American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 148 Clark: Boss, I'm starting school. Samael: Get out!

"Mother."

Clark's eyelids twitched a few times.

He gasped for breath, as if struggling to emerge from deep water.

The sounds and colors of the entire world surged into his ears like a flood bursting its banks:

The rustling of corn leaves in the night breeze, the hum of the old refrigerator compressor inside, even the faint hissing sound of blood flowing through the veins…

Everything became unusually clear, terrifyingly sharp.

There was also the soft moonlight filtering in from the porch and the overly glaring halo of the living room ceiling light.

Every wrinkle on my parents' faces showed worry when they gathered around.

And the pale, bewildered look reflected in their eyes…

虚弱
I was enveloped in extreme weakness.

It wasn't that the power was stripped away; that vast, star-like power remained dormant within his body.

But it felt like recovering from a devastating illness.

This left every muscle in his body with the soreness and tremors of overexertion.

My nerves are throbbing and screaming in discomfort.

And all of this is because of...
"I"

His face grew even paler.

Fragmented, bizarre images flashed through my mind.

The cold, eerie, lifeless stone mask on Dior's face... the uncontrollable, scorching crimson light bursting from his own eyes... the sky ablaze with flames as the heat vision tore through...

Burning, twisted street debris and billowing smoke...

A massive road roller, its shadow looming overhead, crashed down with a deafening roar...

And finally…

That tearing through the sky, filled with unparalleled anger and despair…

Thunder.

These memories are hazy, confused, and fragmented.
It was like the most insane and absurd nightmare!
It caused his heart to clench, filled him with fear, and made his stomach churn violently.

He swallowed with difficulty, his throat dry and painful.

Then, filled with great confusion, Clark looked at Martha and Jonathan, who were standing guard beside him:
"What... happened? What... happened to me? Where's Dio? He..."

Martha's tears fell, and she hurriedly tried to wipe them away with the back of her hand, but she couldn't wipe them clean no matter what she did.

Jonathan's broad hand pressed heavily on his shoulder, the gesture still meant to soothe him, but the slight trembling and heavy breathing spoke volumes about his lingering fear before any words could be uttered.

And it was at this moment.
A corner of the living room.

The screen of that television set that was left on.

The news channel is broadcasting a special evening report.

The female anchor announced in a professional tone:

"Gotham has recently been plagued by a series of villainous incidents. Police Commissioner Gillian Loeb, due to his inadequate response and significant leadership responsibility, announced his resignation this evening... New Commissioner James Gordon has been appointed to take over in this critical situation. In his inaugural address, he promised to thoroughly investigate the cause of the incident and strengthen security patrols of the city's infrastructure..."

"And to clarify the matter of today's hacking into the TV station and broadcasting special effects movie footage to spread rumors, the authorities are investigating and holding those responsible accountable."

"As you can see, there has been no major disaster in Gotham."

Hacking? Intrusion? Special effects movie?

Clark stared blankly at the peaceful Gotham streets on the screen.

Could it really be my own doing?
"A nightmare?" he murmured.

"A dream? Have you lost your mind?"

He walked out of the kitchen doorway carrying a glass of water.

Dio happened to hear Clark's last innocent question and saw his aunt and uncle's reluctant expression as they tried to tell the truth.

He scoffed, his cold mockery falling squarely at him:

"My dear brother."

Walking up to the sofa, Dio looked down at the pale-faced Clark, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "You, Clark Kent, went mad in downtown Gotham, nearly demolished half a block, and tried to crush me into mincemeat."

"All of this really happened."

He spoke slowly, but every word struck Clark as he gradually regained consciousness.

"fortunately."

Dior scoffed, "You failed."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over Martha's deathly pale face and Jonathan's tense jaw, before finally swallowing back his more vicious words, simply stating the ending in the most concise way:

"In the end, it was Father who went to Gotham, beat you out of control, and brought you back. By the way, he cleaned up the mess so that no one could find fault with you."

Having said that, Dior didn't want to stay a second longer.

He slammed the water glass down on the coffee table in front of Clark, making a crisp sound.

"Are you sober now, my foolish brother?"

After uttering that final sarcastic remark, Dio stopped looking at Clark's dejected expression.

He turned and walked straight towards the door, leaving behind only a cold, indifferent back view.

Clark tried to call out to Dio, but he couldn't get the words out.
Those nightmarish fragments began to frantically piece together, spin, and stick together.
Gradually, a terrifying truth emerged that was enough to freeze the blood in his body.

He abruptly lowered his head and looked at his hands—

These hands once lifted a heavy bus and smashed it down on his own brother…

It once tore the earth apart, creating deep craters...

A suffocating fear and self-loathing gripped Clark's heart.

He did it.

These words, like a death knell, echoed and pounded repeatedly in the depths of his mind.

"What... have I done?"

Ultimately, self-questioning broke through the dam in my heart.

It turned into a suppressed, almost choked whisper, trembling as it escaped from his pale lips.

He was struck by intense nausea and dizziness.

He suddenly bent over and began to retch. His stomach was empty, and only the bitter taste of bile burned his throat.

The world spun before his eyes, and cold sweat instantly soaked his forehead and back.

This boy, who possessed power comparable to that of a god, was now like a child who had committed a grave mistake; all his strength and self-control had vanished.

Tears soaked his arms and sleeves; at first, he was suppressing sobs.
It quickly turned into a complete breakdown, filled with helpless and fearful wailing.

He was crying so hard that his whole body was trembling and his shoulders were shaking violently.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Mom and Dad."

He apologized repeatedly, incoherently, his voice broken and fragmented by sobs:
“I’m so sorry to those people… Gotham… I ruined it… I almost… I almost killed Dio! I’m sorry… I really… don’t know… how could this happen…”

He apologized to his parents who were holding him tightly, and to the Gotham citizens who were far away and whom he could not see but who had suffered unjustly because of him.

He also apologized to the brother who was deeply hurt and nearly killed by his crazy behavior.

Hearing this, Martha's heart broke.

She held her trembling son tightly, tears streaming down her face, stroking his back repeatedly, and sobbing as she repeated in his ear:

"It's alright, child, it's alright... It's good that you're back, it's all in the past... It wasn't your fault... You were just being controlled."

Jonathan's eyes also reddened, and he placed his large hand heavily on the back of Clark's neck:
“Listen, son, look at us. This isn’t you. We all know that’s not the real you. We’re here, we’re together, and we’ll face this together.”

"Ugh"

Seeing the three of them huddled together, Locke didn't say anything more. He simply led Salafir and God away from the scene, leaving the living room to the three of them.
-
The next three days.

The atmosphere at Kent Farm was incredibly somber.

That violent emotional outburst seemed to have exhausted all of Clark's strength, and what followed was not the calm after the catharsis, but a deeper and more worrying silence.

He stopped crying, stopped speaking, and hardly showed any emotional fluctuations; he simply fell into a long, almost deathly silence.

He completely shut himself in his room on the second floor.

The heavy curtains were drawn tightly, blocking out all sunlight that tried to seep in.

The room was dark all day long.

There was only the faint red light of the electronic alarm clock and the occasional sliver of corridor light seeping through the crack in the door.

He spent most of his time curled up in bed or sitting on the floor against the wall, staring blankly into the void, unresponsive to everything around him.

Martha would bring him carefully prepared food and water upstairs several times a day, gently persuading him, and sometimes just sitting quietly by his bedside for a while.

But the plates are often taken away untouched, with only the water in the cups decreasing slightly.

Jonathan stood at the top of the stairs, staring at the closed door, his brow furrowed.

He tried ordering him to open the door in a sterner fatherly tone, but only a heartbreaking silence responded from inside.

Lana, Chloe, Pete...

The friends in the town also keenly noticed that something was wrong.

They all came to visit, filled with worry.

Lana brought Clark some science fiction novels he might enjoy, and Chloe tried to pique his interest with the latest 'small-town ghost stories' she had unearthed.

Pete was downstairs chatting with Jonathan about the football team, his voice loud so it could be heard upstairs.

But all the concern and efforts were silently blocked by that tightly closed door.

Clark avoided meeting with them and offered no response, exiling himself to a secluded island where no one could reach him.

Until the evening of the third day.

When Locke stepped into the Kent family's living room again, he was still met with the same oppressive atmosphere.

Martha shook her head wearily at him, indicating that there was still no progress upstairs.

Jonathan sat at the dining table with the ledger spread out in front of him, but he clearly hadn't read a single word.

Locke looked up, his gaze falling on the tightly closed door on the second floor, as if he could see through the wooden planks and into the boy inside who had imprisoned himself in darkness and self-reproach.

He remained silent for a moment, then finally let out a sigh filled with helplessness.

Locke knew better than anyone that the best way to overcome this deep-seated trauma was for the child to struggle through it on his own.
It's unimaginable to witness a boy who was once as warm and bright as a little sun become so dim and withdrawn, rejecting all light and warmth, because of an undeserved disaster and a mistake he himself could not forgive.

He still felt a pang of heartache.
It's a feeling of helplessness, watching brilliant stars suddenly become shrouded in dust, yet being unable to wipe it away with your own hands.

Curled up in the corner formed by the foot of the bed and the wall.

Clark rested his chin on his knees, his arms tightly wrapped around himself.

Fear clung to his heart like vines.

Each pulse was heavy and sluggish.

This is not a fear of the outside world, but rather an inward, self-centered fear of power.

He doesn't even dare to make any big movements now.

My throat was so dry it felt like it was on fire, and my gaze kept glancing at the glass of water on my desk that had been served hours earlier and was now completely cold.

But it is such a simple physiological need.

At this moment, however, they are all insurmountable chasms.

Each time, he would reach out with extreme caution, but when his fingers touched the cold glass, he would tremble violently and quickly pull back as if he had been burned.

My heart was pounding wildly in my chest.

He is afraid.

I'm afraid the moment I pick it up.

It will exert unimaginable pressure uncontrollably, crushing this fragile vessel into dust.

The fear that even the smallest force could trigger catastrophic consequences—

Just like in Gotham.

This fear runs deep in your bones.

He could even clearly hear his parents' suppressed, worried breathing and heartbeats downstairs.

You can feel the earthworms wriggling deep in the earth, and you can see the trajectory of every single dust particle in the air...

But these senses that were once taken for granted now make him jump like a frightened bird with every slight fluctuation, his body instinctively tensing up and freezing in place for a moment.

It was as if any slight abnormality was a sign that the monster sleeping within him, which had once destroyed everything, was about to awaken.

He now desperately longs for 'ordinary'.

This intense, almost painful thought grew wildly amidst the fear:

He wished he had never possessed this terrifying power.

He would rather be just an ordinary farm boy, whose biggest worries are farm chores and studies, and whose biggest dream is to manage the family farm after graduation.

Without power, without that superhuman power that requires constant restraint, otherwise could lead to tragedy.
In truth, the redstone didn't change him.

It was like the cruelest magnifying glass, releasing and amplifying all the darkness, anger, and subconscious fear of his own power deep within him without reservation, until it spiraled out of control.

That Clark was himself, only his dark side magnified many times over.

This realization terrified him more than the red kryptonite itself.

he.
Perhaps it shouldn't have been done.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

Three clear and steady knocks on the door.

It broke the stagnant, sticky silence in the room.

Unlike Martha's tentative tapping, and unlike Jonathan's heavy, anxious patting.

The knocking carried an undeniable firmness.

Clark froze, offering no response, and even lowered his breathing as if to make the person outside the door think he was asleep or not there.

He dared not see or even speak to that person.

He was afraid to see in that man's eyes
disappointment.

"."

There was a moment of silence outside the door, then a voice rang out.

"Clark. I know you're awake."

Locke still didn't give him any more room to escape. He stood outside the door, his mind made up. He couldn't, and didn't want to, allow Clark to sink into despair like this until he walked out on his own.

Admittedly, it might have been more effective for Clark to overcome his fear on his own, but...
He was selfish; he couldn't bear to see the child tormenting himself like that.

Locke Kent.

I still can't bring myself to turn a blind eye.

"Click."

The door opened a crack.

Dim light seeped through the crack in the door, outlining that haggard face.

Locke stood there, not immediately pushing his way in.

He did not show much emotion.

He simply peered calmly through the crack in the door at the boy inside, his gaze sharp.

"Don't you want me to come in and sit down?"

His voice was steady, without any hint of blame or sympathy.

There is only one kind of calm, objective approach.

Clark almost instinctively made way for him.

The movement was subtle, but enough for Locke to push open the door and step into the room.

The air inside the door was stuffy and oppressive.

Locke's gaze swept quickly over the untouched plates and the tightly drawn curtains, finally settling on Clark, who looked as if he wanted to shrink into the wall.

"It seems you had a good three days,"

"."

Clark's body trembled violently, and his lips moved slightly.

"Ah."

He seemed to want to argue, but in the end he only let out a faint whisper and lowered his head even further.

"look at me."

Clark froze, but still met Locke's gaze.

"What are you afraid of?"

His uncle went straight to the point, asking extremely pointed questions:
"Afraid of your own power? Afraid of losing control again? Afraid that a monster you don't even recognize lives inside you?"

His breathing became rapid, and Clark's face grew even paler.

He instinctively wanted to back away, but Locke's unwavering gaze kept him rooted to the spot.

"Red Kryptonite is like a mirror that reveals true nature, child."

His tone softened somewhat, but Locke's words remained as calm as ever, almost cruelly so:

"It doesn't add anything new to you; it just pulls out everything that's already in your heart and magnifies it to the extreme."

"Let me show you with my own eyes what you'll become if you completely give up control and indulge yourself."

As he spoke, he took a small step forward, closing in on Clark:
"Now, tell me, you saw it. How does it feel?"

"After seeing the mess left by 'yourself,' are you planning to spend the rest of your life hiding in this dark room, living in fear and regret?"

"Is this the solution you've chosen? Burying your head in the sand like an ostrich and hoping the problem will disappear on its own?"

"No, I am not……"

Clark finally spoke, "I just couldn't control myself... I almost killed Dio! I'm ruined..."

"It's not too late, Clark!"

Locke interrupted him, his voice firm and resolute:

"Dio is alive! Gotham is still here! The worst has not happened! And you, standing here now, are filled with fear and regret for what you almost did."

"A true monster has no regrets, Clark!"

“Right now, you’re just a child who’s suffering so much from hurting others that you want to disappear!” Locke’s gaze was intense. “Power is never the original sin; losing control is.”

Do you remember what I said to you and Dior back then?

"Power is merely a tool."

"What you need most now is not to fear it or run away from it, but to learn how to truly and completely control it! Make it a part of you, instead of turning you into its slave!"

"Understand power, respect power."

Finally...think about what you can do with this power.

"Clark, these are your choices."

Say it.

A brief silence fell over the room, broken only by Clark's heavy, disordered breathing.

The facts he had been avoiding for three days were laid bare before him so nakedly and cruelly, forcing him to confront them.

Locke didn't say anything more; he just looked at Clark, giving him time to process it.

The seeds have been planted.

Next, it's up to the boy to make the decision.
-
Another few days passed.

The curtains on the second floor of Kent Farm were finally drawn back open.

Sunlight once again filled the room where I had once isolated myself.

Clark Kent slowly returned to normal.

He put his clean plaid shirt and jeans back on, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and, under Martha's worried yet relieved gaze and Jonathan's encouraging pat on the shoulder, once again embarked on the road to the town's high school.

The air was filled with the scent of grass and earth, familiar yet tinged with a sense of unfamiliarity.

He found Lana and, standing on her porch, he stumbled and sincerely apologized for his previous loss of control and the trouble he had caused.

“I had a strange feeling about this before.” Lana simply shook her head gently, her eyes filled with understanding. “But Clark, it’s good that you’re back.”

He found Chloe again, in the messy office of the school newspaper.

He bowed twelve times in succession.

This finally made Chloe put down her camera, punch him hard on the shoulder, and say in her usual straightforward tone, "Welcome back, big oaf."

"."

Miss Penguin's revenge is as it always has been.

Then, he went to the edge of the rugby team's training field and apologized to all the players for his sudden departure from the game and subsequent disappearance.

Surprisingly, no one blamed him.

The team members, on the contrary, seemed very excited and surrounded him, not to ask where he had gone, but to excitedly talk about what happened next.

"Hey! Kent! You have no idea what happened next!" The vice-captain hooked his arm around Kent's neck and shouted excitedly, "Coach Arnold! He got fired by the principal! All because of that 'honorable defeat' game we played, which attracted the attention of the National Sports Association, and their investigation uncovered a whole bunch of dirty laundry!"

"It's more than just expulsion."

Another teammate chimed in, his voice low but unable to hide his gossipy excitement, "I heard he was also found to have embezzled team funds, accepted bribes, and even had connections to underground gambling! He was taken away by the police! He'll probably be in jail for several years!"

But what surprised everyone the most was...

The anonymous whistleblower letter that directly brought down Coach Arnold actually originated from their captain.
Jason, who always followed the coach's lead.

No one knows why he suddenly turned against them, but this undoubtedly added the most dramatic element to the whole affair.

Clark listened, feigning surprise, then nodded with a smile.

Everything seemed to be back on track, or even getting better.

The wicked are brought to justice, friends remain, and the sun shines brightly.

And at the very end of the training.
With a newly rebuilt courage, Clark walked alone to the rooftop of the teaching building.

No one knows exactly what happened on the rooftop that day.

But a long time passed.

Dior emerged from behind the door looking refreshed.

Clark, who was following behind, looked worried.

He rubbed his slightly bluish eye sockets, and his walking posture was still a bit awkward.

In short
On the surface, all the turmoil seemed to have subsided, and everyone was happy.
?
On a weekend afternoon, the sun warmed everything on the farm.

Even the dust motes were lazily dancing in the beam of light.

Clark didn't take a nap. He simply walked into the barn and his gaze fell on the old Harley in the corner, the one that Dio had given him and that he had mistreated for a while.

It looked unremarkable, even somewhat disheveled.

However, under the sunlight, the metal parts still reflected a stubborn gleam.

Clark took a deep breath, picked up the key, inserted it into the lock, and pressed the start lever hard.

The tranquility of the farm was broken by a not-so-smooth but powerful roar from the engine.

He has to go to the Metropolitan.

I packed up what I left behind after I ran away from home.
The last, and perhaps the most troublesome, mess?
-
LUX
—That's the name of the bar.

The once-degenerate Clark miraculously found a job here.

And she worked hard for seven days to buy her uncle a birthday present, although in the end, the wallet full of her wages was lost somewhere in Gotham.
"Ding--!"

As the wind chimes above the door jingled, Clark pushed open the bar's rather heavy door.

In the afternoon.

The bar was empty.

Only a few guests were sitting in the corner.

This immediately drew his attention to the bar.

The man with slightly messy, long, center-parted blond hair was lying there fast asleep, with an empty wine glass next to him.

However, it seems that the wind chimes Clark brought disturbed his sweet dreams.

The man mumbled as he straightened up, rubbing his sleepy eyes to reveal his strikingly handsome features.

seriously.
In Clark's opinion, even Dior would have a hard time surpassing this face.

However, upon recognizing Clark, the blond man stretched lazily and yawned without any regard for his image, diminishing his charm by a hundred percent. His tone was also languid and teasing, as if he were still hungover.
"Oh, you're back, Mr. Kent?"

"I thought you'd run away with seven days' wages and quit the job."

"..."

Clark was speechless for a moment.

Looking at the boss named Samael in front of him, he simply couldn't understand how he, whose mind had been warped by the red kryptonite, could calmly work as a waiter here and even get along with this boss who exuded an unreliable aura.

He took a deep breath, trying to make his tone sound sincere and apologetic:

"Boss, I'm here to... resign. School's starting, I need to go back."

"what?!"

Samael exclaimed:

"Back to school? Quit your job?! You didn't say it was a holiday job when you applied! You bastard! Do you know how hard it is to find a bartender as strong and obedient as you on short notice?"

"Sorry, boss."

Somewhat flustered by his reaction, Clark instinctively spoke the truth, saying sincerely:
"Actually, I... ran away from home before."

"runaway?"

Upon hearing this, Samael blinked, and the anger on his face miraculously vanished.

He then gave me an "I understand" look, even leaning closer and lowering his voice, as if sharing some secret:
"Your family of origin, is that right? I understand."

"Your dad must be a very old-fashioned and boring relic, right?"

"Forcing you to do things you don't like? Restricting your freedom?"

“No.” Clark shook his head honestly. “My father… he’s fine.”

"..."

Samael hesitated for a moment, then guessed again, unwilling to give up:

"That must be a brother who's close to your age! He must be ignorant and foolish, always making you angry and stealing your thunder!"

"It's not..."

Clark's mind flashed back to Dio's mocking face, although that guy was indeed very...
"Then...then they must be your younger brothers!"

Samael racked his brains: "They must be incredibly mischievous! They're always thinking about pranks and how to take your place in the house!"

"How can it be!"

Clark chuckled, recalling Salafir, who was so kind she wouldn't even step on an ant, and God, who, despite his occasional wicked smirks, was actually kind-hearted.

"You bastard!"

"...Damn it!"

Enraged, Samael slammed his hand on the bar:
"Such a happy and harmonious family! Loving parents! Brothers... even if there's one you dislike, it's not like you have a deep-seated hatred! Your younger brother is an angel! And you still want to run away from home?! You're just making a fuss over nothing! It's a luxury you can't afford to worry about! It's an insult to people like us who truly have traumatized family backgrounds!"

"Do you even know what a family of origin is?! Do you even know what a wretched biological father is?!"

He grew increasingly agitated, walked around the bar, and grabbed Clark, pulling him towards the door without a word.
"You're fired! Mr. Kent! Right now! Get out of my bar! I don't want to see you, you happy little bastard, anymore!"

Samael threw him out of the bar.

Clark stood at the bar entrance, watching the door slam shut with a bang, a helpless, bitter smile on his face.

He shook his head, turned around, and prepared to walk towards the dilapidated Harley.

However.
Just as he lifted his leg to step onto the motorcycle, his body suddenly froze.

A belated thought struck him.

and many more…

I just...

He was attacked by a seemingly weak, drunk, ordinary bar owner…

Just like that…

They were easily thrown out the door without any resistance!

Clark stood frozen, staring at the closed doors of the Lux bar.

The sunlight shone on him, yet it made him feel strangely lost.