Chapter 106: Gotham Falls Completely, Wayne Enterprises Acquired by Vought Company
The ice fog was gradually blown away by the wind.
The air carried a bone-chilling cold that did not belong to Gotham in summer.
Half a block of mutated plants had all turned into pale ice sculptures.
Shen Che descended from mid-air.
His black leather shoes stepped on the frozen asphalt road, making a crisp crunching sound.
He walked up to the thirty-meter-tall man-eating flower.
Poison Ivy was standing right in the center of the stamen.
Her red hair had turned into red icicles, and her hands still maintained a posture of swinging forward. The trace of arrogance on her face was permanently frozen beneath the ice.
Shen Che had his hands shoved into his pants pockets.
He raised his right foot.
The tip of his shoe gave a casual kick against the huge ice-sculpted petal.
He did not use much force, like kicking away an empty soda can on the roadside.
"Click——"
With a crisp sound,
dense cracks like a spiderweb instantly crawled all over the dozens-of-meters-tall ice sculpture.
Following closely,
"Boom!"
The huge man-eating flower, along with Poison Ivy inside it,
completely collapsed within a second.
It shattered into ice debris all over the ground, and the chunks of ice smashed onto the ground, clattering into a cacophony.
Those mutated plants that acted domineeringly in Gotham's sewers and dark alleys,
those revenges of nature that were just clamoring to take over the city,
all became a puddle of crushed ice slowly melting in the sunlight.
At the street corner,
behind several overturned Police cars,
dozens of fully armed Gotham Police shrunk their necks,
and the riot guns they held in their hands trembled like a sifting sieve.
No one dared to breathe heavily, fearing that the white breath they exhaled would attract the attention of that white-shirted man.
On a distant rooftop,
Two-Face Harvey's coin dropped into a puddle.
He did not go pick it up. That half of his intact face was as pale as paper.
Penguin hid in the Underground Room of the Iceberg Lounge, watching the surveillance, his fat body pressing tightly against the base of the wall.
The madness they prided themselves on was not even a sneeze in front of this man.
One-hit kill. An unreasonable one-hit kill.
Gotham's underworld was thoroughly scared out of its wits amidst the sound of crushed ice from that kick.
Shen Che ignored these mice hiding in the gutters.
He turned around.
His gaze swept past those frozen vines,
locking onto the tallest and most conspicuous skyscraper a few blocks away in Gotham City.
Wayne Enterprises Headquarters. The capital letter "W" logo flashed with cold light at the top of the building.
With his legs slightly bent,
a sonic boom cloud exploded in the street, and the shattered ice chunks were blown away by the air wave.
Shen Che transformed into a streak of black light, heading straight for the Wayne building.
Two minutes later,
at the top floor of Wayne Enterprises, in the president's conference room,
the double oak doors were kicked open from the outside by someone.
The door lock broke, and the door panel slammed against the wall.
Shen Che walked in.
Inside the conference room, more than a dozen high-ranking executives of Wayne Enterprises in tailored suits were holding an emergency meeting around the long table.
Bruce was missing, the company was leaderless, and the stock price was collapsing under the suppression of Vought Company.
Seeing Shen Che walk in,
the conference room fell into instant dead silence.
The complexions of all the executives turned pale in a flash.
A vice president in the front row was so scared that his calves cramped, and he fell to the ground along with his chair.
Shen Che did not look at them.
He walked straight to the very end of the long table,
pulled out the leather high-backed chair exclusive to Bruce Wayne,
and sat down.
His long legs were casually placed on the expensive mahogany tabletop.
"Legal team."
Shen Che leaned back against the back of the chair, calmly spitting out two words.
Outside the door,
several Vought Company lawyers carrying black briefcases walked in quickly in leather shoes.
The lawyers pulled out stacks of documents from their bags
and slapped them directly in front of those trembling Wayne executives.
Wayne Enterprises Wholly-Owned Acquisition Agreement".
Zero-dollar purchase.
These Wall Street elites could normally argue for three days and three nights over 0.1 percent of the shares.
But now,
facing the monster sitting in the main seat and the man-eating vines frozen into ice sculptures outside the window,
no one dared to say half a word of "no".
"Sign."
Shen Che tapped the tabletop, his voice not loud.
The executives swallowed hard, their hands shaking so much they could not even hold a pen steadily.
Yet their actions were surprisingly consistent.
Uncapping the pens, they quickly signed their names on the thick transfer agreements.
Some signed with so much force that the pen tip tore the paper;
some, to show obedience, blindly signed page after page without even looking at the specific terms.
In a mere hour,
the mountain of equity transfer agreements was all signed.
The Vought Company lawyers organized the documents and packed them into briefcases.
This massive empire that had controlled Gotham's economic lifeline for half a century, involving military industry, medical care, and logistics,
on this very afternoon,
was thoroughly and completely renamed to Shen.
Shen Che looked at the last signed document
respectfully placed in front of him by the lawyer.
He reached out and picked it up, taking a glance at the row of crooked signatures on it.
A cold arc tugged at the corner of his mouth,
letting out a short, cold laugh.
What Gotham knight, what bottom line of justice—
without money, you cannot even afford a broken tire.
He was going to cut off Bruce Wayne's last shred of hope right from the root.
At the same time,
eighty meters underground in Gotham City, inside an abandoned nuclear bunker,
it was cold and damp, with only a few dim tungsten filament lamps.
Bruce Wayne sat in a wheelchair.
The titanium alloy exoskeleton on his back was still flashing with a faint blue light.
His legs were covered with a thin gray blanket, completely numb and devoid of sensation.
He was tapping on the keyboard in front of a computer pieced together from discarded parts,
trying to use a secret overseas account of Wayne Enterprises to buy a batch of high-purity titanium alloy plates
to repair the battle suit that was smashed to pieces by Shen Che with a single slap.
"Beep—"
The computer screen suddenly flickered.
The originally blue trading interface instantly turned into a glaring red.
A large red warning box popped up.
[Funds frozen. Account privileges have been taken over by Vought Company.]
Following closely,
dozens of similar pop-ups jumped out on the screen one after another.
[Logistics company equity changed.]
[Wayne Tech Laboratory closed.]
[Overseas trust fund liquidated.]
Bruce's hand stopped on the keyboard.
He watched helplessly as the data representing Wayne Enterprises' century-old foundation on the screen
was overwritten like a waterfall by the red "zeroed out" code.
His proud wealth, all the logistical support he used to back Batman's operations,
was uprooted in a mere hour.
His fingers froze.
The yellow HB pencil held in his hand
was gripped tightly in his palm.
His finger bones turned a dead grayish color due to extreme exertion.
"Crack."
With a crisp sound,
that wooden pencil was forcefully snapped into two halves by him.
The broken wooden splinters stabbed into his palm, oozing blood.
Yet he remained completely unaware, staring dead-eyed at the screen full of red funds-frozen code.
Chapter 107: Batman is Bankrupt, No Matter How Strong Superpowers Are, They Cannot Beat Capital
The broken half-pencil fell onto the cement floor,
rolling into a shallow puddle.
Bruce stared at the screen full of red funds-frozen code,
his breathing becoming heavy and slow, like a diesel engine about to be scrapped.
Batman was out of money.
Wayne Enterprises' overt assets were forcibly acquired.
Those secret funding chains he used to maintain the operation of the Justice League, the hidden accounts scattered across the Cayman Islands and Switzerland,
were all cut off one by one, trailing the vines to find the melons, by Vought Company's financial hacker team.
This was not just the zeroing out of numbers;
this was directly cutting off the ventilator for their resistance.
"Hum—"
The tungsten filament bulb in the nuclear bunker flickered twice, and the light dimmed.
Several backup monitors connected to the satellite network suddenly went black.
Lacking financial support, the electricity accounts hidden under the names of front companies went into arrears.
The supercomputer in the Batcave began to automatically shut down non-core modules due to insufficient energy.
Network permissions were stripped away one by one.
Let alone building an anti-Shen Che heavy battle suit,
now he had to meticulously budget even to buy a decent piece of titanium alloy scrap metal.
Bruce sat in his wheelchair,
his hands resting weakly on the armrests.
A dull pain came from the titanium alloy exoskeleton on his back, reminding him of the reality of his lower body paralysis.
He looked at the extinguished monitors,
and for the first time, in this dark and damp basement, deeply felt the terror of a dimensional strike by capital.
He once thought that as long as one had a firm will and extraordinary wisdom,
everything could be reversed in Gotham's dark night.
But now,
without weapons, without an intelligence network, even the electricity bill for lighting became a problem.
What do you use to fight against a plutocratic deity who monopolized global resources?
No matter how strong superpowers are, can they withstand the suffocating feeling of bank accounts being zeroed out?
The atmosphere in the nuclear bunker was suffocating to the extreme.
Arthur sat on a gasoline drum, holding half a bottle of cheap beer in his hand.
He looked at Bruce's hand that snapped the pencil and sighed.
Without speaking, he raised the bottle to his lips and took a large gulp.
Diana stood in the corner.
The scorched marks on her red and blue battle armor had not yet been cleaned up.
She gripped the broken bronze spear that was only half left, remaining silent.
Clark walked out from the shadows.
He had changed into an old, washed-out plaid shirt, and his red cape had long been thrown away God knows where.
He looked at Bruce, then looked at the darkened computer screen.
"I am going to Metropolis."
Clark's voice was muffled.
"The port is hiring cargo loaders. They settle the cash daily. I have a lot of strength, so I can earn some."
The dignified Superman, one of the physically strongest beings on Earth,
was actually going to a construction site to move bricks and raise money now.
When these words were spoken out, they carried a heartbreakingly comical vibe.
"Stop."
Bruce spoke, his throat as hoarse as sandpaper.
He turned his wheelchair to face Clark.
"Go move bricks? Even if you move them until you die, you still will not be able to afford a single screw from Vought Company."
He looked at these heroes who were once arrogant and unbridled, but were now driven into a corner by reality.
Conventional physical means had been flicked to pieces by a single finger of Shen Che.
In the game of capital, they were even more crushed to the point where not even their underwear was left.
Science and money—this path had reached a complete dead end.
If they wanted to turn the tables, if they wanted to pull that tyrant sitting on the throne down,
they could only go look for things that do not talk about science or logic.
Bruce's hand reached into the inner pocket of his gray bathrobe.
He groped around in the dark.
Two fingers pinched out something.
It was a yellowed parchment business card.
The edges of the business card had some scorched marks, and there was no phone number on it.
Only a name was crookedly written in dark red ink.
Bruce stared at this business card.
A trace of extreme resistance flashed in his eyes, but he had no choice.
In this Universe where physical laws were casually kneaded by Shen Che, the only thing that could bypass this absolute panel
was the black magic hidden in the gutters, stained with a demon's saliva.
"Physics does not work."
Bruce gently placed that parchment business card on the iron table.
"Then we will go find someone who does not play by reason."
The dim light hit the business card.
That dark red name looked somewhat eerie under the light.
John Constantine.
Chapter 107: Batman Goes Bankrupt, No Matter How Strong Superpowers Are, Capital Prevails
The air purifier in the underground nuclear bunker emitted an asthma-like noise.
The fan blades stuttered for a moment and completely stopped spinning.
Bruce Wayne sat in a wheelchair.
He did not check that scrapped air purifier.
His gaze was locked tightly onto the only remaining working monitor in front of him.
The red English word "FROZEN" flashed with a blinding light.
Like a branding iron, it was branded deep into his bloodshot eyes.
There was no angry roar. No losing control and smashing the keyboard.
There was only a bottomless sense of powerlessness.
Batman had gone bankrupt.
In the Wayne Enterprises building in Gotham, within the first hour of those executives signing the zero-dollar purchase transfer agreement,
Vought Company's financial hounds followed the capital network of Wayne Enterprises,
like capillaries cutting off blood supply,
precisely choked off all the covert funding pools of the Batcave.
The offshore trusts in the Cayman Islands. The anonymous accounts in Swiss banks.
Even a few private accounts he used to pay the electricity bills for Gotham's orphanage.
All of them were forcibly cleared to zero in the international settlement system by Vought Company using its hegemony.
Bruce's fingers slowly tightened on the metal armrests.
The friction of his joints produced a faint clicking sound.
His proud tactical reserves. The confidence that supported him in fighting monsters.
Now became a pile of scrap metal that couldn't even start.
He couldn't buy high-purity aviation kerosene to start his fighter jets. He couldn't buy nanomaterials to repair his armor.
Even. He couldn't even afford next month's internet bill for this supercomputer.
No matter how strong superpowers were. No matter how resilient willpower was.
In front of absolute capital suppression, it was like a bare-handed person facing a heavy steamroller moving at full speed.
This sense of suffocation of being stripped of all resources made him feel even more terrified than having a broken spine.
The lights in the nuclear bunker began to flicker and dim.
That was a warning that the backup power was about to run out.
Arthur sat on an ammo crate not far away, toying with a rusted piece of rebar in his hand.
He looked at the darkened screen and sighed.
"Out of money?" Arthur's voice echoed in the empty Underground Room.
Bruce did not make a sound, tacitly acknowledging it.
Clark leaned against the concrete wall, his black battle suit covered in dust.
He clenched his fists, listening to the faint sound of traffic coming from the street outside.
"I'll go outside and figure out a way to get some money. We can't even keep the lights on."
Clark said in a muffled voice.
He was ready to go to the docks or construction sites in Metropolis. Relying on brute strength, he could always exchange it for some cash for an emergency.
These words sounded heartbreaking.
The former savior was now forced to do manual labor to make a living.
"Stop."
Bruce's hoarse voice interrupted Clark's movement.
He turned his wheelchair, with his back facing the crashed monitor.
"Depending on moving bricks. You could move them for a thousand years and still wouldn't be able to afford a special bullet to deal with that monster."
Bruce looked at these remaining stragglers.
Conventional physical attacks were like scraping therapy in front of this man.
His proud capital backing had been completely wiped out by the opponent using a zero-dollar purchase.
The path of science and rules had reached a dead end.
If they wanted to overthrow the tyrant sitting on the throne,
they had to jump out of the framework of physics and common sense.
Bruce's right hand reached into the inner pocket of his bathrobe.
His fingertips brushed against a piece of rough-textured parchment.
He pinched the paper between his fingers and pulled it out.
This business card had no gold-stamped patterns nor any titles.
It only carried a lingering smell of cheap tobacco that couldn't be washed away over the years.
Bruce placed the business card on the tin tabletop.
"Physical means cannot kill him. Money cannot outplay him either."
Bruce's eyes turned dark.
"Then we'll go find those... madmen who don't even obey physics."
Under the dim backup light, the business card revealed dark red handwritten text.
John Constantine.
In this Universe, if there was still anything that could bypass the nearly cheating physical stats of the Silver Age Superman,
it was only that dark magic hidden deep in dimensional rifts, stained with the sulfur smell of demons.
Bruce made his decision.
He was going to use magic to defeat this incomprehensible god.
Chapter 108: Luthor develops super-powered serum, wanting to mass-produce Superman to deal with me
The yellowed parchment business card cast dark red handwriting under the dim light.
Bruce's fingers stroked the edges of the business card.
At the same time.
Metropolis. The former site of LexCorp. The fifteenth underground floor.
This was a secret sanctuary that even Vought Companyhackers hadn't scanned.
The exhaust fan hummed, sucking away the pungent chemical smell in the air.
Lex Luthor stood in front of a metal control console.
He wore a loose white lab coat, and his bald forehead was covered in fine beads of sweat.
On his cheeks and neck were large patches of dark red scabs that had just formed after being scalded by high temperatures.
That was a souvenir baked out by Shen Che's glance of Heat Vision the last time he wore heavy armor to provoke Vought Tower.
That time he almost became a boiled crab. After escaping death, he became smarter.
Human steel and nuclear reactors were a joke in front of that Silver Age Superman who didn't care about the rules of physics.
Can't beat the monster? Then create more monsters to bite him.
Luthor stared fixedly at the row of glass test tubes in front of him.
Inside the test tubes, a golden-red viscous liquid was rolling.
Under the shadowless lamp, this liquid emitted a thrilling micro-glow of energy.
This was the leftovers he bought from the scavengers in the black market for thirty million U.S. dollars in bearer bonds.
A few days ago. Starlight Plaza.
Clark was beaten by Shen Che with an uppercut until he vomited blood, and the blood sprayed into the ruins was collected by someone with a heart.
Although most of its activity was lost, in the eyes of Luthor, the smartest bald man on Earth,
this was a key to unlock the god's gene lock.
"The end of technology is physical modification."
Luthor picked up a test tube, the golden-red liquid leaving a trace on the glass tube wall.
His eyes flashed with paranoid fanaticism.
For these few days and nights, he hadn't closed his eyes once by relying on injecting high-concentration stimulants.
He forcibly analyzed the gene sequence of the Kryptonian, and crudely mixed it with human steroids and the residue of compound v.
He created a super-powered serum that could briefly stimulate the telomeres of ordinary people.
Although the drug effect lasted only three hours, and the side effect was internal organ dissolution after the drug wore off,
he didn't care about the life or death of the consumables.
He just wanted an army capable of tearing down Vought Tower.
Rex turned around.
On the open space behind the control console, fifty shirtless men stood neatly.
These were top mercenaries from Blackwater hired by him, each having signed a life-and-death waiver and taken severance pay.
They stood in five rows, looking at Luthor expressionlessly.
Luthor walked up to the first mercenary.
He picked up a pneumatic injection gun filled with golden-red liquid.
Aiming at the mercenary's thick neck artery,
"Hiss—"
The high-pressure gas instantly drove the liquid medicine into the blood vessels.
The mercenary's body suddenly stiffened.
In less than two seconds,
"Ah—!"
the mercenary let out an inhuman scream, his knees weakening as he fell to the ground.
The muscle chunks on his body swelled crazily at a speed visible to the naked eye like an inflated balloon.
His skin was stretched almost transparent, and cyan blood vessels throbbed violently under the epidermis like earthworms.
"Bang!"
The mercenary slammed his hands onto the alloy floor,
directly smashing two deep pits out of the ten-centimeter-thick steel plate.
He raised his head.
His originally brown pupils were instantly submerged by blood color, and two dark red Heat Vision sparks flickered in his eye sockets.
He gained power.
The Kryptonian's tremendous strength, although a castrated version, was enough to tear apart armored vehicles.
Luthor laughed.
It affected the scald scars on his face, making him gasp in pain, but his smile grew even thicker.
"Next."
Holding the injection gun, he looked like a farmer vaccinating livestock.
Assembly line operation.
Ten minutes later.
In the underground laboratory stood fifty pseudo-Supermans with bulging muscles and red light glowing in their eyes.
They panted heavily, spewing white high-temperature water vapor from their nostrils.
Someone tried lifting their feet off the ground, and actually floated in mid-air.
Although flying wobblily, that was indeed flight that broke Earth's gravity.
Fifty Supermans.
Even if they were just defective products lasting three hours,
this force gathered together was enough to raze half of New York to the ground.
Luthor threw the emptied injection gun onto the iron table with a clatter.
He spread his arms, looking at this god-like army he had built with his own hands.
Fanatic jealousy and the pleasure of revenge filled his brain.
"Shen Che."
Luthor gritted his teeth and uttered the name that gave him nightmares every night.
"Don't you like sitting on the roof to set the rules?"
He pointed in the direction of New York.
"Go."
Luthor ordered this group of panting mercenaries.
"Go tear down Vought Tower, from the top floor to the Underground Room, brick by brick for me."
"Bring that alien bastard's head back to me as a wine cup."
The fifty pseudo-Supermans turned their heads in unison.
The red light in their eyes merged into one piece in the dim laboratory, like a pack of starving wolves.
The very second before they were about to smash through the concrete ceiling above their heads and fly towards New York,
"Boom—!!!"
A deafening explosion
came from the direction of the main culture pod isolated by heavy lead plates in the deepest part of the laboratory.
The sound was so loud that it directly shattered the cold light tubes overhead.
The entire fifteenth underground floor instantly fell into a flash of emergency red lights.
"What is going on?" Luthor looked terrified.
That five-ton lead cabin door used to seal top secrets,
amidst the explosion,
like an autumn leaf swept up by a violent wind,
directly snapped off the hinges, carrying twisted metal debris,
and tumbled in mid-air.
"Bang!"
The five-ton cabin door heavily smashed a row of precision centrifuges on the left.
Glass fragments and green coolant splashed all over the ground.
The cabin door was kicked away directly by an irresistible huge force.
Chapter 109: The Birth of Conner Kent, Clone of the True Superman
"Bang!"
The five-ton lead hatch tumbled in mid-air.
Smashed a row of precision centrifuges.
Shards of glass pelted the alloy floor like hail.
Green coolant splattered everywhere.
A pungent chemical smell permeated the air.
The emergency red lights flashed at a faster frequency.
Thick white smoke billowed out from the ruptured incubation pod.
That steady, creaking sound of footsteps stepped on the glass shards and metal fragments covering the floor, stopping under the lights.
Lex Luthor's bald head was covered in cold sweat, streaming down his scalded scars.
He stared fixedly at the figure walking out of the smoke.
His breathing instantly grew heavy, like a torn bellows.
A tall young boy.
Looking less than twenty years old, his shoulders were broad, and his muscle lines were pulled taut beneath a tight black T-shirt.
His short black hair was somewhat disheveled, still dripping with undried nutrient solution.
Water droplets slid down his angular cheeks, dripping onto his broad chest muscles.
This face.
Bore a seventy percent resemblance to Clark Kent, who grew up on a farm and was called the true Superman.
It only lacked a bit of rustic simplicity, replaced by an undisguised unruliness and cold sternness.
Conner Kent.
This was Lex Luthor spending an astronomical price to buy Clark's blood sample, extracting the most core genetic fragments.
And forcibly kneading it into his own DNA, the smartest of humans.
Electrocatalyzed with high-frequency bioelectricity in the incubation pod for three days and three nights.
The ultimate clone cultivated. Superboy.
He was not like the fifty inferior consumables outside that could only live for three hours.
He was a perfect fusion.
Not only did he possess all the abilities of a Kryptonian to fly, burrow, and be invulnerable to weapons.
But he also possessed human cunning and learning ability.
Conner stood in the center of the laboratory.
Twisting his neck, his cervical vertebrae made a few crisp cracking sounds.
He raised his hand and clenched his fist.
Feeling the surging power in his blood vessels that seemed ready to overflow.
Lex Luthor looked at this perfect artwork.
The panic on his face was instantly replaced by fanatical ecstasy.
He couldn't even care about the pseudo-Supermanmercenaries who were frightened back half a step.
Striding over in front of Conner.
"You're awake! My child!"
Lex Luthor opened his arms, tilting his head up, looking at this clone who was more than half a head taller than him.
"Perfect! This is the true masterpiece!"
He pointed at the fifty defective products around.
"Unlike them, you are a true god!"
Lex Luthor tried to use a dual majesty mixed with a father and a creator to control this boy.
"Now, listen to my command."
Lex Luthor pointed in the direction of New York, venomous fire of revenge flashing in his eyes.
"Go to Vought Tower. Go smash that pseudo-god named Shen Che off the roof for me."
"Your power is not inferior to his! Use the wisdom I bestowed upon you to tear him to pieces!"
Conner lowered his head.
Watching this bald man gesticulating and spitting flying in front of him.
He didn't answer.
In his black eyes, a trace of obvious disgust flashed.
His brain was a bit messy right now.
The catalysis process in the incubation pod was too fast.
Massive memory fragments and genetic instincts rolled back and forth in his brain like a pot of boiling porridge.
He had Lex Luthor's insidious knowledge, as well as certain instinctive reactions brought by Kryptonian genes.
But uniquely lacked the obedience of being brainwashed by Lex Luthor.
"Command?"
Conner finally spoke.
His voice was deep, carrying a rebellion unique to young people.
He raised his right hand.
His index finger and thumb pinched the collar of Lex Luthor's lab coat.
Gently pulling it up.
Lex Luthor's feet left the ground, like a plucked chicken being lifted up.
"What the hell are you? How dare you command me?"
Conner's gaze was as cold as ice.
"A piece of trash who doesn't even grow hair on his scalp."
He flicked his wrist.
"Bang."
Lex Luthor was thrown out like trash, crashing into the stainless steel console.
The console dented. Lex Luthor covered his chest, his face turning pale with pain, almost failing to catch his breath.
Conner didn't look at him again.
He turned his head and closed his eyes.
At this moment, the instinct of the Kryptonian genes overrode the instructions implanted by Lex Luthor.
His super senses began to radiate outward.
He was searching.
Searching for that aura in this World that was most homologous, most powerful, and made him feel genetic submission the most.
That was the instinct of a creature searching for its pack leader.
There was a very faint Kryptonian aura underground in Gotham City. That was the beaten-up true Superman.
Conner's senses swept past there. Too weak. So weak that he couldn't raise any interest.
His perception continued to extend eastward.
In New York, at the highest point of Manhattan.
He captured an aura.
Massive. Profound. Violent.
Like a black Sun hanging in the center of the Universe, ready to burn through everything at any time.
That was the aura of Silver Age Superman.
That absolute pressure of power, separated by two hundred kilometers, was directly branded into Conner's chaotic genetic memory.
Conner suddenly opened his eyes.
In his blue pupils, a trace of fanatical sense of identity flashed.
"There."
He said in a low voice.
His legs slightly bent, the muscles of his thighs instantly tightening beneath his black jeans.
"Boom——!"
The hard alloy floor of the laboratory was stamped out into a half-meter deep pit by his kick.
He didn't take the door.
His entire person turned into a black afterimage.
Carrying the roar of a sonic boom.
Rushing straight upwards.
Directly smashing through the reinforced concrete ceiling of the eighteenth underground floor.
Rubble and steel bars pelted down like raindrops.
In a series of muffled cracking sounds.
Conner smashed through a dozen layers of dirt and rock, rushing out of the ground.
Facing the Sun of Metropolis.
He adjusted his direction, and a circle of white airflow rings exploded in the air behind him.
Heading straight for New York.
His speed was very fast, more violent than ordinary flight.
That was driven by the instinct of eagerly searching for homologous powerhouses.
The distance of two hundred kilometers.
Was merely a few minutes of flight time.
New York's sky was gray.
Vought Tower was like a black sharp sword, piercing straight into the clouds.
Conner locked onto that highest point.
One hundred and twelfth floor.
"Bang!"
He landed on the balcony of the top floor of Vought Tower.
His combat boots crushed the marble tiles on the balcony.
Without slowing down.
He walked straight towards that dilapidated agarwood door.
Raising his right foot.
"Boom!"
With one kick.
The agarwood door panel directly shattered into dozens of wood pieces.
Wood chips flew into the office like bullets.
Conner strode inside.
Chapter 110: Superboy Mistakenly Identifies His Father, Actually Hugs Thigh and Calls Me Dad
The shattered fragments of agarwood slammed onto the Persian rug.
Producing a series of dull thuds.
Expensive sawdust flew in the air like snowflakes, spinning and landing on the edge of the obsidian desk.
The door. Another one ruined.
Shen Che sat in the leather swivel chair.
Holding a freshly ground black coffee in his hand, steam rising straight up.
He didn't frown, nor did he get angry.
He just slowly raised his head.
His gaze passed through the flying sawdust, falling onto the young boy who had broken through the door.
A black tight T-shirt, jeans.
Short hair was somewhat messy, carrying a pungent mixed odor of formalin and chemical reagents on his body.
A product from the Metropolis underground laboratory.
That face was seven parts similar to the farm boy he had beaten until he vomited blood.
Only the lines were harder, and his eyes revealed an untamed wildness that had not been domesticated by worldly rules.
Conner stood in the center of the office.
He didn't look at the Manhattan night view outside the window, nor did he pay attention to the mess all over the floor.
That pair of blue eyes stared fixedly at Shen Che behind the desk.
The instinct of the Kryptonian gene went crazy sounding the alarm at this moment.
No. That wasn't an alarm.
That was a thrill and submission originating from the depths of the bloodline.
Homologous, powerful, matchless.
He could clearly feel that the man in front of him wearing a white shirt and drinking coffee.
The energy contained within his body was like a high-dimensional volcano that could blow Earth into powder at any time.
Countless times more terrifying and pure than the weak aura he felt underground in Metropolis.
The clone's brain was originally a pieced-together semi-finished product.
The conspiracy memories forcibly implanted by Lex Luthor, the hidden bloodline inheritance of the Kryptonian.
Under this absolute power suppression, it was thoroughly stirred into a mess of porridge.
The most primitive rule of the biological World: worshiping the strong.
Occupied an absolute upper hand in his gene chain.
The logic in his brain experienced severe disorder.
He directly skipped Clark, that loser of a gene donor.
And regarded the man in front of him emitting the strongest Kryptonian aura and sitting on the throne.
As the true source of his bloodline.
"Thump."
Conner's knees bent.
Without warning, he knelt directly on the thick Persian rug.
His knees slammed onto the wooden board, making a heavy, muffled sound.
He didn't pause, scrambling forward a couple of steps.
Pouncing directly beside the obsidian desk.
Stretching out those thick arms capable of tearing tanks apart.
With a grab, he tightly hugged Shen Che's suit trouser leg.
Raising his head, his blue eyes flashing with a fanatical light.
"Dad!"
A full-chested shout filled with filial admiration.
Rang out abruptly in the spacious CEO's office.
This shout of "Dad" was called so loud and crisp, without even a trace of hesitation.
Even carrying a bit of grievance of having found a backing.
Shen Che's hand holding the coffee cup.
Rarely paused in mid-air for half a second.
He lowered his head.
Looking at this "son" who suddenly burst in, hugged his thigh, and was full of admiration in his eyes.
That face extremely similar to Clark.
At this moment was raised, looking at him like a large dog acknowledging its master.
Shen Che's brows slightly twitched.
In his pitch-black eyes, a trace of weird emotion flashed by.
He naturally knew who this kid was.
That face, that mixed gene smell.
The ultimate clone created by Lex Luthor: Superboy.
Should have been the trump card used to deal with him.
Now, the trump card ran over and hugged his leg calling him Dad.
This plot progression was even more absurd than Gotham's soap operas.
Shen Che put down the coffee cup in his hand.
The bottom of the cup knocked against the stone surface, making a soft sound.
He didn't kick Conner away with one kick.
According to his previous temper, this kind of mutant freak randomly recognizing relatives.
Would have long been stepped on the cervical spine by him and thrown downstairs to feed wild dogs.
But this time, he didn't move.
Shen Che leaned against the leather backrest.
His gaze turned around on this clone's face.
The corners of his mouth slowly pulled upwards, revealing an arc that was both cold and carried a bit of banter.
He felt this idea was simply marvelous.
The clone of the true Superman, that genetic product representing the last hope of the Kryptonian.
Kept by his side, treated as a mad dog of Vought Company.
Treated as his most loyal henchman.
What else could better crush the mindset of that bumpkin far away in Gotham's Underground Room.
Into pieces completely.
Killing someone and attacking their heart, this was the highest-level way to play.
"Get up."
Shen Che's voice was flat, carrying an unquestionable commanding tone.
Conner immediately let go of his hand and stood up from the rug.
Straightening his waist like a rookie waiting for inspection.
"Do you know who I am?" Shen Che looked at him.
"You are the strongest person in this World, the source of my bloodline."
Conner replied without a trace of hesitation, his blue eyes full of fanaticism.
Shen Che chuckled.
He extended his right hand.
His index finger was slender, casually tapping Conner's shoulder.
"Since you called me Dad."
Shen Che's voice lowered, leaking a mesmerizing magic that bewitched people.
"Then go and handle some matters for me to prove your value."
"You speak." Conner clenched his fists, his joints cracking.
"Take a trip to Gotham."
Shen Che pointed to the night sky outside the window.
"That bumpkin who talks about morality all day and wears a broken plaid shirt."
"Catch him back for me."
Shen Che's gaze turned cold.
"Don't kill him. I want him alive."
Hearing the command, Conner didn't ask why, nor did he have any moral burden.
He nodded repeatedly.
"Understood. I'll drag him back to see you."
He turned around. Beneath the black tight T-shirt, his back muscles instantly tensed up.
He didn't walk through the shattered gate.
His legs exerted force.
"Boom!"
The office floor shook, and the rug was stepped into a big hole.
Conner turned into a black afterimage.
Smashed directly out of the broken floor-to-ceiling window.
Carrying a circle of white sonic boom cloud.
Turning and flying out, heading straight for Gotham City two hundred kilometers away.