"Clark?!"
The voice snapped him awake.
The vision of devastation—the ruined city, the trident in Adrian's hand, and Darkseid's corpse skewered upon it—vanished as if it had never been. The barren wasteland dissolved, and reality crashed back. Clark blinked rapidly, finding himself once again inside the hidden vault of the Owl Council.
His hands still held the ancient tome, its pages heavy, its surface radiating an unnatural chill.
"You okay?" Adrian's voice cut through the silence. He frowned, eyes narrowing at Clark's dazed expression.
"I… I'm fine." Clark exhaled shakily, his voice betraying the fear that clung to him. "I just… saw something. Or maybe I thought I did."
The image of Adrian—terrifying, all-powerful—still burned in his mind. In that glimpse, his brother had stood not just as a man, but as a force of judgment. And somehow, Clark had stood beside him. It left him rattled, unsure if he had witnessed a possible future or the tricks of a cursed book.
"This thing," Adrian muttered, plucking the tome from Clark's grasp. The weight of the object seemed to resonate in his hands, thick with a presence that didn't belong in the world of the living.
Flipping through the brittle pages, his brow furrowed. "Black magic," he muttered. "Old Latin, broken English, rituals, sacrifices. Exactly the kind of filth this council would keep tucked away." He snapped it shut with casual finality. "This isn't for you, Clark. Doesn't exactly match your 'boy scout' image."
He tossed the tome into a pile with other documents he had ripped from the shelves, along with gold statues, metal ingots, and ledgers filled with decades of corruption. Each item landed with a heavy clink inside a reinforced box he'd dragged from the vault.
"Adrian… are you really planning to take all this?" Clark asked hesitantly. His blue eyes flicked from the treasures to his brother's calm face.
"Should I leave them here for someone else to stumble across? Maybe a lucky burglar?" Adrian replied, his tone dry. He hoisted a golden idol in one hand and set it into the crate without care.
Clark hesitated. His memories drifted back to the wad of American bills Adrian had once stashed beneath his bed. A thought gnawed at him: had Adrian collected those in the same way—through conquest rather than labor?
Still, Clark bit back the words. He knew the council's wealth was tainted, every coin and idol drenched in blood. But his brother's casual pillaging unsettled him.
Adrian hefted the metal box onto his shoulder and turned. "You coming with me, or do you plan on staying here to pray to Owlman's ghost?"
Clark lingered a moment, glancing at the Speaker's broken body lying in the rubble. The stench of charred flesh lingered in the air. His stomach turned. Then, without another word, he followed Adrian out.
---
Luthor Manor, that same night.
Red and blue lights painted the ruins. Firefighters sprayed smoldering beams, dousing hot spots left by the chaos. Police cordoned off the grounds, combing through debris for survivors. The once-magnificent estate was reduced to a gutted skeleton of brick and steel.
Lex leaned against his black luxury car, jaw tight, his eyes locked on the flames. His father's limousine had just arrived. Out stepped Lionel Luthor, immaculate in his suit, his calm presence as unshaken as ever.
"You promised me safety," Lex began, his voice sharp, "but apparently that promise includes bombing my home and my friends."
Lionel adjusted his glasses with a measured look. "Everything I've done has been to ensure your survival, Lex."
"No." Lex's voice deepened, anger slicing through the night. "You don't care about me—or anyone. If I'd died tonight, you would have kept moving as if nothing happened. The mercenaries you sent inside—don't tell me their orders were to 'capture the enemy.' From the way they fired, it's clear you didn't mind sacrificing me. You destroyed my manor. You endangered Clark."
He gestured to the smoking wreckage, his words dripping with accusation.
Lionel's face remained unreadable. "Anger won't change anything."
"Oh, won't it?" Lex's lips curled. "Funny thing about anger—it doesn't vanish. It festers. And when it boils over, it becomes something you should fear."
He pulled an object from his pocket and flung it at his father's feet. An Owl mask skittered across the pavement.
"What's this?" Lex demanded. "You swore there was no Owl Council in Metropolis. Swore it! But here it is, their mask. What will you tell me now? That it's some elaborate prank by the Joker?" His laugh was bitter. "You've lied to me. Always."
Lionel stood silent for several seconds before speaking, his tone low and guarded. "Lex, I've kept things from you to protect you from enemies you cannot yet face."
"I can fight my own battles," Lex shot back. His voice dropped to a colder register. "The first lesson I learned as a Luthor was this: never let someone else dictate your life. Not even you."
Lionel's expression didn't falter. "You think you've glimpsed the truth, but sometimes victory is only what your enemy allows you to see."
"Spare me your philosophy." Lex's smirk returned, mocking. "Churchill said something about simplicity and complexity, didn't he? Well, your complexity is nothing but a shield for one simple lie: that you're acting for my own good. And I refuse to keep playing the fool."
Without waiting for an answer, Lex turned and walked away, his silhouette swallowed by flashing lights. Lionel watched him leave, his gaze distant, unreadable.
---
Kent Farm, later that night.
The countryside was quiet, bathed in moonlight. Only the soft creak of the wooden porch broke the silence.
Clark staggered inside, his body still aching from the night's battles. His shirt was in tatters, blood smudged across his arm. He collapsed onto the couch with a heavy sigh. His mind was a storm—Adrian's mercilessness at the council hall, the strange vision from the book, the crumbling of Luthor Manor. Too much had happened.
Adrian set the metal box down outside before stepping into the farmhouse. But as he opened the door, his steps halted.
Jonathan and Martha stood on the staircase, their expressions firm. Both parents stared at the two young men—one battered and weary, the other cold and composed.
"Clark. Adrian." Jonathan's voice carried the weight of authority. "We need to talk."
He descended the stairs, stopping before Clark, who still sat slumped on the couch.
"Dad?" Clark blinked in surprise. "Weren't you in Metropolis?"
"With everything that happened at Luthor Manor, you think your mother and I could stay put?" Jonathan replied. His eyes shifted past Clark to the metal box resting by the door. His gaze hardened.
"Adrian," he said, his voice low, "what's that you've brought into my house?"
_____
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