Courage, Mercy, Wisdom, Fortitude, Humility, Honesty, Tolerance, Hope, Temperance, Justice, Loyalty, and Compassion—twelve virtues were being nurtured under the catalysis of the "Anthem."
However.
Most great and significant things are not accepted by people at their inception. As the saying goes, if you are one step ahead of your time, you are hailed as a genius. But if you are too many steps ahead, few will ever understand you. Ian was like Tesla, Mendel, Rosalind Franklin, Mary Anning, or Alan Turing.
Clark Kent, unfortunately, belonged to the rank of the "common folk." Upon hearing the Anthem, he instantly petrified on the spot, his expression freezing onto his statue-esque face.
He finally understood why Bruce was sweating profusely and why his expression was so bizarre. Ian's so-called "reforming them" and "male motherhood" actually meant *this*!
"Twelve gourds on a single vine... unafraid of wind or rain, la la la la~"
The ethereal, holy "Anthem" continued to drill into their ears. Clark felt his super-brain and hearing experience a strong, instinctive desire to forcibly shut down for the first time.
The singing was like the most stubborn brainwashing virus, pouring directly into the depths of his mind through his super-hearing. The God Among Men's expression gradually began to spiral out of control.
Yes.
Make no mistake: this was mental pollution.
From his forehead to his chin, every muscle on the Man of Steel's face was performing a complex, violent, and completely uncontrollable twitch. He even instinctively covered his ears, though it was utterly meaningless for a man who could monitor the entire planet.
"Ugh..."
Clark let out a painful groan, feeling his heart, liver, spleen, and lungs tremble in unison.
The Injustice Superman, seeing this, felt his heart drop into his stomach. If even the Superman of this universe looked like that, what on earth was growing inside him?! He couldn't lie still any longer; he bolted upright, snatched the anti-eavesdropping headphones from Batman's hand, and scrambled to put them on.
The next moment.
The song entered his ears.
Amplified by the headphones, the "Anthem" became clearer, more three-dimensional, and even more demonic, exploding against the Injustice Superman's eardrums as they screamed in rejection!
"THIS!!!!"
The Injustice Superman went rigid as if struck by lightning! The color drained instantly from his weary face, leaving behind an ultimate, "end-of-the-universe-truth" kind of despair and total loss of the will to live.
The Superman of this parallel universe turned his head inch by inch, like a rusted robot, his hollow eyes locking onto Clark Kent.
For the first time, our universe's Clark found himself unable to meet the gaze of his alternate self. He guiltily shifted his eyes away. It felt as though since the son had committed the sin, the father had to bear half the blame.
"This won't do!" The Injustice Superman's voice was as dry as sandpaper, every word filled with a tearful accusation. "This absolutely won't do!!!"
He ripped the headphones off as if they were red-hot irons and roared at Batman.
"Get this thing out of me! Get rid of it! Bruce! Wayne! I don't care what method you use! Get it out! I'll do anything!"
Perhaps the Bruce Wayne of his world was long gone, but seeking Batman when things went wrong was an instinct etched into the DNA of every Superman. His voice was near collapse, tinged with the madness of one with nowhere left to turn. To hear a former iron-fisted ruler beg showed just how much his spirit had been shattered.
"Batman can't solve everything..." Bruce Wayne's voice lacked its usual confidence. He remained stone-faced, staring at the data scrolling across the main monitor.
"According to the scans, the twelve energy aggregates have already begun to take shape. They are deeply bound to your life signs, and..."
Bruce paused. His voice grew heavier, carrying a trace of powerlessness even he didn't realize he had.
"They have been implanted with an incredibly powerful [Anti-Removal Protocol]. This isn't just a technical genetic lock; it's a conceptual defense based on the laws of the High Heavens and a blend of chaotic logic. In the name of Justice and Compassion, it is nearly impossible to crack. Forcibly stripping them would result in 'Divine Retribution'."
Bruce didn't specify what kind of retribution that would be—perhaps he didn't dare speculate for fear of losing sleep—leaving his words hauntingly vague. Once again, he felt the weight of a truly peerless headache.
"Is it really impossible? I don't believe you can't do it." The Injustice Superman still placed a lot of faith in the Batmen of the multiverse, especially this one.
"Don't ask me. The embryos have formed, and I have a 'No Kill' rule." Batman's tone returned to absolute rationality. He had never been more certain that his moral code would come in handy for a moment just like this.
"..."
The Injustice Superman was numb. He slumped back onto the bed, his eyes grey and defeated, as if he could see his unspeakable future unfolding.
Seeing him like this, Batman was silent for a moment before turning his white lenses toward the equally ashamed Clark.
"This is a family matter, Clark."
Batman's voice was emotionless, but the intent to pass the buck was unmistakable. "Your son created this 'bond'; therefore, you are responsible for communicating and resolving it."
"??????" Clark looked at Bruce in disbelief, his eyes screaming, 'You're throwing this hot potato at me?!'
If he went to talk to Ian, he knew Ian would likely "teach him a lesson" too. Just thinking about it made his super-brain overheat.
"Well, about that..."
Clark opened his mouth, but words failed him. He instinctively turned his gaze toward Metropolis. His super-vision locked onto a middle school. In a classroom, Ian Kent was sitting obediently in his seat.
For a moment, Clark couldn't even find a reason to be mad. Through the "parent filter," Ian looked quite young—in Clark's heart, he was still the toddler in diapers, wobbling around the house with steps full of curiosity.
"Actually... maybe it's not a bad thing. After all, it hasn't hurt anyone," Bruce said, rubbing his chin.
"HASN'T HURT ANYONE?!" The Injustice Superman realized he was in Gotham, but he hadn't come here to become the new Joker!
...
Metropolis Middle School
Ian was indeed sitting quite obediently. Well, at least his posture was.
In every other aspect—especially his mouth—he was far from "good." Ian's mouth was the kind that never stopped; in fact, it might actually be his primary form.
"Listen, classmate! I know your club is a cosplay club, and you've got the 'uniform temptation' and 'Western selections' going on, but your understanding of Batman is fundamentally flawed!" Ian was tapping the desk with his knuckles, exuding the aura of a veteran professor. He looked heartbroken as he lectured his peer.
A scrawny boy was trembling nearby, wearing a "Batsuit" cobbled together from cheap black shiny fabric and cardboard. The mask was even worse—a black corrugated box with two eye-holes, making him look more like an amateur bank robber than a hero.
"I appreciate your passion for Gotham's nighttime security, but this all-black look is wrong at its core! Dead wrong!"
No one understood how to play Batman better than Ian. After all, his portrayal of the "creeping-on-the-floor-in-the-shadows" Batman was so effective that few dared to question its authenticity.
"But... isn't Batman... just all black?" the boy squeaked. Even classmates had a healthy fear of the school's "Supreme Overlord."
"Superficial!!" Ian slammed the table, making the boy jump. "Is Batman's aesthetic and survival philosophy something you can see at a glance? Why does he only cover the upper half of his face? Why leave that sharp jawline and sexy mouth exposed? Hmm?"
Ian's tone was passionate. The boy was baffled and shook his head.
"I knew you couldn't answer. Hints! It's called a high-level hint!" Ian held up a finger, as if revealing a hidden truth of the DC Universe.
"You cover the eyes to maintain mystery and intimidation. But the jaw—especially a jaw, well-maintained, and frankly, a bit punchable—what signal do you think that sends?"
"Is it to the 'fanboys' in Gotham who like that jaw?" the boy guessed, trying his best.
Fortunately, Batman didn't have Superman's hearing, or his parents might have been fired from their jobs the moment that answer was uttered.
"That's just an alternative answer. Not bad for the 6th rank in the grade, but you lack the maturity of me, the 1st rank. Now, move out of the light; I need to do my 'crooked-mouth' smile." Ian looked at the crowd of eavesdropping students and gave the only reasonable answer.
Ian didn't dare reveal too much cosmic truth in a place where teachers were still preaching gender identity freedom. "So, friend, take my advice: fix the mask. Expose the jaw and mouth, and maybe wear some foundation to look even more... 'pedigreed'."
Ian couldn't remember the boy's name, so "classmate" would have to do. He patted the boy's shoulder, leaving him in a state of deep self-doubt and confusion.
Having finished his lecture, Ian stood up and walked toward the door with the swagger of a runway model. After a few steps, he stopped, wondering why he was leaving. Probably because the act was so cool he just naturally followed the "exit" protocol.
"I suppose my speech was so handsome I need some space to let the charisma flow," he muttered. He ducked into the bathroom at the end of the hall, pretended to use it, and then strolled back.
Back at his seat, he saw the cardboard Batman was gone—likely off to modify his suit.
Suddenly, he heard noise from a phone nearby.
"Family, send some gifts!"
"Wow, a Dream Castle! Thank you, 'Good Brother for Life'! Everyone, spam 'You're the best' in the chat!"
"This gift is too precious, I'm blushing! As long as you aren't Lucifer, I love you!"
Someone was watching a live stream. Ian looked at the girl's screen in the front row. The streamer had golden hair like flowing fire and a face too perfect for a mortal. She was singing and dancing in an outfit that definitely didn't treat the audience like strangers.
It was the Archangel Michael, now going by "Mikaela." Having defined herself as a girl, her divine temperament and precise "borderline" fanservice had made her a top-tier influencer. The Archangel had proven she could excel in any career.
"Oho~" Ian whistled silently, leaning forward until his chin almost touched the girl's chair. "What a great streamer... truly high-quality 'borderline' content. She balances the sacred and the profane perfectly!"
He noticed "Mikaela" was using a "pure" expression to perform a classic live-stream scam.
"Look, she's crying! How pitiful! Send her something! Quick, comfort her with a gift!" Ian nudged the girl's back.
"Ugh, my allowance is almost gone," the girl, Lena, blushed.
"I don't know what's happening lately, there are just too many pretty girls streaming." But seeing the "vulnerable" Mikaela, she couldn't resist. *Click.*
[User "Lena_L" gifted "Angel Mikaela" a $50 "Holy Light"!]
The screen exploded with effects. Mikaela broke into a smile and sent a flying kiss—effectively putting $49 into Ian's pocket. Ian leaned back, satisfied. Platform fees? Didn't exist. Ian was the platform and the guild. Vertical integration was a beautiful thing.
Just as he was about to check if his bank balance was as long as a social security number, a cool hand reached from behind and covered his eyes. A voice, trying to sound sweet but failing, whispered:
"Guess who~?"
Ian didn't even bother to guess. He had a mature, high-efficiency response for such "attacks."
"Unless you're a Pokémon, I'm not going to be surprised." Without hesitation, he reached into a "dimensional pocket" and pulled out a dusty, grimy burlap sack. With practiced ease, he swung it over his head.
"Mph?!"
A short gasp followed as the sack landed perfectly over the person's head, the momentum pulling them forward. The class didn't even blink.
...
*Ding-dong!* The bell rang. Students hurried to their seats. The physics teacher, Mr. Edward Robert—a white-haired gentleman with thick glasses—walked in.
He immediately saw the discordant sight in the back. Emily, Ian's #1 fangirl, was frantically trying to pull a dirty burlap sack off her head.
"E-Emily?" Mr. Robert adjusted his glasses. "What happened to your face?"
Emily, usually known for her meticulous makeup, was a mess. Her eyeliner was smeared into panda eyes, and her foundation and blush had been rubbed into weird patches by the sack. Her lipstick was smudged across her cheek. She looked like she'd been through a washing machine on the "heavy duty" cycle.
The class remained unfazed. Emily's face turned bright red, but she forced a smile that was uglier than a cry.
"It's... it's nothing, teacher... just... boys need to protect themselves when they're out in the world," she whimpered, repeating Ian's words.
"????" The teacher was baffled for ten seconds. Boys? Protecting themselves? He looked at Emily's clearly feminine appearance and shook his head. These days, he didn't dare assume anyone's gender.
"Uh... alright. You can go clean up after class. Let's begin."
The class moved on to electromagnetic induction and Lenz's Law. Only Emily wasn't listening. She looked in her mirror, her eyes filled with resilience.
"It's okay, Emily," she whispered to herself. "It looks like a dog licked me... but if you think about it, doesn't this mean Ian was my 'dog' for a second? He used a sack to lick me! Yes! Rounded up, this means he kissed my whole face! He loves me to death!"
She had truly mastered Ian's art of "rounding up." She felt a strange blush creep into her messy cheeks.
Suddenly...
*CLANG! BANG! CRASH!*
Loud, violent metal-on-metal sounds echoed from the hallway, followed by the sound of heavy dismantling! It sounded like someone was using industrial tools to break down the classroom door.
Mr. Robert stopped talking. The whole class stared at the door.
*BOOM!*
The heavy door, frame and all, was ripped out of the wall and slammed into the hallway, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Through the dust, a figure appeared. It was Madison Montgomery, Ian's perpetually late seatmate.
"?????"
"!!!!!"
Madison looked a mess. Her hair was wild, her uniform disheveled. She ignored the frozen physics teacher and sauntered in, carrying a massive stone chair.
"Madison? Is this... is this even scientific?" Mr. Robert's chalk dropped.
Madison ignored him. She carried the heavy, ancient-looking stone chair—carved with intricate, celestial patterns—to Ian's desk. She looked at him like a cat presenting a prize.
"Ian! Look! The old stonemason was having a sale! Buy ten tombstones, get a luxury gift! I had him carve a student chair for you based on the fanciest model in the brochure!"
"You always say your chair is uncomfortable. This one has seat heating and ventilation! Pretty great, right?"
She set the stone throne down. Then, she ran back to the door, picked up the slab she'd ripped out, muttered something about "screws," and started trying to jam the door back into the hole in the wall like she was playing with Legos, attempting to "restore" the crime scene.
Ian stared at the stone chair. He recognized it. He'd seen it back when he was saving the world in the High Heavens. Specifically, it looked exactly like the throne he'd blown up with an Ultra-Bomb.
"Wait... where exactly did you find this 'old stonemason'?"
Ian's scalp was tingling. He felt exactly like the indigenous people of America did when they first saw the "visitors."