Chapter 21: Black Noir Attempts an Assassination? Why Is Your Blade Rolled?
The night wind of Manhattan poured into the floor-to-ceiling window that had a huge hole blown into it.
It carried the acrid smell of gunpowder smoke and helicopter fuel.
The tail boom of that helicopter was still stuck on the steel frame outside the building, and the flames were not extinguished.
The orange-red light flickered and hit the Persian rug in the CEO's office.
Shen Che leaned against the leather swivel chair exclusive to the Vought Company CEO.
His suit jacket was stained with a bit of dust.
His tie had just been pulled crooked by Chloe, and he didn't bother to adjust it.
He just sat like this in the darkness.
Chloe was not in the office.
Three minutes ago, she complained that the soles of her boots had stepped on the rotten flesh and blood of that female assistant.
Muttering that it felt sticky, she ran outside to the restroom to wash them off.
After this crazy girl left, the surroundings became a lot quieter.
Although the entire city was not quiet at all right now.
The panic brought by the massive blackout was fermenting.
The car horns on the streets below sounded in a chorus.
The sound of shop window glass being smashed and the roars of looters drifted up along the wind.
This was the sound belonging to chaos.
Shen Che crossed his legs and placed them on the scratched mahogany desk.
His leather shoes stepped on that not-yet-dry stock transfer agreement.
He thoroughly enjoyed this moment.
The bloody smell of the power handover had not yet dissipated, and the rules had already been trampled to pieces by him.
The senses of the Silver Age Superman were infinitely magnified in the night.
He closed his eyes.
There was no need to open them; the entire New York was within his perception.
His hearing was like an infinitely extending giant net.
Crossing the chaotic blocks of Broadway.
He heard the ticking of an old-fashioned clock in an apartment in Brooklyn.
He heard the vibration of the current washing against the bridge piers under the East River.
He even heard the gasp of an asthma patient three streets away before falling to the ground.
Thousands of noises poured into his brain.
His super brain instantly filtered out these useless data.
Shen Che contracted his hearing range.
Pulling it back to Vought Tower.
Pulling it back to the one hundred and twelfth floor.
Amidst the sound of the wind and the crackling of the burning helicopter wreckage.
He caught a trace of disharmonious movement.
It was too light.
If it weren't for the Silver template, not even a military-grade sonar detector could scan it.
That was a trace of breathing.
Deliberately suppressed to the limit, the interval between inhalation and exhalation was as long as one minute.
Accompanied by an extremely slow heartbeat.
Thump.
Thump.
Less than forty times a minute.
Shen Che didn't move.
The swivel chair didn't even turn once.
He didn't even lift his eyelids.
He recognized this frequency of heartbeat.
A few hours ago, in that core conference room on the ninth floor.
That fellow wearing all-black armor, sitting in the corner like a piece of wood.
It was this heartbeat.
Black Noir.
Vought Company's strongest silent assassin.
The fiercest dog raised by the former CEO Stan.
Stan was dead, turned into a puddle of meat paste stuck on the road.
Instead of going downstairs to look for a bone, this dog took advantage of the massive blackout to sneak up to the top floor.
Black Noir was a mute and had lost part of his sense of pain.
Having suffered severe brain trauma, his only obsession was to obey the orders of his Master.
Now the Master was gone.
His only remaining logic was to kill the guy who threw his Master downstairs.
How did he get in?
Shen Che could guess it even with his toes.
The power outage caused the security system to completely paralyze.
This black dog climbed up from the ground floor to the one hundred and twelfth floor along the steel cables in the elevator shaft.
Black Noir wore pure black tactical armor.
There wasn't even a reflective coating on his mask.
His entire person was like a light-absorbing black hole, perfectly melting into the darkness of the office.
When his leather boots stepped on the carpet, they didn't even make the sound of the plush fibers being bent.
He walked very slowly.
His toes touched the ground first, and then he slowly pressed down his heels.
Hundreds of sheets of A4 paper were scattered on the carpet.
He managed to precisely avoid every single one of them without rubbing out a single sound.
The firelight of the helicopter could not shine on him.
He was like a ghost, bypassing that wide mahogany desk.
And came behind Shen Che.
The high-backed leather swivel chair blocked most of Shen Che's back.
Only revealing a section of his neck.
Shen Che was still closing his eyes, the back of his head casually leaning against the leather cushion.
Looking completely defenseless.
Black Noir stopped and stood still.
Less than one meter away from Shen Che's back.
He couldn't hear Shen Che's heartbeat.
Ordinary people simply couldn't capture the heartbeat of a Kryptonian.
Black Noir only assumed that this arrogant newcomer was immersed in the vanity of seizing power.
His right hand slowly reached toward the outside of his thigh.
A katana was hanging there.
The scabbard was made of a specially-made noise-reduction material, with the inner lining paved with noise-canceling silicone.
He grasped the hilt.
His thumb gently pushed the handguard.
The blade slid out silently by half an inch.
Black Noir's knuckles turned white from exerting force.
The leather gloves closely fitted the anti-slip texture on the hilt.
In the nasal cavity under the mask, an extremely tiny wisp of foul breath was exhaled.
This blade was not ordinary.
It was forged by Vought Laboratory using a special superalloy.
Mixed with rare metals extracted from alien meteorites, its hardness was beyond imagination.
Its manufacturing cost was worth an armed helicopter.
Black Noir had once used this blade to cut open the explosion-proof rear door of a military armored vehicle with a single slash.
The cut was as smooth as a polished mirror.
Slicing through the thick-skinned bones of those super-humans was like cutting through a piece of warm butter.
The blade was completely unsheathed.
A touch of dark black light took shape in the darkness.
Black Noir held the long hilt with both hands.
His waist sank.
His feet stepped firmly on the carpet.
The muscles of his thighs tensed to the limit.
The joints beneath the tactical armor made a subtle pulling sound.
He raised the blade above his head.
To avenge Stan.
He poured all his strength, along with the intention of death for the rest of his life, into this single slash.
His target was locked onto that exposed section of Shen Che's neck.
As long as he slashed in from the position of the seventh cervical vertebra.
He could directly sever the central nervous system.
Leaving this arrogant usurper without even the chance to cry out for help.
Black Noir was certain of the outcome of this slash.
There was no hesitation in his mind, only the mechanical command of slaughter.
Cutting off this head and placing it on this chair belonging to the CEO.
Power was transmitted from his heels to his waist and hips.
Along his spine, it violently poured into his two thick arms.
The air was split open.
There was no sound of wind.
Black Noir's blade-swinging speed broke the physical limit of ordinary people.
The dark superalloy blade fell straight down.
Carrying earth-shattering kinetic energy.
There was only one inch left from Shen Che's skin.
Half an inch.
One millimeter.
The blade smashed into flesh and skin.
There was no dull sound of cutting through flesh and blood.
No blood splattered.
"Clang——!"
A harsh metallic clanging sound violently exploded in the spacious office.
The sound was so loud that it was like two high-speed trains colliding head-on.
Instantly drowning out the sirens of Manhattan outside the window.
A cluster of dazzling sparks burst forth at Shen Che's neck.
Like cold fireworks lit on New Year's Eve.
Briefly illuminating the surrounding space of a few meters.
The firelight reflected the lifeless eyes of Black Noirbeneath his mask.
At this moment, those dead fish eyes widened abruptly due to the intense counter-shock force.
The web of his hand holding the blade instantly burst open.
Fresh blood directly spurted out from the gaps of his leather gloves.
The terrifying reaction force slammed into his arms along the hilt.
Black Noir's two-hundred-jin body was shocked and slid back half a step.
His leather boots plowed two deep gullies on the carpet.
His arm bones emitted a series of aching crackling sounds.
Shen Che didn't even turn his head.
He still maintained the posture of resting his legs on the desk.
Even the back of his head leaning against the back of the chair didn't move by half a fraction.
That proud superalloy katana.
That peerless sharp blade claimed to be able to cut open tank armor.
Was being held high in mid-air by Black Noir's trembling hands.
On the dark blade, a huge notch as wide as two fingers burst open.
The broken metal fragments flew away spinning.
With a "Puff" sound, it plunged into the mahogany bookshelf nearby, sinking straight into the hilt.
This blade was completely notched and rolled.
Chapter 22: Casually Suppressing Black Noir, The Strongest Assassin Turns Into A Guard Dog
Sparks fell onto the Persian rug.
Burning tiny, charred holes.
Wisps of a pungent, synthetic burning smell drifted up.
Black Noir's hands stopped in mid-air.
The black leather gloves were torn with two large gashes.
The torn flesh at the web of his hands was rolling outward.
Beads of blood rolled down the armguards of his tactical armor.
Plop.
It dripped onto the rug.
He stared at the half-cut samurai sword in his hand.
The cut was not smooth.
It looked as if it had been forcibly snapped off by some rigid object.
The mask covered Black Noir's face.
No one could see his expression.
But the muscles around his eye sockets were twitching wildly.
In those dead-fish-like eyes, human emotions surged for the first time.
Shock.
Utter and complete shock.
This blade had chopped through the bones of superhumans and cut through the explosion-proof doors of military armored vehicles.
It had never rolled its edge.
Let alone shatter on the spot.
On Shen Che's neck, not even a white mark was left.
What kind of skin layer was that?
The common sense area in Black Noir's brain collapsed with a roar.
Ahead.
Shen Che pulled back the legs he had rested on the table.
His leather shoes stepped onto the wooden floor, making a dull stomping sound.
The dry bearings of the swivel chair creaked and groaned.
Shen Che turned around.
And stood straight up.
Standing well over 1.9 meters tall, he cast a large shadow in the dim room.
Exactly enveloping Black Noir entirely inside it.
Black Noir was a top-tier assassin.
Even though his brain stalled, his muscle memory remained.
The killer's instinct dominated his body.
He did not retreat.
His hands suddenly let go.
The broken blade dropped onto the rug with a muffled thud.
His right hand smoothly slid toward the tactical holster on the outside of his right leg.
His fingers accurately caught the buckle and pulled outward.
A half-foot-long tactical dagger fell into his palm.
The blade was coated with a high concentration of neurotoxin, casting an eerie green cold light.
His heels kicked against the ground.
His waist exerted force.
The muscles under his armor instantly expanded, stretching his tactical suit taut.
Like a black panther, Black Noir lunged straight at Shen Che.
The tip of the dagger pointed straight at Shen Che's throat.
The distance was less than a meter.
This strike was as fast as lightning.
This was fast from an ordinary person's perspective.
But in Shen Che's eyes.
This assassination was so boring it made people yawn.
Under the dynamic vision of the Silver template, the Worldbecame very slow.
So slow it was like a pot of sticky asphalt.
He could clearly see the dust in the fibers of Black Noir's armor.
He could see the tiny bubbles generated by the volatilization of the venom on the blade of the dagger.
He could even see the trajectory of Black Noir's shoe soles flattening the fluff of the rug.
Frame.
Frame.
Too slow.
Shen Che did not sidestep.
Nor did he block.
He simply raised his right hand.
His palm opened up.
And reached forward by half a foot.
There was no sound of breaking air.
No extra movements.
Arriving later but hitting first.
Black Noir's dagger was still ten centimeters away from Shen Che's Adam's apple.
And could no longer pierce inward.
Shen Che's five fingers, like a hydraulic clamp, tightly jammed Black Noir's neck.
Black Noir's sprint came to an abrupt halt.
A weight of over two hundred pounds, coupled with the kinetic energy of an extreme burst.
Crashing into Shen Che's arm, it failed to even make Shen Che shake his shoulder.
Shen Che pinched Black Noir's neck with one hand.
His fingers contracted.
Black Noir's cervical vertebrae made a teeth-gritting grinding sound.
The neck armor of the tactical helmet was directly squeezed out of shape.
Shen Che took half a step forward.
The muscles of his right arm slightly bulged.
His wrist flipped.
Lifting Black Noir, he heavily smashed him downwards.
Boom!
A loud noise exploded within the office.
Black Noir's back heavily slammed against the floor.
The thick solid wood floor instantly shattered.
Wood chips and dust splashed up more than two meters high like a fountain.
The terrifying force penetrated the wooden boards and directly smashed into the cement floor below.
The ground caved in to form a shallow pit half a meter wide.
Spiderweb-like cracks spread wildly around the edges of the pit.
Cracking all the way to the legs of the office desk.
The dagger held in Black Noir's hand flew out.
With a clang, it fell into the corner of the wall.
Lying at the bottom of the pit, his entire body bounced slightly.
A large mouthful of blood spewed out from under his mask.
The bloody water smeared the inside of the eyepiece.
His vision turned into a dim red.
His internal organs felt like they had been smashed into mush by an iron hammer.
His spine was in such pain it lost sensation, and his hands and feet spasmed.
Shen Che let go of his hand.
He didn't deliver a fatal blow.
Pinching to death an insect was easy, but he currently lacked a guard dog.
He pulled out the black silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his palms.
In fact, nothing was stained on them; it was just a habit.
Black Noir was like a dehydrated catfish.
Twitching amidst the wood chips.
His chest emitted a hiss like an old bellows.
Air squeezed through his trachea, carrying the static noise of blood bubbles bursting.
Shen Che threw the handkerchief onto Black Noir's chest.
He turned and walked toward the mahogany office desk.
Piled on the desk was that stack of equity transfer agreements just signed.
On the topmost sheet, the bloody handprint pressed by Richard was not yet dry.
Gleaming with a dark red under the firelight.
Shen Che grabbed that stack of papers.
Walked back to the edge of the pit.
Black Noir was using both hands to firmly prop up the ground.
Veins popped up on the back of his hands, and the muscles under his armor were spasming.
He tried to climb up.
This was the command carved into his brain by Stan.
Die in battle, never retreat.
He had just propped up half of his upper body.
Slap.
A thick stack of A4 paper smashed head-on into his mask.
The papers scattered.
Like a white snowstorm falling.
A piece of paper stuck in front of Black Noir's eyepiece, blocking his vision.
Printed on it were black lead characters.
Vought Company.
Absolute control.
That dazzling bloody print in the bottom right corner.
Black Noir was stunned.
"Looking for Stan?"
Shen Che's voice came from above.
Calm, indifferent, without fluctuation.
Yet it pierced into Black Noir's ears like an ice pick.
"He is dead."
Shen Che stated an insignificant fact.
Black Noir's hands trembled violently.
"One hundred and twelfth floor."
Shen Che pointed at the shattered floor-to-ceiling window.
"No parachute."
"Smashed into a puddle of meat mud. The Police are scraping the street downstairs with shovels."
Black Noir's brain went buzz.
That scrawny old black man.
That Master who gave out orders.
Was dead.
His pride and backing.
Vought's highest authority was just thrown down like that.
"This building now changes its surname."
Shen Che stepped one foot on the scattered papers.
His shoe sole rubbed against those signatures.
He bent down, staring at Black Noir's eyepiece.
The sense of oppression was like a substantial piece of iron, heavily pressing on Black Noir's chest.
"Now, there is only one god in this building."
"Me."
Only me.
These three words collided back and forth in Black Noir's brain.
He looked at Shen Che standing before him.
Dressed impeccably in a suit, not even a single strand of hair was out of place.
While himself.
His proud blade was broken.
His Master was dead.
The board of directors of the entire Vought Company didn't even dare to utter a sound, handing over the company on a platter.
The World outlook that Black Noir had built for decades was completely shattered at this moment.
Violence.
Absolute violence.
Dimensional reduction crushing that defied all reasoning.
He realized that continuing to resist didn't even count as seeking death.
It could only be considered providing a bit of trivial amusement for this new god.
Black Noir's tensed arms slowly went limp.
He lowered his head.
Groping with his hand, he found the rolled-edge broken knife among the wood chips.
Gripping it tightly.
He did not suddenly lash out.
Instead, he plugged the broken knife back into the scabbard at his lower back.
The movement was very slow, exuding a disheartened dejection.
Then, he rolled over.
Bending his knees.
He knelt in the shallow pit full of wood thorns.
His spine curved into a humble arc.
His forehead heavily knocked against the wooden floor.
Stopping precisely an inch in front of Shen Che's brightly polished leather shoes.
The wood thorns on the ground punctured his tactical pants.
And pierced into the skin and flesh of his knees.
He didn't move.
Pain nerves seemed entirely redundant at this moment.
His shoulders were trembling.
That was the instinctive physiological shivering of a creature facing a higher-order apex predator.
The bloody water inside the mask dripped down his chin.
Dripping onto the A4 paper by Shen Che's feet.
Searing and blurring that bloody print even larger.
Black Noir silently put away that broken knife.
Slowly kneeling and prostrating before Shen Che's leather shoes.
Like a vicious dog whose spine had been completely broken.
From then on, he became Shen Che's first loyal guard dog controlling Vought.
Chapter 23: Kansas Farm, the Real Superman Has Finally Grown Up
Shen Che stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window in the CEO's office.
The wind poured in through the gaping hole, carrying the stench of tar and blood.
Black Noir knelt on the floor, his forehead pressed tightly against the wood splinters.
Dark red blood dripped from his tactical mask,
crashing onto the Persian rug and leaving behind a dark stain.
Vought Company's fiercest dog was now holding his breath. His spine was thoroughly broken.
Shen Che looked down at him.
The tip of his shoe tapped on Black Noir's helmet, making a light clinking sound.
"Go downstairs," Shen Che said softly. "Assemble those running fools from the security department. Anyone who doesn't obey, crush them with your hands."
Black Noir's shoulders trembled. He didn't make a sound.
He bent his waist even lower, crawled back two steps, and then stood up.
Like a spineless shadow, he slipped out of the office.
Shen Che turned to look out the window.
Manhattan was still like a chunk of dark charcoal, with scattered glimmers of fire at the lower levels.
Sirens and the dull thuds of smashing glass drifted up from over a hundred floors below.
Chaos. Disorder.
The entire World was waiting for a savior.
Shen Che chuckled softly.
A savior? Before Vought Company launches a new insurance package, no one should even think about being saved.
At the same time.
The Midwest. Kansas, Smallville Farm.
Wind blew across the vast cornfield, rustling the cornstalks as they rubbed together.
The night sky was clear, and the Milky Way hung across it like a white ribbon.
Straddling the roof of a red two-story barn sat a young man.
Clark Kent.
He wore a faded red-and-black plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
In his large hand, he held a cast-iron pipe wrench with peeling paint.
He was repairing a rusty weather vane. A gust of wind this afternoon had knocked it askew, jamming the iron axle tight.
Clark clamped the nut with the pipe wrench.
He had barely exerted any force in his wrist—
Snap.
The cast-iron pipe wrench handle broke right in half.
The broken edge exposed greyish-white iron stubble. The weather vane's nut, along with half the iron axle, was forcibly twisted off by him.
Completely ruined.
Clark let out a sigh.
He threw the broken tool onto the tin roof, making a sharp clattering sound.
Screwed up again.
He reached up and scratched his short black hair.
He stuffed the broken axle into his jeans pocket, afraid Jonathan would nag him tomorrow about wasting tools if he saw it.
Strength was a long-term headache for him.
It wasn't that he was too weak; it was that he was too strong. Strong enough to destroy everything around him at any moment.
He wasn't an Earthling.
Over a dozen years ago, that severely damaged backup escape pod crashed into the Kent family's cornfield much later than expected.
When he crawled out of the smoking hatch, he was skin and bones from hunger.
If Jonathan and Martha hadn't adopted him, he didn't know where he would have died.
Clark stood up. He didn't look for a ladder.
From The Seven-to-eight-meter-high barn, he simply stepped right off.
The soles of his shoes landed on the dirt ground without making a sound, leaving only two shallow, two-inch-deep pits.
The light on the first floor of the farmhouse was on.
Dim yellow light shone through the screen door, and the sweet aroma of baked apple pie wafted from the kitchen.
Clark pushed open the wooden door; the ungreased hinges creaked.
In the living room, Jonathan and Martha sat on an old fabric sofa.
The elderly couple didn't speak, staring fixedly at the CRT TV with two antennas sticking out from the top.
The TV screen showed static snowflakes with horizontal lines, and the volume was turned up loud.
"CNN Breaking News..."
The news anchor's voice was trembling.
On the screen was aerial footage from a helicopter showing a major city engulfed in flames.
"A massive blackout of unknown causes has struck New York. Manhattan is paralyzed."
"Multiple riots and violent robberies are occurring in the East Side."
Clark stopped in the foyer.
The TV footage cut to a street.
Five masked men were smashing the shatterproof glass of a jewelry store.
A woman holding a child was cowering near the curb, her forehead covered in blood.
"Where are Vought Company's superheroes?" The news anchor spoke rapidly with a tearful voice.
"The Seven are nowhere to be found. Emergency dispatch is completely unreachable."
The screen cut to Vought Tower.
That iconic skyscraper was pitch black, with burning helicopter wreckage still hanging on the outside.
Clark stared at the blood-covered woman on the screen.
His chest heaved violently.
Air rushed through his nostrils into his lungs, making heavy gasping sounds.
His super senses began to lose control.
His hearing crossed the Kansas plains,
penetrating thousands of kilometers directly to the East Side of New York.
That wasn't the filtered sound from the TV; it was the real, tragic reality.
The shattering of glass, the screeching of tires against asphalt,
the dull impact of steel pipes hitting human bones.
"Help! Someone help us!"
An elderly person's tragic scream pierced Clark's eardrums like a rusty steel needle.
Clark's hands clenched into fists.
His fingernails dug into his palms, leaving four deep white marks.
The muscles in his cheeks bulged, and his teeth ground together audibly.
"Those who have the ability... why are they hiding?"
His voice sounded muffled.
He took a step forward, resting his hand on the wooden doorframe.
Crack.
The dry wooden doorframe cracked under his pressure, the fracture spreading upward along his fingers.
Splinters pierced through the varnish.
Jonathan turned his head.
He glanced at the cracked doorframe, then at Clark's face.
The old man picked up the remote control and pressed the mute button.
Only the silent flickering of fire was left on the TV.
"Come sit down," Jonathan patted the sofa cushion.
His voice was a bit raspy.
Clark walked over, but didn't sit.
He stood in front of the coffee table like a wall.
Martha came out of the kitchen holding a mug of warm milk.
White steam rose from the outer wall of the glass cup.
"Drink something, son." She handed the cup over.
Clark took it. The water temperature didn't feel like anything to him.
"Dad." He looked at Jonathan's wrinkled face.
"They need help."
He pointed at the silent TV.
"The paid people at Vought are hiding. The big city has turned into hell."
Jonathan rested his hands on his knees and rubbed the coarse fabric.
"That's none of our business."
"You can't help everyone."
"I can help the people on that street," Clark's speaking pace quickened.
"I have strength. I can block bullets. I can fly."
Jonathan stood up.
He was a head shorter than Clark, but he stood with his back straight.
"And then?" The old man stared at his adopted son.
"You rush into New York and throw those thugs into the sky?"
"Tomorrow morning's newspapers will all be writing about an invulnerable monster."
Jonathan walked to the window, looking out into the night.
"People fear what they can't control. They will see you as a threat."
"The government will send the military for you. For this farm."
Clark lowered his head,
looking at the glass cup in his hand.
His thumb rubbed hard against the glass wall twice.
"I've been hiding for twenty years, Dad."
His voice held a trace of grievance and suppression.
"When the town's tractor flipped into the ditch, I didn't dare lift it."
"When Pietro fell into the river, I had to pretend to swim slowly and almost watched him drown."
"Every day, I pretend to be an ordinary person."
Crack.
The glass cup made a sharp sound, a fine crack spreading across its rim.
Clark quickly let go and placed the cup on the coffee table.
A few drops of milk spilled onto the solid wood tabletop.
"But I'm not an ordinary person."
He raised his head again.
A sense of simplicity and a nearly naive stubbornness glowed in his blue eyes.
"God didn't give me this strength just so I could stay in Kansas and grow corn."
"I have to go help. I have to pull them out."
Jonathan turned around,
looking at this alien boy he had raised with his own hands.
He let out a sigh.
"You want to be a savior? To establish rules?"
"No." Clark shook his head.
"I'm going to show what a true hero ought to be."
Martha wiped the corners of her eyes beside them.
She walked over and held Clark's rough, large hand.
"You're a good boy. You always have been." The old woman patted the back of his hand. "Wait a moment for me."
Martha turned and went into the storage room at the end of the hallway.
After a moment, she carried out an old cardboard box.
A thin layer of dust lay on the box lid.
She placed the box on the coffee table, blew off the dust, and lifted the lid.
Folded inside was a set of clothing.
Red and blue fabric, somewhat striking under the dim yellow light.
"When you came in that spaceship, you were wrapped in that red blanket."
Martha pulled out the clothes. Hand-sewn, with somewhat rough stitching.
"That material couldn't be cut or burned. I ruined ten pairs of scissors just to barely shape it into something."
On the chest of the outfit, a huge shield-shaped emblem was sewn in yellow thread.
Inside was a red'S'.
Clark took the clothes.
The fabric was smooth to the touch, carrying a faint scent of mothballs.
"Go, son." Jonathan walked over.
The old man hugged his sturdy back and patted it hard twice.
"If you hit a wall out there and get tired, just come home."
"Kansas will always be your home."
Clark's eyes welled up with heat.
He nodded forcefully, turned, and walked back to his bedroom.
Ten minutes later.
On the wooden porch outside the farmhouse.
Clark pushed open the door and walked out.
He had changed into that old uniform.
The blue suit clearly defined his full muscle lines.
A red cape was tied to his shoulders—a bit short, hanging just above his knees.
It looked a bit rustic, like a circus wrestler.
But he didn't care.
The sky was already showing a streak of dawn.
The eastern horizon was dyed orange-red by the rising Sun.
The morning wind was cool, blowing the red cape behind him.
Clark took a deep breath of cold air.
Air filled his lungs.
He closed his eyes, listening to the faint cries for help coming from the East Coast.
When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was resolute.
"I will become hope,"
Clark whispered softly.
His legs bent slightly.
The turf beneath his feet instantly sunken downward, the soil compressed harder than stone by terrifying force.
Boom!
A dull explosion echoed over the farm.
The ground in front of the porch was stomped into a deep, basin-sized pit by the immense recoil.
Dirt and grass splinters flew in all directions like bullets.
Clark soared into the sky.
The red-and-blue figure tore through the morning mist.
Facing the radiance of the rising Sun, he turned into a shooting star, shooting towards the East Coast without turning back.
Chapter 24 Clark wants to save the World, and I want to buy the World
New York's dawn had arrived.
When Clark flew toward the East Coast, Shen Che had already started working.
The wind at the top of Vought Tower had stopped.
The floor-to-ceiling window that had a huge hole yesterday was replaced overnight with aviation explosion-proof glass.
The carpet was replaced with a new one. The smell of blood was covered up by air freshener.
Even the smashed mahogany table was replaced with a single piece of obsidian table.
The aftereffects of the major blackout completely erupted in the early morning.
New York's traffic was completely paralyzed. The traffic lights went on strike. Manhattan was jammed into a complete mess.
Car horns had been blaring all morning. The white-collar workers on the road were full of resentment.
This panic emotion was transmitted completely to Wall Street.
Nine-thirty in the morning. Nasdaq opened.
The broader market was miserably green. It plummeted so much that people wanted to jump off buildings.
Shen Che sat in the newly replaced leather chair. This chair's hydraulic rod was specially reinforced.
Standing in front of him were a dozen suit-wearing traders.
The financial department director was named David. He was bald.
Sweat kept pouring from David's forehead. He took out a gray plaid handkerchief and wiped it continuously.
"President Shen." David looked at the data panel in his hand. His throat was dry.
"General Electric's stock price opened down twelve points. The logistics stocks under Wayne Enterprises are also plummeting."
David swallowed a mouthful of saliva. The handkerchief was almost soaked through.
"Stocks of many infrastructure and security companies are being sold off in panic."
Shen Che didn't look at him.
He picked up the black coffee at his side and took a sip. It had no sugar and was very bitter.
"Short sell." Shen Che spat out two words.
David was stunned. His hand holding the panel shook slightly.
"President Shen. Shorting now? The Securities Regulatory Commission is watching closely. The cause of the blackout hasn't been investigated yet, we enter on a large scale..."
"Investigate?" Shen Che put down the cup.
The porcelain cup knocked against the obsidian tabletop. A crisp sound.
David shivered. The second half of his sentence was swallowed straight back into his stomach.
Shen Che crossed his fingers. He looked at the sweating financial director in front of him.
"Go check the ledger of the Chairman of the Securities Regulatory Commission. Is there Vought's money in it?"
David nodded like pounding garlic.
"There's a blackout today, tomorrow it might be an explosion." Shen Che leaned back against the chair back. "Make them shut up. Whoever dares to audit Vought's accounts, I'll make his whole family's medical examination report have problems."
The office was so quiet that a falling needle could be heard.
More than a dozen traders didn't even dare to breathe heavily.
"Hear clearly." Shen Che tapped the tabletop with his knuckles.
"I want all of LexCorp's real estate in New York. I want Wayne Enterprises' port shares on the East Coast."
"Take advantage of their sickness to take their lives. Clear them out for me at cabbage prices."
Shen Che glanced at David.
"Whoever dares to snatch the chips, let Black Noir go talk to him."
David's hand wiping sweat froze in mid-air.
He didn't see Black Noir's miserable state yesterday. But he knew what Black Noir did. To go talk meant to go kill people.
"Understood. I'll go handle it right away." David's voice trembled.
He led more than a dozen traders and jogged out of the office.
The door closed.
Shen Che spun his chair, looking at the chaotic city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The sound of keyboard typing sounded frantically in the financial department downstairs.
Tens of billions of dollars in assets.
Were being lawfully stuffed into his pocket amidst this man-made disaster.
Disaster is hell for civilians.
For capital, it was just a grand buffet.
At the same time. Metropolis.
More than two hundred kilometers away from New York. Sunlight shone on Metropolis's shiny glass curtain walls.
This was a city cleaner and more orderly than New York.
Clark landed in a remote alley of a commercial street.
He lowered his head to look at the clothes on his body.
The red and blue uniform hand-stitched by Martha.
The red cape was a bit short. It stuck above his knees, and the fabric was even pilling.
The shield-shaped logo on his chest was crookedly embroidered with yellow thread.
He took a deep breath. His chest puffed out. He walked out of the alley.
Carrying the Virgin Mary-like dream of saving the World, he wanted to find something big to do.
But Metropolis had no blackout. No alien invasion. No supervillains.
Only white-collar workers rushing to work during the morning rush hour. Holding paper cup coffees, they hurried along.
Clark stood foolishly at the intersection like a pervert wearing tight clothes.
Passersby walked around him one after another. They sized him up with looks used for psychiatric patients.
A little girl pointed at his cape and laughed. She was snatched away by her mother.
Clark's face flushed red. His rough large hands didn't know where to put themselves.
His stomach growled. He flew too hastily in the morning and didn't have time to eat Martha's apple pie.
"Catch the thief! Robbery!"
A scream came from across the street.
A thin, gaunt man wearing sunglasses snatched an old lady's handbag.
The man took off running. He held a gleaming switchblade in his hand.
Clark's eyes lit up. Work had finally arrived.
This was his first battle as a hero.
His legs slightly bent. He wanted to control his strength so as not to run too fast.
But he forgot. This was Metropolis's asphalt road. Not Kansas's soft dirt ground.
"Bang."
A muffled explosive sound.
Like a cannonball out of the chamber, Clark shot straight out.
The asphalt road surface under his feet instantly blasted open a half-meter-deep large pit.
Asphalt blocks and gravel flew apart like buckshot.
Clatter.
The stones smashed the windshield of a Mercedes-Benz parked by the roadside. Several dents were hammered onto the car door.
Clark reacted while still in mid-air. The speed was too fast, and he exerted too much force.
He wanted to slow down. His soles dragged two long black marks on the asphalt road.
He didn't brake in time.
He crashed directly into the robber holding the switchblade.
"Crack."
The two rolled into a ball together. They knocked down a red fire hydrant by the roadside.
The thick raw iron pipe broke off completely at the root.
A high-pressure water column soared into the sky. It sprayed over a dozen meters high.
The white water fell like a rainstorm. It poured all over the passersby with a clattering sound.
Screams rose one after another. The street instantly turned into a mess.
Clark climbed up from the puddle-filled ground.
The robber had passed out cold. The switchblade was bent into scrap iron, and three ribs were broken.
Clark picked up the handbag on the ground. He wiped the water on his face.
He was sweating profusely.
The thick uniform was soaked through. It clung tightly to his body, constricting him in a comical way.
He walked over to the old lady.
"Ma'am, your bag." Clark handed the handbag over. A sincere smile was on his face.
The old lady didn't take it.
She didn't look at the handbag. She stared fixedly at the fountain-like fire hydrant.
And looked at the smashed Mercedes-Benz. As well as the large pit in the middle of the road.
"You lunatic wearing circus clothes!"
The old lady swung the long-handled umbrella in her hand and directly poked it onto Clark's nose.
"Look at the good deeds you've done!"
The old lady's spit flew everywhere. The umbrella poked Clark straight backward.
"There was only fifty dollars in the bag! You destroyed half a street!"
Clark was stunned. His hand was raised in mid-air, holding the handbag.
"But, he had a knife..." Clark tried to explain.
"That's the Police's business! Who do you think you are!" The old lady snatched the handbag away. She whipped it against Clark's arm with the bag strap.
"Don't think you can come out and go crazy just by wearing tight clothes. You destructive terrorist!"
The Mercedes-Benz owner nearby rushed over. He was a fat man in a suit.
The fat man looked at his car with heartache. His face turned green.
"My car! I just picked it up yesterday!"
The fat man reached out to push Clark's chest.
"You bastard have to pay for the damages! Take out your ID!"
The fat man used all his strength. He didn't push him back.
Instead, his wrist sprained slightly. It hurt so much that he kept shaking his hand.
"How dare you fight back?" the fat man roared.
Clark had no way to clear his name.
"I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to. I'll pay..." He touched his belt. There was nothing.
He turned and walked toward the spraying fire hydrant.
Attempting to block the gap with both hands.
His palms had just pressed down. He didn't control his strength well.
"Squish."
The remaining half-section of the raw iron pipe was directly squeezed flat by him.
The pressure inside the pipe surged drastically.
The water flow squirted out from the gap. It sprayed even farther.
It squirted right onto the Mercedes-Benz owner's face. It washed away all of the fat man's hair gel.
The fat man screamed. The cursing became even louder.
Clark wanted to pull out the flattened pipe to fix it again.
As a result, with a single exertion. With a crack.
The water pipe underneath was pulled up by him for a section from the root. The ground collapsed by another chunk.
Water flooded the golden mountain. The entire street became a water city.
Passersby all gathered around.
No one praised him as a hero. No one thanked him for doing a brave deed.
They were all accusing him of destroying public property and creating chaos.
Over a dozen mobile phones were raised in mid-air. The cameras were aimed right at him.
"Call the Police to arrest him!"
"Let the people from Vought Company come clean up this lunatic!"
Clark stood inside the water column. The red cape clung wetly to his legs.
He was sweating profusely. He felt he had nowhere to put his hands and feet.
He tried to influence the World with kindness.
Yet the people of the World only cared about their smashed cars and drenched suits.
Three in the afternoon.
New York. Vought Tower.
The door was knocked. David pushed the door open and entered.
Unconcealed ecstasy was on the bald face. His cheeks were red.
"President Shen." David placed a report on the obsidian table with both hands.
"LexCorp's three plots of land in Brooklyn, we've taken them down. Wayne Logistics' shares have also been eaten up by seven percent."
David swallowed a mouthful of saliva. His voice was fluttering.
"They were all goods swept up during the plunge. In and out, forty billion more on the books."
Forty billion U.S. dollars. In the span of a single morning.
Shen Che didn't look at that report.
"Understood."
He leaned back in the leather chair. He held a tablet computer in his hand.
His index finger slid across the screen.
This was a trending video just pushed over by the public relations department.
Hot search number one.
The title was in bold characters: "The Tight-Clothed Weirdo of Metropolis Violently Destroys Neighborhood".
The video footage shook. Shot by a passerby with a mobile phone.
Shen Che clicked to play.
Inside the screen, a tall man wearing a tacky red and blue uniform.
Was standing next to the spraying fire hydrant. Being cursed at right in the nose by an old lady with an umbrella.
The tip of the umbrella poked into the man's chest. The steel skeleton bent.
The man blushed, sweating profusely as he bowed in apology.
Like an elementary school student who got into trouble and was being reprimanded.
That red cape dripped water, ridiculously clinging to his knees.
Beside him was a fat man stamping his feet and cursing loudly, demanding him to pay for the car.
The man reached out to block the water pipe. He squeezed the pipe flat. Water squirted all over the fat man's face.
Unrestrained jeers from passersby came from inside the video.
Shen Che stared at the screen.
The video wasn't on mute. Chaotic cursing echoed in the office.
The real Superman. The last hope of the Kryptonian.
That chosen son of destiny who was originally supposed to be the savior in this World.
Was now, for stepping on a piece of asphalt road and smashing a car.
Being pointed at in the nose and bitterly cursed by a group of ordinary people of Earth.
Not even daring to reply with a single tough word.
Shen Che's Adam's apple rolled.
A short sneer hummed out from his nasal cavity.
He casually threw the tablet computer onto the desktop.
The screen was lit. Clark inside was still at a loss within the water column.
Shen Che leaned back against the chair back.
He looked at the tablet. He sneered and shook his head.
What this World needed was fundamentally not kindness.
He lamented that this real Superman was truly an incorrigible fool.
Chapter 25: Soldier Boy Awakens? An Old Antique From the Last Century Dares to Jump?
The tablet screen went dark.
The comical image of Clark being poked in the nose with an umbrella by an old lady on the streets of Metropolisvanished.
Shen Che picked up the crystal wine glass on the desk.
Half a glass of Bordeaux wine filled it. He swirled the bottom of the glass, the red liquid hanging in a thick trace along the glass.
Foolish, he thought.
The real Superman's brain was completely filled with the hay of Kansas Farm.
The red secure phone at the corner of the desk rang.
The ringtone was urgent. This machine connected directly to Vought Company's thirteen highest-level top-secret facilities around the World, usually serving as mere decoration.
Shen Che put down the wine glass and grabbed the receiver.
He didn't press speakerphone. Harsh static noise came through the receiver.
Followed by English mixed with Russian. The voice cracked, filled with heavy panting and panic.
"President Shen! We can't hold them back! Sector 4 has fallen!"
It was the director of Vought Company's secret laboratory in Russia.
In the background was the roar of heavy machine guns firing, along with the muffled thuds of concrete walls collapsing one after another.
"Speak clearly," Shen Che said calmly.
"Subject Zero... he woke up! The cryo-chamber was violently blown open from the inside!"
The director was nearly in tears.
"He killed half the Base's personnel! The security team's armor-piercing rounds couldn't even break his skin!"
A loud crash came from the other end of the line, followed by the ear-splitting screech of a metal door deforming from stress.
"Who?" Shen Che asked.
"Soldier Boy!" the director yelled, his voice cracking.
"He tore through the titanium alloy blast gate, hijacked a military transport plane on the helipad, and is flying straight across the Atlantic Ocean toward the United States!"
"His coordinates are locked onto New York!"
There was another dull explosion.
Then came the crisp crunch of human bones being brutally shattered. The director's scream cut off mid-way.
Only dead static remained in the receiver, beeping repeatedly.
Shen Che slammed the receiver back onto the landline.
Soldier Boy. Vought Company's proudest flagship figure from the last century.
Also the original provider of Chloe's genes.
An antique living from World War II, a human popsicle frozen in Russia for decades.
Now he had actually smashed his coffin and crawled out on his own.
Shen Che leaned back against the leather chair and tapped his knuckles against the obsidian desk.
The World really was a junk recycling station. Any old relic could jump up and come back to life.
The door opened.
Chloe walked in, holding a tub of strawberry ice cream in her hand.
She had changed into a new uniform—blue background with a red star, the fabric pulled tightly.
She scooped a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth, her cheeks bulging, with a trace of pink cream smeared on the corner of her lips.
"Who was on the phone?" she asked indistinctly.
"An old acquaintance," Shen Che said.
"Who?"
"Your biological dad."
Chloe froze for a moment, her small plastic spoon pausing by her mouth.
She swallowed the cold treat in her mouth and tilted her head.
"Dad?" Chloe blinked. "Then can I rip his guts out and hang them on Vought's front gate?"
Shen Che smiled, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"Whatever makes you happy."
No sooner had the words left his mouth.
A dull roar of engines echoed from the sky outside the window.
An unmarked military transport plane flew past, skimming the high-rises of Manhattan.
Its speed was unnaturally fast. Its wing clipped the lightning rod of a commercial building nearby, shooting off a long streak of sparks.
The transport plane's side door was wide open, wild winds howling inside.
A figure stood on the edge of the doorway, wearing no parachute.
The figure leaped.
Like a green meteorite, he crashed diagonally toward the top floor of Vought Tower.
"Boom!"
The aviation-grade explosion-proof glass, just replaced yesterday, shattered instantly into pieces.
Shards of glass from the entire wall showered into the office like a torrential rain, embedding themselves in the carpet and wallpaper.
Wild winds rushed in, carrying the burnt stench of aviation fuel.
A man slammed heavily onto the Persian carpet.
The floor caved into a half-meter-deep crater, wooden splinters flying everywhere.
The man straightened up and brushed the dust off his shoulders.
He wore an old-fashioned dark green tactical suit, with a heavy metal shield featuring an eagle emblem hanging over his chest.
His blond hair was somewhat messy, and stubble covered his chin.
He exuded the stink of cheap vodka and heavy gunpowder.
Soldier Boy.
He swaggered forward, his military boots crunching loudly on the shattered glass on the floor.
His eyes swept over the obsidian desk and the modern oil paintings on the wall.
"This shithole," Soldier Boy spat. "Dressed up like a French brothel."
Spittle landed on the clean carpet.
He dropped the shield in his hand with a loud "clang," the metal hitting the marble tiles with a deafening noise.
He raised a hand and pointed at Shen Che.
"You. Where'd a pretty boy like you come from?"
Soldier Boy pulled out a chair and sat down imperiously with his legs spread wide.
He kicked his legs up, propping his mud- and blood-stained military boots directly onto the obsidian desk.
"Where's that old darkie Stan? Tell him to get his ass out here to see me."
He let out a drunken burp.
Reaching out, he grabbed the half-glass of Bordeaux wine on the desk and tilted his head back, chugging it down.
"Sour as horse piss."
He casually smashed the crystal glass onto the floor, shattering glass everywhere.
"Tell Stan that America's real superhero is back. Have him get the media and cigars ready for me."
Shen Che stared at the pair of beat-up boots resting on his desk.
He said nothing.
"Dumb?" Soldier Boy tapped impatience against the edge of the desk.
"He's dead," Shen Che said.
Soldier Boy froze for a second.
He stuck out his rough pinky finger and dug into his ear.
"Dead? Ha. Long overdue." He wiped his finger on his pant leg. "So what the hell are you? A newly chosen PR boytoy?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Chloestanding nearby.
The old relic's eyes narrowed.
His gaze brazenly wandered over Chloe's chest and thighs, like picking out meat at a butcher shop.
"This face looks a little familiar." Soldier Boy blew a flirtatious whistle.
He stroked the stubble on his chin.
"I remember now. Back then, that bunch of lab-coat useless trash said they were going to use my genes to make a female replacement."
He stood up, walked around his chair, and stepped up in front of Chloe.
He was half a head taller than Chloe, exuding crude chauvinism.
"Dressed like a cheerleader. Waist is pretty thin too."
Soldier Boy reached out a calloused hand to pinch Chloe's chin.
"Wash up and come to my room tonight. Let me see if a laboratory-made bastard can scream in bed."
"Snap."
The paper box in Chloe's hand was instantly crushed to burst.
Pink strawberry ice cream splattered onto her blue uniform, with a few drops landing on the back of Soldier Boy's hand.
Her eyes instantly turned red.
Red veins spread across her whites, and two blinding bursts of light ignited deep in her pupils.
The temperature of the surrounding air skyrocketed.
Chloe's breathing grew heavy. The carpet beneath her boots began emitting black smoke, melting into goo.
She wanted to kill.
"Step back."
Shen Che's voice wasn't loud.
Chloe's body froze.
Blue veins bulged on her neck. She gritted her teeth tightly, tasting the metallic, rusty tang of blood on the tip of her tongue, her fingers clenching into fists at her sides until her knuckles turned white.
But she obeyed.
She stepped back two paces, glaring at Soldier Boy's face as if looking at a piece of rotting minced meat.
Soldier Boy pulled back his hand and turned to look at Shen Che.
"Protecting your food?" He snorted coldly.
"Young people nowadays have no manners. You think wearing a high-end suit lets you sit in the boss's seat and give orders?"
He cracked his neck, his cervical vertebrae popping noisily.
He pulled off his dark green tactical gloves and tossed them onto the desk.
"You sat in my seat, slept with my clone, and you tell me to step back?"
Soldier Boy stepped forward aggressively, his boots thumping heavily against the floor.
"When I was killing Nazis last century, you were still swimming in your dad's juice."
Shen Che stood up from his leather chair.
His tall frame blocked out the natural light from the window.
"Are you finished?" Shen Che asked.
Soldier Boy's expression darkened.
This pretty boy was too calm—so calm that he felt insulted.
"No!" he roared suddenly.
Spittle flew everywhere.
The combat suit on his body began to vibrate.
Beneath the fabric of his chest, a deep red light shone through.
A pungent smell of radiation filled the air, like burnt ozone mixed with rust.
That was the residue of human experimentation done on him in the Russian laboratory.
A nuclear blast energy capable of stripping away any supe's genes.
"I know what you new-era trash rely on."
Soldier Boy pointed right at Shen Che's nose.
"Relying on drugs, relying on genetic modification. Fancy, useless garbage."
The red light penetrated the green uniform fibers.
The light fixtures across the entire office began flickering wildly. Unstable voltage hummed and crackled with electrical leakage.
Energy was gathering.
The nearby modern oil painting curled from the intense heat, the wooden frame releasing trails of black smoke.
This radiation not only carried intense heat, but also a deathly aura capable of stripping away superhuman genes.
"I'll pull your superpowers right out of your bones like pulling teeth."
Soldier Boy gritted his teeth, the muscles on his face twisting from energy overload. Veins bulged one by one, flowing with glowing magma inside.
"Then I'll beat your tender, smooth skin into a pile of pulp and dump you into New York's sewers!"
The red light burned brighter and brighter.
Like a miniature nuke on the verge of detonating.
A terrifying heatwave swept across, burning the potted plant on the edge of the desk to ash, while the obsidian desk itself let out sharp cracking sounds.
Shen Che stood behind the desk.
With his hands shoved in his suit pockets, he didn't even bother to dodge.