonathan himself didn't know this; one could only say the Free Will on him was truly as free as it gets.
"Well..." Ian took a deep breath, trying to make his voice sound as gentle as a friend comforting someone after a breakup in a café. "I'll try to think of something later. Can you... can you let go of my leg first?"
This was Ian's tenderness. Of course, it also had to do with the fact that he understood the nature of people who grab legs and won't let go—you can't provoke them, or Heaven knows what part they'll grab next. As an expert who frequently grabbed others' legs, Ian had a lot to say on the matter.
"Really?" Shiva looked up with misty eyes. His iconic ash-covered body looked caked in mud, and his three eyes were brimming with aggrieved tears.
"Really, I promise."
Ian made a firm promise and then performed an action that left Shiva completely bewildered—he stuck out his pinky and hooked it with Shiva's.
"???????" Shiva stared blankly at their hooked fingers, not yet processing whether this human child's contract method was effective for a deity.
"So... what do I have to pay?" Shiva finally calmed down, his godly reason returning. He asked Ian tentatively, with a hint of trepidation and wariness.
Ian looked Shiva up and down. From the third eye on his forehead to the venomous snake coiled around his arm, down to the tiger-skin skirt around his waist.
"I heard you're a very good dancer?" The boy suddenly flashed a brilliant smile.
"Dancing?" Shiva nodded blankly. Then, he instinctively puffed out his chest, and his three eyes lit up. "The Cosmic Dance was born from me. The Dance of Destruction, the Dance of Rebirth, the Dance of Balance... I am the dance itself." It was clear Shiva truly loved dancing.
"Fantastic!" Ian beamed. "I have a group of streamers who need a dance instructor. I'm sure you can train them well!" He didn't care if the other party was bragging about his power. Ian mostly valued his technical foundation in dance.
Ian didn't know about Michael's self-awakening yet, so he wanted to turn Michael into a second "practicing for two and a half years" Good Brother.
Shiva breathed a sigh of relief. Dancing? This was easy as pie, even a display of honor. He wiped his face, ash and tears smearing together. "That sort of thing... of course, no problem. Ian Kent, you truly are the helpful, good person the rumors say you are."
"Thank you for your help." Fearing Ian would back out, he hurriedly stood, then took the address Ian handed over. He looked back every three steps to remind Ian with his eyes. "You must help me..."
Shiva's eyebrows seemed to dance, expressing his inner plea. Ian felt even more certain he could teach those angels well.
"Don't worry, my word is my bond! If you don't leave soon, I'll call Immigration to catch you. You definitely don't have a noble American Hukou—I mean, citizenship!" Ian waved goodbye.
Once Shiva's figure had completely vanished, a gasp came from the corner.
"Oh, the Emperor of All Methods, God Ian, actually has a brother favored by God! As expected! Following you! The future is limitless!" The Chihuahua-form King of Lies was trembling all over. He seemed to see a grand future for himself.
"Poor guy... he probably doesn't know who he's going to teach. Michael doesn't just like smashing people's eyes; chances are Shiva's third eye is going to get gouged out." The demon Bar's head was hanging by the fireplace. He was savoring the feeling of pity in his heart, proud that he was indeed different from other demons.
At that moment, Ian turned around, his gaze sweeping over the King of Lies in the corner and Bar on the fireplace.
"Now, we should think—how are we going to help Shiva?" Ian didn't want to sell out his family's interests, so he decided to employ his "External Demon Wisdom."
Belial immediately stuck his tail up. "Woof! I can weave a massive lie to deceive him for a lifetime!" The King of Lies puffed out his little chest, his words full of confidence in his own abilities.
As for Bar, he pondered for a moment. "God Ian, we could find Shiva's true body and turn it into a living statue for your brother to use—that way he'll never have to worry about a moving mouth worrying about power drain again!" One had to admit, while the demon Bar's actual age might not be great, his prospects in the "way of the demon" were truly boundless.
Two demons, one new and one old, gave completely different "help" plans. The difference was clear.
"Sigh, that's not the kind of help I want to provide." Ian only sighed softly and shook his head, placing a hand somewhat gloomily on the human-bone piano.
The veteran believer, Bar, immediately responded with practiced ease. "God Ian, let this sin be on my head." Bar's head spoke with a tone of sacrificial caution, so determined that it was hard to refuse.
To this, Ian said nothing. He just silently pulled out a few small demon corpse snacks he had obtained in Hell and stuffed them into Bar's already-burning mouth like treats.
"Shiva has a decent personality, and he is the god my brother worships after all, so... we must be kind to him. I think once he feels my kindness, he will surely choose to become Jonathan's power source on his own one day." Lord Ian scolded the demon's malice while demonstrating his own benevolence.
He truly felt Bar was too ruthless, which didn't align with his values as a teenager. Furthermore, Shiva himself was an individual who could be developed into a valuable streamer. How could such a high-quality Pal be turned into a statue just like that? Ian was a man of heart, a man of warmth; he wasn't quite that cold-blooded.
The reward he just gave Bar was merely to encourage the other to keep divining his thoughts.
"Make that guy feel God Ian's kindness? Alright, I understand!" The demon Bar claimed to understand, though Heaven knew what he actually "got." He had indeed practiced the art of guessing Ian's mind to a transcendent level—so much so that even Ian didn't quite know what secret thoughts the demon had divined.
"Also, you're name is Bar right? It sounds too simple. Why don't I call you Baal? Much cooler and fitting as my trash can." Ian decided rename his loyal servant on a whim.
"Oh Great God Ian, I'm honored to have a name bestowed by you. Praise The Great God Ian, the truly kind and compassionate God." Bar— no Baal said with an excited look and continue Hone his bootlicking skill.
"..."
The ghost of Hannibal, who had been watching in silence from the ceiling, opened his mouth but was pulled down by Ian before he could say anything. After seeing Shiva off and giving the demon head a new name, Ian turned and latched onto Hannibal's ghost again, continuing to enthusiastically pitch his "Corpse-Assembly" service.
"Doctor! Look at these sutures, how neat they are!" He rotated the spliced corpse like he was showing off a limited-edition figure. "Seriously, if there's anything you're unhappy with, I know people in several morgues in Gotham, Metropolis, and Central City. I can get you whatever style of body you want!"
Ian's tone was full of the pride of someone with extensive "internet connections."
However.
"Actually, I have germaphobia." Hannibal's ghost barely managed to break free from Ian's tangible little hands. His face was pale, and he drifted a significant distance away in mid-air—basically tucking himself into the fireplace.
"Germaphobia?" Ian realized. He remembered Hannibal did indeed have a obsession with cleanliness. "That's not a big problem. I can soak it in disinfectant. I can even make it so your new body has disinfectant flowing through its veins—no big deal!"
Ian had clearly misunderstood the direction of the doctor's phobia. Hannibal's expression looked as if he had seen someone brewing tea with formalin.
"Sigh, that's not the reason." He sighed heavily, not wanting to pour too much cold water on Ian's enthusiasm.
"Eh?" Ian clapped his hands again. "You like them warm, right?" He pulled out his phone, once again flaunting his connections. "I know several Reapers. I'll go ask which hospital has a fresh, warm body right now!"
Just as the words left his mouth—
"Ian!" Hannibal was first surprised at just how many strange beings Ian actually knew. Then, he spoke with a heavy tone. "The dead... perhaps should not return to the mortal world." A rare look of exhaustion appeared on his ghostly face as he began to reflect. It wasn't just that he didn't like the bodies Ian chose.
"Hmm? A fallacy. Jesus didn't think so back then." Ian spoke righteously, quoting classics, which naturally left Hannibal speechless and unable to refute.
Just as the atmosphere turned awkward, Ian's phone suddenly rang with a cheerful Christmas song.
"Dear Grandpa!" Ian switched to "good boy" mode in a second. "Are you calling to ask what I want for Christmas?" His tone carried a hint of slight confusion; usually, Sam Lane didn't like contacting their whole family unless it was a holiday.
The other man indeed had business. Over the phone, Sam Lane's voice was stern enough to freeze lava. "Ian, has your father stopped supervising you lately?"
"I'm calling to ask why you are purchasing enough chemical raw materials to submerge a small country." This was indeed an exaggeration; after all, the chemicals Ian bought only accounted for about a third of what was in North Korea.
"Maybe because I like to drink it. I like to drink a lot. Kryptonian genes make me stronger just by drinking water." Ian gave an honest answer—at least, it was a philosophy he firmly believed in.
"Nonsense! Absolute nonsense!" The old general's roar made the phone tremble. "The 'health product patent' you filed is clearly a formula for some kind of serum that can create super-soldiers!"
"The raw materials you procured are enough to arm a real army!" Grandpa's tone was grave, his judgment final. Holding great power, he clearly kept a close eye on the Kents' movements.
"I just wanted to reward myself, and then reward some 'men of vision' along the way." Ian blinked, feeling a bit guilty about having his little plan exposed.
He indeed needed a group of extraordinary guards, cleaners, and logistics personnel—Ian had always been serious about the "New Justice League," so he needed extraordinary logistics support to ensure stability. After all, if the New Justice League headquarters got blown up by a jealous Batman, the pension for ordinary employees wouldn't be a small amount.
"Men of vision?" Sam's voice suddenly turned dangerous.
"Do you know how many secret meetings those old fogies in Congress held overnight after seeing this purchase order? The Pentagon has already flagged your file as a 'potential national-level threat'!" Grandpa Sam Lane warned Ian with an exceptionally stern tone, leaking some top-secret information in the process.
"Don't I still have you?" Ian walked to the window. Looking at the demon maids in the manor who were brushing the Hellhounds, he lowered his voice and began to frantically flatter his grandfather.
There was a three-second silence on the other end.
"I'm just a general, not a marshal." Sam's voice suddenly became subtle. "The current me... cannot protect you." His voice was still very stern, but Ian keenly captured a hint of sour jealousy.
"Grandpa, why do you feel like you have such a big problem with me?" Ian asked tentatively.
"Of course I have a problem!" At this moment, the old general finally exploded. "You're going to use religion as a springboard to do something big, and you didn't even check in with your grandfather? Do you not trust me, or do you think I can't help?"
Hearing this, Ian grew even more guilty. He thought his "God Ian" faith implantation plan had been exposed.
"Well... Grandpa, what can you help me with?" he asked cautiously.
The sound of rustling paper came from the other end, followed by Sam's extremely low voice.
"Listen, kid. As long as you're willing to give money—increase basic subsidies for the troops, casualty compensation, and improve meal standards—I can bring an army of a hundred thousand over to help you in a heartbeat."
The old general's voice was very quiet, as if he were sharing a secret with Ian.
"Huh? What's what?" Just as Ian was wondering—since he wasn't a God of War and didn't have a daughter sold into a brothel—what he would do with a hundred thousand soldiers...
"Stop pretending! Ian, I've been a soldier all my life. I've seen right through your methods. I am completely capable of providing you with some help."
"To be honest, although the timing isn't ripe yet, your company's move to win over the poor with those seemingly ridiculous but low-priced daily necessities is a good one."
"And subtly, you can influence the users' thoughts—I must say, with the conflict between the rich and poor becoming increasingly intense, you've found a real breakthrough."
"Trust me, our system won't last a few more years before collapsing. When that happens, economic debt will bring a true winter—that will be your chance to rise. I'll have the intelligence agencies under me stir up conflicts on every continent, and you can take the opportunity to raise the banner—well, a New America is definitely within reach."
Sam Lane was methodical and his tone was resonant. One had to admit this line of thinking was very insightful; America wasn't without officials who saw the situation clearly.
However...
*Thud~*
Ian's phone slipped and hit the ground. His super-brain was usually very useful, but not quite *that* useful. Heaven knew why Sam Lane associated the function of "Ian's Greatest Tech Co." with that kind of thing!
Swallowing hard, Ian realized it. His grandfather was only a general now, but his grandfather definitely really wanted to be a marshal!