Chapter 46: Lex Luthor Comes Knocking, Only to Fail to Even Enter My Office
The landing gear of the Gulfstream private jet slammed heavily onto the tarmac.
The rubber tires dragged two smoking black marks across the tarmac on the top floor of Vought Tower.
Before the engines had even completely shut down, the cabin door opened.
"Boom."
A two-ton heavily armored mecha leaped directly out of the cabin door.
The matte black titanium alloy coating cast a cold, hard luster under the searchlights of the tarmac.
Lex Luthor sat in the cockpit, the neural patch transmitting the slight vibration of the armor's landing.
The miniature nuclear reactor on its chest lit up with a dim blue light, emitting a low hum.
At the edge of the tarmac.
Two Vought security guards holding guns stood frozen in place, dumbfounded.
Looking at this 2.5-meter-tall steel monster, their palms were covered in sweat and their gun barrels shook continuously.
"Stand back! This is private property!" one guard shouted, bracing himself.
Lex Luthor ignored him.
The mechanical left arm raised. The hydraulic giant pliers opened and swept casually across.
Like pushing aside two blocking branches.
The two rifle barrels were bent directly. The two guards were swept away by the immense force, crashing into the guardrail and passing out.
The armor strode forward with its thick mechanical legs.
Step by step, it walked toward the glass corridor leading to the top-floor office.
With every step, the heavy metal boots stamped a dull thud onto the concrete floor.
The floorboards trembled slightly in response.
"Shen Che!"
Lex Luthor shouted through the armor's loudspeaker.
The processed voice carried a harsh metallic echo, reverberating across the top floor of the building.
"Get out here!"
He walked into the corridor, the width of which was just enough for this armor to pass through.
The sensor lights on the ceiling lit up one by one following his footsteps.
"Do you think that just by sitting in a chaebol's position, you can make the rules on Earth?"
The loudspeaker magnified his arrogance tenfold.
"Come out and take a look. See what the ultimate crystallization of human wisdom truly is!"
Lex Luthor walked up to that newly replaced agarwood double door and stopped.
The high-frequency electromagnetic railgun on his right arm emitted a charging hiss, and the coils lit up with a blinding blue light.
As long as he pulled the neural-sensing trigger,
the depleted uranium armor-piercing shell could instantly blast this wooden door and half of the office behind it into ruins.
The door remained tightly shut, its brass handle polished to a bright shine.
There was no movement.
In the corridor, there was only the low humming sound of the armor's reactor on standby.
Inside the office.
Shen Che sat in the leather chair behind the obsidian desk.
His long legs rested on the edge of the desk.
In his hand, he held a cup of freshly brewed black coffee, wisps of heat curling upward.
On the tablet in front of him, the footage transmitted from the corridor surveillance was displayed.
A dark gray iron can was blocking the entrance to his office.
Inside it was the smartest bald man on Earth.
Shen Che took a sip of the coffee. Without sugar, the bitter taste spread across the tip of his tongue.
He raised his hand and pressed the intercom broadcast button at the corner of the desk.
"The ultimate crystallization of human wisdom."
Shen Che's voice was transmitted out through the broadcast speakers on the corridor ceiling.
Carrying a disdainful sneer.
"Is to stuff yourself into a wheeled iron turtle, and then run to someone else's doorstep and clamor?"
Outside the corridor.
Lex Luthor's face beneath the mask flushed red.
Jealousy and the anger of being ignored instantly snapped the string in his brain called sanity.
"False god!"
Lex Luthor roared at the agarwood door, spittle spraying onto the glass inside his mask.
"You don't even have the guts to come out and meet me?"
"Then I'll tear your office into scrap metal!"
The neural patch transmitted the command to the armor's weapon system.
The electromagnetic railgun on his right arm glowed intensely with blue light, aiming squarely at the center of the wooden door.
"Beep. Target locked."
The synthesized mechanical voice rang out in his helmet.
Just zero point one seconds before Lex Luthor was ready to fire.
There was no movement inside the door, and the door didn't open either.
Shen Che didn't even stand up.
He merely sat in the leather chair.
Across the ten-meter-wide office, across a half-meter-thick explosion-proof wall, and across an agarwood door.
His line of sight penetrated all obstacles.
X-ray vision locked onto the chest of the armor outside the door. To be precise, it locked onto the glowing miniature nuclear reactor on the chest.
Then.
Deep within Shen Che's eyes, two crimson points of light lit up.
It was not ordinary Heat Vision, but the ultra-high-temperature concentrated rays brought by the Silver Age Superman panel.
The temperature directly skyrocketed to the level of the Sun's core.
Red beams of light erupted from Shen Che's eyes.
Like two glowing red laser scalpels.
There was no sound. There was no explosion.
The moment the mahogany double door made contact with the Heat Vision,
without even a single spark, a basin-sized round hole was directly vaporized into it.
Before the burnt smell of charcoal could dissipate,
this high-temperature ray had already struck the chest plate of the anti-Shen Che armor with absolute precision.
"Ssh—"
A harsh metallic melting sound rang out.
Lex Luthor's proud composite titanium alloy armor plate,
that high-temperature-resistant tungsten-titanium alloy coating he had stayed up two all-nighters to apply,
in front of the Silver Age Superman's Heat Vision,
was like a piece of chocolate placed in a microwave.
In merely one second.
The eight-centimeter-thick armor plate was burned straight through.
The high-density liquid coolant in the middle interlayer instantly boiled and vaporized.
Turning into a stream of high-pressure steam that sprayed wildly out of the exhaust vents, turning the corridor completely white and hazy.
"Warning! Chest plate temperature overloaded!"
"Warning! Cooling system failed!"
The mechanical female voice inside the helmet turned into a sharp, prolonged wail, and the holographic screen flickered with red light all over.
Lex Luthor was dumbfounded.
Across the door. Across the wall.
Without even seeing each other's faces. Without even moving a finger.
His ultimate armor was seen right through with just a glance like that.
The Heat Vision penetrated the armor plate, directly roasting the miniature nuclear reactor inside.
"Warning! Core reactor temperature at critical threshold! Facing meltdown!"
The temperature inside the cockpit skyrocketed to eighty degrees within a few seconds.
And it was still climbing.
Lex Luthor's expensive handmade shirt was instantly drenched in sweat, sticking tightly to his skin.
His skin began to turn red, bringing a stinging pain like needle pricks.
"Cut the power! Initiate emergency ejection!"
Lex Luthor roared wildly inside the cockpit, his voice carrying unmasked panic.
"Beep. Ejection system affected by high temperature. Stuck."
The mechanical voice pronounced the death sentence.
The Heat Vision had cut off the main control lines inside the armor, and all hydraulic valves were locked tight.
Lex Luthor was trapped inside this two-ton iron coffin.
The temperature in the cockpit broke one hundred degrees.
The air became scorching hot, and every breath burned his trachea.
Lex Luthor felt like a crab thrown into a pot of boiling water.
The exposed skin was roasted to the point where a layer of blisters formed. The blisters ruptured, oozing yellowish tissue fluid.
Sweat was vaporized the moment it flowed out.
"Ah—!!!"
Lex Luthor let out a heartbreaking, miserable scream.
His hands frantically pounded on the cabin door, his knuckles slamming against the scorching metal plate.
Mutilated and bloody, his flesh stuck to the iron plate, emitting a sizzling roasting sound.
His proud human wisdom had at this moment turned into an instrument of torture imprisoning him.
Inside the office.
Shen Che cut off the Heat Vision.
The red light at the bottom of his eyes dissipated. He picked up his coffee and took another sip.
The temperature control was just right.
Burn for half a second longer, and that miniature nuclear reactor would have blown a mushroom cloud in the corridor.
Although it wouldn't blow him to death, it would dirty the carpet and he'd have to call cleaners to wash it. Too troublesome.
He pressed the intercom phone.
"Get rid of that iron can outside the door. It's too noisy."
In the corridor.
The anti-Shen Che armor was like a pile of scrap metal, its chest pierced with a large hole emitting black smoke.
The blue light of the electromagnetic railgun was completely extinguished.
The mechanical legs lost power, the armor's knees went soft, and it knelt on the ground, smashing two marble floor tiles.
A few minutes later.
The door of a freight elevator opened.
More than a dozen fully armed Vought security personnel rushed out.
Holding fire extinguishers and crowbars in their hands.
White dry powder sprayed onto the armor, hissing loudly.
They used crowbars to forcefully pry open the deformed cabin door.
A pungent smell of roasted meat mixed with body odor drifted out.
Lex Luthor collapsed limply in the pilot seat.
His entire body was dehydrated from the roasting, his skin flushed red and covered in blisters and blood scabs.
His lips were dry and cracked, taking in more air than he was letting out.
His eyes were half-open, his pupils unfocused, and he was still unconsciously spitting out weak white foam from his mouth.
"Drag him out," the Captain of security ordered, covering his nose.
Two strong men stepped forward.
Like dragging a dead dog run over by a car.
They grabbed Lex Luthor's arms and dragged him forcefully out of the cockpit.
Lex Luthor's shoe soles, stained with blood and engine oil, dragged two long marks across the corridor carpet.
He was thrown directly into the freight elevator.
Meanwhile, two hundred kilometers away.
In the downtown area of Metropolis.
The sunlight was abundant, and the streets were bustling with traffic and pedestrians.
A tall figure stood awkwardly in front of a traffic light at an intersection.
Clark Kent.
He was wearing that red and blue tight-fitting suit handmade by Martha.
The red cape was a bit short, hanging down only to the bend of his knees, with some loose threads along the hem edge.
The shield-shaped "S" logo embroidered with yellow thread on his chest looked somewhat comical under the sunlight.
He had originally flown over.
But when landing, he hadn't controlled his speed well.
He landed directly beside a trash can, kicking up a burst of dust.
Now, he stood at the edge of the sidewalk, his two rough hands not knowing where to put themselves.
Surrounding office workers and passersby stopped in their tracks.
Looking him up and down with the gazes one would give a monster or a lunatic.
Someone raised their phone and took pictures of him, the camera flashes clicking away.
"Hey! Buddy, isn't your Halloween a bit too early?"
A skateboarding youth wearing ripped jeans whistled.
"Did you modify that cape from your grandma's tablecloth?"
An outburst of laughter erupted around him.
Clark's face instantly flushed bright red, all the way down to the roots of his neck.
He originally wanted to put on a friendly smile that represented hope.
But the corners of his mouth twitched, and the smile froze on his face, looking even worse than crying.
Chapter 47: The True Superman Debuts, Dressed Like a Circus Joker
The freight elevator door on the top floor of Vought Towerclosed heavily.
Lex Luthor's shoe soles, stained with blood and engine oil, dragged two long black marks across the Persian carpet in the corridor.
The smartest man on Earth was carted off to the Underground Room like trash by two security guards.
On the throne of capital, Shen Che did not break a single drop of sweat.
Two hundred kilometers away.
Metropolis.
Intersection.
The sunlight beat down on the smooth asphalt road surface, so blinding that people could not open their eyes.
Bustling traffic.
Yellow taxis formed a long line, and the sound of horns rose one after another.
Clark Kent stood right in this dazzling sunlight.
Carrying the dream of saving the World, he finally stepped out of the Kansas farm.
He wanted to use kindness and power to bring a little hope to this World made foul and chaotic by Vought Company.
But his landing posture was not quite right.
There was no professional entrance of a superhero kneeling on one knee with a cape flying.
He stepped right in the exact center of the crosswalk.
He was even almost hit by a honking hot dog cart.
Clark stood in the middle of the crowd of people.
His two rough, large hands hovered at his sides, not knowing where to put them.
He lowered his head to look at the clothes on his body.
The red and blue tights handcrafted by Martha.
The fabric was coarse cotton bought from the tailor shop in town.
Its breathability was poor, and it felt somewhat sweltering and tight on his body.
That iconic "S" on his chest was embroidered stitch by stitch with thick yellow thread.
Because Martha was older and her eyesight was failing, the lower left corner of that "S" was somewhat crooked.
The most fatal part was that red cape.
The fabric was not enough.
The cape was a large section too short.
It only barely hung above the back of his knees.
Just now, when a gust of wind blew past, the cape did not flutter loudly like in the movies.
Instead, it rolled up limply and pressed against the back of his sturdy thighs.
Like a red towel hung in the wrong place.
Metropolis was a fashionable city that valued packaging and appearance.
The citizens here were accustomed to those glamorous superheroes packaged by Vought Company.
Queen Maeve had an exclusive battle armor designer.
A-Train's uniform was custom-made from aerodynamic materials, casting a high-tech cold light in the sunlight.
And Clark.
Coarse fabric, cheap color matching, and those red leather boots on his feet that looked like they were for doing farm work in the fields.
At this intersection full of glass curtain walls and suit-wearing white-collar workers.
He appeared completely out of place.
Like a comic actor who had walked onto the wrong set.
The people around stopped their footsteps.
A woman wearing a high-end trench coat took off her sunglasses and looked him up and down twice.
A man next to her holding a Starbucks paper cup leaned into his companion's ear and muttered something.
The two covered their mouths and laughed.
The crowd formed a loose circle.
Several mobile phones were raised.
The pitch-black camera lenses aimed at Clark's face.
The camera flashes lit up in broad daylight, making snapping sounds.
Clark felt his palms break out in sweat.
His toes curled tightly inside the red leather boots.
He wanted to stick his hands into his pockets.
But the tights didn't have pockets made at all.
He could only awkwardly rub the trouser seams on both sides of his thighs.
"Hey! Buddy!"
A youth stepping on a skateboard slid across the crosswalk, coming to a sharp stop in front of him.
The skateboard wheels rubbed against the ground, emitting a harsh hissing sound.
The youth chewed gum and let out a loud whistle.
"Halloween has been over for a long time.
Which comic convention did you rent that outfit from?"
A burst of uproarious laughter erupted around them.
An auntie walking a poodle curled her lips.
"Young people nowadays are crazy about wanting to become famous."
The auntie tightened her dog leash and retreated half a step back with an expression of disgust.
"Dressed like a wrestler who ran out of a cheap circus."
The laughter grew even louder.
It slammed onto Clark like sea waves.
Clark's face blushed red.
Heat burned all the way from his chest to the root of his neck.
Even the tips of his ears were burning with pain.
He was not used to being watched by people as if he were a monkey.
On the farm, he even had to carry a bag of fertilizer sneakily.
He wanted to turn around and fly away.
Find an empty alley to hide in.
But he remembered what Jonathan said while patting his shoulder.
"Go establish what a true hero is supposed to look like."
Clark took a deep breath.
Forcefully pressing that impulse to run away in panic back down into his stomach.
He straightened his broad back.
His chest swelled slightly, stretching that crooked yellow line "S" a bit flatter.
He looked at the dozen or so mobile phone lenses pointing directly at him in front of him.
He told himself that a hero needed to bring a sense of approachability to the public.
Clark twitched the muscles on his face.
Striving to reveal a friendly smile that represented hope.
He even raised his right hand, waving it stiffly in mid-air.
This was a greeting posture he had practiced several times in front of the mirror on the farm.
But this posture was too tacky.
Matched with his completely red face and ridiculously short red cape.
There was completely no majesty and aura of a superhero.
Like a clumsy puppet handing out flyers at the supermarket entrance.
The uproarious laughter not only did not stop, but instead turned into unbridled laughter.
The skateboard youth laughed until his waist bent, slapping his thighs continuously.
"Oh my god! He's even waving!
Is he Vought Company's new comedian?"
A half-grown kid threw the empty cola cup he had finished drinking right at him.
The paper cup slammed against Clark's chest.
Causing no harm at all, it dropped onto the asphalt road with a clatter.
A few drops of leftover brown cola splashed onto the red boots.
Clark's smile froze on his face.
The corners of his mouth twitched twice.
The muscles on his face felt sore.
He slowly lowered that hand raised in mid-air.
He felt like he was about to suffocate.
Metropolis's indifference and mockery were even more bone-chilling than Kansas's coldest blizzard.
He didn't know what he did wrong.
He just put on the clothes sewn personally by his mother, wanting to come here to help.
But these people didn't need his help.
They only needed to watch entertainment.
Clark lowered his head.
He stared at the cola stain on his boots.
He wished he could use Heat Vision right now to burn a hole in the ground.
And crawl straight into the sewer.
It was too embarrassing.
Just as he was so embarrassed that he wanted to turn around and flee this city.
Deep inside his ears, that layer of sensitive fine hairs suddenly trembled.
Super hearing activated in an instant.
Automatically filtering out the mocking human voices around him, the friction sound of skateboard wheels, and the honking of car horns.
His auditory nerves pierced through the forest of reinforced concrete.
Extending outward.
Three blocks away.
The intersection of Fifth Avenue and Oak Street.
"Bang!"
An extremely crisp gunshot.
The expansion sound of gunpowder burning vibrated in the air.
Then.
"Clatter——"
The thick bulletproof glass was heavily smashed to pieces by someone with a sledgehammer.
Large chunks of glass debris smashed onto the marble floor tiles like hail.
Followed by a woman's screech that reached the extreme of misery.
"Robbery! Help!"
The voice carried a trembling sound of despair.
Closely following were several rough roars of men, and the muffled sound of heavy objects slamming onto a human body.
Clark suddenly raised his head.
The blush on his face faded completely clean within half a second.
That bewildered embarrassment and awkwardness vanished instantly from his body.
His spine was straightened straight.
His jawline tightened.
His blue eyes pierced through the heavy crowds, staring fixedly at the direction three blocks away.
The people around were still laughing.
The skateboard youth held his mobile phone, stepping forward quickly to take a photo with him.
"Hey, wrestler, smile one..."
The youth's hand was just about to place itself on Clark's shoulder.
Clark moved.
He found the opportunity to prove that he was a superhero.
He didn't need PR packaging, nor did he need high-end battle uniforms.
He only needed to go save people.
His legs bent abruptly.
His calf muscles expanded instantly beneath the coarse red and blue fabric.
The asphalt road surface beneath his feet emitted an unbearable groan.
"Boom!"
A muffled sonic boom exploded at the intersection.
The ground instantly depressed into a shallow pit the size of a washbasin.
Crushed stones and asphalt chunks flew outward in all directions.
A violent wind swept up from flat ground.
The skateboard youth was overturned by the air wave, sitting down hard on the ground with his phone thrown several meters away.
The surrounding crowd of onlookers was blown tottering by the wind, and screams rang out in a chorus.
Clark was no longer in his original spot.
He was like a red and blue intermingled cannonball.
At this moment, the coarse red cape was finally pulled straight by the fierce wind.
He tore apart the air, carrying a low sonic boom.
His body skimmed against the skyscrapers on both sides, turning into an uncapturable afterimage.
Charging straight toward that jewelry store from which the gunshots came.
Chapter 48 Clark Stops a Robbery, But Is Accused of Destroying Private Property
Clark rushed out like a red and blue cannonball.
The huge recoil force pressed entirely against the soles of his feet.
The smooth asphalt road surface of Metropolis emitted a muffled explosion.
A basin-sized deep pit blasted open instantly.
Gravel and black asphalt chunks flew scattering in all directions like buckshot.
"Clatter."
A red Porsche parked by the roadside suffered the misfortune.
A fist-sized rock smashed into the windshield.
The tempered glass instantly covered with white spiderweb cracks.
The car's anti-theft alarm rang out sharply.
The violent wind kicked up by his departure overturned the hot dog stand next to the crosswalk.
Sausages, bread, and yellow mustard spilled all over the ground.
The stall owner sat heavily on the ground, covering his eyes where sand had flown in and cursing viciously.
Clark could not care about these things.
His mind was entirely filled with that gunshot.
The wind whistled in his ears.
The speed was so fast that the skyscrapers on both sides turned into blurred gray shadows.
The distance of three blocks.
He only used less than two seconds.
Fifth Avenue.
The jewelry store.
The rolling shutter door was pulled down halfway.
Two robbers wearing black ski masks stood in the lobby.
One held a shotgun, with the muzzle pressed against the female clerk's forehead.
The female clerk trembled like a leaf in the wind.
"Put the cash and gold bars into the bag! Hurry up!" the robber roared.
The voice had just fallen.
"Boom!"
The jewelry store's heavy explosion-proof glass door directly shattered.
Clark rushed in.
He wanted to slow down.
His feet stepped on the smooth marble floor tiles.
The soles rubbed out a harsh screech.
He couldn't brake in time.
The friction of the Kansas Farm's mud ground and the high-end stone here were completely different.
His entire body, carrying terrifying momentum, directly crashed into those two robbers.
The robbers didn't even have the chance to turn their gun barrels.
Like two knocked-away bowling balls, their feet left the ground and they flew backwards for more than ten meters.
"Bang. Bang."
The two successively crashed into the bulletproof glass display case in the center of the store.
The special glass claimed to be able to stop armor-piercing bullets was smashed to pieces by them.
The robbers spat out two mouthfuls of bloody water and directly passed out in the pile of broken glass.
The shotgun in their hands broke into two pieces.
The gold bricks and diamond necklaces in the display case scattered all over the ground with a rustle.
Shining under the store's spotlights.
Clark's kinetic energy hadn't been fully discharged yet.
His feet slipped, and he continued to rush forward.
His shoulder fiercely slammed into a wall at the very back of the jewelry store.
"Thud."
The entire building shook along with it.
The crystal chandelier on the ceiling swung violently, dropping a few strings of glass beads that smashed to pieces on the ground.
A large area of the wall skin peeled off.
White ash fell down like snow.
A crack as thick as a finger spread upwards from Clark's shoulder like lightning.
Cracking all the way to the load-bearing beam at the top.
The load-bearing wall was ruined.
The store emitted the creaking sound of steel bars under pressure, teetering on the verge of collapse.
Clark stopped.
He turned around.
His chest heaved violently.
He looked at the passed-out robbers, and then looked at the uninjured female clerk shrinking in the corner.
He let out a long breath.
He raised his hands, patting off the white ash clinging to his rough palms.
He straightened his red cape, which had become a bit shorter.
The corners of his mouth pulled upward, squeezing out a friendly smile he had practiced several times in front of the mirror.
He turned around, facing the crowd gradually gathering outside the store door.
He was waiting.
Waiting for the female clerk's gratitude for surviving a catastrophe, and for the citizens' applause and cheers.
Just like the superheroes shown on the old television at the Kansas Farm.
He felt that this was what the World should look like.
However, the store was dead silent.
Only the triggered anti-theft alarm was beeping.
A pot-bellied middle-aged man crawled out from the inner office.
This was the owner of the jewelry store.
There was not the slightest trace of relief from being saved on his face.
He stared at the diamonds scattered all over the ground and looked at the display case shattered into slag.
His line of sight finally fell on that load-bearing wall covered in huge cracks.
The owner's face instantly turned the color of pig liver.
His plump cheeks trembled wildly.
"You tight-suited lunatic!"
The owner extended his short, thick index finger, pointing at Clark's nose.
Spittle sprayed all over Clark's face.
"My store! The Italian-imported display case I just made for two million!"
The owner hugged his head with both hands, grabbing his sparse hair, and stamped his feet in heartache.
"The load-bearing wall is cracked! The whole building is about to become a dangerous house! Do you know how much compensation this will cost?!"
Clark's smile froze.
His mouth was half-open, unable to make a sound.
"They had guns..." Clark squeezed out a sentence.
"Guns? My safe is explosion-proof! It would have been fine if they just robbed some cash, the insurance company would settle the claim!"
The owner rushed up, grabbing tightly onto Clark's red cape with both hands.
"You smashed the load-bearing wall! This is man-made damage, the insurance company won't pay!"
The owner's eyes turned red, and his voice cracked.
"You have to compensate for my store!"
The crowd outside the door grew larger and larger.
That Porsche owner ran three blocks to chase after him.
The fat man was panting heavily, his suit open, his tie crooked to one side.
"It's him! He stepped and collapsed the road at the intersection!"
The Porsche owner squeezed into the crowd, pointing at Clark and cursing vehemently.
"My windshield is completely shattered! Replacing it with original parts will cost at least twenty thousand U.S. dollars!"
The crowd exploded.
No one went to look at the two armed robbery thugs on the ground.
Everyone's gaze stabbed into Clark like knives.
A dozen mobile phones were raised, with all cameras aimed at Clark.
"Where did this guy come from? I've never seen this kind of person on Vought Company's roster."
"A backyard vigilante. He doesn't consider consequences at all when doing things. He's just a vandal."
A woman pushing a stroller had a face full of disgust.
"He rushed over just now and almost overturned my daughter's stroller. This kind of monster should be locked up in prison."
"Look at that shabby outfit he's wearing, he probably can't afford the compensation."
The accusations smashed down like raindrops.
Every single sentence carried the shrewdness and sharpness of a big city.
Clark panicked.
He had grown up on the Kansas Farm until his twenties and had never seen this kind of battle array.
His rough big hands waved randomly in mid-air, trying to explain.
"It's not like that. I just wanted to help. They were going to kill people."
He turned his head to look at the rescued female clerk, hoping to get a sentence of testimony.
The female clerk avoided his gaze.
Taking advantage of the chaos while the owner was arguing with Clark, she grabbed the bag on the ground.
Hugging the base of the wall, she lowered her head and slipped out of the store door.
She didn't want to get involved in this trouble of smashing a multi-million-dollar store, not even leaving a single thank you.
Clark's hand stopped in mid-air.
His fingers slowly curled up.
The flush on his face faded, turning into pale white.
The sunshine of the Kansas Farm and his father's teachings shattered all over the ground under Metropolis's cold neon lights.
He wanted to do a good deed.
He had truly and surely saved people.
But the people here only calculated accounts and didn't look at intentions.
In this city where Shen Che and Vought Company had established new rules.
Heroic actions without registration, justice without capital endorsement.
Were simply illegal destruction.
The mobile phone flashes of the onlookers kept blinking, stinging Clark so that he closed his eyes briefly.
"Call the Police quickly! Let the Police arrest him!"
"Where is Vought Company? After paying taxes, can't they manage this kind of wild mutant?"
The owner grabbed tightly onto Clark's cape and refused to let go.
"If you can't produce the money today, don't think about going anywhere!"
Clark did not dare to break free with force.
He was afraid that if he moved even slightly, he would tear off the owner's arm.
He was like a child who had done something wrong.
His tall and strong body shrank in the center of the crowd, at a complete loss.
Just when he was unable to clear his name and caught in a dilemma.
The outer crowd suddenly quieted down for a moment.
A gap appeared in the noisy sound wave.
The crowd was cut open as if by an invisible knife, automatically retreating to both sides.
A man wearing a dark blue custom-tailored suit walked in.
The man wore gold-rimmed glasses.
His hair was slicked with hair oil and combed meticulously.
On the lapel of his chest, a silver "V" badge was pinned.
Vought Company.
Legal department lawyer.
The lawyer's leather shoes stepped on the broken glass on the ground, making a creaking sound.
He walked up to Clark.
He didn't look at the mess all over the ground around him, nor did he pay attention to the clamoring jewelry store owner.
He pulled out a thick legal document from the black briefcase in his hand.
The paper was very hard, exuding a pungent smell of freshly inked printer output.
The lawyer was expressionless.
He raised his hand.
Coldly slapped that lawyer's letter printed with sky-high compensation figures onto the crooked yellow-lined "S" logo on Clark's chest.
Chapter 49: Doing a Good Deed and Still Having to Pay Damages? A Real Superman's Worldview Shattered
Black and white on paper.
Carrying the pungent smell of fresh printer ink.
Clark stared blankly at the piece of paper pressed against his chest.
His gaze fell on the claim amount at the very bottom of the paper.
The number was too long.
A two followed by several zeros, separated by commas.
He couldn't even count in the first instance whether it was millions or tens of millions.
At the Kansas Farm, the largest bill he had ever seen was Jonathan's thirty-thousand-dollar loan for a new seed drill.
Clark's brain felt like it had been stuffed into a ball of rusted barbed wire, completely messed up.
He raised his head.
Vought's lawyer stood in front of him, his dark blue suit free of a single wrinkle.
The lawyer extended a hand wearing a luxury watch and pushed up the gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose.
"Two million seven hundred thousand U.S. dollars. Store renovation, display cabinet damage, plus the windshield of that Porsche."
The lawyer's voice sounded like an emotionless automated broadcaster.
"Sir. This lawyer's letter takes effect immediately."
Clark's rough, large hand hung suspended in mid-air, his fingers somewhat stiff.
"I saved people," Clark squeezed out dryly.
He felt that his tongue was very heavy.
"There were two gunmen with guns," he pointed at the unconscious masked men in the hall. "I stopped them."
The lawyer sneered.
Behind the lenses leaked a look as if looking at a moron.
"You stopped a robbery. But you destroyed this street."
The lawyer pulled a small black booklet out of his briefcase.
"New York and this city just promulgated new public security regulations yesterday."
"Vigilante actions not registered and filed with the Vought Company are all deemed illegal violent activities."
The lawyer patted Clark's shoulder with his briefcase.
"You are a thug. Every cent of private property damage you cause, you have to pay for out of your own pocket."
The jewelry store owner grabbed the lawyer's arm, as if grasping a straw of life.
"Right! He is a thug! My store is ruined! He has to pay damages!"
The owner turned his head and roared at Clark.
"Mutants without a license like you should just crawl back into the sewers!"
The Porsche owner also crowded over.
"Hear that? Vought's lawyer has spoken. What kind of super hero are you pretending to be without a license!"
Spittle flew wildly from the fat man.
"If you can't cough up the money, today I'll have the Policelock you up in Arkham!"
Clark stepped back half a step.
His rough red leather boots stepped on the shattered glass, making a crisp crunching sound.
He looked around.
Over a hundred citizens surrounded the roadside.
Dozen of cell phones were held high in the air, their cameras locked dead on his face.
Flashlights lit up with a continuous click-clack.
Not a single person stood up to speak for him.
Even the cleaner who had been shaking with fear from the robbery earlier was now joining the others in jeering.
"The Vought Company makes the rules. Only they can save people."
An auntie walking a poodle curled her lips.
"They only dispatch after the protection money is paid. That's called professionalism."
The auntie rolled her eyes.
"This big oaf dressed like a circus clown, running over here to meddle blindly. He even crushed the road."
"Exactly. Make him pay!"
The skateboard youth spat flavorless chewing gum next to Clark's boots.
Voices of condemnation crashed over like ocean waves.
Metropolis's midday sunlight was fierce, baking down on Clark.
Yet he felt cold.
A chill seeping outward from the gaps in his bones.
He lowered his head to look at the hand-sewn outfit on his body.
Martha had ruined a dozen scissors to cut this material, pricking her fingers with several needle holes.
That was his mother's painstaking effort.
He thought that by putting on this suit, he could bring hope to this city.
"With great power comes great responsibility."
Jonathan's words echoed in his mind.
The old man of the farm taught him kindness, taught him selflessness.
He had believed it for over twenty years.
But now.
These simple values were smashed to pieces on Metropolis's cold asphalt road.
The reality of capital was like a loud slap across his face.
The people here didn't need selflessness.
They only recognized money. They only recognized whose fist was harder and whose backer was bigger.
In this city.
Justice was a commodity monopolized by the Vought Company.
Without Vought's trademark affixed, your kindness was illegal and your saving people was destruction.
Clark's fingers slowly curled up.
His nails dug into his rough palms.
The powerful heart in his chest began to beat at an accelerated frequency.
Thump. Thump.
His blood circulated faster, the energy of solar radiation boiling in his veins.
He looked at the glasses-pushing lawyer in front of him.
He looked at the clamoring jewelry store owner.
He looked at the surrounding civilians holding phones, their faces full of apathy and mockery.
He suddenly understood.
The root cause of this World's sickness was not those robbers holding shotguns to rob jewelry stores at all.
Robbers only cared about money.
The true lesion was the malignant tumor behind the scenes that explicitly priced things and treated human lives as business.
It was the Vought Company.
It was the chief culprit that stepped on everyone's heads and plunged the entire World into this distorted value system.
Shen Che.
Clark's breathing grew heavy.
His nostrils flared rapidly.
The face that had flushed red from embarrassment completely cooled down.
The farm boy's simple honesty and yielding nature were forcibly stripped away at this moment.
He closed his eyes.
The surrounding noises, abuses, and car horns.
Were instantly cut off by his brain.
His super hearing was pulled to the limit within a second.
His auditory nerves turned into an invisible net, piercing through Metropolis's reinforced concrete.
Crossing the East Coast highway.
Crossing a distance of hundreds of kilometers.
The sound of wind brushing leaves. The sound of waves crashing against reefs.
All were filtered out.
He locked onto New York.
Manhattan. Vought Tower.
The one hundred and twelfth floor.
That was the nervous center of this deformed World.
He heard it.
The sound of high-altitude cold wind pouring into the damaged window frame.
The sound of leather shoes crushing the Persian rug.
And the crisp sound of ice cubes clinking in a crystal glass.
"Click."
The bottom of the cup tapped against the obsidian tabletop.
Followed by a man's deep, cold laughter oozing endless mockery.
Shen Che's voice.
Clark suddenly opened his eyes.
There was no more confusion in his blue eyes, leaving only the flames of complete fury.
He lowered his head.
His right hand snatched the exorbitant lawyer's letter from his chest.
The paper instantly crumpled into a ball in his rough, large hand.
His fingers exerted a slight force.
The white paper ball turned directly into fine paper scraps, fluttering down leisurely from between his fingers.
Falling into the pile of shattered glass.
"Hey! What are you doing! Trying to resist the law?!"
The lawyer's face changed, and he took a big step back.
The jewelry store owner shut his mouth in fright, his briefcase dropping to the ground.
Clark didn't look at them.
He didn't need to explain anything to this flock of sheep domesticated by capital anymore.
He was going to uproot this poisonous weed.
His legs bent slightly.
The muscles on his calves strained the red and blue uniform to the point of tearing.
The ground emitted a teeth-aching cracking sound.
"Boom!"
A deafening sonic boom exploded at the center of the intersection.
The asphalt road surface was instantly torn apart by the huge reactive force.
A large pit half a meter deep roared into formation.
Clods of earth and asphalt scraps fell like a black hail storm.
A fierce wind whipped up from the ground.
The lawyer was overturned by the air wave, rolling three or four times on the ground. His gold-rimmed glasses broke in half.
The jewelry store owner sat heavily into a puddle, scaring himself into pissing his pants.
The surrounding passersby holding cell phones were all blown askew by the fierce wind, screams ringing into a chorus.
Clark was no longer in his spot.
He transformed into a red and blue afterimage.
Tearing through the sound barrier, kicking up a visible circle of white air waves.
The rough red cape pulled straight in the fierce wind.
Heading straight in the direction of New York.
The glass curtain walls of the buildings reflected the trail of his flight.
He was going to Vought Tower, to ask the person sitting on the top floor.
Who on earth gave him the power to trample this Worldunderfoot.
Chapter 50: Finally Meeting! The Real SupermanQuestions Me Why I Did Not Save People
"Boom——!"
The deafening roar of a sonic boom exploded over Manhattan.
The white ring of airflow resembled a forcefully expanded mushroom cloud, shattering the glass curtain walls on the exterior of the surrounding buildings.
The top floor of Vought Tower.
That piece of aviation-grade explosion-proof glass that had just been replaced yesterday was barely any better than paper under Clark's impact.
Shards of glass crashed into the president's office like a torrential rain, clattering noisily.
The debris splashed onto the carpet and embedded itself into the cushions of the genuine leather sofa.
A violent gale poured backward instantly, blowing the documents on the desk flying everywhere across the sky.
Clark's feet slammed heavily onto the floor.
The solid wood floor emitted a harsh cracking sound, and two red leather boots stepped out two deep pits.
He maintained his landing posture with his shoulders slightly sunken.
His chest heaved violently, and his coarse red cape fluttered loudly in the gale behind him.
He raised his head.
His blue eyes stared fixedly ahead through the flying paper scraps and dust.
The office was huge, decorated like a luxurious palace.
Mahogany wainscoting, an obsidian desk, and the remaining crystal chandelier overhead flashed with a cold light.
The air floated with a burnt scent of expensive cigars, mixed with a faint trace of bloody stench.
This was the stench of copper belonging to capital.
Behind the desk.
Shen Che was leaning against the reinforced genuine leather swivel chair.
His legs were crossed, and his black high-custom suit did not have a single wrinkle.
He was holding a crystal goblet in his hand.
The cup contained half a glass of Bordeaux red wine, and the scarlet wine liquid swayed inside the glass.
Facing this sudden crashing through the window, Shen Che did not even frown slightly.
He seemed to have anticipated Clark's arrival long ago.
He did not even stop the action of drinking wine.
Two Kryptonians with completely different fates.
In this highest place in Manhattan, they finally stood face-to-face together for the first time.
One wore an inferior tights sewn from coarse cotton cloth, and the "S" logo on his chest was crooked, like a circus Joker.
One wore a hand-customized suit, sitting on the throne of a financial conglomerate, looking down on all living beings.
Clark looked at the man in front of him.
That stern face, and those black eyes without any temperature.
He had seen this face on the electronic screens of Metropolis.
It was this person who set the rule of "pay money to survive" and treated saving people as a business.
Anger burned in Clark's chest cavity.
The blood in his blood vessels rushed like boiling Water.
"You are Shen Che?" Clark spoke.
His voice was tight, carrying an uncontrollable anger.
Shen Che did not look at him.
His gaze fell on the goblet in his hand.
His fingers gently shook the bottom of the cup, and the red wine hung on the cup wall, leaving a dark red tear stain.
"The door is on the right." Shen Che's voice was flat.
He did not even lift his eyelids.
"The glass is one million. The floor is three hundred thousand."
"Plus the storefront you smashed in Metropolis just now, planting corn on the farm for your whole life will not even pay off the interest."
Clark gritted his teeth, the muscles on his cheeks bulging piece by piece.
"I am not talking about money with you!"
Clark took a big step forward.
His leather boots stepped on the broken glass all over the floor, making a creaking sound.
He pointed toward Metropolis outside the window.
"You have such strong power. You clearly can hear the screams of those people!"
Clark's eye sockets turned red due to excitement.
"Those hostages in the Fifth Avenue bank! The elderly being robbed on the street!"
"You just need to wave your hand to save them. Why do you not go?"
Shen Che finally raised his head.
His line of sight crossed the obsidian desktop and fell on Clark's flushed face.
Looking at his tacky red and blue uniform.
Shen Che's fingers gently tapped on the wall of the goblet.
"Ding. Ding."
The crisp tapping sound was exceptionally clear in the wind.
He did not interrupt and let Clark speak.
Clark thought the other party was listening. He took another step forward, his hands clenched tightly into fists.
Those words Jonathan taught him on the farm, those principles about responsibility and kindness...
All surged up to his throat.
"God gave us this kind of power not for us to exploit civilians!"
Clark's voice was trembling.
"With great power comes great responsibility."
"We should become their shield and become the hope of this World."
He looked into Shen Che's cold eyes, trying to find a trace of guilt or hesitation inside.
"You established a company, sell insurance, and put a price tag on human lives."
Clark pointed at this full room of luxury.
"You step on the corpses of ordinary people to make this blood-stained money."
"Can you sleep at night?"
Clark's tone carried a kind of sorrow and indignation of being disappointed that iron cannot become steel.
He felt that Shen Che was lost, blinded by the greed of capital.
He attempted to awaken Shen Che's conscience.
"It is still not too late to stop now." Clark slowed down his voice. "Dissolve Vought Company and abolish those coercive rules."
"Together, let us pull this smoky World back onto the right track."
He poured out his set of simple values from his heart.
Thinking he could give Shen Che an ideological education class.
The wind poured in from the tattered floor-to-ceiling windows.
Blowing Clark's slightly shortened red cape to flap loudly.
The office quieted down.
Clark finished speaking.
He panted heavily, staring fixedly at Shen Che sitting in the chair.
Waiting for a response.
Even if it was just a rebuttal or a defense.
Shen Che leaned against the back of the chair.
His fingers tapping on the goblet stopped.
He raised his wine glass and drank the last sip of red wine.
The wine liquid slid past his throat, which rolled.
Shen Che put down the wine glass.
The bottom of the cup hit the obsidian desktop with a dull thud of "da".
His ten fingers were crossed and placed on his abdomen.
A gap was torn open in the calmness within his eyes.
What leaked out was extreme contempt.
Just like looking at a stray dog that ran to the dining table and barked wildly at Master.
The corners of Shen Che's mouth twitched upward.
He let out a short sneer.
"Finished speaking?"
Shen Che's voice was very soft, carrying a bit of nonchalance.
He looked at Clark.
"Have you finished barking at Master, you country mongrel?"