Necromunda, Underhive Ruins.
As the roar of engines gradually faded, the last medical shuttle carrying survivors—including Old Jack—disappeared into the murky smog.
The ruins fell into a deathly silence.
Sergeant Titus stood respectfully ten meters away, reporting the "contact situation" to the fleet in orbit via an encrypted channel. The Astartes veteran deliberately turned his back, granting the "Lord" one last moment of private space to bid farewell to his past.
Clark Kent stood atop the ruins of Thermal Plant No. 17 and took a deep breath.
The familiar scent of machine oil, rust, and fungal decay had been the entirety of his life for eighteen years.
But he knew he had to leave.
Not just because his identity had been exposed, but because the "baby bottle" was empty.
[SOL: Sir, performing final power self-diagnostic.]
In his mind, the system's voice remained calm, yet it possessed a cold, calculating logic, as if stating an unalterable mathematical fact.
[Kryptonian Escape Pod · Sunstone Power Core: 48% remaining.]
[WARNING: Host's organism has reached the threshold for 'Growth Phase: Stage 2.' Current power core output has reached its limit; a power bottleneck has occurred.]
[In short: The bottle is still there, but the nipple is too small. It can no longer keep you full.]
For the past eighteen years, the reason Clark could maintain the peak state of his "Man of Steel" physique in this hellhole—without a yellow sun and filled with toxic gas and geothermal heat—was entirely due to the ship "transfusing" him with energy.
Those weren't ordinary nuclear batteries. They were the pinnacle of Kryptonian technology—high-purity Golden Sunstones.
On the eve of Krypton's destruction, his biological father, Jor-El, had artificially synthesized high concentrations of yellow stellar radiation and compressed them into these crystals. It acted like a super power bank, sustaining the young Clark through his most vulnerable period.
But it was a battery, after all, not a generator.
More fatally, as Clark's body grew, the energy demands of his ravenous Kryptonian cells rose exponentially.
[SOL: Host, the remaining 48% of energy is enough for you to be the 'strongest laborer' in this sewer for the rest of your life, or to occasionally kill some low-level gang thugs.]
[But if you want to stand firm in this universe filled with daemons, monsters, and gods... if you want to unlock the 'Silver Age Superman' templates for flight, enhanced Heat Vision, or even higher tiers... this amount of energy is a drop in the bucket.]
[Conclusion: The resources of this planet can no longer sustain someone like you.]
[RECOMMENDATION: Change maps. Go into the depths of the stars and find a real, burning yellow star. Go there to 'feed.']
"I know," Clark replied internally, the confusion in his eyes clearing, replaced by a yearning for the vast cosmos.
He didn't need to wait until his resources were exhausted to make a pathetic escape. He was leaving now to become stronger—strong enough to rewrite the rules of this desperate universe with his own two hands.
He lifted his foot and slammed it hard against the ground.
RUMBLE—!
Since he was leaving, he couldn't leave any traces. This was his father's legacy; he could never let the lunatics of the Adeptus Mechanicus dig it up as some "Relic of the Omnissiah" to be dissected.
This time, he did not hold back his strength.
The earth emitted a mournful groan, as if a magnitude seven earthquake had struck. With Clark at the epicenter, the Adamantium-concrete strata for hundreds of meters around instantly collapsed and shattered.
Thousands of tons of rock, scrap metal, and industrial waste fell away like quicksand, completely sealing the entrance to the deep underground and burying it kilometers beneath the crust.
Was that enough? No, not yet.
The red light in Clark's eyes flared.
ZZZT—!
Two beams of high-energy Heat Vision acted like a giant lightsaber, cutting and sweeping along the edges of the collapse. Under temperatures capable of vaporizing steel, the collapsed rocks instantly melted into magma and then rapidly cooled, fusing the ground into a monolithic obsidian slab.
Unless someone blew the planet apart, no one would ever find the silver ship buried deep within the core.
[SOL: Physical lockdown complete. The ship has entered deep hibernation mode. Concealment level: Planetary Destruction class.]
[SOL: Don't look back, Kal. Your 'nursery phase' is over.]
[Look up. You no longer need to survive on a weak battery. Only among those vast stars is there the infinite energy required to carry your 'Silver' godhood.]
"Then let's go," Clark responded in his heart, not sparing another glance at the ruins beneath him. He clapped the dust off his hands as if he had just swatted a mosquito rather than reshaped the geography.
He turned and walked toward the steel giant waiting for him.
"Titus."
"Present! My Lord!"
Titus immediately snapped to attention, his servo-motors making a crisp metallic clack. The look in his eyes was no longer just awe, but fanaticism—remodeling the terrain with a stomp and permanently sealing the crust with Heat Vision? What else could such power be but a Primarch?
"Take me to the ship."
Clark looked up, his azure gaze piercing through the heavy, toxic clouds as if seeing the vast, cold sea of stars beyond.
The corners of his mouth curled slightly into a look of anticipation.
"Let's go. I have some things I'd like to discuss with your... 'Parent.'"
...
Following a series of violent jolts, the Thunderhawk Gunship's heavy frame finally broke through the atmosphere filled with acidic clouds and lightning storms, entering the silent, profound vacuum of space.
The moment the shackles of gravity vanished, Clark unbuckled his safety harness and leaned toward the thick, armored viewports.
This was the first time in his life he had truly seen a starship of this universe with his own eyes.
The sight before him gave him—a man possessing the soul-memories of "Ancient Terra (M3)"—a deep sense of cognitive dissonance.
In the depths of his memory—the ancient sci-fi images from the late 3rd Millennium restored by his adoptive father Jonathan using the ship's database—mankind's journey to the stars was supposed to be streamlined, white, and filled with rationality and technological beauty.
Like the Enterprise from Star Trek, or the sleek Star Destroyers from Star Wars.
But this thing before him...
It was essentially a flying Gothic tomb.
The Strike Cruiser, Macragge's Honour.
Kilometers long, it hung in the pitch-black void like an ancient beast forged of steel and faith.
The sides of the hull were covered in hideous gargoyle sculptures, grand flying buttresses, spired towers, and exhaust pipes that looked like pipe organs. Massive macro-cannon arrays pointed into deep space like the quills of a porcupine, each muzzle large enough to fit a building inside.
Inscribed on the side of the hull in massive gilded lettering was High Gothic scripture: "We are the Emperor's Wrath; we bring Death."
At the stern of the ship, massive plasma engines spewed blue flames, the light even more brilliant than the dim red giant star in the distance, looking like the angry breath of a god.
Looking at this, a sense of indescribable shock surged in Clark's heart, along with a trace of sorrow.
This was not just a weapon.
This was faith, this was violence; it was the most hideous steel armor that humanity, in this dark and cruel universe surrounded by enemies, had been forced to don for survival.
Grand, yet permeated with a sense of frantic oppression.
"Is this... the power of the Imperium?" Clark whispered, his fingertips lightly touching the cold glass.
"Yes, My Lord."
Sitting opposite him, Titus puffed out his chest. Though separated by his helmet, his tone was full of pride.
"This is a ship of honor for the Ultramarines Chapter. It once followed Lord Guilliman in his crusade across the stars, crushing countless fleets of xenos and heretics."
At this point, Titus's voice paused slightly. He observed Clark's expression cautiously, his tone becoming somewhat hesitant.
"That... My Lord, although it is offensive, according to the regulations of the Codex Astartes... any returning suspected Primarch target must undergo... uh, some necessary procedures before contacting the Chapter's core."
"Like verification through genetic testing and psychic scanning?" Clark didn't turn around, still looking at the giant ship outside.
"Ye... Yes." Titus lowered his head, cold sweat nearly breaking out. "This is to prevent the disguises of Chaos daemons. After all, Tzeentch is a master of deception. Please forgive our caution."
Asking a demigod who had crushed a Greater Daemon with his bare hands to undergo a "physical exam" by mortals was, in itself, an act of flirting with death.
However, the expected thunderous rage did not descend.
Clark withdrew his gaze and turned around, wearing that signature, reassuring smile.
"It's alright, Titus. Caution is a good thing, especially in this mad universe."
He spoke calmly, his tone filled with absolute confidence.
"True gold fears no fire. I'm also curious to see what 'composition' I am in your ancient databases."
He didn't mind, of course.
The system had already told him that Kryptonian genetic structure—that triple-helix super-gene—was unique in this universe.
Unless the Emperor himself, sitting upon the Golden Throne, jumped down to personally perform a paternity test, even a Regent like Guilliman, armed with the most advanced instruments, could only reach one conclusion:
"Unable to analyze, but absurdly strong, and showing no signs of Chaos corruption."
And in the logic of the Imperium: "Absurdly strong" + "Looks like the Emperor" + "No corruption" + "Unable to Analyze" resulted in only one outcome:
This is a Primarch.
After all, this face was the hardest passport in the entire galaxy.