In the world of consciousness.
Clark felt a sudden whirl of vertigo as his body tilted backward, out of control. He plunged into a boundless starry sky, surrounded by shimmering stars and profound darkness.
Superman instinctively reached out, trying to grab onto something, only to find his super strength was meaningless here. He couldn't fly, couldn't control the direction of his fall; he could only watch helplessly as the woman in the white dress—the one calling herself "Paradox"—shrank in his vision, finally vanishing into the distant starlight.
A mysterious, faint smile seemed to remain on the corner of her mouth.
Meanwhile, in the real world.
"Clark! Clark!"
Lois had no idea what had happened to him. She had only seen his body suddenly stiffen, his eyes roll back, and the man collapse like a puppet with its strings cut.
Fortunately, as Superman's wife, Lois reacted quickly. She caught him in time and dragged him into a corner, preventing his collapse from being noticed by others.
"Clark! Wake up! Clark!"
She called out repeatedly, slapping his cheeks. A few seconds later, Clark twitched violently and opened his eyes—clearly, Lois's voice had pulled him back to reality.
He snapped his eyes open to find himself lying in his wife's arms. A lingering image of a fluttering white veil remained in his irises, like the final trace left by that woman.
"That woman! Something is wrong with her!" Clark stood up abruptly. His eyes were unfocused, his breathing ragged, and his forehead was drenched in cold sweat, though he couldn't afford to worry about his own condition right now.
Having awakened, Superman immediately began scanning his surroundings. Every corner of the planet was being swept, but the woman in the white dress had long since vanished without a trace.
No matter where he turned his gaze on Earth, he could no longer capture her presence. It was as if she had vanished into thin air.
"What just happened to me?" Clark looked at his wife.
"You just fainted. It was for about half an hour. No matter how much I called, I couldn't wake you up." Lois's words left Clark utterly astonished.
He had clearly felt only about five minutes of time pass.
"A Time Lord..."
Clark recalled the woman's self-proclaimed title. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. That wasn't an illusion or a dream; it was an incredibly unique experience. With just a single look, she had "exiled" his consciousness outside the universe. This was absolutely not something an ordinary being could achieve.
"Was it magic, or some other means?" The more he thought, the more alarmed he became. Even though his super-brain was fully active, he still couldn't tell if the mysterious woman was friend or foe.
To call her a villain seemed wrong, as she had prevented a massive chaotic disaster. But if he viewed her as a hero, her smile and overbearing style made him feel inexplicably uneasy.
"Who could she be?" Clark was deeply worried.
Just then.
*Wooo—wooo—wooo—*
A piercing alarm suddenly rang out.
"This is bad! The underground base has fallen! All one hundred and eighty-six nuclear warheads are gone!" An officer's shout echoed from below, and Clark's expression instantly became grave.
Everyone knew how terrifying and vital nuclear weapons were. Because of this, he didn't have time to explain or think. With a blur of motion, he vanished from Lois's sight.
"Did that woman take the nukes too? What does she want with them?" Carrying a heavy sense of dread, Clark appeared a second later in the nuclear weapons storage base, thousands of meters underground.
This was supposed to be one of the most secure military facilities in the world. The walls were made of anti-radiation alloys, monitored twenty-four hours a day by quantum surveillance. Any unauthorized approach would trigger a global alarm.
But now—the central storage area was empty.
No, not "gone." They were currently being moved.
Dozens of soldiers in black exoskeleton armor were loading nuclear warheads and intercontinental missiles into specialized transport crates, moving them through hidden tunnels to an unknown location.
In front of the control room.
Sam Lane was in a heated argument with a figure wearing a U.S. Army five-star general's uniform.
"Are you insane?! Dammit! Walker!" Sam Lane's voice carried suppressed fury. "If these weapons get out, the consequences will be unimaginable!"
He had always known the military's inherent rot; he was even part of it himself. But a situation as absurd as this was something even Sam Lane—the "shortest straw" in that rot—could hardly fathom.
"Sam, don't be so rigid. With that woman taking the fall, who's going to suspect us?" Faced with the accusation, the five-star general only let out a cold laugh.
The figure slowly adjusted its cuffs.
"Besides, the buyer offered an excellent price. So, strictly speaking, we're covertly supporting an ally." The five-star general hadn't learned many skills, but they were a master of tone and posturing. Their voice carried both the firmness expected of a man and the subtle femininity usually associated with a woman.
"Generating revenue?!" Sam Lane nearly roared. "This is treason!"
"Treason?" The general scoffed. "In this day and age, loyalty is the cheapest commodity. The buyer was very generous—prepaid in full, settled with encrypted cryptocurrency."
"If you don't want the money, there are plenty of others who do. As an old friend, I advise you to self-hypnotize a bit. We're just conducting a... reasonable transaction."
The voice carried a threatening edge.
"Dammit! You... you people really have gone mad!"
Sam Lane's expression shifted repeatedly. His orders didn't apply to the soldiers moving the cargo, which made his face look increasingly frustrated and ugly.
"No, this is precisely proof of our rationality. You love reading history, so you should understand: there are no thousand-year empires, but there are ten-thousand-year families."
"We serve the state; naturally, the state should give us back some nutrients." The general's tone remained casual, watching the nukes being moved with a peaceful expression.
Standing not far away, Superman felt his worldview starting to crumble as he listened to the general. He watched the busy soldiers moving the goods in a daze.
Yes, the nukes hadn't been "stolen" yet—they were *being* stolen.
"These weapons should not be traded." Clark's pupils contracted slightly. Snapping out of it, he stepped forward and spoke with extreme gravity.
However.
"Oh? Superman has come to meddle too?"
The general turned. Seeing Superman, a trace of mockery flashed in their eyes.
"These warheads will trigger wars. They will kill countless civilians," Clark warned in a deep voice.
"Civilians? Relax. No one is actually going to use these things. We're not selling to terrorists," the general said dismissively, raising an eyebrow.
The smile was cold.
"In fact, in this world, everything has a price—including you, Superman. The fact that you can be a hero in this country is already something you should thank our mercy and tolerance for."
A mere mortal was mocking the God Among Men.
Clark clenched his fists.
But in the end, he didn't throw a punch. He wasn't some hot-blooded youth anymore; many political and corrupt issues couldn't be solved with super strength alone.
The general glanced at Superman's fist, eyes filled with intoxication for their own power. Power was wonderful; even Superman was afraid of him. What else was there to fear?
"Go save people who trip or almost get hit by cars. Don't worry about things you shouldn't." With that, the general ignored Clark and pulled out a black, encrypted phone.
He walked to a corner and spoke in a low voice.
"Sir, the cargo is packed. Delivery in three hours... Don't worry, no one will interfere." This blatant behavior was a clear display of the general's utter fearlessness.
*Creeeak—*
Clark stood there, fists tight.
He could demolish this base with one punch. He could subdue all the soldiers in an instant.
But he knew—it would be pointless.
Behind this was a much larger web. This "general" wasn't an individual.
It was a system.
A puppet network controlled by the Deep State. Today it was a general, tomorrow it would be a president, a judge, or a scientist.
This was America's greatest enemy.
And yet.
Against this, even Superman was powerless.
He looked at Sam Lane, whose face was written with defeat and anger.
"I tried," Sam whispered, his voice heavy with fatigue. "But some people... have long since forgotten what a bottom line is."
Clark remained silent for a moment before taking a deep breath.
"This isn't over." His gaze swept over the nukes being carted away. His super-hearing caught the general's phone conversation; the other party was truly arrogant.
"Yes, the cargo is ready. Delivery within twenty-four hours... Don't worry, no one can stop this deal, including that caped idiot we all dislike."
"Of course, exactly. There's someone to take the blame. There always is."
The general continued to speak without restraint.
A flash of anger sparked in Clark's eyes.
He gave the general one last look before vanishing from the deep underground base. The general didn't care at all.
"A whole nest of bastards!" Superman returned to the surface with a dark face, his red boots crushing a piece of concrete marked with a radiation symbol. Lois ran up to meet him but was startled by her husband's rare fury—his usually gentle blue eyes were swirling with a storm like a Kansas tornado.
"Did something happen? Were the nukes actually stolen?"
Lois approached, seeing immediately that something was wrong.
"They sold them." Clark's voice sounded like it was carved from a glacier—cold and helpless. "Broad daylight, right in front of me."
The recording pen in Lois's hand dropped to the ground.
The night wind blew her hair, revealing her pale face.
"My God... if this gets reported..."
She couldn't finish the sentence. Just as she thought she had a lead on a story, she knew deep down that a story like this could never be published.
"We can't tell the public. The media is entirely under the control of the Deep State, including the paper where you and I work." Lois stumbled back, leaning against a ruined wall and rubbing her brow as if trying to crush this absurd reality.
"Yes."
Clark pulled at his collar.
He took a large breath. It felt as if the iconic 'S' was burning his skin. Lois felt equally powerless; after a moment of silence, she spoke up.
"Maybe we should notify our friend in Gotham." Lois felt Clark should tell Bruce. Bruce had influence within the Deep State—or rather, whether he liked it or not, with his enterprise and influence, Bruce Wayne *was* a member of the Deep State.
"Until the business with God is settled, Bruce is likely to stay off the grid," Clark said with a bitter laugh, pulling out his phone and hitting speed dial.
Bruce Wayne's meticulously recorded voicemail immediately played.
"Hello, this is Wayne Manor. Please leave a message. However, the bold Kent family is requested not to leave a message; Alfred regularly deletes those profanities."
Clark stared at the phone. He dialed again, hung up, and dialed again. No matter how many times, it was that same cold recording. This was something Clark had already discovered.
"To avoid me looking for him, he's living like a ghost. I can't find him at all." Clark put the phone back in his pocket, speechless.
He had previously asked Wonder Woman to help contact Bruce. She did reach him, but after explaining the situation, she suffered a misfortune too.
Wonder Woman had been blocked by Bruce Wayne as well.
In the wind of the ruins.
Clark felt mentally and physically exhausted.
"Clark, I want something to eat..." Lois sighed, rubbing her aching eyes. Compared to the military's actions, she was actually more worried about the implications of Ian's situation.
They said they sold to a "legitimate buyer."
But when people are willing to sell strategic deterrent weapons, who knows how many lies they're telling? One day, those hundred-plus nukes might become lethal tools in the hands of terrorists.
"Yeah, let's go. Let's change locations." Clark looked at his wife's tired, worried face and nodded heart-fully. He also knew she wanted a malt beverage.
"Even though I can't get drunk, right now, I really wish I could." Clark had never envied those who could get drunk more than he did now. He scooped up his wife and took off, leaving the desolate ruins behind.
Even if it wasn't destroyed, it felt like a place of filth.
Out of sight, out of mind. Five minutes later, the two had swapped their suit and tactical gear for ordinary casual clothes and walked into a twenty-four-hour fast-food joint.
Fluorescent lights buzzed over Clark's head.
The lighting was dim, the air filled with the scent of fries and coffee. Lois bought sixty cans of beer and ten bottles of strong malt liquor in one go. The server behind the counter was yawning while traying their fries, completely failing to recognize that the man in the plaid shirt was the same one on the posters.
The two sat in a corner booth, silent, burying themselves in their drinks. Lois went glass after glass, while Clark took small sips, his eyes constantly scanning the surroundings.
He wasn't looking at the restaurant; he was monitoring other regions of the planet. He still hadn't given up on finding the woman who had caused his blackout.
"Every media outlet."
Lois downed her third tequila, slamming the glass onto the plastic table.
"Including us... we're all lying."
She was clearly slipping back into a drunken state. Soon, she leaned back against the seat, her eyes glazed, murmuring: "Did we... did we do something wrong?"
"Why is the world like this..."
She had entered philosophical mode.
Clark silently chewed his burger—or perhaps more than just the burger. His Kryptonian digestive system was so powerful he could swallow the wrapper without an upset stomach.
Superman was clearly distracted, his brain working at full speed to analyze things.
"On-site reporting from our correspondent."
On the TV, CNN was broadcasting news of an explosion at the Egyptian pyramids, but what really caught his attention was a strange little shrine below the screen.
A palm-sized Superman statue stood there with fries and ketchup placed before it.
Like some postmodernist offering.
"What's the story with that?" Clark pointed to the area below the TV, asking the student working part-time.
"Oh, you don't know? That's the Guardian God of Metropolis. Believe a little, you can't go wrong." The server was a young man with glasses, busy wiping tables and sweeping trash.
"Guardian God?" Clark was surprised.
He hadn't noticed when this kind of worship had become popular in Metropolis. Being worshipped didn't exactly make him happy.
"Yeah! I bought it in Black Lightning's livestream. Nine-ninety-nine with free shipping. Delivered personally by 'Walmart Plastic Bag Superman.' Do you know Black Lightning and Plastic Bag Superman?"
"A lot of the less famous heroes are selling these things. Pillows and keychains too—all copyrighted, and personally blessed by Plastic Bag Superman."
The server gave an enthusiastic pitch.
His words left Clark silent. When he had asked, Clark had realized something was wrong, but he hadn't realized things were this bad.
"Livestreams? Selling merchandise?"
Clark's eyelids, the corners of his mouth, every bit of skin on his body—everything was twitching. He was hearing about activities superheroes had never engaged in before.
"You don't watch the streams?"
The server enthusiastically opened an app.
"This is the new 'Superhero Popularity Exchange Center'! Ten dollars for a ticket to watch heroes take down bad guys in real-time, and you can tip them!"
"Right now it's just some C-listers doing it reluctantly, but I think it's the future. Heroes need to eat too, right?"
"Think about it—ordinary me can throw money at a superhero and have them call me 'family.' It's great." Clearly, the server had contributed plenty of Franklins to Ian's platform.
"..."
Clark took the bottle from Lois's hand.
He started drinking.
He didn't say a word, but his silence spoke volumes—his mood was all in the alcohol. The server continued to chatter, trying to sell the "out-of-touch middle-aged man" on the trend.
"Oh, and there's Plastic Bag Superman and his slightly cold younger brother. They don't stream, but for a hundred dollars, you can let Plastic Bag Superman let you touch his pecs!"
"A thousand bucks, and they say Plastic Bag Superman will take you for a spin in the sky. Every Saturday and Sunday, he's at the bridge looking for customers."
He scrolled to the top of his photo gallery.
"Look, a photo from yesterday!"
In the picture, a "Superman" in a cheap cosplay outfit had his arm around the server, flashing a V-sign. The 'S' on his chest was crooked as if chewed by a dog, and more horrifyingly, he had "Walmart Plastic Bag Superman" written on his face.
Only a reeling Clark knew that was clearly Jordan's "uniform" made from grocery bags. The hood was even printed with a pre-sale ad for Ian's Greatest Technological Product.
On Jordan's clothes, there was even a "Space for Rent" sign.
That calligraphy...
It was Ian's handwriting, no doubt. They hadn't even bothered with printing; they just used whatever ink they had at home. A true partnership of business geniuses.
*Crunch, crunch, crunch—*
Clark's fist creaked under the table, tighter than it had been in the underground base. These days, being a middle-aged superhero, the greatest enemy might not be Doomsday.
It was the little demons at home.
Clark stared at the photo on the server's phone, his pupils vibrating. Jordan's smug face was covered by a low-quality plastic bag hood, and the marker-drawn 'S' looked like a twitching earthworm.
"Don't be jealous," the server misread Clark's expression and lowered his voice mysteriously. "The one we should really envy is the lucky winner who got the grand prize in the drawing after taking a photo with Plastic Bag Superman yesterday—the grand prize was the original manuscript of 'My Superman Father' found in the basement where Stocking Superman spent his hard life before he died!"
The server's tone was full of admiration.
The words contained a name Clark hadn't heard for a few days, giving his ears some peace. Hearing it again, the soda can in Clark's hand was crushed into an aluminum wafer.
"I heard that kid became an angel after he died. Even the Vatican worships him." The server polished a condiment bottle, speaking with eyes as devout as if he were talking about a Great Being. Clark struggled to control his facial expression. His mind was filled with inescapable images of Jordan and Ian colluding.
"You guys actually believe this?" Clark tried his best to act like an uninvolved passerby, but his voice was squeezed through his teeth.
"How could we not? It's obvious to anyone with eyes—Stocking Superman and Plastic Bag Superman are Superman's children. They are the Correctness Supermen of the new era." The server lowered his voice further as he wiped the table, stating a fact that even people outside Metropolis could probably guess.
"..."
Superman looked at Lois, who was snoring on the table. He felt miserable—miserable that he didn't have his one normal family member to face this life with him. At this moment, Clark really wished he could get Alzheimer's when he got old, just so he could forget the trauma he had to face in his youth.
"That... deathbed manuscript. Is it worth a lot?" Clark asked mechanically.
He was really trying to fake being an uninterested bystander.
The server paused his cup-polishing, thought for a moment, and shook his head. "As far as value goes, the truly valuable things are the early items Plastic Bag Superman sold."
"Maybe because he was short on money. No one ever thought that kind of stuff would circulate on the black market." The server's eyes drifted to the "Superman Altar" behind the counter.
Clark's super-instincts suddenly blared. His temples throbbed. He could already see the *Daily Planet* headline: *Shocking! Superman's Son's Underground Sperm Black Market Exposed!*
That was Clark's fear.
Superman began to regret focusing too much on Ian, resulting in him failing to notice that Jordan had symptoms even more severe than his younger brother.
"What did he sell?"
After some mental preparation, Clark finally asked. He chose not to peek into the man's mind. His voice was as dry as desert-weathered rock. Fortunately, the server's answer let him breathe half a sigh of relief—the other half was still needed to keep him alive.
The server looked left and right, then lowered his voice.
"Rumor has it, Plastic Bag Superman sold three pairs of Superman's underwear. God knows if Superman's DNA is still on them." The male server's expression was full of wonder.
He didn't know why, but the feeling of longing was growing stronger. His face reddened to the point where even Superman's super-vision didn't dare look directly at him.
Clark's super-brain crashed on the spot.
A buzzing Clark was completely silenced. He stiffly helped Lois up and walked toward the door with leaden feet, the server's confused gaze following them.
When the automatic door chimed open, Clark had adjusted his breathing. He didn't take his drunk wife to a hotel; instead, he stood outside a convenience store.
The night wind was biting.
It blew across the neon lights of the city.
Superman held the drunken Lois and finally landed on the roof of an abandoned office building.
The wind howled past the edge of the skyscraper. He gently placed his wife on a worn-out bench. The ten bottles of "Water of Life" he had bought from the convenience store were lined up neatly at his feet.
"Ian... Ian will definitely solve the nuke thing..." Lois muttered, her eyes hazy. "He's smart, but he's also very bold and righteous in his actions."
"Clark, go find Ian. Tell him if he solves the nukes, I'll put him on the front page." Lois huddled in Clark's coat on the bench, rambling.
Her fingers unconsciously traced an interview outline in the air—alcohol had convinced the Pulitzer winner that she should go to the military base tomorrow for an exposé on the "Nuclear Black Market."
She'd have to bring her orange cat, the one that loved to step on her keyboard and produce gibberish.
"Oh, right, where's my kitty? I think I forgot to bring the kitty back. A reporter and a cat—can't be without the kitty. Together we can take on the world!"
Lois was indeed too drunk.
"You're very brave." Clark forced a smile, patting Lois's head. He then fished a sealed metal box out of her bag.
He turned to the edge of the building and sat on the overhang. His legs dangled three hundred meters in the air. The wind whipped his cape.
It felt as though he might fall into the abyss at any moment.
"Sigh—"
Clark looked into the distance. The lights were like a sea, but they couldn't illuminate the gloom in his heart. Of course, the trouble with his two sons was secondary; what truly worried him was the U.S. military's transaction.
"Violence can't stop them. What should I do?" Clark's heart was full of confusion. This was a superhero's powerlessness in the face of human nature.
He looked at the box in his hand.
After a moment's hesitation.
He finally opened the lid.
Inside was a piece of green Kryptonite.
The Kryptonite glowed with an eerie green light under the moon, like a trapped aurora. It lay quietly on black velvet, sinister, like a cursed eye from his home planet. Clark stared at the mineral that could kill him, suddenly remembering Bruce calling it a "safety pin" the first time he saw it.
Now, that safety pin was in his left hand.
His right hand held the ninety-six-proof Water of Life. Superman had voluntarily used Kryptonite. His body grew weak and shaky, but he wasn't in danger of falling off the building.
*Glug, glug, glug—*
Clark stared at it for a long time.
He picked up a bottle of Water of Life, twisted off the cap, and took a swig. The burning sensation went down his throat, sparking a faint dizziness in his body.
He took another swig and then gripped the Kryptonite in his hand.
Pain.
A sharp, familiar, blood-borne agony instantly swept through him. His muscles trembled, his breathing grew shallow, and his super-cells wailed under the erosion of the toxin.
But under the dual influence of pain and alcohol—he got his wish. He was drunk.
Clark's pupils became blurry swirls.
His super-metabolic system wouldn't allow alcohol to truly numb his nerves, but the chemical reaction produced by the Kryptonite radiation pushed his mind into a strange state of overclocking. The coordinates of the world's nuclear arsenals unfolded in his mind like a 3D projection; every red dot stung his moral nerves.
"Maybe..." he murmured. "I shouldn't wait anymore."
"Maybe... I should take all the nukes on Earth into space and destroy them." His gaze pierced the clouds, looking down at the world. Under his super-vision, every nuclear storage base was clearly visible—under the Siberian ice, within the rock layers of the Rockies, in submarines in the Indian Ocean...
He could see the location of every warhead. He even calculated that with one flight, in less than sixty seconds, he could clear them all out.
"Procedural justice?"
"When the system itself is rotten, what's there to talk about?" Superman was drunk. It was as if his hidden personality was being liberated; an "evil" version of him wanted to play the thief for once.
Stealing the dangerous nukes of Earth.
This was perhaps Superman's most evil moment. His sharp gaze scanned the globe, his super-brain calculating how to stealthily enter every storage site.
Just then—Clark's vision caught an anomaly that instantly cleared his head a bit. On the outskirts of London, a square box building appeared where an abandoned factory should have been.
The building itself was not just strange.
On its roof, at this very moment, a blue police-box-style booth descended silently. When the door opened, the woman in the white dress stepped out.
She was still veiled, holding that sphere of light, standing quietly on the roof as if waiting for something. Almost subconsciously, Clark's expression froze.
"What is that woman trying to do now?"
He threw Lois over his shoulder and took off. The wind roared in his ears as his speed shattered his previous limits. In less than a blink, he was diving toward the target location.
However.
When he arrived, what stood there was a modern art museum. Not a factory, not a ruin, but a brightly lit, bustling cultural landmark.
"Dammit..."
Clark suspected he was so drunk he was seeing things. He rubbed his eyes, but the result was the same. The building he had seen earlier wasn't actually in this area.
He couldn't capture the mysterious woman's presence either. Infrared, quantum, temporal residues... Clark activated every frequency of vision, but under his eyes, everything remained normal.
The blue box.
The building that had been here.
And the woman in white.
They were gone.
"I saw something that isn't supposed to be here?" he whispered to himself. The alcohol and the Kryptonite toxicity were putting his mind in a state of eerie clarity.
She wasn't walking in reality!
"Paradox..."
Clark felt the name was profound. His super-brain reached unprecedented heights after the drink—he knew that to solve the riddle, he couldn't rely on strength or speed. He could only rely on thinking.
Think with everything he had.
With that thought.
The next moment.
Superman vanished. His speed was no longer just about flight; it was a form of idealistic teleportation utilizing the quantum entanglement effects of the material world.
...
Gotham City.
Superman landed precisely on a roof in the slums, his footsteps as light as a falling leaf.
Ahead was a seemingly abandoned three-story building, its walls peeling. The windows were fake but more realistic than the real thing, with several vents emitting a faint blue light.
This was the anomaly Clark had precisely captured.
A Batman secret safe house.
Inside.
Bruce Wayne stripped off his tactical suit, which could block Superman's vision. He took a shower, swallowed a sleeping pill, and prepared to sleep for ten minutes. He had just pulled his Kryptonite-embedded sleep mask halfway down.
At that moment, the alarm system let out a dying hum. By reflex, he reached for the Kryptonite spray on his belt, only to hear the concrete wall let out an overloaded groan.
*BOOM!!!*
The wall was torn open like paper.
"Bruce!!!"
The blast wall shattered like a cracker.
From the dust emerged Clark, carrying a drunken Lois. Yes, Superman needed to think with all his might, so he had used all his might to find his best external thinking device.
"?????????"
Bruce Wayne dropped his eye mask to the floor. He nearly squeezed the spray bottle into pieces. The Gotham weirdo's pupils shook as he stared at the Clark who had barged into the safehouse carrying Lois.
His gaze moved from the drunken Lois on Superman's shoulder, to the violently dismantled blast wall, and finally to Clark's hand as he tucked in his wife's coat.
The Kent family probably had carrying people etched into their genetic instincts.
At this moment, Batman finally attained enlightenment regarding the quantum genetic source of Ian's outrageous behaviors. Of course, that wasn't even the most surprising thing to Bruce Wayne.
"How is this possible!" Bruce's voice carried a rare tremor.
"What do you mean, how is it possible?" Clark proudly dusted his hands.
"Did you think I wouldn't find you if you hid in a place like this?" He looked directly at his old friend, speaking in a deep voice. "Bruce, I'm smart too. I'm not inferior to you."
Finally, Superman had a chance to show off.
He felt great.
Clark was happy he had successfully found Bruce Wayne's hiding spot. He walked into the room, gently placed Lois on Bruce's custom bulletproof bed, and casually pulled over the Kryptonite-embedded blanket to cover her. His movements were as tender as if he weren't a creature that could punch a planet out of existence.
Bruce Wayne watched this scene.
His eyes flickered. He walked silently to the wall and bent down to pick up a piece of the several-meter-thick super-alloy—the outer wall of his safe house.
It was several meters thick.
Theoretically, it could withstand a nuclear blast.
But now, it was torn like paper, with the edges showing signs of violent destruction. For Superman to tear this apart was as simple as tearing a small piece of butter.
"I wasn't talking about how you found me..." Bruce's voice was as soft as if he were sleepwalking. "I'm talking about why you were able to open a 'new door' in my safe house."
He slowly turned and pointed to the walls embedded with Kryptonite.
This place was essentially a Kryptonian Fun House. Those emerald crystals glowed under the emergency lights—a sight that should have left any Kryptonian in agony. Yet here was Clark, standing in the center of the strongest radiation, even holding a piece of Kryptonite in his hand, casually tucking in his drunk wife.
"!!!!"
Superman suddenly opened his palm.
The Kryptonite he had used to weaken himself was lying perfectly intact in his palm, emitting undeniable lethal radiation. Yet, he who should have collapsed in pain and lost all power...
Aside from a slight drunken flush, he was perfectly fine.
He had been holding it the whole time.
From the roof, to the flight, to tearing the wall—he had been holding the Kryptonite the entire time. By all rights, he should have fallen long ago, screaming in pain, losing all strength.
But he didn't.
Not only did he not fall, but he also flew a hundred miles carrying Lois and tore open Gotham's strongest fortress.
"This... this is impossible..." Clark sobered up, looking even more terrified than Bruce Wayne. His super-brain, stimulated by both alcohol and Kryptonite, worked at high speed trying to find an explanation.
However.
Aside from a heartfelt desire to stay drunk and go over to give Bruce Wayne two slaps.
He had nothing.
"So, was Kryptonite just a massive lie you made up?" Bruce Wayne silently operated the nano-repair devices. Tiny swarms of mechanical insects busied themselves at the gap in the wall. The blast alloy flowed and restructured like liquid; a few minutes later, the new door Clark had violently opened vanished without a trace.
As if it had never existed.
"If you told me you really did fool everyone, I think I'd be glad you didn't waste your brain," Bruce Wayne turned around, his grey-blue eyes staring directly at Clark.
Clark opened his mouth, momentarily speechless. He looked down at the Kryptonite in his palm. The green crystal still emitted its faint light, but the radiation that should have caused him agonizing pain was barely noticeable.
"No... I don't know why, it just suddenly became less effective—actually, it still works. Look, the veins in the palm holding the Kryptonite are much clearer." Clark explained somewhat frantically, turning his hand to show the veins made prominent by the radiation under his skin.
"..."
In his mind, Bruce Wayne tagged Ian's file with Contagious Disease, then thought about it and added Possible Genetic Disorder with a question mark. Yes, the three Kent children were all quite abnormal; it was really hard for Bruce Wayne to believe the senior Kents were normal people.
Now, Clark's words were making Bruce suspect that either he'd stopped pretending, or he'd finally shown his true face while drunk.
The alcohol in the air was strong enough to ignite. Bruce's Bat-nose naturally wouldn't miss it. His nose wasn't as good as Superman's, but it was much better than a dog's.
"Fine, so your body has evolved again." Bruce looked Superman up and down, his expression shifting subtly. There was even a hint of disappointment in his voice.
He had always wanted to see a true Super Brain.
Regrettably.
For many years, Superman had failed to satisfy that wish.
"Based on your reaction, you clearly didn't come to see me because of your evolution. So, has your younger son finally been locked in a small dark room by God?" Bruce walked to a medicine cabinet in the corner, putting away the sleeping pills and taking out a red pill instead.
Clark's gaze drifted toward Metropolis.
"No." His voice and expression were clearly contradictory, but Bruce didn't press, only raising an eyebrow.
"Get to the point."
Under Bruce's scrutinizing gaze, Clark finally spoke about the mysterious woman and the vanishing building. As he told the story, Batman's brow furrowed deeper and deeper.
"Maybe you didn't see it wrong," Bruce said suddenly.
"What do you mean?" Clark's super-brain had entered energy-saving mode the moment he found his external brain.
Bruce didn't answer directly, instead gesturing for Clark to follow. They passed through a hidden passage in the safe house to an underground lab. The device in the center looked like a modified cosmic massage machine.
Its surface was covered in various alien technological patterns.
"Sit down." Bruce activated the console, and numerous holographic screens unfolded in the air.
As Clark sat in the device, a strange wave instantly enveloped him. His vision began to change—the concrete walls of Gotham became transparent, replaced by countless overlapping dimensional light shadows. And at the intersection of those lights, that vanishing, peculiar building reappeared in his view.
The blue police box also stood quietly on the roof.
"This—" Clark turned to Bruce in shock.
"Ever since I learned about the Multiversal War, I've been building this machine." Bruce's eyes sparkled with the confidence and wisdom of a scientific madman.
"Yes, Clark. Don't look at me with that disgusting shocked face. The alcohol gave you a perspective you normally wouldn't have—it gave you eyes that can see through the cracks of the multiverse and dimensions." Batman's fingers tapped on the console, suppressing the urge to gouge out Clark's eyeballs for research.
Of course, just as Superman had refrained from hitting him, he suppressed his own impulses.
Perhaps that was just how close friends interacted.
"Now, what is that woman doing?" Bruce Wayne asked the dumbfounded Clark. He was already more accustomed to a Kryptonian's shameless evolutionary feats than the Kryptonian himself.
"She's knocking on a door. Inside the door..."
Clark's gaze pierced through layers of dimensions, focusing on the white figure. The woman holding the umbrella elegantly knocked on a door carved with countless symbols of life.
From inside the door came a light humming sound.
Then, a cheerful female voice.
"Oh! Another interesting soul wanting to customize a mysterious past, give themselves a history that leaves family and friends dreaming, and have at least eight hundred mysterious people attend their funeral?" The door handle turned automatically. As the door opened a crack, Clark saw a studio filled with Victorian style inside.
"Wait, it's a Time Lord. An interesting soul."
Lady Death—or rather, Miss Death—was floating in mid-air. Eight small glowing mirrors floated before her. Without turning her head, she spoke softly to the newcomer.
The woman stepped lightly into the room.
Her white dress rippled with faint light in the cracks of the dimensions. She saw Miss Death leaning over a floating mirror, which reflected Ian's sneaky figure.
"Time Lord, I haven't seen your kind in a long time. Any other day, I would definitely have a good chat with you, to hear about the ups and downs and adventures of your life."
"But right now, I've found something more interesting."
"The person who inspired the second spring of my career, my dear believer... he's doing something big. He's preparing a 'Eighty-Eight Thousand Babies in One Womb' surprise gift package for God!"
"This is what a true warrior looks like, right? Lucifer finally found that new Master of Hell he's been longing for." There was more than just exclamation and wonder in Miss Death's tone.
There was also a bit of admiration.
***
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