What's wrong with Superman's son wanting to be Superman?

Page 386

"Do you know that the charm of a middle-aged man is truly great? It's like..." Ian's rambling suddenly stopped as his super brain flashed with a realization of a more serious problem. As cold sweat silently trickled down his forehead, Ian quickly put on a dramatic face-changing act.

All the previous complaints and frustrations disappeared, replaced by a genuine sense of peace.

"Oh, praise you, omnipotent creator, infinitely great God... You may have wronged my older brother, but you can't wrong me and my old man." As the saying goes, if Jonathan suffers, the Kent family can still live in harmony and happiness. But if God wants to make things difficult for Clark, then things will get really interesting.

Ian tentatively called out to the sky.

No one responded. Only a gust of wind blew by, stirring up a flyer on the ground—an advertisement for an e-sports hotel, which read, "500 for an overnight stay, a paradise experience."

Across the street, a disheveled man was going berserk at the food delivery station. His face was covered in pustules, he wore a dirty T-shirt printed with various conspiracy theories, and he was roaring in broken Chinese and English.

"You half-maggots! Why won't you let me register as a rider? Am I not American? Bruce Wayne must be a spy planted by the Chinese!"

"You're all spies! You're all trying to persecute me! Freedom and democracy are a hoax! You don't give me any freedom at all! Listen, if you don't give me democracy and don't process my employment, I'm going to run off to Mexico!"

“Believe me, it will only be your loss. I will expose you all! You will all be imprisoned in Guantanamo!” This is a typical illegal immigrant.

Runren is a representative.

When the homeless man gets agitated, the pustules on his face will burst, and foul-smelling phlegm will flow down his cheeks, causing passersby to avoid him.

This guy's provocation caused the conflict to erupt within seconds.

The homeless man, who called himself the "nemesis of half-maggots," was still roaring at the air, spitting as he accused "Bruce Wayne's spy network" and "the spiritual castration of China." His voice was shrill and his content absurd, but the genuine anger revealed in his madness acted as a fuse, igniting the irritation of the food delivery station employees.

The crowd surged forward like a tidal wave. Fists, kicks, belts, umbrellas, and some even grabbed shared bicycle locks from the roadside and smashed them against the disheveled figure.

"Ah—! Don't hit me! I'm a patriot! I'll reveal the truth!" The homeless man screamed in agony as his boil ruptured, blood and sweat mixing with the liquid from his crotch.

He curled up on the ground, futilely protecting his head, mumbling, "I'd rather scrub toilets than leave that hell... but you won't even let me scrub toilets!"

This guy even started to feel wronged.

Ian stood on the street corner and witnessed the whole thing. He couldn't stand watching such a beating, so he clicked his tongue a few times, turned around, and went back to his Hellcat.

“Let’s go home now and ambush my bro.” Ian climbed onto the roof of the car by stepping on the tires. He was about to lie down on the roof and use his super brain to think of a solution.

"Dong Dong~"

Suddenly, there was a knocking sound coming from the car window below.

Ian looked down.

His gaze met a pair of grey-blue eyes. Dr. Hannibal Lecter's face was pressed against the car window, his soul-like features distorted like a goldfish in a fishbowl under the refracted light of the bulletproof glass.

"Ian, have you forgotten something? Like a psychiatrist locked in the back seat all morning?" Hannibal's exasperated voice came through the glass. His soul was still dressed in a sharp suit and impeccably tied tie, as if he had just returned from a high-class dinner party, rather than being imprisoned in the steel belly of a hellish creature.

The air solidified instantly.

Even the Hellcat's engine seemed to have stopped.

Ian blinked.

His face instantly switched to an almost innocent expression: "Of course not, Dr. Hannibal! I was just busy for a little while... dealing with some minor street troubles."

Of all Ian's bodies, his mouth is definitely the most stubborn. Upon hearing this, the "King of Lies," who had also been locked up all morning beside Hannibal, immediately adopted a strange expression.

He remained in Chihuahua form, but this didn't mean he had lost his authority. The syllable "This is a lie" rolled in his throat, yet he dared not truly speak. The King of Hell, meeting Ian's unfathomable eyes, could only manage a pitiful whimper, uttering only a single, pathetic sentence:

“Luckily, we don’t need oxygen to breathe.” Belial, the Chihuahua-sized King of Lies, covered his mouth with his paw, his round, black eyes darting back and forth between Ian and Hannibal.

This might be a way to console oneself, but Dr. Hannibal was less inclined to agree. Fortunately, Ian wasn't too thick-skinned, so after realizing there was a king of lies in his car, he decisively chose another approach: "I've been sitting on the roof, so of course I don't know what's going on inside."

"Oh, right, do you guys remember? I'm still a child, and it's normal for a child to have a bad memory." Ian suddenly admitted his mistake in the incredibly "frank" voice of a twelve-year-old boy.

He once again played the victim card innocently, and to make it more effective, he even controlled his mimicry, growing beautiful eyelashes that were tens of centimeters long, which really made it hard to blame him.

Yes, being speechless to the point of being unable to utter a word, how could one not feel reluctant to blame him? Both had the same effect of silencing, but Ian had simply grasped the essence of the matter. Hellcat's radio suddenly turned on automatically, playing the guitar solo from "Hotel California," as if also expressing astonishment at Ian's actions.

"Alright, here's what I'll do. I'll take Dr. Hannibal to be resurrected now."

Without waiting for Dr. Hannibal to express any opinion, Ian decisively patted the Hellcat and started the car, preparing to make up for the oversight of Hannibal being locked in the Hellcat.

Admit your mistakes and correct them.

Of course, this is the greatest good.

Another wave of merits has been earned.

Upon receiving the command, the Hellcat's engine roared like a beast, all the gauges on the dashboard pointed to 666, and it stepped on the gas, propelling the car forward like a rocket.

The tires left burning paw prints on the asphalt. As the car screeched to a halt before the wrought-iron gates of "Ian Manor," Hannibal's ghost nearly floated from the back seat to the front.

The complex, wrapped in ivy like a mummy, with every window seemingly bleeding, was a special residence that Crowley had given to Ian.

"Welcome to my little nest!" Ian jumped out of the car, his sleeve sweeping across the two statues of the Virgin Mary with octopus tentacles at the entrance, wiping away the dust. He remembered that Darkness (still his aunt for now) had said she was imprisoned down there, but he sensed nothing after trying to locate her.

"Perhaps the seal is very deep, and I am too inexperienced to do anything about it." Ian felt that he had done his best, and at least he had an excuse to do so. Of course, he would not choose to try to release the other party.

The world is infinitely better now.

The Darkness Descends is no fun update.

“Dr. Hannibal,” Ian opened the tentacle-covered gate of the manor and gestured for me to enter, “please wait in the drawing room for a moment, I’ll be right back!”

He led Dr. Hannibal to the drawing room.

In the living room, Hannibal sat elegantly on a sofa made of bones, while the King of Chihuahuas curled up on a human bone piano, looking as content as if he had returned to hell.

“I never expected… what Ian said during the consultation was actually not just wishful thinking or metaphor…” Hannibal looked around – tapestries made from living human skin hung on the walls, dried demon hearts hung from the ceiling, and the air was filled with a strange fragrance of blood and roses.

Just now.

A Mona Lisa portrait suddenly rolled its eyes.

It must be the genuine product.

"Doctor, I need psychological counseling. I've been trapped in this painting for five hundred years." The demonic portrait saw through Hannibal's profession and tried to seduce him but failed.

The psychiatrist's soul drifted to the window and looked outside. He saw Ian humming a song, dragging a chainsaw and garden shovel out of the tool shed, and starting to dig up the bulging mounds of earth like digging potatoes—perhaps there was no need to plant anything to get a harvest. With each shovel, two or three living corpses would sprout out like carrots.

Wow!

Ian pulled out a male corpse dressed in a ballet tutu.

"This Achilles tendon is perfect!"

He patted the corpse's ankles like picking watermelons, satisfied with the hollow echo. Dust swirled. Soon, one after another, seemingly unrotted corpses were dragged out—businessmen in suits, students in school uniforms, muscular burly men, and even a woman in a wedding dress.

"Um……"

Ian, like a discerning tailor, crouched among the pile of corpses, examining them closely.

“These eyes… amber, bright, perfect for ‘Eyes of Insight’…” He snapped open a female corpse’s eyeball and stuffed it into a small vial.

"That mouth... the curve is perfect, it's naturally suited for smiling and lying..."

He then twisted off the lips of another male corpse.

“These legs… wow, long-term fitness training has resulted in extremely high muscle fiber density; they’re definitely frog legs!” He flipped over a particularly robust male corpse, pulled down his pants to examine it, and suddenly exclaimed in amazement: “Hiss—! Dr. Hannibal, the size of this ‘trouble root’ is simply a work of art!”

"Just for this reason, it's even worth charging Dr. Hannibal! It's like the profound wisdom the salesperson told me when I went to the dealership last time to buy a sports car for my child who definitely hasn't chosen a time to be born yet: real premium features definitely require payment to add as optional extras!"

Ian even picked up the enormous parts of the zombie and showed them to Dr. Hannibal by the window.

"?????"

Dr. Hannibal's expression was priceless; he could no longer tell where the real hell was—under his gaze, Ian was enthusiastically piecing the corpse back together.

The back garden, bathed in the setting sun, resembled a bombed-out graveyard. Hannibal Lecter stood alone in the entire drawing room, facing this hall constructed of madness.

He stared out the window at the backyard, his soul convulsing. Just then, the demon Baal's true form completed another evolution, opened its eyes, and immediately began its duties.

“Oh! Look at God Ian! He is displaying his amazing talent again. The great God Ian always nourishes us with his creativity. His skill in piecing together corpses has improved a lot since then!” Baal’s head rested on a walnut tray like an ornament, and his newly grown horns gleamed like asphalt in the shadows.

Evolution didn't stop him from fawning over Ian. Belial, in his Chihuahua form, curled up on another leather sofa and, upon hearing this, immediately scratched his ear with his hind leg, engaging in a comedic performance.

"This is an objective fact, not a lie." It exclaimed like a ruthless lie detector, and when it came to praising others, this king of hell was no less powerful.

“It’s simply… a work of art. A symphony of soul and body should be composed by a master like Ian!” The Chihuahua-like “King of Lies” wagged its tail. It even gestured with its little paws, trying to imitate Ian’s actions of gouging out eyes and cutting lips, like a comical straight man.

Baal and the King of Lies sang in unison, showering Ian's "masterpiece" with praise. The air was thick with the unspoken flattery and awe of power among demons. Suddenly, a pale yellow liquid seeped from the walls, emitting a strange aroma of lemon and hellish sulfur—the demon manor's way of expressing pleasure.

"I feel like I don't belong with you..."

Hannibal Lecter sat quietly in the bone chair, his hands folded on his knees, his eyes as deep as an ancient well. He didn't look at the corpse or the two crazed demons, but slowly turned his gaze to the window. Ian was still busy in the backyard, his figure swaying in the moonlight, constantly dragging new "materials" from the ground.

Dirt flew everywhere, and the corpses piled up like mountains. Dr. Hannibal stared at the mountain of corpses for a long time, and he really didn't want to ask Ian how many people he had buried in the backyard.

As a top-notch psychiatrist, he knew the saying, "Out of sight, out of mind." Hannibal's ghost turned to the television, the only object in the room that didn't seem likely to suddenly bite. Sensing the gaze, the television automatically lit up, and dozens of pairs of eyes, yearning to be seen, emerged from the depths of the picture tube.

"Want to change things up? I've saved 300 hours of 'Human Collapse Records'? Oh, looks like you don't like it, esteemed guest. What program would you like to watch?"

"Are you referring to those absurd TV dramas? I can grab a few actors right now, stuff them inside my belly, and give you a truly 'immersive' experience—their screams will travel directly from my speakers to your nerve endings, guaranteeing an unprecedented surround sound effect!"

Although it may not seem like it will bite, it is still a devilish television set after all.

"No, no. It's come to this now, I just want to watch... normal TV programs. The news is fine. I want to know how long I've been gone."

Hannibal resolutely refused, his tone firm; his perception of time was unclear in Hell.

"Well, watching that kind of fake programming is really your loss." The television "face" let out an exaggerated sigh, as if mocking Hannibal's "vulgarity." Of course, being an appliance demon, it still showed some "hospitality" by switching the screen, and the standard news channel logo appeared.

The first news was that the military had imposed an emergency lockdown on Washington.

The scene shifts to Washington, D.C., where a large number of military armored vehicles and fully armed soldiers have cordoned off the area surrounding the White House. Reporters standing outside the police cordon sound very tense.

No one knows what happened. The highest level of emergency response has been activated, and the entire District of Columbia has been placed under temporary martial law. Experts speculate it may be related to the president.

The second news story shifts to a city street where a warrior clad in shimmering armor is carrying a gang leader by the arm. Other gang members perform a distorted, painful dance in front of him, tears of remorse streaming down their faces. The reporter narrating is equally impassioned.

"Armor Hero strikes again! With the power of 'Mind Purification,' he makes sinful souls repent through dance!" She was crying because she was an Indian-origin female journalist, so perhaps India had finally found its own superhero.

Look at that chivalrous way of doing justice, that's the epitome of Indian superheroism!

"..."

This is also not the kind of news Hannibal wanted to see.

He switched the Devil Television to a different news channel, and the Metropolitan News Channel appeared, showing dimly lit sewers and search and rescue teams with headlamps searching through the mud.

"Metropolitan City Hall has confirmed that 16 sewer inspectors have gone missing in the past week. Search and rescue teams have discovered large amounts of unknown slime and giant claw marks deep within the pipes. Biologists warn that a mutated organism, possibly formed from the fusion of 'urban resentment' and our 'secretly discharged nuclear wastewater,' may be quietly evolving underground."

The reporter's voice was low and quite honest, but it was precisely because of his honesty that the video was quickly cut off and replaced with a live broadcast of a breaking news event.

Extraterrestrial creatures crawled out of a meteorite crater in the suburbs.

It's a dog.