The sun burned brightly overhead, as if someone had hung a furnace in the middle of the sky. Heatwaves shimmered over the endless wheat fields, distorting the horizon into a mirage. The smell of hay mixed with hot soil created that familiar scent of midsummer farmland—dry, heavy, and alive.
A dusty old tractor rumbled across the fields, chewing through golden stalks and leaving churned soil in its wake. Black and gray streaks of diesel smoke poured from the exhaust pipe, sinking back down to the earth like tired ghosts settling into their graves.
When the tractor finally reached the end of the field, the man driving it eased off the accelerator and let the engine purr into silence. He pulled off his frayed, sun-bleached cowboy hat, fanning himself with it as he turned his head toward the granary in the distance. Sweat trickled down his temples, but there was a calm satisfaction in his eyes.
He thought to himself, So this is what the joy of harvest feels like, huh? Maybe it wasn't the kind of dramatic triumph poets wrote about, but it was clean, honest, and real.
After all—
The freshly harvested oats in the barn looked just like a small mountain of gold.
"Boom!"
"Hey!! Locke!"
A voice suddenly cut through the heat, sharp and full, like a rough wooden blade splitting a block of ice. Locke squinted and turned toward the sound. An old red tractor bounced into view over the stubble. Sitting in the driver's seat was his cousin—Jonathan Kent.
Jonathan waved an arm so muscular that even the veins on his forearms stood out. At a glance, he was the exact image of a classic American farm man—broad shouldered, hard working, strong as steel, and built to survive.
"This year's wheat is so good even God would be jealous!" Jonathan shouted over the engine noise with a booming laugh.
The tires crushed a few leftover heads of wheat as he hit the brakes. Pop—pop—pop. He jumped off casually and reached into the back of his tractor, pulling out two glass bottles dripping with cold condensation. Beer. Ice-cold.
"Come on," he grinned, handing one bottle over. "Time to celebrate the harvest."
Locke chuckled helplessly but accepted it anyway. He flicked off the cap in one motion, tipped his head back, and let the cold liquid rush down his throat.
"bro" Locke said with a tired but genuine smile, "you really helped me a lot."
If it weren't for this man, he probably would've been panhandling somewhere on a dirty sidewalk instead of standing here.
"We're family. No point talking about favors," Jonathan snorted, downing half the bottle in one go. "Just don't tell Martha I had a few beers again or she'll drag me back into a lecture for the next week."
"You guy," Locke laughed quietly.
If his friends from his past life could see him now, they would never believe that Jonathan Kent—yes, the same future adoptive father of Superman—had this rough, rowdy cowboy side to him.
"Alright, enough talk. Martha's been after me to go back and rest," Jonathan sighed, tossing the empty bottle into the back of Locke's tractor. "You know how it is—I'll probably suffer again tonight."
Locke stifled a laugh. That was the tragedy of middle-aged married men. Certain… marital duties were more tiring than farming sometimes. And the fact that Jonathan and Martha still didn't have children after all these years only made the ranch household more—let's say—"enthusiastic".
Well, things would change soon enough. Once baby Clark arrived, Jonathan's sleepless marriage life might finally get a break.
Locke lay down on the soft stubble and stared at the sky, watching the golden wheat dance under the wind. Even the roaring harvesters in the distance seemed peaceful in that moment.
He was Locke Kent.
He had been transmigrated to this world for twenty-five years now.
He still remembered the day he learned this was not just any Earth. There was a Gotham here. A Metropolis. That was when he realized—this was the DC Universe.
Back then he had thought to himself: Great. Then my life will definitely become legendary. Maybe I'll awaken superpowers, or get a cheat system.
Reality then slapped him across the face.
No cheat. No system. No magic. No alien heritage.
Just… farming.
Not the relaxing, rustic pastoral life he imagined either. He inherited a failing, debt-ridden farm after his father died, and thought he could slowly build his fortune. Then he met his real supervillain—the IRS.
Property tax. Agricultural tax. Fuel tax. Machinery usage tax. Licensing tax. Environmental inspection fees. Fire safety inspection fees. State tax. Federal tax.
He still remembered that first harvest. He had just sold the crops, and before he could even count the money, a fleet of shiny IRS cars pulled into his muddy field. Clean suits. Cold eyes. Calculator-wielding tax assassins. They read his taxes in a tone colder than the eulogy he gave at his own father's funeral.
That was the day Locke stopped believing in miracles. Or cheats.
If he had one golden finger, it wasn't a system or cosmic destiny—it was the fact that Jonathan Kent and his wife Martha were his neighbors.
They saved his life more than once. When drought hit, they helped. When equipment broke, Jonathan showed up. When taxes buried him, they lent him money without hesitation.
From that moment on, Locke stopped hoping some power would come to save him.
He already had something more real—someone willing to cross forty acres of wheat just to help him stand back up.
He drank another sip of beer and listened to the quiet breeze. When I sell this year's wheat, he thought, I'm going to slowly return Jonathan's money—and add some extra so they can live easier.
After all, Jonathan didn't have much saved up either. Especially not with Martha planning for a child.
Locke yawned lazily. "Wonder when Clark will finally show up," he muttered. "Jonathan and I haven't had a proper old-man drinking night in months."
When Clark arrives, Locke decided, he was definitely going to make the boy call him Godfather. That way—
Sleep was already crawling over him like a warm quilt. The sunlight made his eyelids heavy.
"Forget it," he mumbled. "Let the wheat grow another night. I'll think tomorrow…"
BOOM!!!
A deafening explosion ripped through the fields. The ground shook violently. Birds scattered into the sky.
Locke snapped awake in terror.
"Aliens attacking?!" was his first insane thought.
He spun in place—wide-eyed—and then saw it.
A towering pillar of black smoke.
Coming from the direction of Kent Farm.
"Jonathan?! Martha?!"
His blood froze.
No. No no no no—this can't be—
Locke sprinted to his tractor. He didn't even bother with the key—just yanked out two ignition wires and smashed them together.
Chuchuchuchu—VRRROOOOM!
The tractor roared forward as Locke slammed the accelerator. Dirt and wheat flew in his wake.
"Please be safe," he whispered desperately. "Please—Jonathan, Martha—please be safe…"
His heart hammered against his ribs. What caused this? Kryptonian ship crash? Some villain attack? Rogue metahumans fighting?
This world was dangerous. And anyone connected to Superman—even before his birth—might've already painted a target on their backs.
When Locke jumped over the last ridge, he finally saw it clearly—
Kent Farm was on fire.
The barn burned like a volcano. Flames twisted upward. Wood cracked and collapsed. Smoke blackened the sky.
And from within the inferno—
A dark figure staggered out.
Locke slammed the brakes so hard he almost fell off the tractor. He leapt down, sprinting toward the man.
"Jonathan?!"
No.
Not Jonathan.
A ragged stranger with soot-covered skin and messy black hair stumbled out of the flames. He looked half-dead—but in his arms he clutched… a baby.
And just as Locke reached him—the man looked at him with desperate eyes.
He thrust the baby into Locke's arms—along with a strange stone object—
Then turned to ash.
And vanished.
DING~
Adoption successful.
Current adopted character: Dio Brando
Please help them grow healthily in mind, body, and spirit, and build a great future.
Parental privilege acquired: Joestar Blood
Countdown to next adoption: 9 years
Cheat..
Finally.
It had arrived—
—and Locke felt nothing but dread.
He looked down at the baby in his arms.
Blond hair. Pale skin. An arrogant face—even as a newborn. A small star-shaped birthmark near the neck.
And in Locke's other hand—the stone mask from JoJo's Bizarre Adventure.
Locke's eyelid twitched violently.
"…Dio Brando."
Just arrived, and already burned down Kent Farm.
This evil little brat had started causing trouble before he could even talk.
"LOCKE!! LOCKE!!"
Two voices screamed behind him.
Jonathan and Martha Kent were running toward him in panic—each of them holding a baby in their arms.
Locke froze.
Two babies.
One barn explosion.
Kryptonite destiny.
And an orphan named Dio Brando in his hands.
His headache officially began.
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