Kryptonians: Man of Steel

Chapter 1571 The Birth of an Unparalleled Demon
Only in the midst of utter despair and chaos can new power, new rules, and new "heroes" and "demon kings" be born, like steel being tempered in fire.

Luther put down his cup and quickly tapped the control panel floating on the sofa armrest with his slender fingers.

The image on the wall's main screen switched instantly, with a flood of real-time surveillance footage from the surrounding area of ​​Nasuno, Tochigi Prefecture.

This is hell on earth.

The road leading to Nasuno, once bustling with traffic, is now completely frozen, transformed into a vast and desperate steel graveyard winding along the edge of scorched earth and fear.

As far as the eye could see, there was an endless, twisted, and stagnant line of vehicles, their metal shells reflecting a cold, deathly luster under the eerie glow emanating from the direction of the Killing Stone in the distance.

The engine had long since stopped its futile gasps, leaving only the lingering warmth of despair in the air.

The piercing horn sounds, like the howls of dying beasts, rose and fell, yet received no response, eventually merging into a sea of ​​noise that drove one to the brink of madness.

Interspersed among them were hysterical cries, curses against the injustice of fate, helpless screams of children, and the engine's last few coughs before it was completely destroyed—all these sounds were enveloped by the low, continuous hum coming from the point where the Killing Stone had exploded in the distance.

The buzzing was not a physical sound, but rather a tremor that acted directly on the depths of the soul, like the earth groaning in pain, or like countless vengeful spirits whispering, forming a grand and suffocating symphony of despair, proclaiming the complete collapse of civilized order.

People are like ants trapped in a metal cage.

The car windows were violently rolled down, and faces contorted with fear and lack of oxygen peered out, their pupils dilated with extreme horror, futilely trying to pierce through the billowing smoke and chaos ahead to see the source of the disaster.

Every push and shove sparked a new round of conflict and verbal abuse.

Some people finally broke down, flung open their car doors, abandoned their once-cherished possessions, and fled like headless flies through the gaps in the stagnant traffic.

Expensive suitcases were carelessly kicked over and abandoned in the middle of the road. High-end clothing, children's toys, and scattered documents, like fragments of civilization torn apart by a hurricane, were scattered haphazardly on the cold and dirty road, trampled by countless hurried footsteps, and ignored by everyone.

On the edge of this chaotic scene of steel and flesh, a stark contrast comes into view.

Several elderly women, dressed in faded but neat traditional kimonos and with snow-white hair, knelt down tremblingly, ignoring the cold mud and scattered debris under their feet.

Tears streamed down their faces, which were etched with the marks of time. The murky tears washed over their brows and dripped onto the cold ground.

With his withered hands clasped together in front of his chest, his knuckles white from the effort, he repeatedly prostrated himself in a devout posture, almost kowtowing, towards the direction of the Suno Sesshō-seki.

His chapped lips moved as he repeatedly chanted ancient and obscure exorcism scriptures.

The voice was weak and broken, heavy with sobs and a local accent. Amidst the deafening chaos, it carried a heartbreaking, almost stubborn persistence and pleading:
"Tamazao... Tamamo-sama... Tamamo-sama... Tamamo-sama... Tamamo-sama... please... please show mercy..."
Their prayer beads slid in their trembling hands, each kowtow seemingly using all their strength, as if trying to force their humble faith and pleas into the cracks of heaven and earth filled with demonic energy.

They are the last guardians of the ancient memories of this land, yet at this moment they can only humbly beg the legendary raging demon god to calm his anger.

The closer you get to the epicenter of the explosion, the more horrifying the scene becomes in the Nasuno fields, and the stench in the air is enough to make you nauseous.

The heavy stench of sulfur, like the fumes leaking from a hellish furnace, mingled with the acrid smell of dust rising from countless rocks ground to powder, oppressively weighing down everyone's breath. Each inhale felt like inhaling scalding sand, burning the trachea and lungs. But even more chilling was the lingering, purplish-black aura that hadn't completely dissipated with the shockwave of the explosion.

Like living, viscous, and filthy oil slicks, they did not rise and dissipate, but instead flowed, sank, and condensed slowly in low-lying ditches, among twisted trees, and even in the shadows cast by abandoned vehicles.

It forms patches of ominous mist with bizarre shapes, constantly writhing and changing.

The mist seemed to possess some primal, malevolent life force, shimmering with an unsettling glow under the faint, eerie light of unknown origin.

They greedily absorbed the fear and despair of this land, spreading silently.

The Self-Defense Force's armored vehicles and emergency rescue vehicles, like beetles that have strayed into a giant beast's lair, flashed their dazzling yet seemingly insignificant red and blue police lights, struggling to navigate through the chaotic wreckage, fleeing crowds, and pervasive demonic smoke and dust.

The massive tires rolled over the scattered debris with a sickeningly loud sound.

The soldiers were dressed in heavy chemical protective suits and wore gas masks that covered their entire faces. The eyes behind the lenses were filled with stiffness caused by high tension.

Their movements were no longer fluid; every turn and every alert gesture revealed a stiffness born from extreme tension.

The gun muzzles, no matter where they were pointed, instinctively and with an uncontrollable tremor, were locked onto the purplish-black, eerie mist that flowed and shifted slowly under the headlights or searchlight beams.

It was as if, deep within the mist, sharp claws and fangs could materialize at any moment, pouncing out to devour all living things.

The communication channel was filled with hoarse, urgent, and intermittent calls and static, adding to the despair of a trapped beast lost in the thick fog.

The demonic energy field permeating the air seemed to be severely interfering with electronic devices.

Behind, in the underground emergency command center of the Prime Minister's official residence.

Under the blinding emergency lights, the air felt as heavy as lead.

On the huge electronic screen, several images were displayed: the explosion point in Nasuno, as seen from a satellite view, resembling a huge wound; a real-time heat map showing the paralyzed roads; and... a shot from a cutting-edge reconnaissance drone, which had become the focus of everyone's attention at this moment—a face that could overturn the world.

Prime Minister Jun Kishida sat at the head of the long table, his knuckles white from gripping the documents tightly.

What lay before him was not a modern intelligence briefing, but several carefully preserved photocopies of precious ancient books, yellowed with age.

The book he had just been looking at was "Konjaku Gazu Zoku Hyakki" (Illustrated Hundred Demons from the Past and Present), painted by Toriyama Sekien during the Edo period.

On the pages of the book, the image of the demon fox with a jade-like face, golden fur, and nine swaying tails forms a cruel echo with the astonishing existence on the screen.

(End of this chapter)