At the periphery of the universe, Darkseid was reshaping his legions within the void under the watchful gaze of Death. Deep within Hell, Trigon's fury incited his cultists to stir impatiently.
Inside the Batcave, Bruce was pulling his hair out trying to handle the public relations storm unleashed by Green Arrow... and Mistress Death appeared to have completely betrayed Ian.
Even Darkseid remained utterly incapable of deciphering Mistress Death's ultimate motives. This was a deep secret known to virtually no one, leaving it entirely unclear what exactly she had witnessed at the absolute end of time within the DC universe.
In any case.
Upon returning to the present timeline.
Mistress Death had actively begun spearheading the orchestration of Ian's fated demise, precisely as predicted by the woman who had escorted her to the end of time.
And yet.
The young man connecting all these sprawling cosmic threads was currently fast asleep, snoring softly inside a luxurious demonic manor gifted to him by a King of Hell, situated right in a bustling district of Metropolis.
Ian sank deeply into a mattress that felt as soft as a cloud.
He was bundled up beneath a blanket woven from succubus down—don't ask where the fluff came from. A satisfied, serene smile hung on his lips, and he was even letting out gentle, rhythmic snores.
It was glaringly obvious.
Ian was having a magnificent dream.
The dreamscape was bizarre and fantastical, thoroughly packed with Ian's signature logic and absurd commercial schemes.
He imagined himself standing inside a colossal, highly futuristic interstellar shipyard. His own grand visage occupied every square inch of visible space across the entire port.
Countless mechanical arms were frantically loading crates of snapping, aggressive crabs onto oddly shaped cargo freighters.
"Yes! Yes! Exactly like that, ship all of them to Mars! I've already set up the breeding pools over there. We'll dump the crabs on Mars for a couple of days, let them soak, and then fly them right back!"
"Don't call them 'rinsed crabs,' that sounds terrible. Give every single one of them a registered Martian residency. Boom, authentic Martian Crabs! Who can deny they literally established a home on Mars?"
"I already have the slogan ready: 'The Ultimate Delicacy from the Red Planet. One bite, and you embrace the entire cosmos!' Cut one crab into ten plates and sell it to folks in New York, London, Paris." The Ian in the dream was completely immersed in his intergalactic business empire.
He remained completely oblivious to the fact that the outside world was descending into utter chaos because of him.
Equally unnoticed during his deep slumber were the three teenagers whom he and their respective fathers had completely "forgotten" amidst the ruins of St. Caesar's Church.
The biological brothers, Jordan and Jonathan, along with their acquaintance, Damian, were supposed to endure a night of freezing winds as a character-building experience.
However.
As the saying goes, three fools can match a mastermind when they put their heads together.
The night wind sweeping through the church ruins grew steadily colder.
Damian Wayne couldn't help but sneeze again, feeling the tip of his nose freezing completely numb.
He glanced over at Jonathan and Jordan Kent, who were tied up just as securely but looked in much better physical shape than him. He couldn't help but speak up again, his voice dripping with unrestrained frustration and anxiety.
"So, nobody is actually coming to rescue us, are they?"
Even as delayed as he usually was with these things, he had finally begun to read between the lines.
Jordan tried to flex his wrists, but the ropes reinforced by Raven's magic remained entirely unyielding. "Stop complaining, Damian. Save your breath so we can figure a way out of this."
"A way out? What options do we even have?"
Damian snapped irritably. "These ropes are magical; raw strength won't break them. And we aren't exactly masters of escape artistry like Dick (Nightwing) or Jason (Red Hood)..."
Right then, Jonathan, who had remained quiet for the most part, suddenly looked as if an idea had struck him!
"Wait! Jordan... I remember Ian saying that Kryptonians are entirely capable of overcoming the suppression of kryptonite. He said if you focus your mind, you can actually cure your own sensitivity to it."
"Yeah, self-desensitization! Out of all of us brothers, Ian understands Kryptonian physiology the best and is the smartest. Didn't Dad stop fearing kryptonite altogether after Ian explained the science to him?"
Jonathan was the child who communicated the most with Clark at home, meaning he had picked up a few details regarding the physical evolution of their Superman father.
"There's actually a theory like that?" Jordan blinked, momentarily stunned. He immediately closed his eyes and began to concentrate heavily.
Beads of sweat began to dot his forehead from the sheer physical exertion. A few minutes later, just as Damian was about to abandon all hope, a soft *snap* echoed through the air. The ropes binding Jordan's hands actually loosened a fraction!
Jordan was actively resisting kryptonite!
He had managed to tap into a tiny sliver of super strength!
"It's working!" Jordan whispered in pure excitement. "It's faint, but I can feel it! The suppression effect the kryptonite is having on my powers isn't as absolute!"
"Ian really does know everything."
He couldn't help but feel a surge of admiration for his youngest brother once again.
Sensing a beacon of hope, the trio immediately perked up.
Jonathan and Damian continuously cheered Jordan on, while Jordan focused his absolute mental capacity in his mind, attempting to hypnotize himself into believing that kryptonite could not affect him.
To be fair.
The unique trait found in American television dramas where the descendants possess greater latent potential than their predecessors was actually manifesting slightly within Jordan right now.
As a mere teenager, he was successfully shaking the foundations of the ancestral "I Reckon" logic power.
The minutes ticked by steadily as the stars shifted slowly across the night sky.
Finally, after more than an hour of grueling, intense mental struggle—
*Snap!*
A crisp breaking sound echoed out! The ropes binding Jordan's wrists snapped right in two!
"I did it! I knew I could do it! I'm Homelan... I'm Superman!" Jordan yelled in sheer excitement, immediately reaching out to unbind the restraints on Jonathan and Damian.
The three boys had finally regained their freedom, thoroughly ecstatic as they stretched their stiff, numb limbs and took deep breaths of the freezing air, feeling as if they had been given a second lease on life.
"Phew... finally free from that miserable kryptonite influence!" Jordan exhaled a long breath of stale air, feeling the solar energy steadily surging back into his body. He confidently slapped his chest.
"Even if I were holding a chunk of kryptonite in one hand, I could fly back right now!" Jonathan also quickly retrieved his utility belt, which Raven had carelessly tossed into a pile of junk in the corner, and buckled it on.
He twisted a dial on the belt buckle, projecting a miniature statue of Clark Kent, which immediately cloaked his entire body in a faint bio-electric field.
"Don't worry, I can fly too."
Perhaps the one who had secretly unlocked the ancestral "I Reckon" power first was actually this unassuming oldest brother. He had genuinely managed to borrow a fraction of his father's strength entirely through a miniature statue of Clark Kent.
"What about you?" The two brothers directed their attention toward Damian.
"What about me?"
Damian looked at the two Kryptonian boys who were already hovering and preparing for takeoff, then looked down at himself. That small face, usually brimming with immense pride, rarely displayed a hint of... awkwardness and helplessness.
"Ahem..." He cleared his throat, doing his absolute best to maintain a composed demeanor. "While I am the child of Batman, it is unfortunate—and to share a piece of trivia none of you seem aware of—my father was never actually bitten by a radioactive bat. Therefore... from a genetic standpoint, I do not currently possess the biological capability for independent flight."
Damian was, after all, a massive fan of Ian and was fully aware of the Batman mutation theories Ian had popularized.
He had genuinely assumed everyone else believed it as blindly as he did until he was thoroughly educated otherwise by the business end of a Gucci belt. He looked up at Jordan and Jonathan, asking in as natural a tone as he could muster.
"Which one of you... is carrying me?"
Damian rarely asked anyone for favors.
But he had no choice right now; he had absolutely no desire to wander through the freezing, desolate outskirts of Seattle in the dead of night. Heaven only knew what kind of degenerates out there might take a liking to a kid like him.
"No problem, Damian, I'll carry you..."
Jonathan was incredibly kind-hearted, immediately nodding to agree the moment the words left Damian's mouth.
However.
"Hold on!"
Before Jonathan could finish his sentence, Jordan yanked him back.
Jordan's eyes, which bore a striking resemblance to Ian's, instantly flared with a very familiar, money-grubbing sharpness that had clearly been infected by Ian's influence.
Jordan stepped right up to Damian, a highly commercialized smile plastering his face as he rubbed his fingers together expectantly.
"Carry you? Of course we can, Master Damian! However... considering it's the dead of night and we're talking about a weighted flight, this falls under high-risk manual labor... Don't you think you ought to... show some appreciation?"
This was the reality of spending too much time around a mega-capitalist like Ian. Once an individual is tainted by even a fraction of a capitalist's aura, they become exceptionally adept at seizing monetization opportunities.
Damian: "..."
He had seen people ask for money before.
But he had never seen anyone imply a demand for cash quite this blatantly.
He was clearly choked up by Jordan's completely unmasked "paid service" proposal.
Of course, while the scenario of demanding a transportation fee from a teammate was highly unusual, he was, after all, the young master of the Wayne family, thoroughly accustomed to all sorts of extraordinary situations.
"As expected of Lord Ian's older brother, you've managed to pick up a few tricks of the trade." Damian didn't hesitate for a single second, even giving Jordan a solid thumbs-up.
"If it's just money, take whatever you want. How many tons do you need? Give me an address, and I'll have my people deliver the cash directly to your warehouse. Or I can just take you straight to one of the banks the old man owns and let you haul it out yourself."
To raise a little terror like Damian, Batman had clearly committed plenty of sins throughout his life. Damian even tilted his chin up slightly, exuding the classic indifference toward wealth typical of a top-tier billionaire heir.
"How... How many tons?!"
Jordan's eyes widened completely at the sheer absurdity of measuring money by weight. His breathing turned instantly shallow, and the smile on his face grew significantly brighter, carrying a distinct hint of sycophancy.
When had he ever heard someone calculate money by the ton?
"Deal! Master Damian, I suddenly find you incredibly pleasant to look at. This must be what they call an aura of supreme leadership! Please wait right here! Jonathan! What are you standing around staring for!"
He violently shoved his brother, who was still daydreaming. "Quick! Go find a sofa for the young master! Mount it right on top of my head! If I don't provide the young master with first-class service, I won't even feel comfortable pocketing this cash!"
Jordan was speaking entirely in Ian's vocabulary.
"Come on... Jordan, have you been spending way too much time hanging out with Ian lately?" Jonathan looked at his brother, who had instantly transformed into a total lackey, and could only press a hand to his forehead with a heavy sigh.
He finally understood that his two younger brothers were cut from the exact same cloth when it came to being financial "geniuses."
"Fine, I don't want any money. Just make sure that when Dad starts handing out punishments, you leave my name out of it." Despite his complaining, Jonathan still dutifully began scanning the area, hoping to pick out a reasonably clean and sturdy sofa or chair from the piles of secondhand furniture abandoned by residents along the curbside.
Just like in many television dramas, within the land of freedom and democracy that was America, many households would indeed place unwanted old furniture, appliances, or even water heaters by the side of the road, sticking a "FREE" sign on them for anyone to take. However, this habit was not entirely born out of pure civic kindness.
At its core.
The phenomenon that many foreign commentators loved to romanticize boiled down to a single factor: poverty. It was poverty that fueled the thriving secondhand market and this unique "street-sharing" phenomenon.
It wasn't just that many people couldn't afford brand-new furniture, household items, or even kettles, which made the secondhand trade thrive.
In reality, the vast majority of the furniture left on the curbs for free consisted of items that couldn't even fetch a price in the secondhand market. If they didn't give them away, they would have to pay an exorbitant fee for bulk trash disposal.
Yes, the supposed phenomenon of Americans being eager to help those in need was, at its absolute financial core, driven by a desire to avoid paying steep trash management fees.
Giving it away directly cleared up space while saving a significant amount of money.
Why wouldn't they do it?
When it came to aligning with official American promotional narratives to prettify the phenomenon, people happily complied—after all, who was going to tell outsiders that bulk trash disposal fees over here were ridiculously expensive?
Because of this.
Large pieces of furniture were a common sight along the roadsides. Jordan was simply having Jonathan search through this "trash" to secure a comfortable first-class seat for Master Damian.
Thus, along the deserted streets of Metropolis in the dead of night, a deeply bizarre spectacle unfolded: three young heroes who had just broken free from a grueling ordeal were not rushing home or contacting their parents.
Instead, they were acting like scavengers, rummaging through piles of dilapidated old furniture on the sidewalk.
Jonathan tried his best to find something that wasn't covered in filth, while Jordan specifically targeted items that looked the most luxurious despite missing a leg or an arm.
Meanwhile, Damian, the son of the richest man in Gotham, joined the search effort, actually demonstrating an immense amount of interest in this "dumpster-diving" activity!
'This carved wardrobe might have a broken leg, but the wood is genuine mahogany... Whoa, this sofa is actually real leather, it's just been severely shredded by a cat... Fascinating! Truly fascinating! I should have Alfred set up a pile of stuff like this for me inside the Batcave. It'll make for great entertainment after training sessions!'
The hobbies of the wealthy were truly that simple and unrefined.
Hearing Damian's excited tone, Jonathan couldn't help but look up, staring at him as if he were looking at a total freak. "You actually think digging through trash is fun?"
"Good grief, are all you rich people this abstract?" This ran completely counter to Jonathan's perception of wealthy elites; in his mind, Damian was supposed to be acting like a textbook playboy billionaire heir.
Faced with Jonathan's astonishment.
Before Damian could offer any sort of reaction.
"How dare you speak to my dear Master Damian like that?!"
Jordan immediately jumped out to defend his "financial benefactor," pointing an accusing finger at Jonathan. "Watch your attitude! Or I'll pay Ian to pour saccharine all over your precious protein powder!"
This threat carried an immense amount of weight! The moment Jonathan envisioned Ian's inescapable pranks, coupled with the very real possibility that Jordan might actually team up with Ian to pull it off, he shuddered violently. He immediately mimiced drawing a zipper across his lips, indicating he was shutting up.
The three boys continued their noisy banter—mostly Jonathan and Jordan bickering while Damian watched with immense interest—as they trudged along the freezing, quiet street.
Their eyes scanned the abandoned furniture, hunting for a viable target. As they walked, they suddenly came to a halt right outside the gates of a rather grand villa that featured its own independent garden.
Precisely because there was something highly peculiar placed outside, looking as if it were meant to be taken by any passerby, it managed to catch the attention of Jonathan, Jordan, and Damian all at once.
It was not one of those common broken sofas or ragged chairs.
Instead, it was an exceptionally exquisite statue.
A statue of an angel.
Standing roughly the height of an average person, the statue was sculpted entirely from a pristine white stone, boasting masterful craftsmanship and lifelike detail.
The angel's head was bowed, its hands clasped tightly against its chest as if locked in prayer, or perhaps a moment of silent mourning. Although the wings on its back were folded shut, every single feather was rendered with absolute clarity.
The workmanship alone screamed that it was incredibly expensive.
Even under the dim night sky and the sparse glow of the streetlamps, the statue radiated a serene, sacred aura, forming a stark, jarring contrast with the dilapidated furniture surrounding it.
"Wow..." Even the highly sophisticated Damian couldn't help but let out an admiring gasp.
"This craftsmanship... is absolutely the work of a master artist. Why on earth would anyone throw something like this out?"
Jonathan also furrowed his brow. "It looks... brand new, actually. There doesn't seem to be any visible damage."
Jordan's eyes, meanwhile, flared with monetary excitement once again. "This thing... has got to be worth a fortune, right? Maybe it's some kind of antique! Should we make a video call to Ian and have him appraise it?"
"Better not, he has terrible morning mood swings."
Jonathan stopped him, still harboring lingering trauma from dealing with Ian.
"My idol even knows how to appraise antiques?"
Damian felt as if he had uncovered yet another miraculous talent possessed by Ian.
Chatting away.
The three boys collectively gravitated toward the angel statue, surrounding it. A sensation mixing curiosity, admiration, and a strange, inexplicable pull wrapped around their minds.
"Do any of you feel like... it just moved a second ago?" The moment they returned their gaze to the statue after briefly looking away during their conversation, they instantly detected an anomaly.
The exact millisecond their eyes had left it.
The angel statue.
It felt as though, during that precise window, it had stealthily... raised its bowed head.
***
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