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

"Cancel it? Dream on! Listen up, you little black-skinned brat!" Its hands slammed into the watch screen. "Debt is debt! Labor reform is labor reform! Keep them separate! They're two different things!"

"Your food and lodging here."

It pointed to a distant "canteen" made of broken teapots and straws, emitting eerie green smoke. Then, it pointed to a low "shantytown" that looked like a pile of flattened cardboard boxes.

"And breathing the air here! Stepping on the ground here! Receiving the light of the One God! What's free?! Huh?! All of these are charged extra!"

The alarm clock revealed a rule that Beria had never imagined.

The Emperor of the Universe was utterly shocked.

He was stunned, and then a new, purer rage ignited within him!

"Paying your way into jail?! I've roamed the universe for tens of thousands of years! I've never heard of such a rule before!! This is extortion! This is blackmail!"

Belial was furious. He was an expert at imprisonment and had never heard of such a thing as paying to go to jail. The person who set up this rule was beyond the realm of darkness in terms of mentality.

"hehe."

The alarm clock shrugged indifferently, tilting its entire body and creaking as its metal casing groaned. "Oh? Now you've seen it for yourself. Welcome to 'South Siberia,' kid. Here, the rules are ordained by the One God. If he says there's a fee, that's the truth, the harshest punishment for criminals."

“Those citizens who don’t break the law live very, very well.” It seemed to remember something, and added, its tone carrying a very serious feel.

"Oh, right, what did you just say? Three years?" It tapped Belial's wristwatch screen with its pointer. "Are you blind? Look again, is that really three years?"

Beria was taken aback and quickly looked down to examine it closely.

The small print on the wristwatch screen regarding the duration of labor reform had changed at some point, or perhaps it was always like that and I was just too angry to see it clearly?

It was clearly written there.

[The term of labor reform for serious offenders: three years plus another three years.]

See this handwriting.

Beria was completely dumbfounded.

A chilling despair shot from the soles of my feet straight to the top of my head.

"Three...three years and another three years?!" The Dark King could no longer maintain his darkness; his voice was hoarse, filled with a final struggle, "How...how many years is it?!"

The alarm clock didn't answer his foolish question. It simply tapped impatiently on the tattered comb in Beria's hand with its hands, making a clattering sound to urge him on.

"How many years? Let's talk about it when your 'fluffy cotton' production can keep up with the rate of increase in your debt interest! Now, immediately, right now! Start brainstorming! Go plant your cotton!"

The alarm clock gave the order.

"Brainstorming?"

Beria had not yet recovered from the blow of "three years after three years".

"It's about getting your rusty brain working and unleashing your abstract imagination!"

The alarm clock roared, "Think of 'Grow cotton! Grow lots of cotton!' The harder you think, the faster it will grow! This is the only blessing God has given to this land! Don't waste it! Think now!"

Beria held the broken comb.

Looking at the endless gray wasteland before him, feeling the absurd task in his mind of "imagining" a million cotton balls, and seeing the desperate "three years after three years" on his wristwatch and the ever-increasing interest on his debts... For a moment, the Dark King felt desolate and still couldn't understand how he had fallen to such a state in the blink of an eye.

no way.

We still have to work.

After all, one must be patient and patient.

He angrily raised the comb and faced the barren ground, beginning his first day in "Southern Siberia." It's estimated that no Ultraman in the Ultraman world could have imagined such a scene.

Belial, the former Dark Lord, is now wielding a giant, rusty comb with crooked teeth, engaging in "mental labor" on the barren, gray land. He needs to simultaneously visualize cotton growing vigorously in his mind while physically combing the ground.

It's as if this can catalyze abstract "imagination" into tangible gains. This is nothing short of double torture! The mental humiliation and physical exhaustion are like two venomous snakes!

"Damn false god! Damn alarm clock! Damn broken comb!" He mechanically brandished the comb while muttering curses in his own universe, his voice hoarse and filled with malice. "When I get out... when I regain my power... I'll turn this place... that brat's god kingdom... into scorched earth!!"

"I'll make all of you kneel on the ground and plant dark spores in me for ten thousand years!" His curses drifted across the plains, like pebbles thrown into stagnant water, not even causing a ripple. The diverse figures around him continued their labor numbly, as if they had long since lost the ability to receive any complaints.

The more you work.

Beria realized more and more that he was a complete waste.

The efficiency is too slow.

"Damn it! I was destined not to do this kind of thing from the moment I was born!" Belial's alien, enormous eyes rolled irritably, flashing with resentment and calculation.

This is not the way to go!

He needs allies, he needs to create chaos!

Beria abruptly stopped, took a deep breath of the air thick with the smell of cotton and sweat, and used his last bit of strength to try to make his voice sound inspiring.

“Hey! You guys!!”

He roared at the nearby laborers.

“Look at yourselves! Enslaved like livestock! Toiling like machines! All for that bullshit ‘fluffy clouds’ and an everlasting debt! Are you content with this?! Where is your dignity?! Where is your spirit of resistance?! Arise! With me! Overthrow this absurd rule!”

Beria awaited a response.

Even the faintest agreement. However, all around remained deathly silent, save for the howling wind sweeping across the wasteland and the rustling of tools hitting the ground.

"What a bunch of hopeless humans!" Belial was so angry he almost snapped the comb in two. "Cowards! You humans are all cowards! You deserve to be enslaved forever!"

He cursed loudly.

I hate that iron cannot become steel.

Just then, a slightly hoarse voice with a cynical tone rang out from behind him.

"No, friend, you're wrong."

Upon hearing this, Beria turned around abruptly and saw a man who had temporarily stopped what he was doing—he was using a huge, chipped glass cutter to painstakingly cut a huge, transparent crystal of sorrow.

“We are not cowards, nor are we enslaved. We are just a group of criminals atoning for their sins and who have seen the reality clearly.” The man wore a tattered leather jacket, his muscles were bulging, his face was covered with several scars, and his eyes had a wild and untamed look like that of a beast that had weathered many storms.

Of course, deep down there was a hint of resigned weariness. He deliberately emphasized the words "criminal" and "atonement," his tone carrying a clear sarcasm.

Belial looked at the human who had finally spoken and seemed to have the air of a leader with curiosity. "Atony? Hmph, I'm innocent! I was tricked into this by that cunning brat! I'm not one of you, and I'll find a way to escape! Either join me, or stay here until you're completely rotten!"

He tried to bewitch the other party.

It displays the domineering aura of the former Dark Lord.

Unfortunately, it had little effect.

"That's how it is during the beginner phase."

Upon hearing this, the man merely chuckled, seemingly finding Beria's boastful words utterly naive. He leisurely pulled a thick, seemingly high-quality cigar from the inside pocket of his tattered jacket, then skillfully lit it with a vintage brass lighter, took a deep drag, and exhaled a perfect smoke ring.

"You...you still have spare money to buy this kind of thing?" Belial was stunned. He was quick to learn, so he knew that it was no easy feat to get such a luxury item in this godforsaken place.

"Of course I don't have any money."

The man smiled smugly, revealing his sharp canines: "My brother... he's kind of a 'civil servant' here, with a bit of authority. He brings me supplies regularly."

He waved the cigar in his hand. "How about it? Want one?"

"No, human, use your brain! Do I look like someone who can smoke?!" Belial looked at the burning cigar, then pointed to his grotesque face covered in exoskeletons and lacking normal lips and oral cavity structure, and rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"...Uh...sorry, I wasn't looking." The man stared at Beria's face, which was indeed devoid of any pleasure, chuckled awkwardly, and put his cigar away.

This wasn't a social interaction Beria cared about; eagerly, he steered the conversation back on track: "So? Join me? Together, we're sure to find a way!"

He suppressed his disdain for humanity.

He feigned his emotions once again.

"About this matter."

The man didn't answer directly. Instead, he pointed with the hand holding the cigar to a young boy not far away who was diligently, even meticulously, watering a grayish-white plant with some kind of iridescent oil using a strainer. The boy's expression was focused to the point of piety, and his movements were as precise as if he were performing some kind of sacred ritual.

"See that kid?" the man said, exhaling a smoke ring. "When he first came, he caused even more trouble than you. People called him Big Group. He was an extremely dangerous mental patient."

talking.

He also showed a hint of lingering fear.

"Ok?"

However, upon hearing this, Belial's enormous eyes immediately lit up! A psychopath? Highly capable? Extremely destructive? This is practically the perfect seed of rebellion!

They are easily swayed and have high exploitability!

"Oh? Mental illness?" Beria immediately became interested, lowering his voice to ask, "What kind of mental illness is it? Paranoia? Mania? Antisocial behavior? What exactly are his abilities?"

He had already begun to plot another scheme in his mind.

however.

The man once again acted unpredictably.

"None of that matters anymore."

He interrupted Beria, his tone carrying a strange sense of感慨 (gǎnkǎi, a complex emotion encompassing both admiration and reflection).

"Not important?" Belial asked, puzzled.

“Hmm,” the man took a deep drag on his cigar, slowly exhaled, and looked at the boy named Daqun with a complicated expression, “because he’s only been here for three months.”

"guess what?"

The man turned to look at Beria and said, word by word, "His mental illness is cured. Completely cured. He's as gentle as a sheep, works harder than anyone else, and hasn't had an 'episode' since. I heard that the thousands of personalities within him are now holding meetings every day to discuss how to increase cotton yields."

This statement came out.

Beria was struck dumb.

"……………………" One sentence, like the ultimate annihilation ray, instantly blasted all of Belial's seduction, scheming, and rebellious passion into dust.

He was rendered silent.

There was a long silence.

The Dark King opened his mouth, only to find that all his words seemed utterly pale and powerless at this moment. In the end, he could only manage to utter a dry, lifeless sentence.

"I...I think you're fucking sick too."

This was Beria's heartfelt assessment. The man, far from being angry, burst into laughter, his voice carrying far across the wasteland.

“My brother often praises me like that too.” He finished laughing, wiped away the tears from the corners of his eyes, and then stretched out a rough, powerful, scarred hand toward Beria.