Superman stood by the window of the half-finished wooden house, gazing at the roadside recruitment banner in the direction of Gotham. Not only was his eye twitching, but the muscles in his cheek were also uncontrollably jumping.
There was no way around it.
His father's eyes and ears were too effective.
He not only saw Ian successfully fooling a group of powerless angels, but also heard Madison yelling through a megaphone in broken Latin about the "Heavenly Re-employment Project."
"Plu-plu-plu."
The demon ox-head made a cautious noise.
Upon seeing Superman's increasingly distorted expression, this Hellish creature completely panicked. It clearly thought its poor imitation had angered the Man of Steel.
Otherwise.
There was no explaining why Superman, who usually possessed the greatest self-control, couldn't even control his facial muscles.
"This was all forced on me by Lord Ian!" The demon ox-head suddenly executed a sliding kneel, its head skidding three meters across the wooden floor, stopping right at Superman's feet, weeping bitterly, "I don't want this either! I'm just a very ordinary trash can! But Lord Ian insisted that I learn from those other dirty demons and use my voice to mislead you—"
Its demonic nature and instinct were clearly triggered. The creature secretly glanced up at Superman's grim face, its voice becoming softer and filled with terror and unease.
"P-please don't crush my head..."
How could it not be afraid?
The demon ox-head knew that the Superman before him was becoming increasingly unnatural in his power, with subtle divinity flickering around him. Heaven knew what version of Superman it had encountered.
"Just shut up." Superman rubbed his temples with a sigh. Turning around, he saw Jordan standing at the doorway, staring intently at the demon head on the floor.
Clark's muscles trembled uncontrollably again—don't forget, he was Superman who could hear heartbeats now. He knew exactly what his second son was thinking, even if he didn't say it out loud.
Of course, the demon ox-head didn't have this ability, but it did have demonic sensory methods. Seeing Jordan's strange gaze, it was so scared that its entire head began to rapidly lose color.
"Don't let him come near! Please! Superman!"
It was hard to imagine a day when a demon would beg Superman for help.
"..."
Superman directly put the demon head into a wooden box. The demon head didn't refuse, instead, it felt a sense of security. Superman sent it, box and all, directly to the North Pole.
The Fortress of Solitude.
The round trip didn't take much time for the current Clark. He also brought back Lois, who had been settled in the Fortress of Solitude, and throughout the journey, Lois hadn't stopped bombarding him with complaints.
The father's mood was naturally heavy.
Returning to the new-new home, the father saw Jordan still peering out the window.
"Get out and work!" Superman grabbed Jordan by the collar and strode toward the door. Just as he sighed in relief, he heard Lois, who had put down her luggage, speak up with dissatisfaction.
"What does Ian mean by saying you won't let him buy me a mansion because of jealousy?" Having regained phone signal, Lois held her phone and saw the delayed text messages she had just received.
"Meow meow meow~"
An orange cat poked its head out of the handbag at her feet. It affectionately rubbed Lois's ankle, knowing she had high-quality canned food, and was successfully picked up and cuddled by Lois, using an extremely clingy kitten meow.
"Well? Speak up."
Lois held up her phone.
She showed Clark Ian's five-thousand-word essay, which was written in the dramatic style. It was very logical that the impressionable young master would be a tattletale. Superman felt this was the hardest day since his birth.
"You know Ian likes to exaggerate sometimes... The small house is quite cozy, and besides, we should lead by example and not encourage Ian's extravagant spending."
Clark's super-brain was now being utilized for scenarios like this.
He thought on his feet.
He gave an answer full of "family wisdom."
It made sense.
But women often didn't like to talk about logic.
"Is that so?"
Lois raised an eyebrow, scrolling on her phone screen, "But he said he earned the money himself, through the difficult work of getting hammered for eighty bucks a pop from Bruce."
The mother looked up at Clark.
"I think perhaps he just wanted to show us filial piety?"
A woman's mindset is naturally more emotional. Thinking about Ian working a black-market job for Bruce to earn money to buy her a big mansion made her heart feel incredibly warm.
Of course.
There was also the reason that Lois would absolutely love to live in a mansion.
Every woman dreams of living in a mansion.
"..."
Clark couldn't find a reason to refute Lois's statement, after all, Ian wasn't entirely wrong—Ian's essay to Lois was terrifyingly effective.
An essay with truths and falsehoods mixed together.
The truth part was truly hard to resist.
"We like a big house too, actually."
Jordan, after being dragged out, was processing timber with Jonathan. He seized the opportunity to express his demand to Clark, and even roped in the indifferent Jonathan.
"You can earn money through legal means to buy what you want." Clark lectured earnestly, but the second brother didn't gain any deep enlightenment.
"I'm earning it, I'm earning it."
The second brother had already found his own way to make money.
But Clark's mind-reading ability saw right through his thoughts.
"Jordan, I've warned you. Registering with those less active superheroes and selling them so-called Kryptonian health supplements is not a legal means."
Clark was very helpless, trying to steer Jordan back to the right path in a low voice—however, he noticed that Jordan's mind was now leaning toward selling Kryptonian sperm to private clinics.
"...."
The father was completely dumbfounded.
He clearly faced the most difficult Kryptonian crisis in history.
"They're not ordinary health supplements."
"I really do put some of my blood in them. How can that not count as genuine Kryptonian health supplements? If I don't sell them, Ian will eventually drag me to his health supplement processing plant anyway."
Jordan didn't know his thoughts had been completely seen through. He responded self-righteously, clearly, like Lois, he enjoyed secretly reading Ian's notebooks.
However, Lois liked to read Ian's diary, while he, after awakening his super-brain, realized he could sneak a peek at Ian's [Business Plan] when Ian was out.
Of course.
Here, Jordan's description of Ian's grand scheme was slightly exaggerated. The [Business Plan] actually detailed plans to trick him into becoming a tester in a silicone mold processing plant.
"....."
The father's silence was always so resounding.
Fortunately, only he could hear Jordan's thoughts.
Lois was more concerned about tonight's accommodation. She stroked the cat that had popped out of her handbag, looking at the unfinished wooden bed.
"I think the headboard should be ergonomically designed, making it comfortable for us to lean on when reading and studying at night." Lois made a request to the working Jonathan.
"No problem."
The older brother immediately agreed.
"You look quite skilled." Lois sat on the half-finished wooden sofa, gently stroking the orange cat in her arms, but her eyes were fixed on the headboard Jonathan was carving.
She watched her son, wearing the mysterious armor, wildly wielding the carving knife on the wood. Amidst the flying sawdust, a distorted human figure gradually took shape—it was a bizarre image, like someone performing a belly dance, with limbs twisted at impossible angles, and a face with a half-smile, half-grimace expression.
"."
Lois's hand petting the cat suddenly stopped.
"Honey." She tried hard to remain calm, her tone somewhat strained. "I don't think this is ergonomic design... Are you carving a dancing person on it?"
"Hahaha~"
Jordan laughed until his stomach hurt.
Jonathan, in his armor, scratched his head awkwardly. He looked at the tool in his hand, "Uh, I actually didn't want to carve it like this... but it just happened on a whim."
The carving knife in his hand moved again, attempting to correct the twisted human figure. However, after his "adjustment," the figure on the headboard gradually changed from a twisted person to an even more twisted one.
Now, that "person" looked like they were performing some kind of cult ritual.
"So, is the price of wearing this armor that your sense of aesthetics is affected?" Lois took out a bottle of wine she carried in her handbag.
She was trying hard to accept and understand the current situation. The mother had heard about Jonathan's situation and, while shocked, she was actually happy for him.
After all, she had always been most worried that Jonathan, lacking powers, would develop psychological issues due to his ordinary status. So, even now, she was trying hard to consider Jonathan's feelings.
"I don't know either."
Jonathan answered truthfully, but his hands didn't stop working. Sawdust continued to fly, and the carving on the headboard now resembled an indescribable tangle of lines.
Vaguely, three intertwined human figures could be discerned.
Lois's expression became increasingly fascinating.
She drank heavily from the wine.
"Let me do it."
Clark finally couldn't bear it. His eyes glowed red. His heat vision accurately swept across the headboard, smoothing out the bizarre carvings and reshaping them into flowing, ergonomic curves.
"You guys don't actually need to be so meticulous. In fact, Dad, Mom, have you ever considered that if you don't let Ian buy the mansion, he'll find a way to blow up the house eventually?"
Jordan stopped being the laughing Jordan.
Instead, he sat on the half-finished wooden sofa and muttered softly. As the second brother who had been closest to Ian since childhood, Jordan understood some of Ian's behaviors far better than the rest of the family.
"..."
Clark's heat vision froze, and Lois's wine glass stopped at her lips. Just as everyone seemed to have been reminded by Jordan.
A knock suddenly came from outside the door.
"Knock, knock, knock."
The rhythm was steady, neither fast nor slow.
It somewhat broke the strange atmosphere inside the house.
"I'll get it." Lois looked back at the house three times. A mother knows her son, and she felt there was merit in Jordan's words, so she wanted to take a good, long look at the new-new home.
The mother was starting to develop a sixth sense.
She already judged that they probably wouldn't live in this new-new house for long—perhaps this was the superpower every woman possessed. Lois's intuition proved to be incredibly fast.
Lois opened the creaking wooden door, and standing outside was a middle-aged man in a neat suit. He had slicked-back hair and wore the amiable smile of a good-natured person.
He was holding a delicate briefcase.
"May I help you?"
Lois asked in surprise. She didn't recall seeing this man among the neighbors, and at this wicked time, most people wouldn't visit strangers.
"Is this Ian Kent's temporary shelter?"
The man showed an even friendlier smile, his demeanor almost overly humble, "I'm Phil Dunphy, the ace real estate agent for Modern Realty."
Hearing this.
Lois's eyelid twitched.
Phil had already pulled out a gold-embossed business card and handed it over with both hands: "I have found the perfect property for Mr. Ian Kent that completely meets his requirements."
With that.
Phil also pulled out an exquisite photo album.
"We don't actually need to move." Lois maintained a polite smile, but her gaze involuntarily darted toward the bed headboard behind her, which Jonathan had carved beyond recognition.
Phil seemed to have anticipated this. He wasn't disappointed at all, he simply handed the album to Lois, "Mr. Ian Kent told me that I also need to help him convince his beloved, extremely stubborn parents who enjoy reminiscing about past hardships."
He looked somewhat emotionally at the rickety wooden structure, thinking Ian's description was quite accurate. A family with so much money living in a rustic wooden cabin gifted by nature.
It was truly unexpected.
Of course.
Phil felt he could understand.
Many rich people like to play the pig to eat the tiger once their material needs are satisfied.
"How do you plan to convince me?" Lois opened the first page of the leather photo album, and a modern mansion covering nearly a thousand square meters leapt into view.
Panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows, smart home systems, a temperature-controlled pool with massage functions... and a large wine cellar.
"It's truly beautiful." Lois's finger lightly traced the spacious and bright kitchen in the photo, her tone apologetic, "However, it doesn't look like a place we can afford to live in."
This was clearly an attempt to gently decline Phil.
"This house is currently on a thirty percent discount sale, and I contacted the homeowner. He is a very benevolent rich man who said he would assist Mr. Ian Kent, who is interested in buying, to convince you." Phil lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret that couldn't be told to others.
Lois was about to ask further when Clark arrived, having heard the commotion.
"Oh? How does this rich man you speak of plan to convince us?" His super-hearing had already caught the entire conversation. The Kryptonian's intuition smelled a conspiracy.
"Honestly, I'm not sure of the exact plan." Phil glanced at his wristwatch, looking somewhat confused, "Logically, the 'Master Persuader' appointed by the homeowner should have arrived with me..."
Most of the time.
Things said out loud tend to happen. Just then, a black van slowly pulled up on the side of the road. The door opened, and three people with distinct temperaments filed out.
The first was wearing a polo shirt printed with "Community Improvement Plan."
He was holding a resident satisfaction survey form.
The second was carrying a briefcase with a child protection agency logo, his expression serious. Clark had already heard his thoughts: this was a social worker here to investigate child abuse.
"..."
Clark was dumbfounded. He also read that this person had been bribed by an unknown rich man for a hundred thousand dollars and was determined to label him and Lois as unfit parents.
"This area is slated to become a smelly garbage disposal center, and now only this family is holding up the unified demolition plan." The third person had a "City Planning Bureau" work ID clipped to his suit pocket.
They walked toward Lois, Clark, and Phil—this was definitely a powerful lobbying team. Even the most powerful man in the Justice League started to feel a shiver down his spine.
It wasn't just Clark.
The stunned Lois also seemed to realize who the benevolent rich man was.
"Damn Bruce! What is he trying to pull?" Lois angrily looked at her husband. Clark's gaze was already fixed in the direction of Gotham.
He naturally couldn't find any trace of the Gotham Trickster Magnate.
However.
That glance.
Also showed him Ian's booming "business."
Specifically.
It was in front of a damaged church.
The night was deep, and the wind whispered through the ruins of Gotham, as if still recounting the church's former glory. Now, it was only broken walls and ruins, with a collapsed dome and shattered stained glass.
However.
The place was currently bustling. Ian was standing on a pile of bricks and tiles, with a huge banner hanging behind him: [Heavenly Representative Office on Earth—Angel Re-employment Registration Center].
"The Gotham Angel Re-employment Center is officially established! First CEO Ian Kent announces the creation of 500 Heavenly jobs! First come, first served, those who arrive late might lose their chance to return home."
"Late by one step, no road to Heaven!!"
"Black Angels, White Angels, all are good angels!!"
"No need for 998, no need for 668!!"
"As long as you're willing to atone, Heaven is not a dream!!"
"Boss Ian is kind-hearted and can't stand to see angels stranded on Earth!!"
"Work hard and suffer today, enjoy blessings in Heaven tomorrow!!"
"Believe in Ian, gain eternal life!!"
"Believe in Ian, return to Heaven!!"
"Final three days! Final three days!!"
"Miss today, wait a thousand years!!"
...
This was, of course, not Ian doing the advertising himself.
He had a megaphone, embedded with a black box, constantly broadcasting sounds at a specific frequency across the city. It was Madison's voice loudly hawking.
As CEO, Ian naturally wouldn't strain his own voice. Luckily, the young delinquent girl was by his side and could do the job, her melodious tone mastering the feel of a factory advertisement.
Clearly, Ian had taught her well.
"Queue up! No pushing!"
Ian waved a commanding baton he'd picked up from somewhere, shouting at the group of black-winged angels in front of him, "Those who registered go left to collect your angel work IDs."
"I've already had people look for a factory. Everyone will be able to start atoning soon." Ian, wearing a white, morphing robe, was acting as a great philanthropist, doing his best to help the homeless angels.
Don't ask why they were homeless.
The angels would be homeless even if they returned to Heaven anyway—Lord Ian couldn't bear to see these displaced angels sleeping rough, so he chose to step up and offer assistance to the powerless angels.
"Uh, what exactly is a work ID?" The black angels looked at each other. They were originally contaminated and fallen battle angels, but now they were lining up like job-seeking university students.
"Hmm?"
An angel familiar with history frowned, but after looking back at Ian, he didn't think much more of it. They still had the eyes of angels, after all.
They could see the brilliant glory of an Archangel emanating from Ian.
"Your Eminence, why do we need to labor?" A tall black angel hesitated before stepping forward. The angels in his queue didn't need to register height, weight, or measurements.
"You can understand it as refinement from God." Ian spoke earnestly, his compassionate appearance, combined with the glory radiating from him, was dazzling and eye-catching to the angels.
"So that's it."
The angels connected their plight to this. Sure enough, God was displeased with some aspects of them and had sent an Archangel to guide them toward change.
"I understand!"
The black angel knelt down devoutly.
"This is a trial given to us by the Lord! I am willing to accept all hardships!"
He loudly declared his stance to the other angels. Other black angels followed suit, kneeling and praying, as if Ian was not a mortal, but the embodiment of glory descended from the heavenly realm.
"Yes, yes, a trial. And you, the most devout one, you get an extra meal tonight."
Ian took out his grimoire and had all the angels sequentially sign the "Ian's Labor Contract"—a new "document" spell created from the [Ian's Grimoire] magic.
The black angels stepped forward one by one, pressing their fingertips onto the page. Instantly, their names turned into ink and merged into the spine of the book. The grimoire closed one page contentedly.
Continuing to chew its "food."
Yes, the book was audibly "crunching" on a pitch-black notebook, its pages fluttering like butterflies, as if being greedily devoured by an invisible mouth.
"What is that book eating?" an angel couldn't help but ask.
"Don't mind it," Ian waved his hand, "The child is just hungry."
The angels nodded, no longer questioning, and became more enthusiastic about the registration process. Meanwhile, on the other side, not far away, a girl in a white suit and glasses without lenses was holding a microphone, questioning a group of handsome angels, compiling a list of the white angels' skills.
"Special skills?" she asked without lifting her head.
"I can bless a thousand souls simultaneously," a female angel said proudly.
Madison rolled her eyes: "Can you dance?"
"What?"
The delicate female angel was confused.
"Oh, you're really useless." Madison sighed, "Never mind, just being good-looking is enough. Go to Live Stream Room #3. Today, I'll start by teaching you how to call the family members and blow them a kiss."
Though the angels were confused.
They obeyed the arrangement obediently, thinking this was a trial for returning to Heaven—perhaps Batman's previous conjecture wasn't wrong: the angels would either end up in sweatshops or be trafficked into brothels. The only thing he might not have foreseen was that the new-era brothels, sweatshops, and even psychiatric hospitals were all opened together by the same rising capitalist.
Yes, that's right. Ian planned to arrange for these handsome male and female angels to start live streaming, make money, and sell goods. The Evil God Lord's only conscience was that the angels wouldn't be required to sleep with the biggest donors.
As for the other angels.
So, they were naturally all being sent to the factory to work hard.
"Family members! I know you want to go back to Heaven! But God probably heard MacArthur say—the sun always follows the storm! There is no free ride back home in this world."
Just then.
Ian floated into the air, revealing seventy-two pure wings mimicked by [Myriad Manifestation] behind him. The glory radiating from him masked the false reality.
"You were once the guardians of Heaven, the purest light before the Throne." Ian's voice wasn't loud, but it was cadence, carrying an inspiring tone that pierced the heart of every angel, "But now, you are fallen to this mortal realm, your wings stained with dust, your faith shaken, and you even start to doubt—is Heaven still willing to accept you?"
He paused, scanning the surroundings. Every angel met his gaze, as if he wasn't speaking, but directly looking into their extremely pure souls.
"I tell you, the answer is: Yes! As long as you work hard, you can return to Heaven!" This sentence was like a clap of thunder, shaking the hearts of all the angels.
It swept away the confusion and fear in their hearts.
"You may have been exiled, judged, tested... but that doesn't mean your destiny ends here!" Ian's voice gradually rose, "Heaven has never truly closed its gates. It is merely waiting, waiting for you to prove yourselves anew—with action, with perseverance, with unremitting effort to earn the approval behind that door!"
"Whether it's tightening screws or live streaming to sell products for me, these are all trials, stepping stones toward salvation! You do not need to question the meaning of these tasks, for they are the opportunities God has given you—to temper you in suffering, to elevate you in the mundane!" Ian's seventy-two wings were wildly fluttering.
His voice was full of infectious power.
"Some ask me: 'Kind Ian, can we really go back?'" He smiled slightly, his eyes flashing with mysterious and firm light, "I say: Of course you can. As long as you are willing to give, to strive, to believe—you will eventually spread your wings again, cross the clouds, and return to that holy land."
"This is not a lie, it is hope." His voice softened, but appeared more sincere, "You are not failures, but warriors whose mission is not yet complete. You are not the fallen, but children on the way home. So, remember—work hard for Ian, and you can return to Heaven."
"This is not a slogan, but a promise,
This is not a scam, but an opportunity,
This is not a lie, but a choice. Working for me is to temper your will, to let you know the suffering of all beings. Live streaming is to get closer to the world, to let you understand the worries and concerns of mortals."
"The 007 work schedule is even more for everyone to realize and experience the days when God created the world in seven days! Without experiencing the storm, how can you meet God!"
He stretched out his hand.
Pointing to the night sky in the distance:
"Look, the starlight has not faded. Heaven is still waiting for your return." This speech was truly a successful channeling of the Little Mustache. It struck a chord with almost every angel.
The angels were silent.
Then, they burst into thunderous applause and cheers.
The angels were fired up, and some had already started wiping away tears. The later arrivals scrambled to sign the contracts, afraid of missing this "precious opportunity" by a step.
Regarding the contract terms that stipulated they belonged to Ian twenty-four hours a day, the white and black angels naturally had no objections. After all, it was perfectly reasonable for the Lord's trial to require non-stop work around the clock.
You see.
They used to brainwash mortals with similar words, telling penitents that they needed to discipline their actions twenty-four hours a day, every moment.
Now.
It was their turn to need salvation.
Naturally, they would desperately seize this life-saving hope—no one could definitively say if Ian's actions were just absurd persuasion. Perhaps the angels truly would gain the necessary refinement through this experience.
The angels were prostrating themselves before Ian, and hymns of praise echoed in the dilapidated church. Ian stood on the makeshift podium, holding a cup of milk tea with triple "pearls."
He was full of ambition, but it didn't last long, because suddenly, in his periphery, he noticed a figure had silently appeared at the church door and walked into the roofless church along with the angels.
The Lord of Dreams, Morpheus, raised his foot and took a step, and in the next moment, without any of the angels realizing his presence, he arrived at a relatively intact chair and slowly sat down.
He didn't say anything. He just watched calmly as Ian, who realized his arrival, frantically sucked his milk tea, his cheeks pumping twenty-four times a second.
[Lord of Entropy Experience +199]
[Lord of Entropy Experience +199]
[Lord of Entropy Experience +199]
...
As the system prompts continued to appear, Ian successfully leveled up.
[Level Up!]
[Lord of Entropy Lv11 (1300/10240)]
[Strength: 332 → 384]
[Constitution: 375 → 401]
[Intelligence: 25.0 → 26.1]
[Spirit: 129 → 136]
Ian's attributes had seen a slight increase before leveling up due to the nourishment of divine power, but the level-up boost was clearly the major factor. He had become even stronger again.
Meanwhile.
Without Ian even realizing it, the angel's glory around him became even more brilliant, a holy halo circulating around his body. Only the angels could see this phenomenon.
"Lord Ian must be following the Lord's will!"
"This light, this majesty... it cannot be wrong!"
Upon seeing this.
The angels unanimously concluded that Ian was the Archangel descended to Earth with the Lord's will.
Why else?
Why would Ian's already intense glory increase after his speech? It was clearly a sign that God had even more trust in this Archangel!
He was doing the right thing!
The angels became even more fervent and unwavering in their belief. Of course, Ian didn't have the mind to pay attention to this. He stopped his speech, furiously sucking his milk tea while giving the Lord of Dreams a death stare.
[Lord of Entropy Experience +134]
[Lord of Entropy Experience +99]
[Lord of Entropy Experience +78]
...
In the race against time.
Ian tried his best to minimize his losses.
[Lord of Entropy Lv11 (4300/10240)] He truly drank himself full, his body reaching a level of overload where it was difficult to absorb and convert any more experience points.
The [Ultimate Hunger] skill still needed a few more skill points to upgrade. Ian was very regretful, even contemplating taking a loan from the System for skill points to increase his body's load and digestion capacity.
"..."
Watching Ian's cheeks go from twenty-four pumps per second to sixty-eight pumps per second, like a hungry ghost reincarnated, Morpheus, the Lord of Dreams, finally couldn't maintain his composure.
"It's time to return what belongs to me."
The Dream God's voice was soft, yet it made the temperature in the entire church drop suddenly. Ian hastily wiped his mouth. Before he could respond, Morpheus raised his pale finger.
He lightly snapped his fingers—
"Snap."
Time froze at that moment. The angels were fixed in their kneeling posture, Madison's motion of holding up the live streaming equipment was suspended mid-air, and even the falling dust was static in the atmosphere.
The only ones who could still move were Ian, holding his milk tea, and the Dream God, who was slowly walking toward him. The angels, stripped of their glory, naturally could not escape the influence of the Dream God's power.
In fact.
Aside from having an extra pair of wings and probably not needing sleep to replenish energy, the angels were truly no different from mortals, unable even to move an object with intention.
"Okay, okay." Ian was a man of principles, so he generally kept his promises. With some reluctance, he returned the soaking wet pouch of sand to Morpheus.
"Clack clack clack~"
Morpheus stared at his drenched sandbag. He dared not ask Ian what kind of milk was used for the milk tea. The ancient god, who didn't know much about Ian, was afraid of hearing a terrifying answer.
He carefully examined the remaining dream sand inside.
His silent demeanor became even more silent.
"Um." Ian blinked, suddenly putting on an embarrassed expression, "Can you leave me a little more? Just a little! I helped you find your sandbag, you should show me some filial piety."
His words carried a trace of not overly excessive greed.
The Dream God's hand clearly twitched twice. He stared at Ian silently for a long time, and finally grabbed a small handful of sand from the pouch, slapping it heavily into Ian's palm.
"Sure enough, you're the generous one. I must create a generosity ranking for you and Miss Death." Ian was easily satisfied. He happily poured the sand into his milk tea cup.
A few tiny crystals slipped through his fingers, silently seeping into the ground. Morpheus didn't stop him. He only looked at the uneven church floor with his silent expression.
The sand didn't disappear. It seemed to be pulled by some force, sinking constantly... sinking through ten meters, one hundred meters, many, many meters of earth.
It finally landed on the roof of a special alloy structure.
Its texture was unusual, as if it had a will of its own. The moment it contacted the metal, it began to slowly permeate. Through invisible cracks, it silently slipped in, like a drop of water falling into soil, effortlessly passing through the defense system, data cables, and steel structures, landing in the space beneath the alloy roof.
Finally.
This sand, hard for an ordinary person to see, settled on the floor in front of a pair of combat boots. Dazzling white lights illuminated the entire laboratory. The owner of the combat boots sensed something and looked down but saw nothing.
"Bruce, what are you planning to do?" The Flash, Barry Allen, was sitting inside a transparent isolation chamber, his fingers anxiously tapping his knee.
He watched Batman operating complicated instruments outside. Batman held a test tube in each hand. The one in the superhero's left hand shimmered with rainbow-like brilliance, like solidified aurora, while the one in his right contained a viscous black substance, occasionally emitting a sickly sheen.
"You actually kept a portion of that contaminant. That's not safe practice, it could adapt to the environment and contaminate you silently."
The Flash's eyes were locked on the black test tube.
His voice carried a rare seriousness. Batman didn't immediately answer. He placed both test tubes into a centrifuge, and the instrument immediately began to hum softly.
"I'm infected too." Bruce's voice was rougher than usual. He continuously operated the dashboard, "It's just that my symptoms are more... subtle than yours and Clark's."
"So I'm going to attempt a self-rescue."
Clearly, after self-diagnosis, the somewhat out-of-control Batman, even if he didn't remember the dreams he had, finally realized what the problem was.
"Clark was right about you after all!"
The greatly shocked Flash was first startled. His gaze shifted to the rainbow test tube: "What's in there? Can it save us? I think maybe you should experiment on me instead."
"If you completely lose control because of a dangerous experiment, it won't just be you who is ruined." This was the biggest concern for him and the other Justice League members.
"This is a special substance I collected from the air in Metropolis when Ian dealt with a witch before." Batman stopped working and turned to look at him. His eyes under the cowl looked especially deep in the cold light of the lab: "Actually, this isolation chamber you are in isn't protecting me at all."
This statement was deeply unsettling.
The Flash started pounding the glass dome.
However.
He couldn't stop Batman's reckless decision.
Heaven knew if this decision was a result of Batman being deeply influenced.
As soon as he finished speaking, Bruce took out the completed fused reagent. Under the Flash's desperate shouts and terrified gaze, the Gotham Lord unhesitatingly injected it into his own carotid artery.
"Wait! At least do an animal test first—"
The Flash's cry of alarm was cut short.
Because Batman had already collapsed onto a bed that had been prepared beforehand. He seemed to have entered some bizarre dream, and the expression on his face began to change between agony and resolve.
In the air.
The sand grains that had dripped into the lab began to float.
"Bruce!"
The Flash in the isolation chamber naturally couldn't see the sand.
He was only watching in horror as bizarre scars appeared on his friend's body. The patterns crawled beneath Bruce's skin like living things. He frantically hammered the isolation chamber, looking around.
The Flash knew.
He had to try and find a way to escape.
Bruce was far too reckless.
He needed to notify Superman about the situation immediately!
"I knew I shouldn't have gotten into the cage again!"
The Flash strained to use phasing to penetrate the glass. Fortunately, Bruce had not used the speedster-proof glass again. He successfully phased through the glass and entered the laboratory.
"What should I do!?"
He first went to check on Bruce's condition.
Just as the Flash pulled out his phone.
"Oh, things look bad, Flash. Danger is imminent. Perhaps you need my help." A voice the Flash was very familiar with suddenly echoed in his mind.
It was the tone habitually used by the mysterious boy who treated him like a toy in his bizarre dreams!
***
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