Chapter 5: I am Kal-El, and
Inside Waste Reclamation Yard No. 17, there was a deathly silence.
A strange scent lingered in the air that made the stomach cramp—the heavy, metallic smell of rust left behind by blood being instantaneously evaporated by extreme heat, mixed with the scorched ozone tang of air being forcibly ionized.
"Let... let me go! You... you Warp-spawned monster!"
A shrill scream, pitched high from a lack of oxygen, broke the silence.
In the center of the ruins, Clark Kent hovered half a meter above the ground. His posture was as relaxed as if he were taking a stroll, yet his right hand was extended, clutching the neck of the Rust-Claw underboss as if he were holding a plague-ridden sheep waiting for slaughter.
This brute, who moments ago had been brandishing his chainsword with arrogant impunity, was now kicking his feet helplessly in the air.
His eyeballs bulged, bloodshot from asphyxiation, and the low-grade bionic eye implanted in his face flickered and short-circuited in a frenzy of terror. Under that massive hand, steady as a hydraulic press, even breathing became an unattainable luxury.
Clark's expression was calm.
It wasn't a numb calmness, but a chilling, divine indifference. He didn't even look at the struggling piece of filth in his hand. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his gaze drifting past the ruins and deep into the blast door he had knocked aside—toward his ship, his last home, and his only true sanctuary in this universe.
"What are you looking for?"
Clark finally pulled his gaze back. Those azure eyes were now like eternal polar glaciers, staring at the thug with zero warmth.
"Cough... You... you think I'll tell you?"
Though the underboss's crotch was soaked, a morbid fanaticism flickered in his eyes under the stare of death—a typical sign of a mind long corroded by the whispers of Chaos.
"The Great Master... has heard the call... the 'Fallen Star' belongs to us! When the stars align, the blood sacrifice will begin, and we shall gain eternal life..."
Snap.
A faint, crisp sound. Clark's fingers tightened by a mere millimeter, and the groan of the man's cervical vertebrae instantly cut off the deluded gibberish.
"The 'Fallen Star'."
Clark repeated the phrase, his brow furrowing slightly. In that instant, the surrounding atmospheric pressure seemed to drop a fraction.
"You want my ship."
To the current Clark, that ship was his "reverse scale"—an absolute line that could not be crossed.
"I see. It wasn't a simple gang raid, but a premeditated search."
Clark nodded, as if confirming something. Then, the "human" warmth in his eyes vanished completely, replaced by absolute, lethal intent.
"Since your master wants it so badly, let him come and take it himself."
"What are you doing? I am... I am a chosen warrior of the Gods! You can't..." The underboss felt the shadow of death envelop him and began to claw frantically at Clark's arm, but his nails failed to leave even a mark on that steel-like skin.
Hum—!
Without warning, the air ignited.
Two gold-red beams of high energy did not fire out like lasers; instead, they pooled in Clark's eye sockets like a volcano about to erupt, reaching a critical point in a heartbeat.
The distance was too close.
This time, Clark did not hold back, nor did he offer mercy.
There was no scream. No spray of blood. Not even a single fragment of flesh flying through the air.
Under a terrifying thermal energy capable of instantaneously igniting the atmosphere—with a core temperature exceeding the surface of a star—the thug held in Clark's grip didn't even have time to transmit a pain signal back to his brain.
Sizzle!
It was like a drop of water falling into a blast furnace.
His skin, implants, muscles, and bones underwent carbonization, vaporization, and finally molecular collapse within a thousandth of a second, turning into fundamental atomic dust.
The light faded.
Clark released his hand.
No corpse fell. Only a handful of warm, grey-white ash drifted slowly through his fingers, merging silently with the filthy soil beneath his feet.
[SOL: Target eliminated. Organic matter completely decomposed. Purification efficiency: 100%. Zero biological residue.]
In his mind, SOL's voice remained as calm as if reporting weather data.
Clark brushed the dust from his hands and turned around.
In the corner, Old Jack was slumped on the pile of rags. His single eye was wide as a copper bell, and his mouth hung open wide enough to fit a fist. He looked at Clark as if he were staring at a completely alien, awe-inspiring deity.
"Clark..." Old Jack's voice trembled violently—an instinctive primal fear of the unknown. "You... you killed them... with your eyes?"
The red glow in Clark's eyes receded, returning to their deep azure. He floated to Old Jack's side, knelt down, and gently checked the old man's broken leg.
"It's Heat Vision, Jack. A little Kryptonian trick."
Clark tore a piece of fabric from his stained overalls. His hands moved like a blur of shadows yet were incredibly gentle, expertly setting and bandaging Old Jack's leg.
It was hard to imagine that these hands, which had just vaporized a living person into ash, could now treat an old Underhive scavenger with such tenderness.
"Listen, Jack. Bear with the pain. You need to leave here immediately. Go to the Sisterhood Medicae Station in the lower hive. No matter what sounds you hear, do not look back."
"What about you?"
Old Jack grabbed Clark's arm, his withered fingers clutching the rock-like muscle so hard his nails turned white.
"The way you just looked at the sky... the 'Angels' are coming, aren't they?"
In this dark universe, the arrival of the Emperor's Angels usually meant one of two things: salvation or total extermination.
For the residents of the Underhive, who were viewed as "potential heretics," it was usually the latter.
"Yes, they are here."
Clark stood up, not denying it. He looked up at the heavy, pipe-cluttered, oil-stained metal ceiling.
His super-hearing had already captured the piercing sound of sonic booms.
Woo—BOOM!
It was the scream of metal tearing through the atmosphere, the sound of thousand-ton steel constructs decelerating amid the roar of anti-gravity engines. It was the tolling of the bell at Death's door.
Just then, his mental vision was suddenly overwhelmed by massive red warning pop-ups.
[WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!]
[HIGH-ENERGY SIGNATURE APPROACHING RAPIDLY!]
[ID CODE: Adeptus Astartes.]
[CHAPTER HERALDRY MATCH: Ultramarines.]
[THREAT LEVEL: HIGH (Armed with Bolters, Power Weapons, Melta Weapons).]
[QUANTITY: 3 (Vanguard Squad). SUBSEQUENT SUPPORT: One Strike Cruiser is locking onto this sector.]
SOL's voice became urgent and stern, cold data streams flashing frantically on his retina:
[SOL: Sir, according to calculations, the risk of conflict with regular Imperial forces is extremely high. This area has been marked as a 'Chaos Tainted Zone.' According to the Imperial "Exterminatus" protocols, Space Marines are authorized to erase all life within the sector, including you and that old man.]
[RECOMMENDED OPTION A: Immediately enter the ship and activate the sub-light engine for a forced breakout. This will expose the ship and trigger a sector-wide Navy manhunt, but offers the highest survival rate.]
[RECOMMENDED OPTION B: Abandon the ship and use super-speed to hide in the deep levels of the Hive.]
[SEVERE WARNING: OPTION B IS INFEASIBLE! The ship is in a stationary state. If you leave, it will be 100% discovered and seized by the Astartes.]
Clark fell silent.
Run?
That ship was the last legacy his father had left him. It was his path home and the source of his power.
If he activated the ship to escape now, the massive energy surge would draw every fleet in the sector. If he abandoned the ship to run, it would be the equivalent of pulling his own "power plug." In this universe teeming with gods and monsters, the consequences of losing his power were more terrifying than death.
Furthermore, if he left and the ship's secret was exposed, the enraged Space Marines would level the area. Old Jack and the thousands of innocent paupers nearby would be purged as "heretic-harboring" sinners.
He looked down at his chest.
Although there was no red-and-yellow "S" shield on his worn vest, in his heart, that symbol left by his father had never disappeared.
"SOL."
Clark reached out to straighten his grease-stained, tattered vest, then pulled the red cloth around his neck slightly higher.
The red cloth covered his nose and mouth, leaving only his deep, sea-like eyes and a single iconic lock of black wavy hair visible.
This red cloth might later become a symbol of hope, a legend of the Imperium. But for now, it was a crude disguise—though he knew that given his Greek god-like physique and unique divine aura, such a disguise was better than nothing.
"I'm not choosing A, and I'm not choosing B."
Clark took a deep breath, his feet slowly leaving the ground.
His body defied the laws of gravity, ascending vertically into the air to hover in the center of the scrap yard, facing the ceiling that was about to be breached.
He folded his arms across his chest, standing tall as a spear. The red cape behind him fluttered without wind, snapping in the turbulence of his bio-field.
"I am Kal-El. I will not run."
[SOL: Adrenaline surge detected in Host. Idealistic Field power output: 120%. Logic locks released... Very well. Combat assistance modules preheated.]
[Good luck, Last Son of Krypton.]