Chapter 217: Does Superman Have To Die?
In the empty Batcave.
Only Batman, who is disabled in body but firm in spirit, is alone.
He is accompanied by the secrets of the entire world. Water droplets from the cave ceiling drip down, as if silently mourning this eternal solitude, but Batman examines his record content without a care.
Experiment log: Serial number Angel-07.
Gene collapse trigger condition: Removing the suppression bracelet immediately triggers gene collapse.
Gene incompatibility with humans: Estimated 92%, far exceeding the safe threshold （<15%）.
Energy output peak: Cannot be precisely measured, speculated to contain some unobservable energy generator in the angel gene; the explosion triggered by gene collapse can cause planetary-level annihilation.
Subjective experience report: Intense sense of consciousness detachment, emotional module forcibly “purified” toward absolute neutrality, accompanied by severe existential pain.
Risk assessment: Extremely high.
Uncontrollability: Extremely high.
Suggestion for reuse: Use with caution.
Note: Incompatible with “chaos factor” gene, compatibility zero, and may even trigger catastrophic consequences—Kepler 186f’s galaxy is a bloody lesson.
……
The above is the information Batman recorded in his notebook, where 【chaos factor】 is a placeholder for some mysterious name he is cautious enough not to record.
Worth mentioning is the name Kepler 186f, the planet where Superman and other Justice League members prepared a 【mental hospital】 for Batman.
If one were to say there was no personal emotion behind Batman’s experiment causing that planet and its entire galaxy to be utterly destroyed, few would believe it.
“Demons and angels… their genes are so similar. Do I have to suspect that the so-called God got lazy when creating these two species?”
Bruce Wayne’s gaze was sharp as an eagle, repeatedly scanning the just-recorded data on the 【angel】 gene, his fingers unconsciously rubbing his stubbled chin.
That focused expression made it seem as if the entire world was condensed on this glowing screen.
His brain operated at high speed, performing various complex deductions and risk calculations, while also casually mocking God; he would definitely have potential to enter the top five in America’s boldest contest.
“Click~”
At that moment, the thick alloy door in the Batcave, disguised as a rock wall, began to tremble, sliding open quietly with a barely audible hydraulic sound.
Steady and regular footsteps began approaching from outside the door.
With the composure unique to an old-school gentleman.
“Alfred, it’s not time yet.” Bruce didn’t turn around, still staring at the screen, but spoke faintly, calling out that unique nickname in Gotham. Yes, the visitor was Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce’s loyal butler, mentor, and staunchest support.
He wore an impeccable black butler suit, carrying a silver-gray, seemingly heavy metal sealed box in his hand. As this butler hero, who single-handedly raised the average lifespan of superheroes, approached and saw Bruce in the wheelchair, a flash of undisguisable heartache passed through his weathered yet still clear eyes.
“Master, are you alright?”
He could tell Bruce’s condition was poor. Bruce’s face was abnormally pale, like someone recovering from a serious illness, with cold sweat still lingering on his forehead.
The Gotham king’s right hand on the wheelchair armrest still had faint, uncontrollable tremors at the fingertips—all of which escaped Alfred’s eyes.
Alfred gently placed the box next to the workbench without opening it immediately, instead sighing first, his tone full of helplessness and his usual earnest advice: “Master Bruce, forgive my bluntness, but your recent frequency of using quantum neural connection technology to control clones… is simply too high.”
“Even for your enhanced nerves, this level of consciousness projection and sensory synchronization is an enormous burden. I worry you’re walking further down a… wrong path.” Only Alfred could advise Batman like this; he knew at least ten percent of Batman’s secrets.
Compared to the Justice League, where the average member knew only 0.1 percent of Batman’s secrets, this made Alfred by far the most trusted person Batman had on Earth.
“I’m fine.” Bruce finally shifted his gaze from the screen, turning his head to look at the old butler, his face expressionless as he calmly refuted.
“My brain condition is still good, Alfred. I’ve been closely monitoring and recording the relevant neural activity indicators and all physiological levels. The risk is within controllable limits.” He pointed to the computer, “Data after each use is entered into the file, which is monitoring in itself.”
As he spoke, he maneuvered the wheelchair toward the metal box. The box required his retinal and fingerprint dual authentication to open. The lid slid open silently, revealing rows of neatly arranged custom low-temperature test tubes filled with liquids of different colors glowing faintly, along with matching needleless syringes.
“Click!”
Bruce skillfully took out a tube of eerie ice-blue reagent, loaded it into the syringe, rolled up the sleeve of his battlesuit, and unhesitatingly injected the reagent into his vein.
The cold liquid flowed into his body, and he frowned slightly, seemingly feeling some energy being forcibly restrained and suppressed within.
Remarkably, as the reagent was injected, the excessive pallor on his face seemed to regain a bit of color, and the slightly trembling hand stabilized at a visible speed. It was as if some violent force about to break free had been shackled again.
The psyker outburst that had shown signs of rising also instantly fell silent—yes, Batman’s hand had been shaking because his psyker powers had surged due to excessive emotion earlier.
Now.
This power was suppressed once more.
Batman, the pinnacle of mortals, was actively rejecting the supernatural gift countless people craved, and that potion was a suppressant for superpowers.
“Thanks, I’m feeling much better now.”
Putting down the empty syringe, Bruce seemed ready to continue some contingency work on the computer; these measures might be meaningless against Darkseid, but they still had to be done.
“Actually.” Alfred watched Batman’s actions, his brow furrowing tighter, and sighed again, his tone growing deeper.
“Master, what I’m worried about… isn’t just your body.”
His words carried deep concern.
Bruce’s fingers, about to strike the keyboard, paused in mid-air, an extremely odd expression appearing on his face.
“Alfred… you haven’t fallen for those little essays about me written and spread by Ian online, have you? You should know he’s just chasing clout and harvesting something like faith.” Bruce sized up Alfred and asked two questions in a row.
Alfred’s expression turned awkward instantly; he coughed lightly and adjusted his bow tie: “Of course not, Master. I’ve never doubted that you are a… uh… hero with unique behavioral patterns. I’m just an old man who watched you grow up, offering some reasonable concerns.”
He deftly avoided the word “mental illness.”
“Good.” Bruce was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly tugged at the corner of his mouth, showing an expression almost like a “smile,” though it looked a bit stiff.
Alfred stared directly into the Gotham king’s eyes and said slowly: “What I worry about is your psyche. The clone’s death may be tactically insignificant.”
“However… what if you get used to this kind of death?”
“What if, after experiencing death remotely time and again, your reverence for life itself, your sense of your own existence… gradually becomes numb?”
He didn’t spell it out too clearly, but the worry was evident.
“Relax, Alfred. If that day comes and my psychological defenses collapse, turning me into a monster who sees death as nothing, there will be arrangements to end my life.”
In response, Bruce fell silent again, sighed, and changed his expression, trying to lighten the heavy topic with a joke.
“As for if I get used to death and think my real body is also a clone, accidentally getting myself killed, maybe you can use my inheritance to pull some strings.”
“Find professionals to fish me out of hell; it doesn’t seem so difficult now—I think you know who’s handling that business.”
Batman’s joke was clearly changing the subject. It wasn’t funny at all, especially from him, carrying a forced humor.
“…” Alfred looked at Bruce’s eyes, trying to conceal yet appearing more distant, knowing his personality well enough that further persuasion was pointless.
He could only suppress his deep worry, turning it into another helpless sigh, cooperating with Batman’s topic shift, his tone returning to its usual steadiness.
“Alright, Master. Then, can you tell me now what exactly happened? Communications from the Justice League are blowing up; Princess Diana and Barry are extremely anxious. They want to know what happened and why everyone needs to prepare for sacrifice.”
Hearing “Justice League” and “preparation for sacrifice,” the faint forced smile on Bruce’s face vanished instantly, replaced by icy seriousness.
“Actually, originally, it was all of us ensuring Barry could choose to return to the past and reboot the universe under any circumstances, but he seems to have lost awareness of his ability.” He looked up, his gaze piercing through the Batcave’s rock walls to some corner of cosmic deep space.
“That threat.” Bruce’s voice was low and clear, “One of the greatest threats hanging over our Earth, over the entire universe—is about to erupt.”
Alfred was stunned for a moment, instantly realizing who Bruce meant, his face turning gravely serious as he probed.
“Darkseid?”
He did know many Justice League secrets.
“Mm.”
Bruce nodded slowly, confirming the worst guess.
Alfred drew a sharp breath; even he couldn’t stay absolutely calm hearing that name. He immediately thought of the most practical issue, his speech quickening: “Then… should we activate the ‘Ark’ protocol immediately? Should I contact the young masters right away?”
“Perhaps we should first get Master Damian onto the preset refugee spaceship. If I recall, he’s in Metropolis playing with the Kent family kids today.”
In Alfred’s view, ensuring the Wayne family bloodline’s continuation was the top priority now.
However, Bruce shook his head.
“No need, Alfred.”
He sighed as he spoke.
“Why?” Alfred was puzzled, “At least give the children a chance…”
“Because Apokolips.” Bruce interrupted, dropping the earth-shattering news, “Darkseid’s home base has been completely destroyed by who knows what person or force. Not even a scrap left.”
Alfred’s eyes widened in shock; this news was even more unbelievable than Darkseid’s impending arrival. Apokolips… the core of that dark empire!
Just… gone?
Bruce continued analyzing in his emotionless tone, as if stating an unrelated fact: “This means Darkseid has lost his foundation, his army source, everything. He’s now a true, unrestrained lone wolf. Anger and destructive desire will consume all his reason.”
“If… if we ultimately fail to stop him, with his personality, he won’t be satisfied with mere conquest. He’ll eradicate every root, use every means to hunt to every corner of the universe, ensuring no potential threat survives.”
“In this situation, do you think those hundreds of weakly powered, obvious-target refugee spaceships we built have any meaning for survival before a furious dark lord? They’re just delaying despair, or even tools for Darkseid to torment us.”
“Humanity’s fireseed is no longer suitable for preservation this way.” Batman’s eyes were terrifyingly calm, even carrying a trace of cruel foresight of the outcome.
Alfred fell silent. He knew Bruce was right.
When destruction is all-encompassing and indiscriminate, running loses meaning. This is no longer conventional war, but an ultimate judgment of victory or total annihilation.
Bruce turned his gaze back to the workbench, but his eyes seemed unfocused. He leaned back in the wheelchair, head tilted up toward the vast, simulated starry sky on the Batcave ceiling. His voice was very soft, with a hint of imperceptible fatigue, yet undeniable resolve.
“I’ve done what I can… clipped his wings, limited the battlefield to him as much as possible.” He meant destroying that secret arms factory.
“Next…”
His words paused slightly, as if gazing toward that real, ongoing fierce battle in cosmic deep space.
“It depends on whether Clark can hold out.”
As the words fell, the Batcave fell silent again. Only the computer’s hum continued, like a silent footnote to a world’s fate.
“Mm.”
Alfred stood by, looking at Bruce in the wheelchair, his heart filled with indescribable heaviness. He knew this crisis facing Earth might far exceed any before. And hope seemed pinned on that figure under the stars, in blue bodysuit and red cape.
As always.
Speaking of trust.
With age, Bruce had always trusted Clark deeply; even this paranoid, mentally ill-level suspicious man had to admit Superman truly possessed the divinity of humanity’s hope.
“However…”
Alfred stood silently by.
His voice hesitant.
His white eyebrows furrowed tightly. He knew Darkseid’s terror well—a true dark deity whose strength far surpassed any threat Earth had faced. Pinning all hope on Superman alone, even if it was Superman, seemed too risky and… desperate.
After a pause.
The butler hero couldn’t hold back.
“Master, if… I mean if, Mr. Kent ultimately… can’t hold out? Do you have… any other backup plan for that?”
He couldn’t help stepping forward, his voice filled with unprecedented worry.
The usually gentlemanly, high-EQ butler hero avoided words like “defeat” or “death,” but his intent to gain some reassurance was obvious.
Alfred wasn’t worried about a headshake.
After all, in Alfred’s mind, Batman always had Plan B, even Plan Z. This man wouldn’t put all his eggs in one basket.
Especially not the basket of Earth’s survival.
“This…”
Bruce didn’t answer immediately.
He pondered, seemingly weighing something, fingers unconsciously tapping lightly on the wheelchair armrest. In the dim light, his profile looked especially cold and hard.
Seconds later, he spoke slowly, voice calm: “Before… there were similar contingency plans. Including activating the ‘Doomsday Protocol,’ uniting all remaining forces for final resistance, or attempting dangerous deals with certain ancient existences…”
Alfred listened quietly; he knew some of these plans, each with huge risks and uncertainties.
However, Bruce changed tack: “But now, I’ve found a… more effective plan.”
“More effective plan?” Alfred’s curiosity was piqued. Something Bruce rated as “more effective,” seemingly replacing all previous complex plans?
What could it be?
“Mm.”
Bruce had no intention of hiding from his closest partner and family.
He turned to Alfred, his blue eyes gleaming with near-cold rational light in the screen’s glow.
“This plan’s execution,” Bruce said clearly, “depends on whether Clark dies in battle.”
Alfred was stunned: “This… what’s the difference?”
He didn’t quite understand.
Why tie the plan’s activation to Superman’s life or death. Was it the clone Superman plan, or using Superman’s corpse to revive him as some zombie?
As Alfred followed this line of thought.
“Not much difference.” Bruce’s tone remained flat, like discussing dinner, “But in the procedure, there’ll be one subtle difference.”
He paused, then said something that made Alfred almost doubt his ears: “If Superman dies in battle, I’ll immediately find Ian Kent.”
“Then I’ll tell him—Superman was brutally tortured to death by Darkseid, suffering unimaginable pain before death, maybe not even a complete corpse left.”
“I’ve rendered plenty of AI videos for that.” Bruce’s plan was indeed unexpected; perhaps only Joker could resonate with him.
No wonder they’re soulmates.
“…”
Even Alfred couldn’t quite follow this development.
The old butler’s eye twitched uncontrollably; he opened his mouth but found himself speechless, unsure how to respond to this… bizarre “plan.”
The Batcave fell into over ten seconds of dead silence. Alfred struggled to process the information, trying to grasp the deeper meaning, but his logic couldn’t keep up.
After a long while, he regained his voice, dry and incredulous: “Then… what if Superman doesn’t die out in space?”
Bruce actually lowered his voice slightly, like sharing a secret, but what he said made Alfred even more collapsed.
“That’s the extra step I mentioned—”
Alfred held his breath.
“You can figure out this extra step yourself; in the end, I’ll still tell Ian Kent that Superman was brutally tortured to death by Darkseid, how painful it was before death.”
Batman turned into a repeater.
Profoundly meaningful.
“？？？？？？”
Alfred was completely baffled; this time, not just his eye twitching, the old butler felt his entire facial muscles spasming uncontrollably.
Looking at Bruce’s still expressionless face, a massive sense of absurdity and helplessness washed over him.
So… the difference is… no difference?! Whether Superman lives or dies, the message Master ultimately conveys to Ian Kent is the same?!
Ian Kent is the so-called backup plan? Then what is that “extra step”? Kill the undefeated Superman first then report?!
The butler hero dared not think further.
Bruce’s personal trust in Clark Kent might be warm and solid, but Batman’s attitude toward “Superman” as a combat resource was clearly a bit… indescribable.
“The three kids raised by the Kent family aren’t ordinary, especially the last one.” Bruce seemed oblivious to the butler’s inner turmoil.
He turned his gaze back to the computer screen.
Tone flat.
As if they’d just discussed an ordinary tactical arrangement.
Meanwhile, in Metropolis.
Ian’s once tidy new new new home was now ruins again.
However.
Not his fault.
Broken walls, furniture fragments scattered everywhere, clearly from some intense impact, and the culprit was the Batmobile still parked unscathed in the ruins.
Now.
It had been claimed as compensation, plastered with a big photo of Ian himself, replacing the previous bat symbols. Ian was busy digging out the refrigerator from the ruins with his hands.
“Achoo!”
Suddenly.
Ian let out a massive sneeze.
His hands, mimicked as an entrenching tool, nearly reverted to original form.
He rubbed his nose, then turned seriously to Raven beside him, who was hugging her arms and leaning against a tree skewed by the shockwave: “Definitely some unknown who-who is secretly crushing on me at night. It’s just my charm with nowhere to go; don’t worry, my cold won’t infect you.”
Ian was as gentle and considerate as ever.
Though few could understand.
Raven wore a deep blue hooded robe, maintaining a mysterious quiet even in this environment.
She raised a skeptical brow first, then, seeing Ian’s dead-serious look, couldn’t help asking oddly.
“You sure?”
Raven thought Ian’s narcissism had worsened several levels since their last school meeting, and she dared not imagine who would crush on someone absent at night—that image was a bit risqué, but educational.
In response.
Ian had already seen Raven’s dirty mind.
“Don’t disbelieve; though I wouldn’t do that, always keeping pure, I checked—Stocking Superman’s body double uses more material, and crowds are crowdfunding on sites, factories pricing way higher than Homelander’s body double!”
“Oh, right, you know who Stocking Superman is?”
As he spoke.
Ian was practically pointing at himself.
Raven was truly speechless; she sensed no lewd intent from Ian, just pure bragging.
“No, I don’t have one of those either; what are you bragging to me about!” Raven’s forehead instantly sprouted black lines; of course she knew what Ian meant.
“No worries, we’re bros; you gave me Sangong Mo, I’ll give you a hot-swappable one—easy to hang on pants, hand, or forehead. Anyway, America is all about freedom; this’ll help you blend into the Titans’ LGBT crowd. I have tons of angels; pick who you like, I’ll pull hers for you.” Ian wasn’t great at pleasing others.
But he knew, to exclusively claim Sangong Mo, he had to learn to please the woman before him.
“Hurry up and dig!”
Helpless Raven, unable to handle Ian’s enthusiasm, could only change the subject.
“Oh right! Business first!” Ian nodded as if just remembering the purpose. But he didn’t bend down to dig; instead, he turned with expectant eyes to Raven.
Raven’s forehead sprouted more black lines.
Seeing Ian staring with just his eyes.
She had no choice.
She started her song again.
“Invincible Ian, dig dig dig, he’s in… his little garden… digging digging…” Raven had been repeating this.
Now she hummed it again, extremely reluctantly.
Hearing this accompaniment.
Ian finally satisfied, dug happily in the Kent family home ruins amid Raven’s demonic-curse-like nursery rhyme, unearthing the deeply buried refrigerator.
He had already heard Demon Baal snoring in the refrigerator.
