Facing the incoming metal whips, Dio instinctively summoned The World.
But before his Stand could even raise a guard, a flash of violet streaked across the edge of his vision.
"What…?!"
The metal froze just ten centimeters before his eyes.
Because—
"ORA ORA ORA ORA——!!!"
The purple giant roared as its fists multiplied into a storm of afterimages!
So fast it surpassed everything Dio thought he knew about Stands.
This… is Father's full power?
Dio's vision blurred, overwhelmed.
Every punch in his eyes was like a star exploding.
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
The metal giant's body shattered like fragile glass.
The liquid metal tried to knit itself back together, but against absolute power it was pulverized into glittering dust.
Dio could even see the silver particles scatter slowly through the air, like fireworks in slow motion.
"Dio, watch ou—!"
Clark's warning cut short.
Before his eyes, the rampaging metal monster simply came apart, bursting into tens of thousands of shards in the rain—an unexpected silver storm.
Even with his enhanced sight tracking every fragment's trajectory, he still couldn't comprehend it.
One second, the enemy had been clawing and howling.
The next, nothing but drifting debris.
"Wh… what happened?"
Rain clung to his lashes, his blue eyes filled with confusion.
He turned to Dio. "Was that… you?"
Clearly still bitter about the punch Dio had given him earlier.
Dio didn't answer.
He just stared ahead, lips curling upward against his will.
Through the curtain of rain, he saw the man in mud-stained work pants calmly sling his shotgun, as if nothing at all had happened.
But Dio had seen.
That towering purple phantom behind his father.
The war god himself.
Star Platinum.
It slowly turned its head, gave Dio the faintest of nods—then vanished into the storm.
Like a lion showing its cub how to hunt.
Hmph. Stupid Clark, couldn't even see it.
Dio shoved his side with disdain.
Ignoring the bickering brats for now, Locke crouched low, studying the rain-slick fragments dissolving into silver puddles.
Using the barrel of his shotgun, he nudged aside a half-melted chunk of armor.
There, etched on the inner plating, still clear through the corrosion:
WEAPON X – REAPER-9
Rain slid cold and sharp down Locke's neck.
That mark—
he knew it all too well.
Not as a Kansas farmer.
But as the comic book nerd he had been before crossing into this world.
Wolverine. Captain America. Even Deadpool.
Famous names.
But what few fans realized—
they were all born of the Weapon X mutant experimentation program.
And this world…
this world had Weapon X too.
But how?
In his memories, this reality had no Stark.
No Captain America.
Aside from a few "mutants," Marvel's fingerprints here were nearly nonexistent.
Narrowing his eyes, Locke watched the last droplets of liquid metal writhe in the mud.
The moment they touched rainwater, they hissed and fizzed—then melted away.
A word surfaced in his mind:
Adamantium Isotope.
The knock-off alloy designed to imitate true Adamantium.
For a short while it could mimic its strength.
But it constantly leaked radiation, poisoning and ultimately melting down its own host into toxic sludge.
In the comics, this material was infamous—
a suicide weapon given to mutant black-ops teams.
So it was obvious now…
This Reaper-9 was nothing more than an escapee, a test subject implanted with a kill directive.
No wonder it had rampaged mindlessly, attacking every living thing it crossed.
He had no idea how that thing had even made it this far.
CRUNCH—!
Locke's boot ground down on the last piece of metal.
Silver liquid seeped into the mud, and the grass around it withered and blackened at a speed visible to the naked eye.
But he didn't bother paying attention.
After all, this was Weapon X.
And now, somehow, he was tangled up with it.
Who knew? Maybe an X-Weapon retrieval squad would come looking later. Or worse…
Locke laughed out loud.
He stood, slinging his shotgun over his shoulder.
And what did any of that have to do with him?
With a rough swipe of rain from his face, he reminded himself:
Mutant weapon programs, Adamantium alloys—what did that matter to a Kansas farmer?
Tomorrow morning he had oats to harvest. Jonathan's bull needed breeding next week. Dio and Clark still hadn't touched their summer homework.
That was reality.
"Dad!"
Dio's voice rang out from behind. His wet blond hair plastered against his forehead, his boyish face trying to fake innocence—but the probing gleam in those red eyes was impossible to hide.
Locke knew that look too well.
It was the same expression Dio wore every time he snuck into Locke's stash of Playboy magazines.
"Come here, both of you." Locke turned and called to the two curious boys, pointing toward the edge of the wheat field. At some point, a gutted deer had fallen there. "Take that deer back."
"We'll have extra meat tonight."
Clark was still bewildered. "But… the robot—"
"It rusted out."
"But it just suddenly—"
"Old parts corrode, Clark. You know that."
"???"
Dio burst into laughter. He let his father lead them forward, then muttered under his breath, "I'm not that big idiot Clark."
Locke's hand stiffened almost imperceptibly.
"You little brat," he growled low, grabbing Dio by the back of his collar. "Don't think I've forgotten you sneaking out here."
"Back home—you'll copy Safe Farming Guidelines ten times!"
"???"
Both boys carried the deer back with sulky expressions.
From a distance came the rumble of the tractor engine. Locke drove the steel beast toward them, then hauled Dio and Clark into the seat before tossing the deer in back.
"Uncle Locke… I still think—"
"Clark." Locke cut him off suddenly. "Why is there a blasting cap missing from the third beam in the barn?"
"Dio took it."
"Shut up, idiot! You promised not to tell!"
"Sorry, Dio. I don't want to copy Safe Farming Guidelines again."
"Clark, you bastard!"
The tractor lurched down the muddy road, their bickering drowned out by the storm.
No one noticed the silver liquid spreading unseen through the soil, creeping and writhing as if alive, glowing faintly before vanishing.
No one noticed that an ordinary farmer had casually taken down a machine that could have brought slaughter to Smallville had the retrieval squad failed.
But—
Far away, on the interstate, a black Chevrolet tore through the storm, its onboard radar locked onto a fading energy signal.
"Damn it, how could you idiots lose him?!"
"That thing was unstable! He was a Reaper! Before backup weapons arrive, who'd be crazy enough to engage? We're not mutant criminals! Besides, the bastard probably self-destructed—how else would the signal vanish at some farm? What do you want me to say—that a farmer took him out, Agent Smith?!"
"Hey! You jackass—I'm telling you, don't underestimate farmers!"
The agents in the car erupted into their own argument.