Chapter 237: Kent Family, Average Schemer Heroes
At the edge of the universe, Darkseid reshapes his legion in the void under Miss Death’s gaze; deep in hell, Sangong Mo’s wrath stirs his followers into action; inside the Batcave, Bruce is at his wits’ end dealing with the “public opinion storm” launched by Green Arrow… Miss Death even seems to have betrayed Ian.
Even Darkseid still cannot fathom Miss Death’s intentions—this might be a little-known secret, and no one knows what Miss Death truly saw at the end of time in the DC universe.
In any case.
Returning to the present time.
Miss Death, just as the woman who took her to the end of time prophesied, has taken the lead in plotting Ian’s fated death for him.
And all of this.
Ian, who ties all these events together, is now fast asleep in his Demon Manor located in the bustling area of Metropolis, a gift from the King of Hell.
Ian is sunk deep into a mattress as soft as clouds.
Covered with a blanket woven from succubus fluff, don’t ask where the fur came from; a satisfied and serene smile hangs on his lips, and he’s even letting out soft little snores.
It is clear.
Ian is indeed having a sweet dream.
The dreamscape is bizarre and fantastical.
Filled with Ian-style super logic and business fantasies.
He seems to be in an enormous, futuristic interstellar dock, his great bust occupying almost every visible spot in the entire interstellar dock.
Countless mechanical arms are busy loading crates of snapping crabs onto oddly shaped cargo spaceships.
“Yes! Yes! These ones, haul them all to Mars! I’ve already built pools there, ship all the crabs over, raise them for a couple days, then bring them back!”
“Don’t call them bath crabs, that’s so tacky. Get a Mars residency for every crab, and they’re genuine Mars crabs! Just ask if they haven’t settled down on Mars!”
“I’ve got the ad slogan ready—ultimate delicacy from the red planet, one bite feels like embracing all of Mars! Sell one crab divided into ten plates to New Yorkers, Londoners, Parisians, oh, and of course the bosses from the East.” In the dream, Ian is immersed in his interstellar business empire.
Completely unaware that the outside world is already in turmoil because of him.
Another thing he failed to notice while sleeping is the three youths—blood brothers Jordan and Jonathan, plus casual acquaintance Damian—intentionally or unintentionally “forgotten” by him and everyone else’s fathers in the ruins of St. Caesar’s Church. They were supposed to blow in the cold wind all night and grow a bit.
However.
After all, three smelly cobblers together make a Zhuge Liang.
In the church ruins, the night wind grows colder.
Damian Wayne can’t help but sneeze again, feeling his nose tip nearly frozen stiff. He glances at Jonathan and Jordan Kent beside him, who are equally tightly bound but look much better than him, and can’t help speaking up again, his tone laced with irrepressible frustration and unease.
“So, no one’s really coming to save us, huh.”
Even he, slow on the uptake, has started to realize this.
Jordan tries to move his wrists; the ropes enhanced by Raven’s magic remain tough. “Stop complaining, Damian. Save your energy and think of a way.”
“A way? What way could we have?”
Damian says irritably, “These ropes have magic; brute force won’t break them. We’re not like Dick Nightwing or Jason Red Hood, experts at escaping ropes…”
At that moment, Jonathan, who had been mostly silent, suddenly seems to think of something!
“Wait! Jordan… I remember Ian saying Kryptonians can overcome kryptonite suppression. If you try, you can cure your sensitivity to kryptonite.”
“Yes, self-desensitization. Ian is the smartest among us brothers, the one who knows Kryptonians best. Didn’t Old Man listen to his explanation and stop fearing kryptonite?”
Jonathan is the child at home who communicates most with Clark, so he knows some details about his Superman dad’s physical changes.
“There’s such a thing?” Jordan pauses, then closes his eyes and focuses. Sweat beads on his forehead from the effort. Minutes later, just as Damian is about to lose hope, there’s a soft “snap,” and the ropes binding Jordan’s hands actually loosen a bit!
Jordan resists the kryptonite!
He regains a tiny bit of super strength!
“It works!” Jordan whispers excitedly. “It’s weak, but I can feel it! The kryptonite’s suppression on my superpowers isn’t as strong!”
“Ian really knows everything.”
He feels admiration for his little brother again.
Seeing hope, the three immediately perk up.
Jonathan and Damian keep cheering Jordan on, while Jordan focuses entirely, channeling all his mental energy to hypnotize himself into believing kryptonite can’t affect him.
And it actually works.
The American drama trope where offspring have greater potential than their predecessors is now slightly manifesting in Jordan; as a youth, he has touched the threshold of ancestral “I reckon” power.
Time passes minute by minute, the stars in the night sky slowly shifting.
Finally, after over an hour of grueling effort—
“Click!”
A clear snapping sound rings out! The ropes on Jordan’s wrists break!
“Success! I knew I could do it! I’m… I’m Superman!” Jordan shouts excitedly, immediately reaching to untie Jonathan and Damian.
The three are finally free, all thrilled beyond measure, stretching their stiff, numb limbs and gulping cold air, feeling reborn.
“Phew… finally shook off that damn kryptonite effect!” Jordan exhales deeply, feeling solar energy gradually reviving in his body, and confidently pats his chest.
“Even holding kryptonite in one hand, I can fly back!” Jonathan quickly finds his belt discarded by Raven in a pile of junk in the corner and straps it on. He twists a switch on the belt, uploads a Clark Kent statue, and a faint bio-electric field covers his body.
“Don’t worry, I can fly too.”
Perhaps the eldest brother at home was the first to awaken “I reckon” power; he actually borrows a bit of strength from his dad via the Clark Kent statue.
“What about you?” Both turn their gazes to Damian.
“What about me?”
Damian looks at the two ready-to-fly Kryptonian kids, then down at himself. His usually arrogant young face shows rare embarrassment and helplessness.
“Um…” He clears his throat, trying to stay calm. “Though I’m Batman’s son, regrettably, here’s a fun fact no one knows: my father wasn’t actually bitten by a radioactive bat, so… genetically, I don’t have independent flight capability yet.”
Damian, being Ian’s fan, knows Ian’s Batman mutation theory he spread, assuming everyone believes it as deeply as he does—until the Gucci belt’s mad whipping. He looks up at Jordan and Jonathan, asking in as natural a tone as possible.
“You two… mind giving me a lift?”
Damian rarely asks for help.
He’s desperate now; he doesn’t want to wander Seattle’s freezing, deserted night streets—who knows if creeps out there fancy him.
“No problem, Damian, I’ll take you…”
Jonathan, kind-hearted, immediately nods.
However.
“Wait!”
Before he finishes, Jordan pulls him back.
In Jordan’s eyes, somewhat like Ian’s, a familiar glint flashes— Ian’s contagious money-grubbing shrewdness that Jonathan knows well.
Sure enough.
Jordan leans in to Damian, flashing a commercial smile, rubbing his fingers. “Give you a lift? Of course, Master Damian! But… it’s the middle of the night, heavy-load flight, high-risk physical labor… care to… show some appreciation?”
No wonder hanging with capitalist Ian taints you; once touched by that aura, you really know how to seize money-making chances.
Damian: “…”
He’s seen demands for money.
But not such direct hints for cash.
He’s clearly choked by Jordan’s blatant “paid service.”
Of course, though charging teammates for transport is rare, as a Wayne young master, he’s seen all sorts of unusual scenes.
“As expected of Mr. Kent’s brother, you’ve picked up a trick or two.” Damian doesn’t hesitate, even giving Jordan a thumbs-up.
“Money? Here, take it. How many tons? Give me an address, I’ll have cash delivered straight to your warehouse? Or I’ll take you to the bank Old Man runs and we load up?”
No wonder Batman spawned a demon spawn like Damian—he’s utterly wicked. He even lifts his chin slightly, exuding top-tier second generation rich nonchalance toward money.
“Se… several tons?!”
Jordan’s eyes go wide at the lavish unit, breath quickening, smile brighter, even fawning.
Where has he heard money counted by weight?
“Deal! Master Damian, I suddenly find you much more likable—must be your kingly aura. Hold on! Jonathan! What are you spacing out for!”
He shoves his dazed brother. “Quick! Find a sofa for the young master! Put it on my head! Won’t feel right taking the money without top service!”
Jordan’s speaking in Ian-isms.
“Wait… Jordan, you’ve been hanging with Ian too much, huh?” Jonathan watches his brother turn lackey, facepalming with a sigh. He gets it now—these two brothers are “geniuses” cut from the same cloth at making money!
“Fine, I want no money. Just don’t mention my name if Old Man blames you.” Grumbling aside, Jonathan dutifully scans around, looking in street-side piles of discarded secondhand furniture for the cleanest, sturdiest sofa or chair.
Like in many TV series, in America, the land of freedom and democracy, many households put unneeded old furniture, appliances, etc., by the road with a “FREE” sign for anyone to take. But this habit isn’t purely from “kind hearts.”
After all.
Many phenomena once flattered by big colonists boil down to one factor—poverty. Poverty breeds thriving secondhand markets and this unique “street sharing.”
Not just that many can’t afford new furniture, new goods, even new kettles, making secondhand markets boom. Most road-side free furniture are unsellable in those markets; otherwise, owners pay hefty disposal fees.
Yes, the so-called American habit of helping the needy is really just economic pressure avoiding costly trash fees.
Giving away clears space and saves cash.
Why not?
Just play along with America’s official beautification propaganda—who’d tell outsiders large trash disposal here is outrageously expensive?
Precisely because of this.
Large furniture often lines streets; Jordan just has Jonathan search these “trash” piles, giving Master Damian at least a soft berth.
Thus, on a deserted Metropolis street late at night, this bizarre scene unfolds: three young heroes freshly escaped from ordeal don’t rush home or call parents, but scavenge roadside piles of junky old furniture like ragpickers.
Jonathan seeks the least dirty; Jordan picks the most luxurious but broken ones; Damian, Gotham’s richest heir, joins eagerly, showing huge interest in “trash picking”!
‘This carved wardrobe has a broken leg, but the wood is genuine rosewood… Wow, this sofa is real leather, just too cat-scratched… Fun! So fun! I’ll have Alfred prep a pile like this in the Batcave—new post-training entertainment!’
Rich people’s hobbies are so simple.
Jonathan, hearing Damian’s excited tone, looks up at him like a monster: “You think trash picking is fun?”
“My god, are all rich people this abstract?” It doesn’t match Jonathan’s image of the rich; he thinks Damian should be a playboy second-gen.
Facing Jonathan’s astonishment.
Damian hasn’t reacted yet.
“How dare you talk to my dear Master Damian like that?!”
Jordan jumps in to defend his “patron,” pointing at Jonathan: “Watch your attitude! Or I’ll pay Ian to spike your precious protein powder with saccharin!”
What a potent threat! Jonathan shudders thinking of Ian’s sneaky pranks and Jordan likely teaming up for it. He mimes zipping his mouth shut.
The three bicker on—mostly Jonathan and Jordan—while Damian watches eagerly; they trudge along the quiet street.
Their eyes scan abandoned furniture for targets. Walking, they stop at the door of a grand villa with a private garden.
Something special outside, seemingly free for any passerby, draws Jonathan, Jordan, and Damian’s eyes.
Not the usual broken sofas or chairs.
But an exquisitely crafted statue.
An angel statue.
About human-height, carved from some pure white stone, masterfully detailed and lifelike. The angel’s head is bowed, hands clasped at chest in prayer or silent mourning. Folded wings behind show every feather clearly.
The workmanship screams expensive.
Even in dim night and sparse street lamps, the statue emits serene, holy light, contrasting sharply with surrounding junk.
“Wow…” Even worldly Damian gasps. “This craftsmanship… absolute master’s work. Who’d throw this out?”
Jonathan frowns: “Looks… brand new, no damage.”
Jordan’s eyes gleam with greed: “This thing… must be valuable? Maybe an antique! Should we video call Ian for appraisal?”
“Better not, he has bad morning temper.”
Jonathan stops him, still shaken.
“Your idol appraises antiques too?”
Damian discovers yet another of Ian’s amazing skills.
Chatting.
The three instinctively circle the angel statue, a mix of curiosity, admiration, and odd allure tugging at them.
“Did it… just move?” After their eyes shift for talk, refocusing on the statue, they spot something off.
The moment their gazes left.
The angel statue.
Seems to have stealthily… lifted its bowed head.
