Kryptonians: Man of Steel

Chapter 1529 Surveillance
They were unwilling, and even less willing, for their son to follow such a path.

This newly awakened, blood-stained power was the lifeline they clung to in the abyss of despair, their only weapon to protect each other's glimmer of light.

They would rather Hachiman hide it forever, like an ordinary person (at least on the surface), struggling to survive in this crazy world, with his family together, even if their lives are precarious.

They also did not want to see him dragged into another, larger, colder, and darker vortex by this power, becoming a pawn in the game of power, or an expensive consumable under the umbrella of protection.

Hachiman Hikigaya knew what his parents meant, so he didn't step forward.

Hachiman Hikigaya never aspired to be a hero; he is now merely forced to become a "hero."

the next day.

Hachiman Hikigaya got up early.

He needs to complete the system's daily tasks.

After being promoted to a full-fledged hero, Hachiman Hikigaya's physical abilities allowed him to complete these daily tasks without any problems.

Of course, it must be very hard, but Hachiman Hikigaya is now working hard for his family.

"All the misfortunes in the world are caused by the inadequacy of the individuals involved."

After his family was attacked and he was nearly killed by a monster, Hachiman Hikigaya shifted from a passive to an active position and began to crave power.

Outside the apartment building, the sunlight had not yet completely pierced through the thick, leaden-gray clouds.

This corner of the city seems to be a forgotten place, a monotonous and boring concrete jungle as far as the eye can see, low, old and dilapidated.

The building's surface was covered with years of soot and rain stains, giving it a hazy, gray appearance. Piles of uncollected garbage bags lined the narrow alleyways, emitting a sour, rotten smell in the damp, cold air.

A few dim streetlights shone weakly, their light unable to dispel the heavy shadows lingering deep in the alley. In the distance, the rumble of traffic from the city's main road echoed faintly, muffled and distant, like noise from another world.

Hachiman took a deep breath of the polluted, cold air, a sharp pain shooting through his lungs, yet strangely bringing a sense of clarity. He started running along the narrow alleyway, squeezed shut by towering buildings, leaving only a sliver of sky.

The sound of footsteps was particularly abrupt in the deathly quiet morning, pattering on the cold cement floor and also on his taut nerves.

"Begin today's basic tasks."

A cold, monotone mechanical voice suddenly resounded from the depths of his mind, accompanied by several lines of translucent text emitting a faint glow, projected directly onto his optic nerves, ignoring the physical barriers of reality, so clear it was chilling:

[Task 1: Standard push-ups, 1000 repetitions (Completion: 0/1000)]

[Task 2: Standard pull-ups, 1000 repetitions (Completion: 0/1000)]

[Task 3: Standard long-distance run, 30 kilometers (Completion rate: 0/30km)]

……

When I reached a relatively wider side road that connected to a small park, the view opened up a bit. The few half-dead cherry trees in the park swayed their bare branches in the morning breeze.

Hachiman's gaze was as sharp as a hawk's, instantly spotting a man in a gray jacket sitting on an ordinary bench at the edge of the park, looking down at a newspaper.

The man seemed very focused, but that focus felt overly deliberate. His peripheral vision, like viscous oil, constantly and subtly swept over Hachiman's running path. Beside a trash can at the other entrance to the park, a woman in a sanitation worker's uniform slowly swept fallen leaves, her movements sluggish, as if weighed down by an invisible weight.

She swept the broom mechanically, but her gaze drifted toward Hachiman several times, with a scrutinizing look that a professional cleaner would never have.

Further away, an inconspicuous black sedan was parked on the side of the road. The windows were covered with dark film, obscuring the interior, but the heat emanating from under the hood formed an almost invisible wisp of white vapor in the cold morning air—it had been parked there for too long.

The watchdog. The eyes of the authorities. Like a persistent, insidious disease.

Hachiman remained expressionless, his breathing unchanged, as he continued running, seemingly oblivious to everything around him. But within him lay a chilling, mocking glint.

What did they want to see? To see him secretly practicing that mysterious power that could tear monsters apart? To see him erupt with psychic energy or eerie fluctuations? Unfortunately, they were going to be disappointed.

The "Path of the Warrior" given to him by the system had such a primitive and tedious starting point—pure physical training that squeezed out every bit of potential.

There were no dazzling lights or shadows, no fluctuations in energy, only sweat, exhaustion, and almost self-torturing perseverance.

In the city center, a high-rise office building stands unassuming on the outside but heavily guarded inside. The heavy soundproof doors are tightly shut, and the doorplate displays only a simple combination of letters and numbers—"SRD-B7".

The room was dimly lit, with only a few large LCD screens emitting a faint blue light, displaying different surveillance feeds.

The air was filled with the low hum of equipment, the sound of keyboard typing, and the faint smell of burnt coffee filter.

"The target has reappeared; morning physical training begins."

A young analyst whispered into his headset, his eyes fixed on a screen in front of him.

On the screen was Hachiman Hikigaya running beside a park. Sweat soaked through his cheap sweatshirt, clinging to his thin but unusually taut back. His steps were heavy, yet carried an almost obsessive, steady rhythm.

"Duration?"

A slightly hoarse, tired middle-aged male voice came from the corner of the room.

That was team leader Kanda, who was slumped in a large office chair, his fingers unconsciously rubbing his throbbing temples, his eyes bloodshot.

Thick files were scattered on the table, with the top one's cover prominently displaying the words "Preliminary Analysis Report on the Hikigaya Family Attack Incident," and next to it was an "Assessment of Hikigaya Hachiman's Psychological and Behavioral Model."

"I have been running for 48 minutes now, and I estimate the distance to be over 10 kilometers."

The analyst quickly reported the data: "Based on monitoring over the past two weeks, he will next go to the abandoned small stadium behind the community activity center for upper body strength training."

"Like this again?"

Another female analyst pushed up her glasses, her tone filled with confusion and a hint of barely perceptible weariness, “Push-ups, pull-ups, running… over and over again. The intensity is ridiculously high, but…”

She spread her hands, and the screen cut to a shot of Hachiman on the horizontal bar in the corner of an abandoned stadium.

The boy's thin body was taut like a bowstring. Each pull-up seemed to use all his strength. His arm muscles were bulging, the veins on his neck were standing out, and sweat dripped like rain onto the dry mud beneath him.

(End of this chapter)