Chapter 4: From Where?
Seeing Luka's still-tense nerves and wary eyes, the man's smile didn't fade. Instead, it softened with a reassuring warmth.
He slowly lowered his hands, palms facing forward, clearly demonstrating that he carried no weapons, before turning toward the kitchen. His steps were steady, unhurried, carrying the loose, easy rhythm of someone accustomed to life by the sea. The old wooden floor creaked softly under his weight.
"It seems Superman was right. You're a very cautious kid," the man said as he tidied up a few scattered seashells and a small, mud-stained rag near the stove. "My name is Tom. I'm a friend of Superman's."
Luka's heart quickened, his ears perking up.
"When he found you in space, you were barely clinging to life. Your vital signs were so faint they were almost undetectable. He specifically brought you here to recover. My place is by the sea, quiet and peaceful, perfect for healing."
Tom moved with deliberate gentleness, minimizing noise as he tidied up.
Tom? Luka repeated the name silently, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly.
His gaze swept over Tom like a radar beam.
Tom wore faded blue work overalls, the collar stained with barely noticeable salt stains, and his sleeves were casually rolled up.
His exposed forearms were covered in a dense network of fine scars.
The scars varied in depth and appearance. Some looked like marks left by fishing nets, while others resembled scratches from jagged rocks.
At first glance, he certainly looked like a genuine fisherman, born and raised by the sea.
But why?
Luka couldn't recall whether Superman had any fisherman friends.
With so many comics, TV shows, movies, and the concept of multiple universes, his memories of his past life's convoluted worldviews were a tangled mess.
But this was Luka's new reality.
Having suffered over a dozen life-threatening and non-life-threatening injuries in the past decade, Luka was acutely aware of the severity of his condition before losing consciousness.
This was a deep, bone-penetrating wound that no superficial bandage could treat.
The gaping tear across his chest and abdomen was so deep that bone was visible, and the muscle tissue around the wound's edges had already begun to decay.
Two of his ribs had even pierced his pleura, causing excruciating pain in his lungs with the slightest breath.
Even with his regenerative abilities far surpassing those of Earthlings, he would have been unable to walk within days without specialized medical equipment.
Forget ordinary bandages; even the most advanced medical resources on Earth in his previous life would have struggled to save him back then.
It must have been Superman who intervened.
The man who possessed the Fortress of Solitude in the Arctic, who had access to Krypton's advanced technology, and who stood alongside the vast power of the Justice League.
Before losing consciousness, Luka had imagined waking up in some place brimming with impossible technology, like a medical pod in the Fortress of Solitude or the Justice League's satellite base.
But the place he found himself in lacked even basic disinfectants or hemostatic agents.
Countless questions churned and collided in Luka's mind.
He nearly blurted out his questions: Where was Superman? What was the true purpose behind taking him in?
But the words caught in his throat, forcibly suppressed.
Behind the man might still be standing the unfathomably powerful Black-suited Superman.
A being he absolutely couldn't afford to provoke at this point.
Tom approached, carrying a steaming bowl of soup.
It carried a faint seafood aroma, mixed with a familiar, refreshing fragrance.
"I made some seafood soup, simmered with fresh shrimp and clams. I didn't add too many seasonings."
Tom gently placed the bowl on the old wooden table in the living room, pushing it toward Luka.
His knuckles were thick and calloused, and traces of sea mud, stubbornly clinging to the crevices between his fingers, added to his authentic fisherman's appearance.
Luka's gaze fell on the bowl. The milky-white broth was dotted with bright red shrimp and tender white clam meat, making it look appetizing.
He glanced up at Tom, whose eyes met his without wavering, the genuine concern in them seeming sincere.
It was as if Tom truly was just a kind-hearted fisherman, doing his best to care for an injured stranger.
Luka lowered his head in silence for a moment before picking up the spoon beside the bowl.
He took a small sip of the soup. The warm liquid slid down his throat, bringing a long-lost sense of comfort.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Luka set down his spoon and cleared his throat twice, trying to make his voice sound clearer.
He didn't mention his injuries or any suspicions about Superman, simply expressing his gratitude.
For now, he needed to observe and quickly find his footing in this unfamiliar environment.
Disguising himself as a weak and grateful "alien refugee" was currently the safest option.
Only by doing so could he buy enough time to understand this world and investigate whether any traces of Viltrum existed in this universe.
Tom smiled, a warm smile like sunlight on the sea.
He pulled up the chair opposite Luka and sat down, the chair legs scraping harshly against the floor.
His gaze was gentle as he looked at Luka, a hint of inquiry in his eyes, but not so direct as to be off-putting.
"You're welcome," Tom said, his voice still deep and raspy, yet remarkably friendly.
"When Superman brought you here, he briefly mentioned you were from another planet and had run into some trouble. He asked me to take good care of you."
"You look young. Drifting alone in space must have been terribly hard on you. Would you mind telling me about yourself?"
Luka's hand, gripping the spoon, paused slightly. A faint stiffness crept into his fingertips, but he knew in his heart that this question had finally come.
He had long anticipated that even though they had taken him in, they would still want to know about his origins.
"My story?" Luka's eyes glazed over, as if lost in a sudden memory.
"Well, for example, what planet are you from? And... did something bad happen back home?"
Tom's questions seemed casual, like a concerned elder making small talk with a younger person. But each question was carefully probing, precisely targeting key points.
He avoided sounding interrogative, instead adopting a tone of genuine concern to make his inquiries less intrusive.
After all, a sudden alien visitor posed a potential threat to any planet.
Luka, for his part, needed to use Tom to convey "useful" information to Superman and any team behind him, in order to gain their trust.
Only by gaining their trust could he gain access to Superman's technology and figure out the questions that mattered most to him.
He didn't answer immediately, but slowly set down his spoon.
"I'm from Viltrum."
His voice carried a hint of barely perceptible fatigue and hoarseness, as well as an indescribable sense of disgust.
"It's a planet... where combat and conquest are revered."