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

Page 391

The white coat was soaked through.

Just then, the overhead light suddenly started flickering.

Yi Ming.

It was dark.

In that moment of darkness, the supervisor swore he heard the sound of stones scraping together. When the lights came on again—the statue's arm had extended half an inch forward.

This is a mysterious entity temporarily named the "Crying Angel." It is an ancient and perfect being that is as old as the universe itself. Its ultimate defense mechanism is "quantum locking"—it will instantly petrify when any creature looks at it and cannot be killed. However, if the creature blinks or turns its head, the statue will move at supersonic speed to approach the target.

It will draw upon the life force of its target, as well as the essence of its existence.

"Damn it! Quick! Find a scapegoat!" The supervisor tried to shout at his subordinates, but no one answered—the alarm system in this extremely high-risk laboratory should have sounded immediately.

But when the supervisor's shouts echoed in the enclosed space, all that answered him was deathly silence—some ancient and eerie force had long since severed all connection between this place and the outside world.

"No! No! I can't die under the experimental subject I'm researching!" The supervisor's eyes were bloodshot from staring so wide open. He remembered what the British agent had said when he handed over the statue's file.

“You Americans always love to collect things you shouldn’t touch.” This statement resonated strongly with the supervisor at that moment. However, he hadn’t suddenly awakened; he simply knew he was going to die.

Do not blink. Absolutely do not blink.

The supervisor dared not look away from the stone statue in front of him for even a second.

But human instinct is ultimately cruel. In the instant his tears flowed, he caught a glimpse of an even more horrifying sight out of the corner of his eye—in the sandbox, the mummy labeled "licking it can enhance male virility" was slowly sitting up. The decaying bandages peeled away, revealing the dark, dry skin beneath.

It turned its head, its empty eye sockets facing the supervisor, and with the opening and closing of its jaw, it uttered obscure and difficult-to-understand ancient Egyptian. The field of linguistics had indeed touched upon the blind spot of the biology PhD.

"Help me! Help me!"

The supervisor's screams almost tore his throat apart.

He knew perfectly well that asking a mummy for help was utterly absurd, but compared to the moving, self-erasing statue in front of him, at least the mummified corpse seemed to have a brain and could communicate.

however.

The mummy did not respond to his cries for help.

It only let out a hoarse laugh, like the whistling of the wind blowing through the cracks of the pyramid. Then, the mummy slowly stepped out of the sandbox, its body made of lifeless sand making a "crackling" sound as its bones rubbed together, and slowly stood up, its tall figure casting a huge, distorted shadow in the dim light.

The mummy didn't look at the supervisor, nor at the approaching stone statue. Instead, its bandages dragged along the fine sand as it walked straight to the glass dome in the center of the warehouse, where the mysterious light core was stored.

Yes.

The glass enclosure contains the light that the supervisor stared at with a perverted look—perhaps, if someone knowledgeable were here, they would know its real name.

Unfortunately, there was no one knowledgeable about it.

No! That's my baby—

The supervisor's words came to an abrupt end.

The mummy's fist smashed the reinforced glass.

"boom!"

The glass dome shattered, and pale blue liquid poured out. The pulsating, gentle light within the liquid, seemingly containing the very essence of the universe, was freed from its constraints and floated in the air like a miniature star.

The ball of light did not escape.

It seemed curious, expectant, and eager to try, so it didn't resist, letting the bandages wrap around it. Then, the mummy opened its mouth.

That wasn't devouring, it was an invitation.

The ball of light immediately darted inside, as if in response, and was swallowed into the mummy's parched throat. Instantly, blinding light burst forth from the mummy's seven orifices.

In an instant, a strange change occurred!

The mummy's body began to swell and change. New skin covered the entire skull at an astonishing speed, becoming firm, smooth, and shimmering with an almost metallic, healthy sheen. The bandages tore apart inch by inch, revealing the new body beneath: strong muscles, smooth skin, and a shiny bald head.

The wrinkles, the marks of wind and sand, the signs of death on the mummy's face were all smoothed out. In their place was a young, handsome, and dignified face.

Imhotep

The supervisor collapsed to the ground, his eyes still glued to the weeping angel, yet he still fearfully uttered the name he had found in the ancient text that unearthed the mummy. The newly born bald man stretched his neck, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. He looked at the supervisor, still restrained by the statue, and greeted him in fluent English.

"Have a pleasant death. Oh, and just so you know, hell isn't exactly a cozy place." With that, he turned and headed for the door. As he walked, the entire warehouse seemed to be infused with a strange life force—the alien embryos in the incubators suddenly began to writhe faster, and Godzilla's heart in the freezer began to revive.

Inside a containment container labeled "Dangerous Life Form," a clump of slime began rhythmically pounding against the glass. The supervisor's despair reached its peak. He realized he had made a fatal mistake—the laboratory might never have been holding "specimens" at all, but rather a group of predators disguised as prisoners.

only.

By the time the supervisor realized this, it was clearly too late.

just now.

The cage was opened.

In a moment of distraction, the statue's finger moved an inch closer to his eyeball. Outside the laboratory, the bald man, seemingly unseen, broke through the heavy security.

He hummed an ancient Egyptian folk song as he stepped into the sunlight.

"I said, I want a carriage to take me away." As soon as he finished speaking, as if by magic, a carriage fell from the sky as if a cheat code had been entered in a game called Vice City.

The bald man sat down.

His shadow was cast on the ground, but it was not in the shape of a human.

……

Ian sneezed so hard he almost dropped his phone.

"Grandpa must be nagging me again," he muttered, rubbing his nose. He casually opened his contacts and dialed his mother's number without hesitation—when it comes to complaining, you have to be the first to act.

The call was connected faster than he expected.

"Mom! Grandpa—" Ian switched to a pitiful voice in an instant, "He actually encouraged me to be Napoleon! Knowing I'm still growing, isn't he deliberately trying to prevent me from growing to 1.8 meters tall?"

The sound of glasses clinking against ice came from the other end of the phone. Louise Lane was clearly using whiskey to cope with a family crisis: "Did your grandfather really say that?"

“He implied!” Ian added righteously, “that Clark’s fight against crime is child’s play, that America is like the late Roman Empire, and that I should be the Augustus of the new Rome.” He deliberately omitted the most crucial part about political subversion.

Then came another long, resounding sound of ice sloshing around.

"You should go home first."

Louise's voice had a strange quality to it.

"And then we'll publicly denounce your grandfather?"

She mentioned home.

Ian broke out in a cold sweat instantly.

The boy said cautiously, "That... house was bombed this morning. So... actually, I bought you a villa!"

He tried to make up for it with material things and salvage his image.

"The kind with a temperature-controlled wine cellar!"

These words did not achieve the desired effect.

Unexpected.

The mother burst into drunken merriment on the other end of the phone.

"Your friend has already helped us fix our new house."

Louise's voice suddenly brightened. "I must say, her taste is much better than yours—the whole house is Baroque style, the master bedroom ceiling is a starry dome, and even the kitchen has an anti-magic barrier. Yes, our house finally has a device to prevent mages from sneaking up on us, so we no longer have to worry about your old man not being sensitive to magical attacks."

Her tone was filled with emotion.

They were just playing on their own family's jokes.

"my friend?"

Ian suddenly had a bad feeling.

"Oh, right."

Louise seemed to have just remembered.

“He also brought his…very enthusiastic mother.” Her tone suddenly turned playful. “That lady kept asking me what color sheets I liked.”

Hear the words.

Ian's phone fell to the ground with a thud.

What is Louise saying? How could his super brain not understand?

"It's Lucifer and the Goddess of Creation!" The more Ian thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Given Lucifer's personality, after being seduced by the Goddess of Creation's maternal love, he might very well lead the way in drugging him.

"Um, no, you run, you run! That friend's mom is seriously ill!" Ian was about to continue arguing when he suddenly heard the sound of a door opening on the other end of the phone, followed by Louise's surprised shout: "Jonathan? You actually came back! This bouquet of roses is... Good heavens, you actually bought flowers?"

Ian's blood froze instantly. His older brother's home? With flowers? That Jonathan Kent who thought "romance is a capitalist trap"? There's definitely something fishy going on here!

Ian made a quick decision, hung up the phone, and called Jordan.

"Jordan! Run! Don't go home!"

Ian felt that he could save as many as he could.

However, all that came through the receiver was the cacophony of film set noise.

Interspersed with the director's excited shouts.

"Jordan! I knew this job was perfect for you. From the moment I spotted you at school, I knew it. Please do another Crescent Moon Rush! You acted so well! It didn't look like acting at all!" The other party was clearly an international director who had seized a business opportunity and made a wave of investments.

"Ian? What's wrong now? I'm filming, I'll call you back later." Jordan's voice was tinged with helplessness and a sense of being busy.

After hanging up the phone, Jordan went back to filming the Homelander character, who had come to his door. The comic's copyright, it's said, somehow ended up in Quinn Industries' hands.

It was this group's film and television company that suddenly came to Jordan's high school and, from among hundreds of high school students, wisely selected him and Jonathan.

However, Jonathan declined, so the opportunity to debut in Hollywood fell to Jordan. Actually, being a social anxiety sufferer, Jordan initially didn't want to be an actor.

However, the other party offered him far too much, showering him with compliments and claiming that he was the embodiment of the original Patriot. He couldn't even explain that the original comic was his younger brother's work and that the other party's prototype wasn't him. He was thus tricked into joining the film crew in a daze.

Upon joining the filming crew.

Jordan discovered that he seemed to have a natural talent for acting, and he didn't have any NGs in several consecutive shoots. So he took this opportunity that he had inexplicably obtained very seriously.

Just before Ian made the call, Jordan had already achieved financial freedom, having made a fortune from the preparation of merchandise for the series—it's quite normal to operate merchandise for movies and TV shows in advance.

After all, if production were to begin after the series became a hit, America's industrial capacity wouldn't be able to keep up, and Quinn Industries doesn't have any partner factories in Asia that produce special merchandise.

Yes, this is a unique piece of merchandise. Among Hollywood actors throughout history, Jordan created something truly one-of-a-kind – Homelander, a 1:1 golden ratio life-size mold, with a realistic feel, squeezing out the patriotic gene.