Chapter 46: Could it be that this guy is the Nightwalker?
The gorilla raised its fists, preparing to deliver the final blow.
If this punch landed, it would be enough to completely shatter the support pillar.
And cause the entire Ferris wheel, along with everyone inside, to collapse!
But...
A punch blasted in from the side!
The seven-ton white behemoth flew sideways! It plowed a deep trench across the road!
Amidst the smoke and dust.
A figure wearing a black trench coat slowly walked out.
He had thrown football games for many years, until today...
This was his first time throwing a punch with all his might.
Looking into the distance through the pumpkin mask, Clarkclenched his fists.
"That guy punched the gorilla flying with a single blow?"
Many, many voices flooded into his ears.
"Who is that?"
"Who is this wearing a pumpkin mask? A new hero?!"
"Wait, look at his clothes..."
A young man in his early twenties' eyes lit up.
"A black trench coat! A black vest! Look at the silhouette on the back! This is White John!"
"Who is White John?" someone nearby asked in surprise.
"Have you never read my uncle captain america? White John is the protagonist Benjamin's long-lost illegitimate child! He wears this exact outfit! This guy must be cosplaying White John!" the young man said excitedly, "GG Company is way too hardcore nowadays, actually letting a superhero wear cosplay clothes to fight a real gorilla?!"
"Good god! Coming to the amusement park this time is really worth the price of admission! Even if I get beaten to death by this gorilla later, it's worth it!"
Clark stood in place.
Super Hearing caught every single word of these discussions into his ears.
How humiliating.
The first time in his life he stood before the public with superhuman power, it wasn't descending from the skies to display divine might, but rather wearing his younger brother's comic merchandise to plug his younger brother's comic.
If he had known earlier, he shouldn't have bought this damn limited-edition merchandise at the mall this morning.
"Roar——!"
The white behemoth leaped out from the rubble!
The punch on its face from Clark had already swollen into a bruised lump, but this only aroused its ferocity even more!
"Ultra-Humanite!"
The ape roared incoherently, rolling toward him like a flesh-and-blood cannonball, smashing all obstacles in its path to pieces.
Clark took a deep breath.
A football game.
Just treat this like a football game!
The difference was that in the past he had to use Bio-fieldto restrain his strength, but now, he had to...
Bio-field! Spin for me!
The asphalt road beneath his feet cracked!
Clark charged out from his spot!
His fist smashed into the center of the gorilla's chest!
The behemoth was blasted flying once again!
Landing.
The young man involuntarily squeezed his slightly numb fist.
Actually...
His own strength wasn't bad either.
Although he had never won an arm-wrestling match with Yale...
"Roar——!"
Giving the young man no time for a halftime break, the gorilla with blood constantly seeping from the corners of its mouth bounced off the ground once more!
Right now!
Bright red light burst from behind the pumpkin mask!
Heat Vision washed over the gorilla's broad pectoralis major muscles!
"Roar!"
A wail rang out.
The behemoth was knocked to the ground by the searing impact force.
Face up to the sky, its white fur charred black.
After rolling its body a few turns, it lay prone on the gravel ground.
Clark instinctively wanted to rub his itchy eyes.
But he forcibly controlled himself; this was a battle, he couldn't get distracted. It was both out of respect for the opponent and respect for...
He glanced at the Ferris wheel behind him.
Crowded with tourists, family after family.
Taking a deep breath, Clark turned his head back to look at the gorilla crawling up in front of him.
He saw that its fierce and tyrannical eyes actually, in an instant...
Became a lot clearer.
"Roar——!"
It roared.
Turning around, it ran toward the dense forest on the east side of the amusement park.
Its clumsy body snapped several Chinese parasol trees as it wove through the woods, leaves fluttering down.
"Hmph? Trying to escape!"
Clark took a step forward to give chase.
"Clang——!"
The sound of shattering metal came from behind.
The Ferris wheel was teetering precariously.
Without hesitation.
Clark gave up the pursuit and turned to sprint toward the Ferris wheel.
---
Roller coaster, above the tracks.
A dark figure without any openings, clad in heavy armor, crossed its arms over its chest.
The guy wearing a ridiculous vest and a ridiculous pumpkin mask was fighting a fierce battle with a gorilla under the Ferris wheel.
"Arrived at the destination," the dark figure pressed the headset impatiently, "but another super-human has intervened."
"Received." The commander on the other end of the headset was silent for a moment, "Unknown male super-human, strength level preliminarily assessed as B-A, the data group is comparing facial features, please wait, Black Noir."
"Wait?"
The voice beneath the mask grew cold.
"He's about to beat the thing you guys brought over to death!"
"No rush," the commander said calmly, "According to model calculations, the timing of the intervention needs to be chosen after the public's fear value reaches its peak, so that the positive feedback obtained will reach maximum."
"You mean to let those people down there be scared for a little while longer?"
"Watch your phrasing, Black Noir," the commander corrected, "This is scientific superhero activity, it's economics..."
"Screw your scientific activity," the woman sneered, "Can you fucking be of any use? You're just as hesitant and indecisive as that coward John..."
"Black Noir! Stop swearing!" The commander took a deep breath, "Please maintain Silence in public from now on unless necessary. You and your brother are hero products facing the nationwide public of America!"
"Any words or actions in public occasions will affect the company's evaluation of you, and the outside world's evaluation of the company. If you really cannot execute according to the original plan..."
"Retreat, and wait for the next opportunity."
"Or..."
"If you are confident, take care of both the super-human and the runaway entity together."
"We will handle the subsequent public opinion issues for you."
Hearing this, a sneer came from beneath the mask.
"Anyway..."
The commander said finally, "Please wait now. Homelander is expected to arrive in seven minutes, at which point you will jointly—"
"Who wants to wait for that coward?"
Black Noir cut off the headset channel, clenched her fists, and was just about to—
"Now is not the time for you to disturb him."
When?!
Black Noir's pupils constricted beneath the mask.
Her arm was grabbed?!
Unable to move.
The dark figure turned her head, only to see a man with black hair and black eyes and an ordinary appearance staring lazily at her.
The next moment, the opponent gave a gentle flick.
"Boom——!"
The dark figure left the tracks, flying backward.
"Boom——!"
Trees shattered, mud splattered!
She was actually thrown down from high altitude, snapping several large trees before barely stopping in front of a rock exposed above the ground!
Raising her head in shock, Black Noir looked at the figure above.
"Before making a move next time, make sure who is standing opposite you," the man said nonchalantly, "Otherwise it's very easy to get hurt."
"Black Noir?! What happened? Blac—"
The dark figure crushed the headset into pieces with one grip.
This feeling.
Having her fist casually pinched by a single hand, and then being thrown out like trash...
A sense of crushing superiority without any malice.
She had only felt it in one place.
The white grand hall.
The cat manager.
Strangers sitting in a circle.
"You?"
"You are the Traveler?!"
Yale: "..."
He looked up and down at the completely black shadow in front of him.
Could it be?
"You are the Nightwalker?" The black-haired, black-eyed young man suddenly realized.
Silence: "..."
Chapter 47 Silence: This woman looks a bit like me.
Vought Tower, upper floors.
"You mean you want me to wait." John took a deep breath.
"John, I didn't say wait." Stillwell sat behind the desk, hands clasped on the table, "I said timing."
"You use timing to tell me when to save people?" John said with some dissatisfaction, "This is not what a superhero should do."
"It's not when to save people, John." Stillwell corrected, "It's when saving people can make the most people remember you."
"..."
The blond youth on the sofa fell silent.
A faint red light flashed in his pupils.
"John."
Fortunately, the sound of high heels stepping on the carpet came, and a hand brought a warm glass of milk in front of him.
"Drink a sip first, cool down your temper." Madelyn bent down, revealing her plump breasts, "They really made you do too much preparation work."
He swallowed.
The youth wanted to refuse, but in the end, he couldn't help picking it up and taking a sip.
"Feeling a bit better?" Madelyn asked with a smile.
"... Mn." John's tone softened just a bit, and a hint of grievance appeared on his handsome face, "I just feel..."
"When everyone needs me, I am here drinking milk."
"Isn't this bad?"
"You are preserving your state."
Madelyn gently placed her hand on the back of his hand.
"John, you are Vought's most important... No, you are the most important person in America's future."
"You cannot appear in an ordinary amusement park disaster as a supporting role."
"You can only appear on the highest stage, in the most perfect posture."
John fell silent and spoke no more.
"Mr. Stillwell."
Madelyn straightened up, casting a polite look at the man behind the desk, "Maybe we can adjust the entrance plan a bit?"
Stillwell, however, didn't pay attention to her meaning.
He was staring at a tablet and said casually, "Black Noir's signal has been cut off."
"What?"
John's pupils shrank.
"It seems an unidentified male superhuman contacted her?"
"You're telling me this only now? Stillwell?! What the fuck did you do?!"
"Jo..."
Before Madelyn could finish speaking.
"Boom—!"
The floor-to-ceiling window shattered.
A trail of stretched sonic boom clouds pointed straight to the southwest!
Fierce winds poured in.
Blowing the Stars and Stripes flapping loudly.
Madelyn stood in place, bending down to silently wipe away the 'milk' spilled all over the floor with a handkerchief.
"You spoil him a lot?"
"He needs to be spoiled."
"Madelyn, I don't deny the effectiveness of your work, but please remember one thing..." Stillwell took off his glasses and wiped them, "He is a product, and you are also a product."
"... I understand."
Madelyn put the handkerchief into her pocket.
"Go back to rest, and mind your boundaries from now on."
"Okay, sir."
The door closed.
Stillwell thought for a moment, then dialed a number.
"Beep..."
"Connect to Mrs. White Owl."
"Currently, subject Alpha-2 is in good condition."
"In addition..."
"The whereabouts of Alpha-1 have also been roughly confirmed."
"The Awakening Project is underway, and Stormfront has been deployed."
...
Amusement park, the small woods on the east side.
"You mistook me for that guy who only knows to hide in the dark and shoot sneak arrows?" Silence said coldly.
"Oh."
A flash of teasing amusement flickered in Yale's eyes, and he was about to speak up to greet.
But unfortunately, his ears twitched first.
"I have other things to busy myself with. Next time I'll try to get you a name tag."
"Until we meet again."
The youth raised one hand, shaking it without turning his head back.
"——Silence."
"Don't disturb my plan next time."
"Hum!"
His figure flashed and disappeared from the tracks.
Silence gritted her teeth so hard they clicked.
"Bastard."
She clenched her fists tightly.
This guy is putting on that riddle-maker act again.
He said a plan? What plan? What is his relationship with that immensely powerful superhuman? Could there be an organization similar to Vought?
Is he a member of that organization?!
"Traveler!"
"Next time I will definitely smash your face into the mud!"
"Who made you so angry?"
"Whoosh——!"
The blond youth landed in front of her.
The Stars and Stripes shone under the sunlight.
As a hero about to become America's greatest hero in front of the public, the newcomer always maintained his image.
"Get lost! Mind your own business regarding my affairs."
"..."
"Si... Black... Black Noir, do you want to call a medical team?"
The youth was obviously stunned by this scolding, but the stumbling voice that followed still carried concern.
His eyes quickly swept over the black armor on Silence's body.
Obviously, in front of his sister, this future rising star could not manage to maintain his image.
"Your communication was cut off, I..."
"I crushed it."
"What?"
"The earpiece." Silence said coldly, "I crushed it myself."
"... Why?" John was stunned for a moment.
"Because those trash told me to wait for you." Silenceturned sideways, "And I don't need to wait for anyone."
"You're not hurt, are you?" The youth pursued, his gaze looking at the trenches crushed behind her.
"No."
"But these traces..."
"I said no."
John fell silent.
He was very good at being silent.
Or rather, he was very good at staying silent when his sister lost her temper.
This was one of the few practical interpersonal skills he learned in a cage all his life.
"Let's go."
In the end, Silence spoke first.
She turned and walked out of the woods.
Breathing a sigh of relief, John followed her footsteps out of the woods.
Amusement Park Entrance
"Did you see it with your own eyes?"
"Yes! He wore a black trench coat and a vest, wearing a pumpkin mask!"
"A pumpkin mask?"
"Right! Then he punched the gorilla away with one punch! One punch! Can you believe it? That gorilla was at least ten meters tall—"
"I heard it was twenty meters!"
"Fifty meters! At least fifty meters!"
"He can also shoot lasers! Shot out from his eyes! It scorched all the hair on the gorilla's chest!"
"I was less than twenty meters away from him! You guys know that comic book my uncle captain america, right? The clothes he wore were the exact same style as White Johnfrom it! No Regrets for Killing a Son! These four words were printed on the vest!"
"White John? You mean White John from the comic actually exists?"
"No, no, it should be that he is cosplaying White John! And the key is that he really has superpowers!"
"Goodness, so this is actually a live-action stage play by the comic company?!"
"This is even more ridiculous than the comic, okay!"
The waves of sound rolled on.
John's footsteps slowed by half a beat.
White John?
He glanced in the direction of the news team's camera.
That person is called White John?
Damn it.
Should he call himself Black John or Golden John in the future?!
At first he was a bit angry, angry that someone plagiarized his name, but then came a wave of sadness.
A hero had arrived.
But unfortunately, the one who arrived was not Homelander John.
The smile at the corners of his mouth drooped down.
"Don't dawdle." Silence's voice came from ahead.
John quickened his pace.
They bypassed the crowd and walked toward the direction of the parking lot.
Just at this moment...
"Dad! Mom!"
Silence paused in her steps.
Only to see a dark-haired youth running toward a middle-aged couple standing at the entrance of the parking lot.
Behind him followed a blond boy and a blond girl.
The dark-haired boy smiled with a chuckle, coping with his father's inspection, while the blond boy showed helplessness on his face, but still reached out and hugged his mother.
Then the blond girl stepped out from behind the two boys, a smile of surviving a disaster appeared on the woman's face, and she hurriedly hugged the girl.
The blond girl's body stiffened for a moment, but her arms slowly raised up as well, hugging the woman back.
Inside the faceplate.
Silence's pupils were contracting.
She saw the face of that blond girl.
And the face she saw in the mirror every morning...
So alike.
"What a happy family." John's voice came from behind, carrying a hint of emotion.
He was also looking in that direction.
The blond-haired, blue-eyed future hero looked toward the parking lot entrance, with a trace of undisguised envy on his face.
Chapter 48: Jonathan: "Save me within five minutes!"
The new pickup truck plan fell at the hands of a white gorilla.
"My condolences." Yale handed over a bottle of water.
"Can't you speak like a human being?" Clark said sorrowfully.
"I am very sincere."
"You are not sincere at all."
Clark took the water bottle and took a big gulp.
"Joanna, you say a couple of words, isn't he going too far?"
In the back seat, the blonde girl was closing her eyes and leaning against the car window, trying hard to ignore the two humans in the front.
"Not too far."
Then she cast her vote concisely.
"You!"
"You are going too far."
Clark: "..."
The old pickup truck moved forward on the interstate highway.
The amusement park incident caused this road to jam into a mess.
Martha sat in the passenger seat, turning her head slightly and whispering something to her husband.
Apparently...
The old couple went to see Martha's parents, and the result was not very good.
"Metropolis police have confirmed that the amusement park giant beast leaked from an illegal biological laboratory, and has currently been..."
Clark reached out to turn off the radio.
"Don't move," Jonathan said casually.
Clark's hand retracted.
The broadcast was still playing, and the host's tone became more and more excited.
"Regarding the Pumpkin Masked Man, currently the comic's publisher JAC Comet Galaxy Publishing hasn't..."
"Clark," Jonathan sighed, "That person is you, right?"
"...Why couldn't it be Yale?" Clark tried to pass the football.
"Because Yale wouldn't wear clothes like that," Jonathansaid unpleasantly.
Yale himself nodded expressionlessly.
That was indeed the case.
"..."
"...It's me." Clark admitted helplessly.
Hearing this, Martha turned her head, a flash of worry crossing her face.
"Dad."
However, after conceding defeat, Clark's voice unexpectedly gained an extra layer of confidence.
"I know you don't want me to expose myself, I know you are worried, but what I did..."
"I didn't say what you did was bad," Jonathan interrupted him.
Clark's eyes lit up.
"But you are not ready to step forward," the old father said wearily, "You can't even fly."
Yale's shoulders began to tremble.
But he couldn't laugh.
If he laughed out loud at this moment,
Clark would likely experience a burst of subjective willpower and push him out of the car on the interstate highway.
"Dad!" the small-town youth said unwillingly, "I am already prepared!"
"Where are you prepared?"
"Today's crowds were all cheering for me! I rushed in, I knocked the gorilla flying, and I protected everyone on the Ferris wheel!"
"Everyone is cheering for me! Everyone chose to entrust responsibility to me! What if someone needs help tomorrow? If I heard cries for help and didn't show up, wouldn't I be betraying those who believed in me today? They would look at the sky and say where is White John!"
"You are Clark, you are not White John," Jonathan said.
"I know who I am! Dad! I'm not a child anymore!"
"..."
"Clark, you..." Jonathan was about to say something.
"Family members, now is not the time to argue."
Yale's voice suddenly cut in.
Clark was stunned and looked along Yale's line of sight.
A white tower loomed at the end of the horizon.
The sky and the earth were being swallowed by something.
The earth trembled in the thunder, and on the distant highway, swirls of fallen leaves and debris whipped up by the wind could already be seen.
"It seems we are in trouble." Yale took a deep breath.
Black clouds, white tower, storm.
His own precognitive dream actually happened at this time...
"Everyone listen to me."
Jonathan's reaction in this regard was faster than any superhuman.
The steering wheel turned to the right.
The old white pickup truck rolled over the gravel of the shoulder and drove toward a highway service area four hundred meters away.
And it was only a matter of moments.
The small parking lot of the service area had already flooded with many vehicles withdrawing from the highway. Some people were locking car doors, some were holding children and running toward the main body of the concrete building, and gas station employees were holding megaphones shouting something in all directions.
Everyone got out of the car.
"All go inside!" Jonathan shouted back.
The family of four ran against the wind toward the main building of the service area.
Clark was responsible for breaking the wind at the front.
Yale was responsible at the very back for protecting the elderly parents from being blown away by the strong wind.
"Tornado warning for central Kansas, please all residents immediately seek nearby shelter..."
The service area was a concrete bungalow.
It was packed with travelers taking refuge from the highway.
"Child! My child!"
A woman suddenly ran out of the small supermarket in panic.
"My child is still in the car in the parking lot! I just came out of the restroom!"
The refuging crowd suddenly stalled.
Everyone was stunned in place.
This was a storm... how could anyone...
"What car? Which location?" Jonathan turned back sharply.
The woman was stunned for a moment, probably not expecting anyone to ask such specific questions at a time like this. She hurriedly stuttered out the license plate number and the general parking area.
Jonathan nodded.
Then he pulled a rusty crowbar from the corner.
"Dad." Yale spoke.
"Yale, you didn't keep an eye on Clark today either," Jonathan turned around instead, before the youth could say the next word, "I am revoking your qualifications to step forward."
After speaking, he straightened up and walked into the wind.
Yale sighed.
The old man was just stubborn.
"Yale." X2
Clark's voice carried impatience, and Joanna's voice carried unease.
"He said not to let us go," Yale's eyes locked onto the direction where his adoptive father left, "Respect the elderly, you two."
"But the wind outside..."
"I'm keeping an eye on it."
Yale's eyes narrowed slightly.
The old man had now found that car.
A silver-gray Honda with closed windows.
Jonathan inserted the crowbar into the car window.
"Bang——!"
The car window shattered.
Jonathan reached out to open the car door and hurriedly sat inside.
But in the end, he felt a shivering little thing in the back seat.
A West Highland Terrier.
"Woof!"
It threw itself into Jonathan's arms, its small head burrowing into the chest of his plaid shirt.
Jonathan saying he wasn't angry would be a lie...
But...
He looked at the trembling little thing in his arms.
No matter what, this was also a life.
He stuffed the small white dog into his plaid shirt and turned around ready to get out of the car.
But the moment he stepped one foot out of the car door...
A sense of blockage suddenly surged up.
Jonathan's pupils shrank, his vision blurred for a split second, and then he refocused for the first time toward...
The rearview mirror.
It happened to reflect the direction of the service area entrance.
People were standing there, watching from afar the end of the storm, waiting for the hero who took a crowbar to save the 'child' to return, and then bestow him with high cheers and applause.
Martha's floral dress was very easy to recognize in the crowd. She stood at the doorway, one hand clutching the cross in front of her chest, and the other hand resting on Clark's shoulder.
Clark was looking toward the parking lot, his mouth opening and closing as he said something. Next to him were Joanna's pale golden hair and Yale's profile standing seriously in front of the door frame.
The whole family was there.
The sense of blockage in his chest was getting heavier.
Cold sweat seeped from the old farmer's forehead.
Perhaps Yale should have come?
Clark... wouldn't it also be okay?
Himself...
Was he pushing himself too hard?
The person who wasn't truly ready...
Jonathan Kent stared at the family in the rearview mirror for a long time, staring at Clark the longest.
He slowly extended his right hand out of the car window.
"What is this?"
Martha suddenly covered her mouth, tears flowing uncontrollably in the wind.
"What does Dad mean by this?! Yale!"
Clark's pupils shrank; his Super Vision saw everything in the parking lot! His father's pale face in the cold sweat and rain!
But he didn't understand that hand, he didn't want to understand that hand! That hand looked too much like a farewell!
"Yale!" For the first time, he had a thought that even his Super Brain couldn't process, "Is Dad trying to..."
"Calm down, Clark."
"Move your Super Brain."
The blond youth actually smiled.
"Isn't the meaning obvious enough?"
"This is asking us to rescue him within five minutes."
Clark was stunned.
"What are you dazing for?" Yale shrugged, handing out the Pumpkin Mask in his arms again, "Time-limited mission, Clark."
"If we timeout, the old man won't give us a good look."
Chapter 49 Perfect Comet-system Superman
Unfamiliar ceiling.
Jonathan Kent blankly raised his head, his vision gradually focusing on a peeling piece of wallpaper on the ceiling.
He subconsciously touched his chest with one hand.
His heartbeat was very steady, showing no trace of the pain of being scorched by death inside the Honda car just now.
Wasn't he having a heart attack in the car?
The shattered car windows, the howling storm, and in the rearview mirror...
The sad tears of his family members.
"Jonathan!"
The man blankly turned his head following the voice, only to see a silver cross chain swaying on the chest of a floral dress, as the woman covered her mouth and shed hot tears.
"Don't cry, my dear."
Jonathan laboriously raised his right hand, wiped the tears on Martha's face, and forced a reluctant smile, "Am I not fine?"
"Fine?" Martha sobbed, "Do you think we can't understand what your extended hand meant?"
"...To have Clark save me within five minutes?" Jonathansaid drily, "That boy should have understood what I meant, right?"
"Stop putting on an act." Martha's lips tightened, "You're always like this."
"My dear." Jonathan spoke abruptly.
"What is it? Is your body feeling very uncomfortable?"
"Some time, let's go visit your parents again."
"..."
"Jonathan, you really are something."
Martha wiped the corner of her eyes and broke into a smile through her tears.
Jonathan smiled and looked up at the ceiling.
If he guessed correctly, they were now at the SmallvilleMedical Center, and this hospital really was...
The wallpaper on the ceiling was probably still the same one from when he was born here forty years ago; the farewells and reunions of generation after generation passed, but only this wallpaper remained.
It hasn't made any progress at all, this hospital.
He was just about to open his mouth to complain about this to Martha.
"Kansas's most stubborn farmer, Jonathan Kent, bravely rescues a dog in the storm and heroically harvests a heart attack." The blonde youth's lazy voice poured in along with the scent of strawberry-flavored ice cream, "It seems I need to release a spin-off in the comic, how about *my uncle captain america*?"
Looking at the lazy brat standing at the door.
"Get lost!"
Jonathan's voice was full of vigor, and with a light hum, he turned to the girl standing behind Yale who was eating ice cream in small bites and looking at him with concern, "Did I worry you, Joanna?"
"Your complexion is very ugly." The girl's gaze quietly drifted away, as if she couldn't bear to look directly.
"I'm fine."
"Liar." Joanna tugged at Yale's hem.
"Right, a liar." Yale walked in, casually placed a bag of fruit on the bedside table, and his gaze swept over the electrocardiogram monitor.
Blood oxygen ninety-five.
Clearly still a number that required hospital monitoring.
"Jeez..." Jonathan sighed helplessly, "Not giving the old man any face at all?"
"By the way, Cla..."
"Dad..."
The black-haired boy walked into the ward hesitatingly.
First, he exchanged a glance with Yale, and quietly handed the pumpkin mask in his hand back.
Yale tacitly took it back and stuffed it into his coat pocket.
The movement was smooth as flowing water, as if there had already been countless handovers.
Jonathan: "..."
"According to witnesses, the mysterious figure who previously repelled out-of-control mutants at the New Troy district amusement park in Metropolis has reappeared today! During the rare storm on the interstate highway, this pumpkin-masked hero dubbed White John by netizens rescued multiple drivers and passengers trapped in vehicles from the core area of the storm..."
"...Discussions on social media about White John's true identity have continued to ferment. Some netizens believe this is a marketing action by the publisher of the comic *my uncle captain america*, but an increasing number of voices point out that the superhuman power displayed by White John far exceeds human imagination!"
Accompanied by the host's voice falling.
The picture on TV cut to a blurry handheld footage.
Amidst the storm, a figure in a black trench coat was holding a child and standing up from beside a sedan.
No Regrets for Killing a Son.
The blood-red bold characters were striking in the storm.
"..."
"Clark."
"Dad."
"How many minutes did it take you to save me?"
"Huh?"
Clark was stunned.
"Two... two minutes?" he said.
His expression was very calm.
But if you listened carefully to his heartbeat, you would find that his heartbeat was accelerating.
This was a lie; in reality, the time it took for him and Yale to save Jonathan added up to less than thirty seconds.
"Two minutes?" Jonathan looked dazedly into Clark's eyes.
The waveform of the electrocardiogram monitor jumped once.
"Clark."
He muttered, looking out the window, where a full moon hung high in the sky.
"Perhaps you were ready long ago, and it's been me who was never ready to accept it."
"I wasn't ready for you and Yale to grow up just like that."
Martha's shoulders trembled slightly, and she couldn't help pulling out a tissue.
"Dad..."
"So, can I go be a hero?"
Jonathan opened his mouth, seeming to want to say something educational.
But in the end, he only said:
"You always have been."
Clark's nose twitched, and he was just about to speak.
"However, if you dare to continue wearing that clothes printed with 'No Regrets for Killing a Son' on the news headlines next time, I'll bury your superpowers along with this clothes in the backyard." Jonathan added.
"..."
Yale couldn't hold back and laughed out loud.
"Dad..." Clark called out helplessly.
Smiling like a child, Jonathan then let out a sigh of relief.
Perhaps it was also time.
For more than ten years.
He had been thinking every day about when he should tell him the truth.
When would be the right time?
Wait until he turned eighteen? Wait until he graduated from high school? Wait until he got married? Wait until he became some great figure?
Or wait until the day when an old farmer almost died in a storm and finally had to admit that he was old?
The answer was probably already clear.
"Yale, Martha, Joanna."
"I want to speak with Clark alone." Jonathan said softly.
"Don't have a father-son fight, oh." Yale said casually.
"Get lost!" X2
With a light chuckle, Yale reached into the inner pocket of his coat, pulled out a small hard glasses case, and casually handed it over to Clark.
"What is this?" Clark took it and opened it quizzically.
Inside lay a pair of black-framed glasses.
Plain glasses that couldn't be any more ordinary.
"I prepared it in advance, your birthday present for this year."
Yale waved his hand, and before Clark could ask questions, he took his father's answer and walked out of the room with his mother and younger sister.
---
Joanna took Martha to get something to eat.
Watching the backs of the two leaving, Yale turned his head to look at the man standing behind him who didn't know how long he had been there.
"Today was dangerous, wasn't it? In every sense."
"Your brother did very well too, in every sense."
The man wearing a brown shirt walked over and stood side by side with Yale, looking at the father and son inside the ward.
"Is it really okay to expose yourself in front of me like this, Mr. Blake?"
"It's okay."
"Why?"
"Because my mother's name is also Martha."
"This isn't funny at all." Yale was speechless.
"Then, just because you are also my student? Mr. Yale." Blake smiled.
"I don't think you trust me as much as you trust Clark." Yalesneered, "Always on guard against me? What are you afraid of?"
"Remember the white-furred gorilla today?"
"Ultraman," Yale said.
Blake nodded.
"That's the problem with power, Yale, especially when it is unrestrained. It will turn your head."
"Yale, when you and Clark grow up, you will become the most powerful beings in the world."
"You're worried I'll become a villain?" Yale raised an eyebrow.
He was so angry and shaking; he was going to fight Darkseid five years later after all!
"Labeling people as heroes or villains is both dangerous and naive. There are no gods left in this world, Yale. We are all just dwarfs standing on tiptoe, reaching out for the high shelves."
"With the power you possess, you will either become the savior of the world or the deadliest threat to this world." Blake said wistfully.
If anyone else had said these words to him, Yale would undoubtedly have punched him.
But...
He examined the person in front of him.
Middle-aged, looking utterly ordinary.
But the prompt obtained from the previous handshake was still ringing in his ears.
"Special template ability user detected."
"Target determination: Perfect Comet-system Superman — Adam Blake."
"Template locked — Comet Superman."
"Role-playing condition: While looking forward to a better world, please go and bring about its arrival!"
Captain Comet.
When he was born, a comet happened to sweep across the sky above his house, and the comet's radiation drove his body to evolve.
Displaying extraordinary intelligence since childhood, he awakened a mental force field and matter recombination after adulthood.
Rated by the Justice League as: The number one person of the future one hundred thousand years from now who should not appear in this era, the peak of human evolution.
It was said that when he focused on his clairvoyance, he could even see a hundred thousand years into the future.
Then...
"What did you see?" Yale asked.
"..."
"I cannot see anything at all, especially when I cast my gaze towards you and the people related to you." Blake said in a low voice, "This makes me even more fearful than having seen it."
Chapter 50 Yale: Really, I've been giving too many nice faces.
Fires burned in the banquet hall, the blood cross stood tall, and the gargoyles bared their fangs in the flames.
He stood in the center of the raging fire.
He was wearing something on his body that he had never seen in reality.
Black... It looked like...
"Bat..."
The black-haired youth sat up abruptly from the bed.
"Ring—"
Covered in cold sweat, he picked up the handbell on the bedside table and began to shake it.
"Bang..."
The old butler entered punctually with a tray.
"Young master, did you have another nightmare?" Alfredasked with concern, putting down the tray in his hand.
He brewed a cup of Earl Grey black tea for Bruce from it.
"Alfred." Bruce panted and said, "That is the reality about to happen."
"Glug, glug..."
He drank the hot tea in one gulp.
A warm sensation surged up along his lungs and viscera.
"Is it today? Alfred." The youth slowly let out a breath of foul air.
"It is today." Alfred sighed, "The security personnel are all in place, and the Gotham City Police Department has also dispatched additional outer patrols."
"Tonight's agenda starts with the presentation of the cultural awards, followed by the charity banquet."
"..."
"Actually, you don't have to..."
"I am going, Alfred." Bruce interrupted, two stubborn lights flashing in his gray-blue eyes, "Since there is no way to stop the banquet from being held, at least I don't want to run away."
"I have run away from this city's darkness for too long."
"..."
"I understand, young master."
The old butler bowed slightly.
After all, they had spent half a month trying to stop this banquet.
But unfortunately.
The board of directors did not agree, the city hall did not agree, and even Bruce's uncle Kane regretfully told him that canceling a large-scale charity event that had been prepared for four months without any evidence...
was equivalent to declaring war on the entire upper circle of Gotham.
The heir to the Wayne family could not be an arbitrary madman, at least not now—Philip Kane said so.
The air grew heavy.
"Alfred."
"Yes."
"Am I... a madman?"
"Of course not, young master."
"Am I mentally ill?"
"Of course not." Alfred still shook his head.
"Then what am I?" Bruce continued to press.
The old butler straightened up, looked at the youth's haggard face with a hint of sorrow, and uttered a sentence after a long while.
"You are a hero, young master."
The youth was stunned.
He turned his face sideways, looking at his blurry reflection on the window glass.
Black hair, a pale face, and dark circles under his eyes.
There was no power of Silence, no martial arts of Diana, and even less the supreme will of dominance of the Traveler.
Can someone like himself... also be considered a hero?
"Alfred, you say... will they?"
Bruce spoke so softly that Alfred had to lean slightly to hear clearly, "Father and Mother... would they be proud of me?"
The old butler was stunned for a moment.
"Yes, Master Bruce." Alfred said seriously, "They will definitely be proud, as proud as I am, as proud as I have always been."
The corners of his mouth curved up slightly, and the youth's voice carried a hint of cheerfulness.
"Help me prepare a few cars, Alfred, something showy."
"You are asking for... sports cars?"
"Yes, and help me arrange a few dance partners."
"..."
"Young master, pardon my frankness." The old butler weighed his words, "Are you sure you want to attend in this manner?"
"Of course." Bruce got up and stretched, "From now on, I will do this every time."
"Playboy?"
"Playboy."
Bruce walked towards the cloakroom.
"Best be the kind of playboy that anyone at a glance would think this prodigal son could never accomplish anything proper in his life."
"And in the future?" Alfred pursued.
"In the future as well."
Bruce stopped at the entrance of the cloakroom and turned back.
The slightly bright daylight only illuminated half of his face, while the other half was hidden in the shadows.
"Just like how no one in the past would ever mistake a stray beggar on the roadside of Gotham for the heir of the Wayne Group."
Alfred smiled slightly.
He knew what Bruce was talking about.
At the age of eleven, Bruce Wayne disappeared in the manor for forty-seven days, and was finally found by Alfred and Philip Kane next to an iron cage in an underground boxing ring in the East End.
...
Gotham, Iceberg Lounge.
The welcoming waiters stood on both sides of the red carpet holding black umbrellas.
Car after car stopped at the entrance, spitting out well-dressed guests, and then drove towards the underground parking lot.
Every move of the guests was orderly, orderly amidst the chaos just like this city's class mobility.
Until...
"Vroom—"
The scissor doors of the supercar slowly rose.
A slender leg dropped from the passenger seat, wearing red high heels and a circle of gold chains wrapped around the ankle, closely followed by another pair of slender legs, this time in silver strappy sandals.
Then came the second car, and two more women walked down; the third car was the same. The six women were brightly dressed and vying with each other in beauty, but their ultimate destination was to surround the youth getting out of the supercar of the fourth car like a flock of swallows.
"This is... Bruce Wayne?!"
"This is the Wayne family's car?"
"Impossible... The last time I saw him at the foundation banquet, his bow tie was even tied crookedly."
"Four sports cars? Six dance partners? Anyone who doesn't know would think he's a playboy."
"He's only seventeen this year, right?! Can he handle this?!"
Waving at the flashes around the red carpet, the youth casually tossed a handful of green bucks to a somewhat dazed valet nearby.
"Park it well, don't scratch my car's scales."
"Yes..."
"Bruce... young master..."
The red-haired youth was somewhat dazed.
He was Ron. A few days ago, his family fell into ruin, and after being discharged from the hospital, he was even expelled from school. Now he could only end up as a valet at the Iceberg Lounge to make a living.
And that Bruce who had beaten him, the guy he had gritted his teeth and sworn to take revenge on these past few days... just walked past him like this...
And even seemed to completely not know him anymore...
Without any intention of leaving extra glances for him.
"Bruce!" he suddenly shouted loudly.
"Hmm?" Bruce turned back with a frown.
"Bastard! Is Master Bruce's name something you can call?" The manager on the side changed his expression, quickly dragged him to a corner and kicked him over, "Are you tired of living?! He is our boss's distinguished guest!"
"But... I am his... I am his..."
Ron struggled to speak, but in the end he still couldn't say it. He could only curl up on the ground, watching the black-haired youth wrap his arms around the waists of two young women, followed by a flock of swallows, dragging rainwater into the steps amidst the flashes.
---
The revolving door closed.
The interior of the Iceberg Lounge and the rainy night outside were two different worlds.
"Oh gosh~ My Master Bruce."
A short, plump figure pushed through the crowd and came over.
"Oswald." Bruce reached out his hand.
"My old friend, you should have let your butler notify me so that I could greet you outside." The short fat man warmly shook his hand.
"You jest, Mr. Cobblepot." Bruce smiled helplessly.
Oswald Cobblepot.
Known in the Gotham underground as the Penguin.
"Tonight's wine is good?" Bruce glanced at the cup in his hand.
"Of course."
"1963 Fonseca." Oswald held the glass up to the light and shook it, "I saved a bottle especially for you, and I'll have the waiter send it to your table later during the charity banquet."
"You're too kind."
"You brought six dance partners this time?" Oswald showed a teasing smile, "The young master of the Waynefamily is truly young and promising."
"Hahahahaha."
"Life is short, one should enjoy it well, right?" Brucelaughed heartily.
"Everyone, don't you agree?"
As he spoke, he pulled out two US dollar bills and stuffed them into the chests of the women beside him on the left and right, provoking a wave of charming exclamations and the jealous lip-biting of several women behind him.
What a lucky kid.
Cobblepot smacked his lips, then showed an enthusiastic smile, "Then come with me, Master Bruce, I will introduce you to a few people."
The two walked side by side through the crowd.
The surrounding guests were whispering.
Someone noticed that the Wayne family heir and that guy Cobblepot looked unusually close.
This discovery made some people's expressions subtle.
Master Bruce seemed to be a regular here?
That was normal.
But that was decades or even centuries ago.
When Gotham was still jointly ruled by families like Cobblepot and Wayne, it was nothing strange for the heirs of these families to hang out together.
But now Oswald, the last heir of the Cobblepot family, had been reduced to running a bar and walking the underground world, yet hanging out with him...
was a bit unpresentable.
"Bruce, listen to me, this bottle of wine..." Oswald chattered away.
But unfortunately, Bruce's gaze had already crossed Oswald's shoulder and landed on the crowd on the other side of the hall.
There gathered a small group of people who did not look like they belonged to Gotham's local high society; their attire wasn't luxurious enough, their manners weren't slick enough, but they formed a lively circle, making much louder laughter than the old money nobles around them.
In the center of the circle stood a blonde young man.
He was talking to someone, his profile facing Bruce's direction.
But it was enough to see the handsomeness on his face.
"Who is that?" Bruce asked.
Oswald looked over along his gaze.
"Him? He is Yale Kent." The Penguin lowered his voice, providing intelligence for Bruce Wayne, "A recently popular comic author, sixteen years old. The work is called my uncle captain america, currently top three in US sales, and it's said that Mexico and Brazil are also stocking it."
Bruce nodded slightly.
He had an impression of this comic.
When he was at school, the corridors were full of voices discussing this comic, and convenience stores also lined up a whole row of them.
He didn't expect the comic creator to be so young.
"You read comics too?" Cobblepot seemed to have noticed the person in front's interest in the blonde youth.
"Of course, whatever brings me joy, I will enjoy it."
"I'll go say hello." Bruce naturally let go of his dance partner.
He walked through the crowd that naturally parted before him.
"Mr. Kent?"
Bruce stopped behind the few people conversing.
The blonde youth seemed to notice something, waved his hand to the people around him, and turned his head around.
"Mr. Bruce Wayne? Long admired."
"Yale Kent." The black-haired youth reached out his hand to shake, exchanging polite pleasantries, "Long admired."
"Is there something you need?" the blonde youth said with a smile.
Then he couldn't smile anymore.
"Good comic, Mr. Yale, how much for the copyright? I'm buying it."
Yale: "..."
Have I been too polite to someone recently?
Chapter 51: Supreme Sorcerer.
A playboy.
A rich young man who finally learned how to squander his wealth.
When Yale saw this, he should have been quite satisfied.
But...
To think he was putting on airs in front of himself.
If he hadn't known that this guy's ice-cold bank numbers had all turned into his own warm gold, he might have actually believed it.
"Mr. Bruce, you must be joking." The blond youth's expression remained unchanged.
"I simply truly admire your work."
"Your comic made me extremely popular at school, and every time classmates can't find the latest issue, they come to ask me." Bruce Wayne chuckled lightly. "After all, the rumor that the cultural award sponsored by the WayneFoundation nominated this comic probably spread faster than a tornado in the dorm building."
"Then you'll definitely suffer even more next." Yale spread his hands.
"Oh?"
"Because next, I'm going to leave a little cliffhanger at the end of the comic."
"...?"
Bruce was taken aback.
But Yale simply smiled nonchalantly at him, then stepped back to the side, walking over to the small circle of the publisher and the cultural foundation.
A few understated words, decent and restrained.
The two masked people thus walked a round in front of each other.
But just as Bruce turned and walked away, he heard...
"What rolls around in an alley? And has several holes in its body?"
Two bewildered voices suddenly came from nearby.
Bruce abruptly turned his head.
"What did you say?!" he growled in a low voice.
"Huh?"
"Mr. Bruce."
The two slack-off waiters who had been caught trembled, then pointed at the comic on the table nearby, saying tremblingly:
"This is the riddle Mr. Kent left at the end of the next chapter of the comic. It's said that there are also hints about the plot of the following chapter, and the first reader to guess it will receive a handwritten reply from him."
"..."
"Sorry."
The dark-haired youth regained his calm smile. "You two, now is not the time to slack off and read comics. Mr. Cobblepot is not someone who can tolerate you."
"Y-Yes..."
The waiters retreated in fear.
Bruce breathed a sigh of relief. While blaming himself inwardly, he couldn't help but step forward a few steps and pick up the comic placed on the countertop.
This seemed to be the area for media photos shortly.
Which was normal, making up a little riddle or something as a launch event.
He casually flipped through a few pages of the comic, looking at things like Regretless Filicide, the Murder Spider, Spider Blasting Fist...
Then he tossed it on the table with some boredom. He really didn't know why Gotham people had been obsessed with this recently.
He flipped through it and didn't find anything interesting, even feeling it wasn't as good as riddles...
But when his peripheral vision swept over the wall...
A handwritten manuscript framed in a minimalist picture frame.
Next to it stood a small bronze nameplate engraved with a line of very small words:
Wayne Cultural Foundation · Superhero Series Special Exhibition · Prologue
Bruce stood frozen in place.
The light falling from the crystal chandelier shone on the handwriting, reflecting faint shadows on the paper's surface.
Say goodbye to the self that tortured itself like a prisoner.
What to do when afraid of the dark? What to do when afraid of that guy?
But if one doesn't take this step,
they will never be able to move forward.
A real man should become strong for others.
Clench your teeth and hold your ground to the end.
It doesn't matter if you fall down; just stand back up.
As long as you can do this,
you are a hero.
——my uncle captain america
Standing in front of the handwritten manuscript, the dark-haired youth froze in place.
The crowd behind him emitted a buzzing noise, the clinking of champagne glasses intertwining with women's laughter, while Gotham, a city that never quieted down, made an eternal low murmur outside the window.
The sound of engines, sirens, rain washing over gargoyles, and the gunshots ringing out in the dark alley for who knows how many times.
As long as you can fall down and stand back up,
you are a hero.
"Mr. Wayne?" A waiter walked over holding a tray. "Mr. Oswald asked me to bring this bottle of Fonseca over."
"Thank you." Bruce took the wine glass.
But his gaze involuntarily drifted toward the crowd, looking at the blond back view talking to people from the foundation on the other side of the hall.
Yale Kent was shaking hands with a white-haired judge committee member, a casual smile hanging on the corner of his mouth.
In a daze, it overlapped with another back view.
The white grand hall.
The moonlight-like floor.
A Traveler who never revealed his true face.
He also faced everyone with such a casual posture, making it completely impossible for you to tell whether he was talking nonsense or setting up a chess game concerning everyone's destiny.
And being stared at so fixedly, the blond youth seemed to sense something.
Across half the hall, he smiled, turned his head, and slightly raised the wine glass in his hand toward Bruce.
CHEERS ~
Bruce was stunned for a moment, then he too raised the cup of 1963 Fonseca in his hand.
The two wine glasses thus touched from afar across half of the Iceberg Lounge.
---
Bruce Wayne.
Seventeen years old, America's youngest orphan billionaire.
The only flaw is that this guy likes to ask headache-inducing philosophical questions in the White Palace whenever he has nothing to do.
Are you here for a seminar or to fight nightmares?
Yale had always wanted to ask him that.
"Mr. Kent?"
A slightly nasal female voice pulled Yale out of his contemplation.
The publisher's marketing director was holding a glass of champagne, her cheeks already flushing with a suspicious rosy hue.
"Oh, sorry." Yale withdrew his gaze. "Where were you just now? Mexico's distribution channels?"
"It's Brazil! Brazil's!" the marketing director emphasized. "The distributors in Rio de Janeiro have already sent urging emails, Mr. Yale, their reaction to that chapter of Regretless Filicide is simply..."
"It's my uncle captain america." Yale corrected.
"Right, right, right, that's the one."
The marketing director waved her hand, obviously far less concerned with the comic's name than with the sales figures. "Anyway, Mr. Yale, if you can add a message in the local language on the title page of the next issue, I guarantee Rio's sales will at least double..."
"I'll think about it." Yale perfunctorily brushed it off.
"Fine." The marketing director gave a hiccup, then casually pulled Yale to walk up to a woman who seemed to have been waiting for a long time.
"This is Isabelle Weir, chairperson of the Gotham Weir Family Foundation, and also one of the members of tonight's cultural award evaluation committee," the marketing director introduced drunkenly. "She is also one of our behind-the-scenes investors."
"Isabelle Weir." The woman smiled and reached out her hand.
She was strikingly beautiful, like a ripe peach polished by the years. Her age was visually estimated to be in her early thirties, or perhaps fifty...
After all, in Gotham's upper society, the budgets high-society ladies invested in anti-aging were higher than the entire annual budget of the Gotham City Police Department.
"Yale Kent." Yale grasped the woman's hand.
He waited for a moment.
Very good.
No abnormality prompt; she seemed to be a normal person.
"Long admired, Ms. Weir." Seeing the woman looking at him in puzzlement as he didn't let go of her hand, Yalecasually added, "The Weir family's charity work in Gothamhas long enjoyed a high reputation. Last time in Metropolis, someone mentioned your name to me."
"You are too polite." Isabelle let go of her hand. "Compared to other families, our Weir family has only done some small things within our power."
"On the contrary, Mr. Kent, creating a comic that ranked in the top three nationwide in sales at sixteen is the truly respectable achievement."
"Even my niece is your fan." Isabelle covered her mouth with a chuckle, then gracefully beckoned behind her. "She's here tonight too, and has always wanted to find a chance to say hello to you. If you don't mind..."
A young girl stepped forward from behind Isabelle.
Black hair, blue eyes, a purple long dress embroidered with irregular silver threads on the hem, occasionally flashing a faint light under the lights.
Around her neck was tied a silk scarf, pinned with a pentagram brooch.
"This is my niece, Zatanna Zatara."
Isabelle introduced. "Twenty-one years old, a rising star in the world of magic, this year's Best Newcomer Award is already locked in advance. Perhaps you, Mr. Yale, can find some creative inspiration from her magic?"
"Hello, Ms. Zatara."
"Hello, Mr. Kent."
The two slightly nodded.
"Then you two chat slowly?" Isabelle waved her hand with a smile, then turned and walked toward the crowd. "I won't disturb you."
"..."
The two looked at each other in dismay.
"Us?"
"Did my aunt leave?" she asked.
"Left."
Yale slightly tilted his head, looking at the woman walking toward the crowd behind the girl.
"That's good."
Zatanna breathed a sigh of relief, then looked at the blond youth with a hint of curiosity. "I've been following your work since the first chapter, Mr. Yale."
"I think your handling of the father-son relationship is simply one of the most classically tragic templates in contemporary popular narrative." Her speech rate involuntarily sped up. "I think if Shakespeare lived in the 21st century and drew comics, he would probably draw like..."
"Ms. Zatanna." Yale gave a light cough. "You flatter me."
"Sorry, sorry, Mr. Kent." The magician came back to her senses, saying a bit bashfully, "I got a little excited."
"It's fine." Yale helplessly spread his hands, "On the contrary, I should thank you, Miss Zatanna. Although being compared to Shakespeare puts a bit of pressure on me, after all, he didn't need to be chased for manuscripts by his editor every month."
Zatanna burst out laughing.
"Hello, Mr. Yale, I am Zatanna Zatara, and my current goal is to complete a national tour across the United States." She extended her hand.
"Yale Kent, current goal is to bring the warmth of family to the whole world." He casually shook it.
The girl's palm felt delicate and slightly cool, and her fingernails seemed to still retain a bit of silver glitter after using small magic props.
But in Yale's ears...
"Detected the presence of a special template ability user."
"Target determination: Primal Magic · Magic Mistress · Archmage —— Zatanna Zatara"
"Template input successful —— Sorcerer Supreme"
"Role-playing conditions: Relaxed? But feasible, because this is your turf. Spells, tricks, demons. To you, it's like everyday business."
Yale let go of his hand.
It really was her.
In this world.
The title of Sorcerer Supreme has been passed down from the beginning of time, like a key changing hands among different holders, and each holder has left their own mark in front of infinite magic.
The first was named Hecate, born within magic, the creator of magic, the origin of magic, and the first form that magic revealed in the universe.
The second was the Hanged Man, coming from the Dark Multiverse, proving that magic does not distinguish between light and dark, only depth.
The third was the Egyptian god Thoth, defining order and chaos.
The fourth was the ordinary-looking magician in front of him.
Zatanna Zatara.
The future Sorcerer Supreme.
Yale's gaze unconsciously grew eager.
Although Zatanna indeed looked good, what Yale cared about more right now was the Sorcerer Supreme.
If it could be bound, his second slot would possess the purest magical bloodline in this universe.
"Mr. Kent?"
The magician seemed to have a trace of subtle unease.
Yale came back to his senses.
"Sorry." A smile hung on Yale's face again, "I was just thinking about how to arrange the panel layout if magic elements were added to the next chapter of the comic."
"Occupational disease, please forgive me."
Zatanna blinked.
The unease on her face dissipated a bit, replaced by a kind of excitement of being recognized.
"Really? If you need a technical consultant in magic, I can..."
"Mr. Yale."
Another voice timely intervened.
Bruce Wayne walked over from the crowd, his left arm linked with a red-dressed blonde woman, and two or three gaudily dressed dance partners following behind him.
"And Miss Zatanna." The black-haired youth smiled, "Long time no see."
"…Yeah." Zatanna responded, carrying a bit of deliberate avoidance.
Interesting.
Yale's eyebrows raised slightly.
"Mr. Yale." The youth's smile was brilliant, "The results just came out, so I'd like to chat with you about some process details of tonight's awards ceremony."
"Then I won't disturb you two." Zatanna laughed it off, turned and walked into the crowd, "I'll go check the backstage preparations, there will be a magic performance later."
"Please?" Bruce made a gesture.
The two then walked side by side across the hall.
Moving toward a corner away from the crowd.
After walking a few steps, Bruce turned his head to reveal an apologetic smile to the women behind him.
"Ladies, give me five minutes? The martini over at the bar is not bad, try it for me."
The women looked at each other, then tactfully dispersed.
After the dance partners disappeared into the crowd, Bruce's shoulders relaxed slightly.
"You and Miss Zatanna have a history?" Yale asked casually.
"Why ask like that?" Bruce raised an eyebrow, "Met twice when we were kids, her father Giovanni Zatara had some friendship with my father, and brought her to WayneManor as a guest twice."
"Thinking about it, it's been almost ten years? Meeting again after growing up... maybe there's some awkwardness between acquaintances."
Yale listened carefully.
Bruce's heartbeat was very steady; clearly he was not lying.
But the problem was, if the story was really that simple, what was up with Zatanna's hesitant expression just now?
The gossipy heart was burning fiercely.
"Let's talk about tonight's award ceremony process?" Yaleendured and changed the subject, "Mr. Bruce, privately communicating the results with candidates in advance, this kind of thing doesn't seem very... fair and square, right?"
"Isn't it good? Just chatting." Bruce spread his hands.
"There's only a layer of window paper between chatting and a rigged outcome." Yale reminded.
"Then poke it through."
The youth smiled and dialed a phone call.
"Alfred."
"For the final result of tonight's Hero Culture Award, please arrange it for Mr. Yale Kent."
"..."
The other end of the phone fell silent for a moment.
"Master, actually it originally was..."
Click.
Bruce shoved his phone back into his pocket.
Yale:...
He suspected that this wealthy fool of a son just wanted to act cool in front of him.
But the black-haired youth had already ignored his gaze and looked at the framed handwriting behind him.
"Mr. Yale."
"Do you think like this... is being a hero?"
Yale glanced at that piece of calligraphy.
It was something he wrote casually on a sticky note a few days ago at the request of his editor.
In fact, he hadn't expected it to appear here.
At the time, he thought it was pretty good.
Now that it was framed and hung on the wall, and asked by a Batman with the tone of "Do you think like this is being a hero?", Yale suddenly felt a bit awkward.
"After all, I don't really like elevating the theme." Yale said casually, "If I write too profoundly, readers will think I'm preaching."
"I'm just a comic artist, Mr. Bruce, not a priest."
"..."
"My dad was actually considered a devout priest." Brucesuddenly spoke up, "He often took me to church, saying God would bless us."
"But God has never blessed this city."
"Never."
"..."
"Mr. Bruce." Yale suddenly smiled, "Do you know *The Odyssey*?"
Bruce was slightly stunned, clearly not expecting the topic to jump in this direction, but he still nodded, "Homer's epic, Odysseus spent ten years returning from Troy to Ithaca."
"Right."
Yale leaned against the wall, "Then you must know the story of the Sirens."
"The singing on the sea would bewitch all passing sailors, making them forget their course and crash their ships into reefs."
"But the Sirens' song bewitches everyone who hears it, so who passed on the story of the Sirens?"
"Who?" Bruce deduced, murmuring to himself, "Some survivor before Odysseus?"
"Dwarves."
"Dwarves?"
"They were bewitched by the Sirens' song, but they couldn't climb over the ship's railing."
Bruce Wayne burst out laughing.
"...Couldn't climb over the railing." He repeated this sentence, and then laughed for a while.
"I don't really like elevating the theme, so I think heroes don't necessarily have to tie themselves to the mast like Odysseus; perhaps they are just little dwarves who aren't tall enough and don't have enough strength. And they, who brought the news back, can of course also be called heroes."
Bruce nodded.
Gray-blue eyes looked at Yale unblinkingly.
"Thank you, Mr. Yale," he said softly.
"Obtaining this conversation, I think it's the most valuable transaction of my life."
"The Hero Culture Award is indeed none other than yours."
"..."
Thirty million dollars in exchange for hundreds of lives, where on earth did you lose out?!
Yale forced down the urge to grit his teeth.
"Don't copy what you said right now when you go on stage later." He rolled his eyes.
"When I go on stage later, I'll say some even more boring things." Bruce revealed a smile, "Playboys, you know..."
Yale tilted his head slightly, a trace of mischief floating on the corner of his mouth.
"So you plan to put on tights? So interested in heroes."
Bruce's heartbeat suddenly accelerated.
"Just joking." But he still kept a straight face.
But Yale heard it clearly; this kid's heart was about to jump out.
He forced back his amusement.
Keep acting, Mr. Bruce Wayne.
"Is there anything else?" Yale drained the last sip of wine in his cup.
"That riddle." Bruce asked hesitatingly, "The answer is?"
"Bowling."
Yale said offhandedly, "The young master has never played bowling?"
Bruce breathed a sigh of relief.
Turns out it was just bowling, he thought it was...
"Ah——!!!"
A scream resounded from the hall.
The eyes of the two turned sharp instantly.
Bruce subconsciously walked forward.
Yale didn't need to walk; his Super Vision had already seen it.
Purple radiance seeped out from under the floorboards.
This was completely different from any radiation he had seen before! This was just like...
Magic?!
Chapter 52: Blood Cross Rises.
My name is James Gordon, and those who know me well call me Jim.
Living around the old district of Gotham, married, currently a lieutenant at GCPD (Gotham City Police Department), given the nightlife Gotham gives me, I have to work overtime every day until seven in the morning before I can continue working.
Usually before going to bed, I will catch a few madmen who escaped from Arkham, and then listen to the sound of my colleagues interrogating criminals in the interrogation room while having a sound sleep, must sleep for ten minutes within an hour.
Invited to attend this charity banquet tonight, in reality, I lost a draw to Harvey Bullock, and was forced to come here to endure the bantering and mockery of the elites, so as to protect the doughnut budget of the Gotham City Police Department from being cut off next quarter.
Although drinking champagne while chatting and laughing with the elites makes this kind of life look enviable, to be honest, it's really not as good as elegantly lighting a cigarette and then legally street-racing down GothamAvenue to catch a few madmen who escaped from Arkham.
After all, such a peaceful life is really not very suitable for an old cop who has lived in Gotham for most of his life...
"There is a killer! Someone is dead!"
A man screamed in terror in the side hall.
"...?!"
Gordon's heart skipped a beat.
"A killer?!"
"Someone is dead?!"
"Someone died?!"
"What's going on?! Cobblepot?! Did Cobblepot do this?!"
"You ****, who the f*ck is spreading rumors about me?!"
The short, fat man rebuked angrily.
But it was of no use.
The banquet hall fell into chaos.
Some people walked toward the door, several ladies retreated while protected by the people around them, and the security guards of the Iceberg Lounge tried to stop the crowd, but quickly found that the methods they usually used to drive away drunkards were of no use in front of a group of elites who could make them unemployed at any time.
"Everyone! Don't move!"
Gordon shouted, "Protect the crime scene."
No one paid attention to him.
Several guests were still making phone calls, and Cobblepot even frowned and asked the club manager to close the door, lest reporters catch wind of something and rush in.
"I am a police officer!"
This time, everyone looked at him.
"Jim?"
An acquaintance called out his name in confusion.
"From now on, no one touches anything in the side hall, and no one leaves this building." Gordon took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping across each displeased face, "I just called for notification, reinforcements are on the way. Until my colleagues and my superior arrive, I call the shots here."
The banquet hall suddenly fell silent.
Everyone's expressions were odd, and some even looked at Gordon with disdain.
"..."
"The door is right there; it won't grow legs and run away. Ladies can go rest by the window first, and if gentlemen insist on showing courage at a time like this, at least don't step on other people's dresses."
Well, thinking that the doughnut budget for next quarter was controlled by these people, even Gordon's tone inevitably softened a bit.
"And Mr. Cobblepot, please come with me."
"Troublesome."
The Penguin clicked his tongue, but irritably ordered the attendant who had just been there to lead the way ahead.
The side hall was originally a place for guests to temporarily rest and store coats.
Now the door was half-open.
A man around forty years old was lying on the ground.
The attendants were standing aside, wanting to lean down to take a look.
"Don't touch him."
Gordon glanced at the spreading bloodstain beneath the man.
"If he can still be saved, you are not more professional than me and the doctor."
"If he is already beyond saving, you'd better not be more diligent than the killer."
The attendants' expressions changed, and they quickly retreated behind Cobblepot and Gordon.
Gordon squatted down and glanced at the man's pupils; they had dilated to the point where the iris had almost disappeared.
"Beyond saving." He sighed.
"Dead?!" Cobblepot drew a sharp breath, followed by a flash of anger on his face, "To think a stray dog dares to do this in the Iceberg..."
Gordon narrowed his eyes slightly, eyeing the Penguin.
Cobblepot was a businessman in Gotham's underworld; a man like him would not arrange such a good show tonight.
"You know him?"
"Leonard Quill, partner of Quill Cultural Agency, responsible for contacting collectors for the foundation."
"Who invited him?"
"He was already on the list." Cobblepot lowered his voice, "The list from the Vane Foundation. Quill has recently been handling a batch of cultural projects for Ms. Vane, and they even spoke tonight."
"Was the conversation pleasant?"
"I don't know."
"Then it wasn't pleasant." Gordon narrowed his eyes slightly, "If it were pleasant, you would say they had a pleasant chat. If you truly didn't see, you would say you didn't see. Saying you don't know usually means you don't want to cause trouble."
"..."
"Gordon." Cobblepot gritted his teeth and whispered, "I'm just running a club, and you're just a little lieutenant. Don't make things complicated. I already had someone close the door earlier; it's hard for anyone else to know about certain things."
Gordon was silent for a moment, just about to speak.
"You two, what happened?"
Bruce Wayne walked in from outside the side hall door. Behind him were no longer that flock of gaudy dance partners; only he remained alone, frowning, with displeasure in his tone, "It's almost time for the awards presentation. As for solving the case..."
Cobblepot's expression changed.
Dealing with a corpse in front of the Wayne family heir gave him a bigger headache than the corpse itself.
"As you can see, tonight's awards probably won't be handed out." Gordon didn't have as many scruples.
Bruce sighed with a heavy expression, truly looking like a playboy who cared more about a speech than human lives.
After all, this is Gotham...
If a place with so many people like this didn't have a few murders, it wouldn't be Gotham anymore.
He turned his gaze behind him.
"Ms. Vane." Bruce asked, "Did you hear it too?"
Isabelle Vane stood behind him, gently stroking the ring inlaid with a silver-gray gemstone on her ring finger.
"I believe Gotham will regret missing this awards ceremony." The noblewoman expressed her regret.
"I think so too."
Bruce also shook his head, glancing at the outline covered by the white sheet on the ground, "And Mr. Quill was working for your foundation?"
"Are you questioning on behalf of the police?" Isabelle said mildly.
"Just joking, Ms. Vane, I'm just concerned about tonight's procedure." Bruce cleared his throat.
Isabelle did not reply further.
Gordon watched this pantomime from the side, mentally noting down a score for both of them.
Wayne's probing was too blunt, and Vane's counterattack was too seasoned.
With a sigh, Gordon asked Cobblepot to take Bruce and Isabelle back to the main hall, and called over the first attendant who discovered the body.
"What's your name?"
"A—Amy."
"Amy, my name is James Gordon." He pulled over a chair and sat down opposite the girl, "I only ask about what you saw."
"You can say you're unsure if you're unsure, and say you didn't see if you didn't see. No one will give you a hard time because you didn't see clearly, understand?"
Amy nodded.
"Why did you come to the side hall?"
"Ms. Vane asked me to come find Mr. Quill. She said she had an appointment with Mr. Quill to discuss a list, but he hadn't returned."
"I came here to find him, and then..." Amy involuntarily looked toward the ground covered by the white sheet.
"Was the door open or closed at the time?"
"Half-open."
"The employee passage one?"
"Also half-open."
"Did anyone go out?"
"No."
"Footsteps?"
"It seemed like... the sound of high heels." Amy thought for a long time.
"Are you sure?"
"Maybe... but it could also just be people in the main hall... Sorry, Mr. Gordon, I don't know."
"Very good."
"What?" Amy was stunned.
"Not knowing is also a useful answer, much more useful than guessing an answer just to help me."
The girl breathed a sigh of relief, her shoulders finally relaxing a bit.
"Ms. Isabelle Vane." Gordon turned to the main hall, "Do you know the deceased?"
"Mr. Quill is responsible for contacting private collectors for the foundation, and also participated in the coordination of some exhibits and guests tonight." Isabelle walked out from the crowd.
"Did you have a dispute?"
"Business discussion."
"Someone heard you raise your voice."
"That person probably has never attended a board meeting."
"When was the last time you saw him?" Gordon didn't pick up on her sarcasm.
"I was in the main hall all along."
"Are you sure?"
Isabelle was silent for a moment.
"I left for a few minutes."
"Where did you go?"
"Internal affairs of the foundation."
"What affairs?"
"Unrelated to Mr. Quill's death."
"Please speak."
"I have no obligation to disclose internal foundation information in front of all guests."
"..."
"Then let's go talk over there." Gordon glanced around at the pricked-up faces nearby.
"Not for now." Isabelle was expressionless.
What a tricky woman.
Bruce leaned against the pillar, withdrew his gaze, and thoughtfully glanced at the other side of the main hall.
Compared to Isabelle, what he cared about more was...
Yale Kent's just-emptied wine glass was still on the table, a small piece of lemon peel pressed under the bottom of the glass, but the person was already gone.
The excessively conspicuous blonde hair had disappeared throughout the banquet hall.
Bruce narrowed his eyes slightly.
Could it be...
Bruce took out his mobile phone and dialed Alfred's number.
The phone rang twice.
"Master."
"Has the police been called?"
"They are on the way."
"How many cars?"
The other end of the phone fell briefly silent.
"One car."
Bruce frowned.
"The Gotham City Police Department is simultaneously dealing with an East Side shooting, a docks arson, and two armed robberies tonight," Alfred said. "Other reinforcements are rushing from the Central District, but the heavy rain has jammed the viaduct."
Just outside the window, a flash of lightning lit up.
Moments later, muffled thunder rolled over Gotham's rooftops.
"What about our security?"
"There are sixty people inside the club, and another forty on the perimeter."
"That's good." Bruce breathed a sigh of relief, "Have them guard the exits."
"Understood, Master. In addition..."
The old butler had already prepared everything.
---
Moments later.
Bruce frowned and hung up the phone, looking toward the other side of the hall.
Quite a few people were already impatient.
"Officer." The fund manager wiped his sweat, "The ladies and gentlemen present all have their own arrangements..."
"So do dead people." Gordon looked at him, "He probably arranged to go home tonight too."
The manager shut his mouth.
Bruce seized the opportunity to walk up and slipped a small note into Gordon's hand.
Gordon was stunned for a moment, quickly glanced at the note, and then looked at Bruce with mixed doubt and uncertainty.
"Mercer? Are you sure?"
"Don't underestimate the Wayne family's intelligence network, Mr. Gordon."
"Where did you find out?"
"Mr. Hammond from the collection committee got drunk and left early. During our friendly exchange just now, he expressed a willingness to tell Wayne who is about to go bankrupt."
Gordon fell silent.
Sometimes, the speed at which money moves people is much faster than his interrogating them one by one.
"Where is Mercer?" he asked.
Bruce tilted his head slightly to indicate.
Near the window of the hall, a middle-aged man was constantly rubbing the seam of his trousers with his left hand.
"He claims to have been with Hammond all night. Hammond says so too." Bruce paused, "However, Hammond said Mercer went to make a very long phone call halfway through, leaving him alone to face the annoying publisher."
"What about the attendant in the phone area?"
Gordon shouted.
"No one saw him make a phone call," Cobblepot said quickly.
"What about the employee passage?"
"Entering from the service door next to the phone area can skirt around to the back of the side hall."
At this point.
A chain of reasoning had already been silently built between the two men.
"Does this building have an old service elevator?" Gordon turned to the Iceberg Lounge manager.
"There's a wine cellar elevator, but it's been out of service for a long time." The manager's expression changed.
"Entrance?"
"The storage room behind the phone area."
"Exit?"
"Behind the side hall coat rack."
"Why didn't you say so earlier?!"
"That elevator is already broken!"
"Broken doesn't mean it doesn't exist."
Gordon looked at Mercer.
The man had already moved among the group of people closest to the main door at this point.
"Adrian Mercer!"
Gordon's voice crossed the entire hall.
"Please stay."
"Bang!"
Mercer turned around, shoved aside the guests in front of him, rushed toward the door, struck a security guard's bridge of the nose with an elbow, and squeezed out through the crack of the door.
But just at the moment he was about to rush into the rain...
"Ah——!"
Terrified screams came from outside the door.
"Splash——!"
That pool of blood in the side hall seeped out through the crack of the door at some unknown time.
The old cop closest to the side door naturally saw this scene at a glance...
Gordon's heart skipped a beat.
There's a second stage?!
"Everyone back away!"
He straightened his body and pushed the people by the door toward the main hall, "Don't step on the blood on the ground! No one touch anything!"
But more blood overflowed from the crack of the door.
The white sheet covering the corpse bulged.
The doors of the banquet hall slammed shut, and all the lights went out simultaneously.
In the darkness, blood-red light intertwined in the air, supporting a slowly descending crimson cross.
In a trance.
When Bruce came back to his senses.
A strange dark red sky.
The blood cross stood tall on the wasteland.
Isabelle stood on the other side, her face losing its composure. She raised her hand, and the silver-gray gemstone on her ring dimmed.
Zatanna appeared beside him at some unknown time, her face pale.
And...
The golden figure, the long-disappeared Yale Kent—he had reappeared in the hall at some unknown time, staring blankly at the cross just like everyone else.
He was wrong; what he had dreamed of was not an attack happening in reality at all!
This is magic?!
Then that person he spent thirty million to hire in the Dream Council...
"Nightwalker."
A familiar voice sounded.
Bruce turned around abruptly.
The young man with black hair and black eyes, with ordinary, unremarkable looks, was looking at him casually at this moment.
Traveler.
"You'll have to pay extra."