Zod sampled the classic American country-farm breakfast.His verdict: passable at best.
Juddrey had no way to stop him from living here by force. Out in this region, aside from the few dirty cops bribed by the border gangs, you could call the police a hundred times and no one would show up.
And even the dirty cops wouldn't bother with something like this.
Fortunately, Zod wasn't here to cause trouble. Most days he did nothing more than lie on the roof and bask in the sun.
Texas was one of the few states in America with brutally long hot seasons—especially this close to the desert along the U.S.–Mexico border.
The sunlight here was vicious.
At least, for someone like Juddrey.
For Zod?This sunlight felt better than drugs—though he'd never actually tried any.
After Zod fused the Codex into his own body, it seemed to be undergoing changes of its own.
A normal Kryptonian could never reach Clark's absurd heights. Clark's explosive growth came from fusing the Codex and carrying the genetic potential of billions of Kryptonians, allowing him to eventually far surpass his own kind.
But now Zod had the Codex—and unlike Clark, he didn't possess a gentle, soft-hearted temperament. When Zod eventually grew into his full potential, he would absolutely outmatch Clark.
By the end of a full day under the sun, Zod found he could now crush solid wood and stone with his bare hands.
His growth didn't seem as explosive as General Zod or Faora's in their first days, but that was fine. He was a balanced Kryptonian. Clark had needed almost thirty years of sunlight before he could barely fight General Zod to a draw. Zod's growth wouldn't be fast, but it would come without weaknesses—and unlock more abilities as time passed.
And Zod had both the patience and the time.
At this point in the timeline, Tony Stark hadn't even become Iron Man yet. With his armor on, Zod could beat anyone below the level of hidden bosses like the Ancient One.
Bored, Zod asked Juddrey if there was a place nearby that served barbecue.
Texas barbecue was famous everywhere. Even Zod—who barely knew anything—had heard of it.
"There's a place you can get barbecue," Juddrey said, "but a lot of gang types hang around there. One wrong step and you'll get yourself into trouble."
Juddrey was a decent man. His bulky muscles didn't come from fighting; he looked like the kind of guy who relied on intimidation, not actual combat.
Although Zod had forced his way into staying on the farm, he hadn't caused any issues. At worst, he was just one more mouth to feed—and he didn't even eat much.
Besides, Zod promised he would pay him back later.
It wasn't that Zod lacked money. His entire fortune was simply in Kryptonian digital credits. If Juddrey were willing to accept it, Zod could slap him with a hundred billion on the spot. With Kryptonian purchasing power, that was enough to buy half of America.
Hearing Juddrey's warning, Zod hesitated for a moment.
It wasn't firearms he feared. Before superheroes numbered in the thousands and supervillains roamed around like stray cats, Zod was essentially invincible in the current Marvel world.
Only hidden giants like the Ancient One were exceptions.
But S.H.I.E.L.D. already had eyes everywhere. If he was exposed now, they'd hound him to death.
"Don't worry," Zod said with a relaxed smile. "I won't start anything."
Juddrey went silent for a moment, then handed over a set of car keys—along with a handgun.
"Don't use it unless you absolutely have to."
A warning with more than one meaning.
Zod accepted the car keys but left the gun where it was.
Following Juddrey's directions, Zod drove along the state highway. The wind pouring through the open window carried that wild, unmistakable Texas scent.
After a long stretch of driving, a small town finally appeared.
Parking the car, Zod stepped inside.
He immediately spotted plenty of rough-looking types—the kind who practically radiated trouble. They looked surprised to see him.
Zod didn't belong here. His years standing at the top of Kryptonian society had long washed away any trace of "bottom-tier loser" aura. In an environment like that, even you would be shaped by it.
Which made Zod stick out like a sore thumb in this dusty, chaotic place.
Then the aroma of roasted meat drifted past him. Following the scent, Zod found a barbecue joint.
But the place was already occupied—completely taken over by tattooed, half-naked gang members enjoying the air conditioning, the barbecue, and the beer. None of them had any intention of giving up their seats.
When Zod stepped inside, every gaze locked onto him.
"Excuse me," Zod said with a friendly smile to a thug sprawled across the walkway, refusing to move his legs even an inch. "Could you make some room?"
"HAHAHAHA! Did this guy seriously just say excuse me?"
"What, he think this is a big city café or something?"
The room erupted in laughter.
A Black man standing in Zod's path rose to his feet.
"This ain't a place for your kind."
He grinned, showing white teeth—and a sliver of meat stuck between them.
Zod shrugged. His politeness had been habit—something nurtured on Krypton. Since they weren't moving, the next step was the usual solution:
Violence.
BOOM!
A sickening crack echoed as the Black man went flying, crashing into four or five others.
Zod didn't bother with trash talk. Someone behind him immediately swung a punch.
But even without armor, Zod was far beyond Captain America. With his enhanced senses, he could feel attacks from every angle as if observing the world through a perfect 360-degree lens. He reached back, grabbed the attacker's arm—its greasy slickness made him frown—and flipped the man over his shoulder.
The thug hit the floor so hard the tiles and his skull cracked together, blood spreading across the ground.
"F—!"
The gang exploded into chaos. They were all from the same crew.
"Come on," Zod said. He'd already decided not to use grapples or holds. They were covered in so much oil and grease from the barbecue that touching them was disgusting.
A straight punch shattered a bald man's teeth.A backward elbow sent a sneak attacker flying.
Then Zod noticed someone drawing a gun.
He sighed inwardly. America really was the land of pure, unfiltered culture—gunshots every day.
He launched forward and kicked the man holding the gun.
The moment his foot connected, he felt every rib collapse, as if he'd stomped into soft jelly. The man hit the floor, coughing blood, twitching on pure reflex. Near death, he would suffer almost a full minute of suffocation—perhaps less.
The others hadn't realized what happened.In their minds: Even if your fists are strong, there's a lot of us. No way you take us all down.
Not to mention—they had guns.
Those who pulled out their weapons were handled by Zod with ruthless precision, every blow aimed straight at vital points.