Chapter 168: Armor Hero! Shiva Visits!
The stained glass of the church refracted a gorgeous halo under the sunset, Ian’s Hellcat parked in the roadside parking space, its engine’s low roar like some uneasy restlessness.
Ian narrowed his eyes, Super Vision piercing the great distance, immediately spotting his eldest brother Jonathan walking out of the church, holding something in his hand.
“Big bro!” Ian pushed open the Car Door, but his voice was drowned out by a sudden burst of bell sound. Jonathan seemed completely unaware, head down, intently researching the object in his hand.
It was a small God statue.
The kind of size that could be inserted into a Belt.
“Baby, this is a real treasure. The statue He gave me can actually unlock God Armor! I knew it, God will indeed respond to every devout Follower.” Jonathan muttered to himself, his cautious posture evoking the vibe of Gollum from Middle-earth—those in the know would understand he was constantly stroking the statue.
Those unaware might think he was clutching the One Ring. Ian’s Super Hearing caught his eldest brother’s mutterings, making him increasingly feel his intuition might not be wrong.
God wants to slack off and use his eldest brother Jonathan as an Alt Account for dating the Goddess! This might be quite an honor, but scenes of the couple Dancing and reminiscing about the Past—who knows what the aftermath would turn into? If the couple takes a stroll in the Bedroom, whose child would the one they produce be—Jonathan’s or God’s?
This might be a philosophical question, but one thing was certain: if that really happened, the Kent Family Home might have to help God raise a new child!
Not far away, his eldest brother Jonathan was extremely excited, completely unaware that every Boon had already been secretly marked with a price, the young man still oblivious to what he would have to pay for it.
“Wait! Big bro! Throw it away! Throw it away! You can’t hold back!” Ian shouted, trying to rush over, but blocked by a garbage truck that suddenly turned.
“Beep beep beep—!!!”
“Clang!!!”
“Are you fucking blind?!”
The entire Street seemed to be against him. The originally sparse Vehicle flow instantly became hopelessly congested. Taxis, trucks, private cars, even an old-fashioned Fire Truck, all squeezed together like mad, engines roaring, horns blaring, the piercing honks forming a soundproof wall.
Jonathan didn’t notice Ian, just walking off into the distance on his own. Due to losing line of sight, Ian couldn’t even Teleport to his eldest brother’s side.
Of course, even if Teleportation succeeded, Ian might not arrive at Jonathan’s side, but due to some “skill malfunction” or the like, end up Teleporting to the Sahara Desert instead.
Look at that—Ian tried to climb over the blocking car, but as he turned around, a truck loaded with Drinks braked hard at that moment, its metal cargo box “clang” opening, hundreds of cases of Drinks rolling onto the ground. The ground was full of shattered bottles and the little Marbles inside, even someone of Ian’s Strength level nearly slipped.
To say there was no Will influencing things from behind the scenes—even if you took out Ian’s Super Brain and put it in the Refrigerator, he wouldn’t believe he could still almost eat shit like a dog right now.
Clever Ian instantly turned into immobile Ian.
“Damn it!”
Ian covered his face, jumped back onto the Hellcat, wanting to make the Hellcat fly up and bypass the obstacles. The Hellcat’s tires retracted, blue Flames jetting from both sides.
However.
The instant the Vehicle lifted into the air.
The sky cracked.
A crimson rift tore across the firmament, as if the Universe had been ripped open. Immediately after, an enormous meteor plummeted from the fissure, Ian’s vision suddenly filled with blinding red light—in a blink, a massive meteor was trailing fire straight down from the sky!
Yes, just that exaggerated, without the slightest concealment. As Ian hurriedly emergency-landed, the meteor eerily dissipated into starlight dots less than a hundred meters from the ground.
Like just a Holographic Projection.
But that scorching heat wave was real enough to curl Ian’s eyelashes.
The weirdest thing wasn’t just the meteor’s disappearance; the pedestrians on the ground continued as if nothing happened, a Mother pushing a Baby stroller even passed through the meteor’s phantom without noticing.
The instant Ian landed, the meteor, along with the sky rift, vanished into thin air, the Street returning to normal, even the Vehicle flow instantly unclogging.
People were completely unaware, as if everything just now was his hallucination.
“Only I can see it?” Ian didn’t know how many times he’d cursed under his breath; when he looked again at where Jonathan had been, it was empty.
Vehicle flow, crowds, gradually dispersing.
“Teleport!” Ian gritted his teeth and activated his ability, Space distorting before his eyes. The next moment, he appeared at the corner where Jonathan last stopped, but only Shredded Paper remained.
Jonathan was nowhere to be found. The Street was deserted, not even a Stray Cat, only a Newspaper fluttering by with a report of an Old Man grinning.
“Big bro moves faster than my Teleport?” Ian ran left and right in the Alley, Super Vision scanning surrounding Streets, even prying open Sewer covers to check. But he still couldn’t find Jonathan’s figure, not even Super Hearing picking up Jonathan’s Breathing or mutterings.
No Jonathan.
No footprints, no scent, no Information at all. Even if Ian pulled out his Mobile Phone to call his eldest brother’s phone, all he got was the “Your phone has been suspended due to unpaid balance” message.
Even the Black Box didn’t work—could only say this wave proved little things really can’t beat old things, pissing Ian off so much he couldn’t hold back cursing God for not playing fair.
“I’m talking about a forty-year-old middle-aged man! An ordinary Employee! Middle-aged man… My big bro’s vibe isn’t likable!” Ian angrily kicked a roadside Soda Can flying.
“Don’t you know middle-aged men’s charm is plenty big? Just like…” Ian’s chatter suddenly stopped, his Super Brain flashing insight, realizing a more serious problem. Cold sweat slid quietly from his forehead as Ian swiftly performed a Sichuan Opera face change.
Previous complaints and annoyance all vanished, replaced by genuine calm.
“Oh, praise you, omnipotent Creator, infinitely great God… If you’ve wronged my big bro, couldn’t you wrong me and my Old Man instead?” As the saying goes, make Jonathan suffer a bit, and the Kent Family can still stay harmonious; if God wants to make Clark suffer, that’s real trouble.
Ian tentatively shouted at the sky.
Naturally, no response, just a gust of wind blowing, picking up a Flyer from the ground—an ad for some esports hotel, printed with “Overnight 500, Heaven experience.”
Across the Street, a disheveled Man was going crazy at the takeout stand. His face full of pustules, wearing a dirty T-shirt printed with various Conspiracy Theories, roaring in broken English-Chinese mix.
“You half-maggot people! Why won’t you let me register as a rider? Am I not American? Bruce Wayne is definitely a spy planted by China!”
“You’re all spies! All want to persecute me! Freedom and Democracy is a scam! You don’t let me be free at all! Listen, if you don’t give me democracy or process my onboarding, I’m going to Mexico!”
“Believe me, it’ll only be your loss. I’ll expose you all! You’ll all be locked up in Guantanamo!” This was a typical illegal immigrant.
Run-and-run representative.
When the homeless man got agitated, the pustules on his face would burst with emotion, foul-smelling Mucus flowing down his cheeks, making surrounding pedestrians avoid him.
This guy’s Provocation caused the conflict to erupt in seconds.
The homeless man calling himself “Half-Maggot Slayer” was still roaring at the air, spitting as he ranted about “Bruce Wayne’s spy network” and “China’s mental castration,” his voice grating, content absurd, but the real Anger shining through the madness acted like a fuse, igniting the takeout station Employees’ irritation.
The crowd surged like a tide. Fists and Feet, Belts, umbrellas, even someone grabbing a roadside bike lock, smashing viciously at the disheveled figure.
“Ah—! Don’t hit me! I’m a patriot! I’m exposing the Truth!” The homeless man let out shrill screams, pustules bursting, blood and Crotch water mixing together.
He curled on the ground, futilely shielding his head, mumbling: “I’d rather scrub Toilets than escape that Hell… But you won’t even let me scrub Toilets!”
This guy even started acting aggrieved.
Ian stood at the street corner, witnessing the whole process. He couldn’t stand watching such a beating scene, so he tsked a few times and turned back to his Hellcat.
“Let’s head home now, block my big bro.” Ian climbed onto the car roof stepping on the tires, preparing to lie on the roof and use his Super Brain to Think of a countermeasure.
“Knock knock~”
A knocking sound suddenly came from the lower car Window at that moment.
Ian Probe downward.
His gaze met a pair of gray-blue eyes. Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s face pressed against the car Window, his soul-like visage distorted like a Fish Tank goldfish through the blast-proof Glass.
“Ian, did you forget something? Like a Psychiatrist locked in the back seat all morning?” Hannibal’s utterly helpless voice came through the Glass. His soul still wore a crisp Suit, Tie impeccable, as if returning from a high-class banquet rather than imprisoned in a Hell creature’s Steel belly.
The air instantly froze.
Even the Hellcat’s engine sound seemed to stall.
Ian blinked.
His face instantly switched to near-innocent innocence: “Of course not, Dr. Hannibal! I just went to handle a little street trouble for a bit…”
Ian’s mouth was definitely the most stubborn part of his body. Hearing this, the “King of Lies” locked beside Hannibal all morning’s expression turned bizarre.
He now maintained Chihuahua form, but that didn’t mean he’d lost his Authority; syllables of “this is a lie” rolled in his throat, yet he dared not speak them. The King of Hell met Ian’s bottomless eyes, all rebuttals turning to whimpers, pathetically spitting out:
“Good thing we don’t need oxygen for Breathing.” Chihuahua-sized King of Lies Belial covered his mouth with claws, round black eyes darting between Ian and Hannibal.
This might be a consoling view, but Dr. Hannibal didn’t quite agree. Luckily, Ian wasn’t too thick-skinned; realizing he had a King of Lies in the car, he decisively chose another countermeasure: “I was always on the roof, of course I didn’t know the situation inside.”
“Oh, right, remember? I’m still a Child. It’s normal for a Child to have a bad memory.” Ian suddenly used a twelve-year-old Boy’s voice, “honestly” admitting his mistake.
He played the aggrieved card innocently again, even controlling his Mimicry to grow beautiful eyelashes dozens of centimeters long for effect, truly making it hard not to scold.
Yes, speechless to the point of silence—how could that not be hard not to scold? Both equally silencing effects; Ian just saw the essence of things. The Hellcat’s Radio suddenly turned on automatically, playing the guitar solo of Hotel California, as if marveling at Ian’s behavior.
“Alright, how about this: I’ll take Dr. Hannibal to revive right now.”
Ian didn’t wait for Dr. Hannibal’s opinion, decisively patting the Hellcat to start the Car, preparing to make up for neglecting Hannibal locked in the Hellcat.
Admit mistakes and correct them.
Of course, that’s the greatest Merit.
Another wave of Merit earned.
At the command, the Hellcat’s engine roared like a fierce beast, dashboard needles all pointing to 666. It floored the accelerator itself, the car shooting out like a rocket.
Tires left burning Claw marks on the asphalt. When the car screeched to a halt before “Ian Manor”‘s wrought-iron Door, Hannibal’s ghost nearly floated from back seat to front.
This complex of buildings wrapped in ivy like a mummy, every Window like bleeding—it was the special residence Crowley gave Ian before.
“Welcome to my little nest!” Ian hopped off the car, sleeve sweeping the dust off two Mother statues with Octopus tentacles at the entrance, cleaning them spotless. He still remembered Darkness [for now, still Aunt] said she was locked below, but after sensing, he detected nothing.
“Perhaps the Seal is very deep, my learning is shallow, powerless.” Ian felt he’d tried his best, at least had an excuse for trying; of course he wouldn’t attempt releasing her.
The Human World is infinitely good now.
Darkness descending isn’t some fun major update.
“Dr. Hannibal,” Ian opened the manor’s Door overgrown with tentacles, gesturing “please,” “Wait in the Living Room first, I’ll be back soon!”
He brought Dr. Hannibal to the Living Room.
In the Living Room, Hannibal elegantly sat on a Sofa stitched from bones, the Chihuahua king curled on the Human Bone Piano, content as if back in Hell.
“I never thought… what Ian said during therapy was actually not delusions or metaphors…” Hannibal surveyed the surroundings—Walls hung with tapestries of living human Skin, Ceiling dangling dried Demon hearts, air filled with bizarre scent of blood and Rose.
At that moment.
A Mona Lisa portrait suddenly rolled its eyes.
It must be the authentic version.
“Doctor, I need psychological consultation. I’ve been trapped in this painting for five hundred years.” The Demon portrait saw through Hannibal’s profession, trying to seduce him but failing.
The Psychiatrist’s soul floated to the Window, looking outside: Ian was humming, dragging a Chainsaw and garden shovel from the Tool shed, digging up bulging dirt mounds like potatoes—perhaps no planting needed for harvest; every shovelful unearthed two or three Living Corpses sprouting like Carrots.
“Wow!”
Ian yanked out a male Corpse in a ballet tutu.
“These Achilles tendons are too perfect!”
He slapped the Corpse’s Ankle like picking a watermelon, satisfied with the hollow echo. Mud flew. Soon, Living Corpses that seemed barely decayed were dragged out—Suit and Leather Shoes Merchants, School Uniform Students, muscle-bound Strong Men, even a Woman in Wedding Dress.
“Hmm…”
Ian, like a picky tailor, squatted in the Corpse pile, scrutinizing carefully.
“These eyes… amber, lively, perfect for ‘Eyes of Insight’…” He snapped out an eye from a female Corpse, stuffing it into his small vial.
“This mouth… perfect curve, born for smiling and lying…”
He twisted off a male Corpse’s lips.
“These legs… wow, long-term Fitness, muscle fiber density extremely high, frog legs none other!” He flipped to a particularly burly male Corpse, pulled down the Pants to inspect, suddenly exclaiming: “Hiss—! Dr. Hannibal, this ‘trouble root’ size is simply a work of art!”
“Just for this, it’s worth me charging Dr. Hannibal! Just like what the salesman told me last time at the 4S shop when I wanted to buy a Sports Car for my Child who definitely hasn’t picked a reincarnation time yet—that timeless wisdom: true premium configs always require payment to select!”
Ian even hoisted the Living Corpse’s massive part, showing it to Dr. Hannibal at the Window.
“????”
Dr. Hannibal’s expression was splendid, unsure where the real Hell was—under his gaze, Ian enthusiastically assembled the Assembled Corpse.
The back garden under sunset like a bombed graveyard. In the entire Living Room, only Dr. Hannibal Lecter remained, facing this hall built of Madness.
He stared at the backyard outside the Window, soul twitching. At that moment, Demon Baal’s true body completed another Evolution, opening its eyes and immediately starting its job.
“Oh! Look at Great God Ian! He’s wielding his world-shocking talent again. Great God Ian always nourishes us with creativity; his Assembled Corpse technique has advanced far beyond the Past!” Baal’s Head rested like an ornament on a walnut Tray, newly grown horns gleaming like asphalt in the Shadow.
Evolution didn’t affect his mad bootlicking of Ian. Chihuahua-form Belial curled on another Genuine Leather Sofa, immediately scratching his ear with hind legs for comedic timing.
“This is objective fact, not a Lie.” It sighed like a merciless lie detector; when it came to Flattery, this King of Hell was no slouch.
“Simply… a work of art. A symphony of Soul and Body should be composed by a master like Great God Ian!” Chihuahua “King of Lies” wagged his tail. He even gestured with small claws, mimicking Ian digging eyes and cutting lips, like a comical sidekick.
Baal and the King of Lies sang in harmony, lavishly praising Ian’s “Masterpiece”; the air filled with demons’ tacit Flattery and awe of Strength. The Walls suddenly oozed pale yellow liquid, emitting bizarre lemon and Hell Sulfur scent—this was Demon Manor’s way of showing pleasure.
“I feel out of place with you all…”
Dr. Hannibal Lecter sat quietly on the bone chair, hands folded on knees, eyes deep as an ancient well. He looked neither at the Corpse nor the two mad Demons, slowly turning gaze to the Window. Ian was still busy in the backyard, figure swaying in moonlight, constantly dragging new “materials” from underground.
Mud flew, Living Corpses piled like mountains. Dr. Hannibal stared at the mountain of Living Corpses for a while; he really didn’t want to ask Ian how many people he’d buried in the backyard.
As a Top Tier Psychiatrist, he knew well—out of sight, out of mind. Hannibal’s ghost turned to the Television, the only object in the room that didn’t look like it’d suddenly bite. The Television sensed the gaze, screen auto-lighting, dozens of eyes yearning to be watched emerging from the tube depths.
“Change mood? I have three hundred hours of Human World Meltdown recordings? Oh, you don’t like, honored guest—what show do you want?”
“Those absurd Human World TV Series? I can grab some actors right now, stuff them in my belly, let you experience true ‘immersion’—their screams straight to your nerve endings via my speakers, guaranteed unprecedented surround sound~”
It might look non-biting, but it was still a Demon Television.
“No need, no need. At this point, I just want to see… normal TV programs. News is fine. I want to know how long I’ve been away from the Human World.”
Hannibal firmly refused, tone resolute; his time sense in Hell wasn’t clear.
“Fine, watching that fake stuff is your loss.” The Television’s “face” gave an exaggerated sigh, as if mocking Hannibal’s “mediocrity.” Of course, as an appliance Demon, it hospitably switched channels, standard news station logo appearing on screen.
First news: Military emergency lockdown of Washington.
Screen switched to Washington D.C., masses of Military armored Vehicles and fully armed Soldiers sealing off White House perimeter. Reporter at the alert line, voice extremely tense.
No one knew what Event happened. Authorities activated highest response level, entire Washington D.C. under temporary martial law. Experts speculated possibly related to the President.
Second news, scene shifted, City Street, a warrior in shimmering Armor Hero suit single-handedly dangling a Gang boss. Other gang members danced a twisted, painful dance uniformly before him, tears of regret streaming. The narrating Reporter was impassioned.
“Armor Hero strikes again! With ‘Spirit Purification’ power, making sinful Souls repent in Dance!” She cried, being an Indian-descended female Reporter, so India might finally have its own Superhero.
Look at that righteous way—quintessential Indian superhero style!
“…”
This wasn’t news Hannibal wanted either.
He had the Demon Television switch channels, bringing up Metropolis news: dim Sewer footage, search team with headlamps searching the muck.
“Metropolis City Hall confirms, in the past week, sixteen Sewer inspectors missing. Search team found massive unknown Mucus and giant Claw marks deep in Pipes. Biologists warn of possible mutation creature from ‘City resentment’ fused with our ‘secretly dumped nuclear wastewater’ evolving underground.”
Reporter’s voice low and honest, but because of that honesty, the feed cut quickly to a breaking Live Stream Event.
Alien creature crawled from Outskirts meteor crater.
It was a dog.
As it lunged at the reporter group, a red-blue shadow flashed— an Orange Cat wearing Superman Cape, chest S emblem stretched to fat “$” shape.
The two creatures battled using Superman moves.
“Superman Cat vs. Alien Dog century showdown!” Reporter screamed filming the two blasting Heat Vision, shockwave flipping him who just opportunistically held his Mobile Phone.
“God! What has Superman… no, what has Superman fucked!”
Even after falling.
This Reporter didn’t forget to Exclamation.
While Hannibal silently despaired, feeling the Human World unworthy, the banquet hall Door burst open. Ian dragged in a stitched Mannequin, scene like a real-doll clearance sale.
The doll had a Greek sculpture nose from some internet celeb dead in plastic surgery, and pianist’s slender fingers, original owner a quite famous Musician.
“My dear Psychiatrist, come, let’s perform the miracle of resurrection!” Ian eagerly showed Dr. Hannibal his latest Masterpiece.
“?????” Hannibal looked down, gaze slowly scanning the Stitched Monster Corpse—especially that exceptionally “majestic” lower body. Silent for seconds, his elegant face finally cracked. No way around it; he’d witnessed just how meticulous Ian’s “Rigorous” was!
He’d seen with his own eyes Ian cut a truly deserving dog waist from a Hellhound, pressing it onto this Body, even carefully inspecting the Hellhound while cutting!
“…”
Dr. Hannibal felt his patient’s Goodwill toward him, yet hesitated to accept it; he’d realized his germaphobia had peaked.
“Ian… how about I prescribe you some meds first, you take them, then we discuss other things?” Hannibal suggested tactfully, ignoring the King of Lies exercising his specialty shrieking this was art.
The air went silent as if voices were drained.
Ian tilted his head, about to say “Doctor, if you don’t like this Body, I can contact some internet Friends, let you pick fresh ones from the morgue yourself—” but the assuring words weren’t fully out.
The Living Room Door suddenly pushed open.
In came the Demon Butler dragging a gaunt, deathly gray-skinned Man. He swayed unsteadily, like he’d fall apart anytime, eye sockets sunken, lips cracked, draped in tattered white robe faintly holy once.
“Who is this…?”
Ian blinked, sensing the other was a God.
“I am Shiva… Child, I’m here to beg you.” The man tremulously raised his head, voice weak as if floating from a grave.
“Please, Ian Kent, go home and talk to your Brother. He can’t see me… but you can. Tell your brother Jonathan Kent to stop borrowing my Strength… I really can’t hold on!” Shiva, like drained dry, aggrievedly shed hot tears.
He directly knelt with a thud before Ian.
Like a wrung-out Elf.
Bawling loudly.
