The air in Sage's bedroom was thick with the scent of sandalwood and a faint ozone-like hum that vibrated in the very atoms of the furniture. It was a sanctuary of deep mahoganies and heavy silks, but at its center the laws of gravity had been politely asked to leave.
Sage was not sitting on his bed. He was suspended four feet above the Persian rug, legs crossed in a perfect lotus position. His eyes were closed, breathing so slow it was nearly nonexistent. Around him the faint ethereal glow of blue Mana clung to his skin like a second layer of atmosphere. It wasn't just static light; it pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, expanding and contracting, causing the curtains to ripple as if caught in a phantom breeze.
His mind was a vast open landscape of light, but at the edges of his consciousness a dull rhythmic throb persisted—a lingering souvenir from the impact at Loeb Bridge.
The heavy oak door moved with silent authority. Grandmother Pandora stepped inside, her presence filling the space with an ancient grounding weight. She wore a long flowing robe of midnight indigo, and her eyes—sharp and knowing—locked onto her grandson at once.
"I see you have gotten better with your shining lately," Pandora said, her voice rich and commanding. "You're even levitating more now. That's good. The tether between your spirit and this physical vessel is becoming more fluid."
Sage didn't open his eyes, but his body slowly rotated in the air to face her. "I can hear your voice in the back of my head, Grandma. 'Keep pushing harder. Do not let the meat of the body dictate the limits of the soul.' So that's what I've been doing lately."
"Good," Pandora said, walking farther into the room. The Mana surrounding Sage flickered as she approached, acknowledging a greater source of power. "I am happy that you push yourself. A force of nature must never become stagnant water." She paused, her gaze softening just a fraction. "I heard what happened today at the bridge."
Sage slowly descended, feet touching the rug with the silence of a falling leaf. He opened his eyes, the blue tint fading back into dark liquid brown. He winced slightly, rubbing his left temple.
"Yeah, I figured you'd know," Sage said, moving toward his desk to grab a glass of water. "I have a headache that won't quit, and my arm is throbbing. That's why I'm meditating—to calm my mind and knit the bruising back together. But I did it, Grandma. I used telekinesis to pull us all out of that river. Clark did the heavy lifting with the car—he's strong, but he lacks the finesse to move three bodies through current without drowning someone."
Pandora sat in a velvet armchair, her back perfectly straight. "And the human? The one with the bald head and the expensive machine?"
"Lex Luthor," Sage said, sitting on the edge of his bed. "He's… complicated. He saw us, Grandma. He saw us before the impact. He thinks he hit us, but I brushed it off. I told him he was hallucinating from the adrenaline."
"You did well to hide the truth," Pandora nodded. "The Luthors are collectors of anomalies. To them we are not people; we are assets or threats. You must be careful, Sage. Your bond with the Kent boy is a beacon. Two suns in one small town will eventually draw the eyes of the hungry."
They sat in the quiet of the mansion for a long time, the elder Anodite guiding the younger through the mental blocks of his pain, teaching him how to use the shining to dull the ache in his arm. It was a moment of ancient tradition passed down in a modern world—a gift of heritage that Sage held closer than any piece of Luminous jewelry.
Night air cooled rapidly over Smallville. At Frank's Auto Shop the neon sign flickered with a tired buzz, casting jagged red light over the oil-stained pavement. Tony Carozza was closing up, wiping his greasy hands on a rag as he whistled a tune he hadn't thought of in years. He reached for the light switch, but a sudden unnatural chill stopped him cold.
From the shadows of the tire racks a figure emerged, dressed in tattered grime-streaked clothes, skin pale and shimmering with an eerie sickly light. But it was his face that stopped Tony's heart—a face that hadn't aged a day in twelve years.
"Jeremy?" Tony whispered, the rag slipping from his fingers. "Jeremy Woods? No… that's not possible."
Tony recognized him instantly. This was the boy they had called the Scarecrow. Twelve years ago Tony and his teammates had chosen Jeremy for a cruel tradition, a "rite of passage" that ended in a cornfield during a freak electrical storm.
Tony's instincts screamed at him to run, but his legs felt like lead. He lunged forward, trying to grab the boy, to prove he was a ghost or a hallucination. "You're supposed to be—"
Before Tony's hand could make contact, a bolt of white-hot electricity arced from Jeremy's skin. It hit Tony in the chest with the force of a freight train. He was hurled backward, body spasming as blue sparks danced across his skin. He hit the concrete floor hard, breath coming in ragged terrified gasps.
"Please!" Tony pleaded, voice cracking. He looked up at the boy who stood over him with eyes that held no mercy, only a cold static hum. "The Scarecrow prank… Jeremy, it was just a game! We were kids! It was just a game!"
Jeremy tilted his head. Electricity crackled louder, jumping between his fingertips like living snakes.
"What do you want?" Tony sobbed, clutching his chest.
Jeremy's voice was a hollow rasp layered with the sound of a thousand buzzing wires. "I want… to play."
Jeremy reached down. He didn't grab Tony; he simply touched him. A massive surge of voltage erupted from his palm, flooding Tony's nervous system. The mechanic's back arched, mouth opening in a silent scream as the power fried the circuitry of his brain, plunging him into a deep vegetative coma.
The surge was so powerful the shop's lights exploded in a shower of glass. On the wall nearby a framed picture of the 1989 state championship football team rattled and fell. The glass shattered, the crack splitting the image directly across the faces of Frank, Tony, and two other teammates.
Jeremy looked down at the broken glass, glowing eyes lingering on the remaining faces—his next victims.
He turned and walked out into the night, the air crackling in his wake, leaving Tony Carozza a shell of a man on the cold garage floor.
The morning sun glinted off the yellow paint of the school bus as it hissed to a halt in front of Smallville High. The doors folded open and the four friends stepped out into the crisp autumn air. Chloe was first off, checking her watch with a smirk as she turned to face the boys.
"Well, color me impressed," Chloe said, tucking her notebook under her arm. "I'm genuinely surprised the Kent-Hall duo was on time for the bus today. After yesterday's accident at the bridge, I figured you two would be sleeping in until noon."
Sage adjusted his collar, looking effortlessly composed despite the early hour. "Well, you know, I had to drag Clark out of bed. I usually do. Left to his own devices he'd probably sleep through the first three periods and dream about haystacks."
Clark rolled his eyes, adjusting his backpack straps. "For the record, I was awake. I just wasn't mentally prepared to deal with the hallway paparazzi yet. And Sage didn't drag me anywhere; he just threatened to let Aunt Rose pick out my outfit if I didn't move faster."
As they began the walk toward the main entrance Clark's gaze drifted toward the athletic wing. He watched a group of upperclassmen carrying equipment bags, voices loud and confident.
"I wish I could've joined the team," Clark said, voice dropping an octave, laced with genuine longing. He looked over at Pete, who was still walking a bit stiffly from yesterday's practice. "Seeing Pete out there on the field yesterday… I don't know. It made me realize how much I'm missing out on."
"Tell me about it," Pete grunted, rubbing his shoulder. "My legs feel like lead, but at least I'm in the mix. Why don't you just sign the slip, Clark? You're faster than anyone on that roster."
Clark let out a heavy sigh, the weight of the kitchen-table argument from the night before returning. "I can't. My dad won't sign it. He says it's too risky, that I'm meant for greater things. Apparently those greater things involve a lot of fence-mending and zero touchdowns."
Chloe stopped in her tracks, eyes wide with disbelief. "Wait, you both want to be on the team? I'm still processing the fact that Pete was actually at practice yesterday. Since when did the Wall of Weird investigators become the Friday Night Lights crew?"
"I think it's for popularity, right?" Sage interjected, eyes dancing with amusement. "Being the star quarterback is the fastest way to the top of the food chain in this town. It beats being the miracle boy from the river."
"It's not just about being popular, Sage," Pete said, voice lowering as he leaned in. "It's about survival. We're trying to avoid becoming this year's Scarecrow."
Sage tilted his head, interest finally piqued. "The Scarecrow? That sounds like a low-budget horror movie."
"It's an annual tradition," Clark explained, expression grim. "The football team chooses a freshman every year during the week of the homecoming game. They take him out to Riley Field, strip him down to his underwear, and tie him to a wooden cross like a scarecrow. Then they spray-paint an S on his chest."
Sage paused, a slow wicked smirk spreading across his face. "Wait, they strip them down? Hell, they might as well buy me dinner first before they try to get me out of my clothes. At least make it a formal event."
Chloe burst into a fit of laughter, nearly dropping her pen. "Sage, only you would find the fashion angle in a hazing ritual."
"I'm serious," Sage chuckled. "If they want the view they have to pay the admission fee."
As the laughter died down Sage noticed Clark's focus shifting. The tall farm boy had stopped listening entirely. His eyes were fixed on a point near the school's front steps.
Sage looked over at Pete and Chloe, nodding toward Clark. "Serious? Look at him. All he does is stare at her."
Lana Lang was standing by the stone railing, talking to a few friends. The sunlight caught the highlights in her hair and she looked every bit the Smallville princess.
"Yeah, he does," Chloe said, voice softening with a touch of pity. "It's like he's under a spell."
"Why doesn't he just talk to her?" Pete asked, shaking his head. "He's known her since we were kids."
"Because he doesn't know how to talk to her at all," Sage and Chloe said in perfect unison.
Clark took a deep breath, seemingly emboldened by his own frustration. He began to walk toward her, posture straightening. He looked determined, almost like a normal teenager about to ask for a phone number. He got within five feet, hand raised to wave—
And then it hit.
Clark's face suddenly went pale. His knees buckled and a look of sheer physical agony twisted his features. He let out a strangled gasp, clutching his stomach as if kicked by a mule. As he stumbled forward he fell over in the grass, landing in a heap of tangled limbs and sheer embarrassment.
From his vantage point on the ground Clark could see the source of the pain: the small heart-shaped greenstone necklace hanging around Lana's neck. It pulsed with a sickly emerald light that felt like needles in his marrow.
Lana turned, eyes widening in concern. "Clark? Are you okay?"
Sage, Chloe, and Pete stood together a few yards back, watching the disaster unfold. Sage let out a loud theatrical sigh, shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and genuine sorrow for his friend.
"Just sad," Sage muttered, resting a hand on his hip as he watched Clark struggle to crawl away from his crush. "He can't even get within arm's length of her without turning into a total klutz. It's a tragic comedy at this point."
Sage, Chloe, and Pete moved as a unit toward the awkward heap that was Clark Kent. Lana was already leaning down, her emerald necklace swaying like a cursed pendulum over Clark's weakened frame.
Sage's eyes narrowed. As he approached he didn't just see the scene with his physical eyes; he opened his internal sight. He pushed a thin invisible thread of Mana toward the girl's chest. To his Anodite senses the necklace wasn't just jewelry—it was screaming. It emitted a jagged radioactive frequency that clashed violently with Clark's unique energy field. It was like watching a beautiful melody get shredded by a chainsaw.
Lana, oblivious to the metaphysical war, reached out to help Clark gather his scattered books. "Clark, are you alright? You just went down so fast."
Before Clark could mutter a response the sound of heavy cleats and cocky laughter filled the air. Whitney Fordman, the golden boy of Smallville, strode up with the confidence of a king. He didn't even look at Clark on the ground; he just wrapped an arm around Lana's waist and planted a long performative kiss on her lips, right in front of Clark's face.
"Eww," Sage interjected, voice flat and dripping with genuine disgust. "Please get a room. Some of us haven't had breakfast and I'd like to keep my appetite."
Whitney broke the kiss, a sneer curling his lip as he looked at Sage. He'd heard the rumors from the morning, and being the small-minded star quarterback he decided to swing low.
"Oh, Your Majesty," Whitney mocked, stepping toward Sage. "Did we offend you? Or is it just that your faggot eyes don't like seeing a boy and a girl kissing? Maybe you're just jealous you don't have a jersey to hide behind."
Whitney started laughing, looking around for backup from his teammates. But the laughter didn't catch. The entire courtyard went dead silent. Clark, Pete, and Chloe all shared the same uh-oh look. They knew Sage. They knew that behind the designer clothes and the Prince title there was a fire that didn't go out.
Sage didn't flinch. He walked right up into Whitney's personal space, tilting his head back just enough to look him dead in the eye. He didn't use magic; he didn't need it.
"First of all, Whitney," Sage began, voice dropping into that smooth terrifyingly calm tone that signaled total demolition. "Let's talk about that jersey. You wear it because without it you're just another mediocre white boy with a fading hairline and a C-minus average who's going to be selling insurance in this town until his teeth fall out. You think that slur makes you big? It just makes you look desperate. You're so threatened by the fact that I'm more of a man in silk than you'll ever be in pads that you have to resort to vocabulary from the 1950s."
Sage stepped even closer, presence expanding. "And let's be clear: Lana isn't with you because you're special. She's with you because she hasn't realized yet that there's a whole world outside of Smallville that doesn't care how far you can throw a leather ball. So keep my name out of your mouth before I decide to make you the headline of the Torch for all the wrong reasons."
Sage leaned in, whispering loud enough for the gathering crowd to hear. "I might come from a jewelry empire, honey, but I'm not afraid to whoop your ass. Don't let the manicure fool you."
The crowd erupted. Someone let out a "Dayum!" and a wave of laughter broke over Whitney like a bucket of cold water. The star quarterback stood there, face turning a humiliated shade of purple, completely dismantled by a boy half his size.
Whitney, desperate to reclaim some power, looked down at Clark, who was still trying to stand up. "You missed a book, Kent," Whitney snapped. He picked up a heavy textbook and tossed it hard at Clark's chest. The impact, combined with the proximity to the necklace, sent Clark tumbling backward into the dirt again.
"Come on, Lana," Whitney grumbled, grabbing her arm.
Lana looked back, eyes wide with a mixture of pity and apology. "I'm sorry, Clark. Sage… I'm sorry," she whispered before Whitney dragged her toward the entrance.
Pete walked over and whistled, helping Clark up once the necklace was safely out of range. "Damn, Sage. You were really gonna whoop his ass, weren't you?"
"Hell yeah, I was gonna whoop his ass," Sage snapped, still vibrating with leftover adrenaline. He straightened his cuffs, eyes still flashing. "I don't play that. He thinks he's the only one who can throw hands because he plays a game with a helmet on? Please."
"Pete, do not get him riled up again," Chloe warned, though she was secretly impressed. She checked her notes. "Though I have to admit that insurance line was inspired."
Clark stood up, dusting off his jeans. He looked at Sage, seeing the lingering blue tint in his friend's eyes—a sign that the Anodite was still on high alert.
"Okay," Clark said softly, placing a hand on Sage's shoulder to ground him. "It's okay now. Just calm down. It ain't that sus, remember? Like you told me when we were kids."
Sage took a deep breath, tension leaving his shoulders. He looked at Clark, a small knowing smirk returning to his face. "Yeah. I did, Clark."
Sage leaned in, voice a whisper that only Clark could hear.
"Blue," Sage said.
The word was their secret code, a reminder to calm down the power they shared and the colors of the world they were destined to change together.
The dusty road leading up to the Kent farm felt longer than usual as the two boys trudged toward the porch. The silence of the afternoon was broken by the glint of sunlight hitting something polished and chrome in the driveway. It wasn't the rusted yellow flatbed Jonathan usually drove; it was a brand-new charcoal-gray truck, smelling of fresh leather and factory-sealed dreams.
Sage stopped, hands on his hips as he appraised the vehicle like a judge at an auto show. "Well, Clark," he said, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "I guess someone had an early birthday present. Or Lex Luthor has a very expensive way of saying thank you for not letting him drown."
Martha stepped out onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron, expression caught between appreciation and apprehension. "It's a gift from Lex," she confirmed, looking at the truck. "For saving his life. Your father has the keys, Clark."
Sage let out a dry sharp laugh. "Generous. But I noticed he hasn't left anything in front of the Hall estate yet. Probably for the best—Grandma Pandora doesn't play when it comes to uninvited offerings. She'd likely turn a Ferrari into a lawn ornament before he even parked it."
Sage patted Clark on the shoulder, eyes lingering on the truck one last time. "Anyway, I'm going home. I need to make sure my family hasn't started a war with Metropolis while I was in chemistry. See you tomorrow at school, Clark."
With a fluid wave Sage turned and headed toward his own home, leaving the Kents to deal with the heavy expensive shadow sitting in their driveway.
Inside the barn the air was thick with the scent of hay and old oil. Jonathan stood by the wood chipper, keys to the new truck gripped tightly in his hand. Clark walked in, eyes bright with a hope that was quickly extinguished the moment he saw his father's face.
"I'm not letting you keep it, Clark," Jonathan said, voice hard and final.
"Dad, why?" Clark asked, frustration from the day finally bubbling over. "He just wanted to do something nice. He almost died!"
"Because nothing from a Luthor is ever just nice, son," Jonathan snapped. He stepped closer, the weight of years of struggle etched into the lines of his face. "I've seen how they operate. Years ago Lionel sent our neighbors gifts just like this—flattery, machinery, checks. And then the moment their guard was down he evicted them from their land and used it to set up LuthorCorp factories. He leveled their lives to build his empire."
Jonathan looked toward the direction of the Hall estate. "That is the reason why Rashandra Hall and her family keep their distance. They know. The Halls won't let that poison touch their soil, and neither will I."
"Lex isn't his father," Clark argued, voice cracking.
"Maybe not yet," Jonathan countered. "But the money he uses, the influence he wields—it all comes from the immoral business practices Lionel partakes in every single day. That truck isn't a gift, Clark. It's an anchor."
Jonathan sighed, expression softening just a fraction. "Look, I know it's hard. It's normal for you to be upset about this. Any teenage boy would be."
Clark went still. The word normal hit him like a physical blow, sharper than the debris on the bridge.
"Normal?" Clark whispered.
He reached out and flipped the heavy industrial switch on the wood chipper. The machine roared to life, a violent mechanical scream that filled the barn. Without blinking, without a second of hesitation, Clark thrust his hand directly into the spinning steel blades.
The sound was horrific—the screech of metal meeting something it couldn't cut. Sparks flew as the blades ground against Clark's skin, unable to draw a single drop of blood. Clark didn't flinch. He didn't scream. He simply held his hand there, a statue of impossible defiance, until he finally reached over and killed the engine.
The barn fell into a deafening silence. Clark pulled his hand out, showing his father the pristine unmarred skin.
"I am not normal, Dad," Clark said, voice cold and trembling with a lonely truth. "And I'm tired of pretending that I am."
The air in the storm cellar was cool and damp, smelling of limestone and old secrets. Jonathan led the way, hand trembling slightly as he gripped a heavy flashlight. He moved aside a stack of dusty tarps and old crates, revealing a hidden trapdoor reinforced with heavy iron.
"I didn't want this day to come so soon," Jonathan whispered, voice echoing in the small space. "But you're right, Clark. You aren't like the other boys. And you deserve more than just a lecture on morality."
With a grunt of effort Jonathan pulled the door back. Beneath the floorboards sat a sleek metallic vessel. It was unlike any aircraft Clark had ever seen—no rivets, no seams, just a smooth iridescent hull that seemed to absorb the light from the flashlight.
"You arrived in this," Jonathan said, stepping back to let Clark see. "Twelve years ago, during the meteor shower. The sky was falling, Clark. Fire and rock everywhere. We found you in the middle of a crater."
Clark stared at the ship, the metal humming with a faint ghostly resonance that vibrated in his teeth.
"Pandora was there," Jonathan continued, eyes distant as he remembered that chaotic night. "When the shuttle crashed it was like the world had ended. Your mother and I were terrified. But Pandora… she appeared out of the smoke. She didn't look scared. She used that shining of hers. She wrapped the three of us and this whole ship in a field of pink light. One minute we were in a smoking field, and the next we were magically standing right here in this barn. She helped us hide you, Clark. She helped us protect you."
Clark stood frozen, but he wasn't awestruck. He wasn't filled with wonder. Instead a hot prickly heat began to crawl up his neck. His hands balled into fists at his sides.
"You should have told me sooner," Clark said, voice dangerously low.
"Clark, we were trying to protect—"
"Protect what?" Clark snapped, spinning around to face his father. "My feelings? Sage already told me! He told me years ago that we weren't from this planet. He knew. His family knew. But I had to hear it from my best friend while my own parents looked me in the eye every day and talked about normal teenage problems!"
He gestured wildly at the ship. "I've spent every day of my life feeling like a freak, wondering why I can see through walls or why a wood chipper can't scratch my skin. I just wanted to know how I got here. I wanted to know where I came from. And you had the answer sitting under a pile of blankets for twelve years!"
The betrayal stung worse than any physical blow. To Clark the ship wasn't a discovery; it was the physical proof of every lie his parents had ever told him. He didn't know about the radiation of the green stones or the history of the world he left behind—all he knew was that the people he trusted most had kept him in the dark while the Sage across the road had been his only source of truth.
"I'm done with the secrets, Dad," Clark spat, turning his back on the ship and the man who had raised him.
He stormed out of the cellar, the heavy door clanging shut behind him, leaving Jonathan standing in the dim light of a craft that had traveled across the stars, now a silent witness to a family falling apart.