Ian's backpack was incredibly large. It could hold anything. The hundreds of books scattered across the dining table were swept away by him in an instant.
"I'll keep these top-secret files safe for you. I'll take them to a friend of mine—a professional—for trace analysis. Who knows, there might be some clues about the Yellow-Eyed Demon hidden inside."
Ian's tone was righteous, carrying a sense of rigorous dedication. His hands moved with dizzying speed; Sam only saw a blur before everything on the table vanished. This included the stationery Sam had accidentally poured out; anyone watching might have mistaken them for lighters.
"Uh..."
Watching Ian's 180-degree attitude shift and the fluid motion of swiping the magazines, Sam's lips twitched uncontrollably. His emotions were so complex he didn't know whether to be happy or speechless.
"Tha... Thanks..."
Sam spoke dryly, feeling a strange sense of relief in his heart. Regardless, Ian had finally agreed. He didn't care much about what the future of the exorcism world would look like; within the Winchester family, he was the one who disliked the family business the most.
"Don't mention it! Between classmates, we don't count these things!" Ian waved his hand grandly, acting as if the person who had just been making every excuse to refuse wasn't him.
Possessed by the spirit of a drama king, Ian slung an arm around Sam's shoulders. Sam stiffened, while Ian gazed intensely into the distance, as if seeing an incredibly glorious future.
"This is nothing less than the Industrial Revolution of the supernatural world! In the future, people will remember the Winchester family's modest contribution—and Master Ian's sacrifice of loving the people like his own children."
"Think about it: standardized holy water spray. I can sell it in nine grades—45-degree holy water, 20-degree holy water, and so on—satisfying everyone's needs just like selling liquor."
"Assembly-line enchanted salt rounds, crosses with remote APP consecration... this will save so many budget-strapped hunters and innocent families! We will change the world, Sam! We will be the saints of the exorcism world! My magic... uh, I mean, my business empire will expand to unimaginable heights!"
Ian grew more excited as he spoke, seemingly envisioning a moment when his magic would be so abundant he could pick up the old trade of Dimensional Demon Lords and implement "Magic Loans"—a moment both great and traditional.
"Don't bring me into this. I don't know anything." Sam's scalp felt numb; he didn't want to touch this topic at all. He only wanted to find his missing father and brother, not become the Rockofeller of the exorcism world.
"Don't worry, I definitely won't include you."
"I've thought more about your 'Exorcism for Everyone' idea, and it's truly visionary. In the future, the public narrative will be that this was my idea."
"Don't look at me like that. Our teachers taught us to learn from Thomas Edison." Ian was an honest and sincere person; his jerkiness lay in how transparently he behaved like one. There was zero concealment.
"..."
Sam found it hard to argue with Ian's logic. He was, after all, a relatively honest kid.
"My dad and brother might be in Seattle." Sam wanted to focus on business now, quickly revealing the clues he had.
"Seattle? That's not too far. No problem." Ian immediately reeled in his drifting thoughts and patted his chest again, making a solemn guarantee.
"Forget Seattle; even if it's the Light Bar, I'll find your father and brother. Alive, I'll find them; dead... uh, if they really are gone, it's fine! I'll go to a parallel universe and kidnap a brother and father for you! Guaranteed same model, synchronized memories—no discomfort in the user experience."
There was real light in Ian's eyes.
Terrified by this overly "thorough" after-sales service, Sam waved his hands frantically, sweat beads forming on his forehead. "No! No! Ian! Forget about other brothers and fathers! I really only want my own!"
"I want the original equipment manufacturer (OEM) parts!" he emphasized at the end.
Ian rubbed his chin, nodding thoughtfully. "Hmm... that makes sense. Original parts definitely have better compatibility than aftermarket ones. Fine, we'll go look for your original daddy and brother!"
Having finally secured a relatively reliable promise, Sam let out a long sigh of relief. He felt more exhausted than he would have been fighting a room full of vampires.
"Anyway, I'm heading back to get ready for class. Tonight, I'll wait for you at this place." He didn't dare stay longer, fearing Ian would come up with even more shocking ideas.
After stuffing a slip of paper into Ian's hand, Sam hurriedly took his leave, practically escaping the cafeteria. Seeing his client leave, Ian sat back down to savor his meal.
[Entropy Lord EXP +22]
[Entropy Lord EXP +19]
[Entropy Lord EXP +23]
Some people bring their own hot sauce, others bring sandwiches. Ian bringing a bit of mineral ore and poison to add to his lunch was just him following the trend.
...
The first class of the afternoon was Safety and Health.
Since the homeroom teacher, Ms. Misha, was still organizing Hannibal's funeral—and didn't know that Hannibal himself had attended, causing a haunting at the scene that left her quite shaken—the class was being handled by a visiting substitute teacher, Mr. David.
"Good afternoon, students. I am your substitute teacher for this Safety and Health class. You may call me David."
"So, students, you must remember." David used a laser pointer to indicate a cartoon on the projection screen: a student pointing a gun at another student.
"Under no circumstances should you massacre your classmates or teachers. Never casually point firearms at your peers, and do not bring rocket launchers from home."
"These are very dangerous and illegal acts. If you see a classmate come to class with a bulging backpack, you must immediately report it to a teacher or the school resource officer."
The students were used to this; some even whispered that the teacher was crazy. Everyone here had nearly made it to high school; how could they not know these basic life tips? Among them, only Ian obscured his bulging backpack, though not a single student noticed.
Clearly, due to survivor bias, these students who hadn't seen real combat lacked vigilance. Fortunately, Ian wasn't a school shooter.
The class proceeded smoothly.
...
"Royal Flush! What are you gonna play against me? Pay up, pay up." In the back corner of the room, Madison and three other girls who didn't look like "good kids" were crouched on the floor in a circle. They had spread a small blanket of unknown origin between them, scattered with playing cards and a few crumpled dollar bills.
"3 through 7!"
Madison shouted excitedly, scooping all the change on the blanket toward herself, her face radiating the pure joy of a winner. The other three girls cursed, reluctantly shelling out money while eyeing Madison suspiciously.
As the saying goes, if you aren't a "Green Tea" girl, you don't get into the nest. This included Madison. These girls were quite "skilled" with cards, showing shades of Las Vegas casinos.
"What a clumsy use of witchcraft."
Ian caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye and couldn't help but roll his eyes internally. He could clearly "see" the weak, almost imperceptible fluctuations of witchcraft between Madison's fingers—she was using crude spiritual techniques to peek at others' hole cards and even occasionally nudged the deck order with her mind.
Among these girls' cheating methods, Madison was a cut above, but she was nothing compared to Ian. Ian didn't like cheating; if it were him, he'd just accept his losses.
He'd just blur the memories of the other students and try again—that's not cheating, it's just ensuring you eventually win. That is true victory away from the gambling table.
"Truly... zero-skill cheating. I'm the real God of Gamblers," Ian muttered, deciding to ignore the doomed-to-be-unfair game.
Taking advantage of the chaos while David was gone, Ian deftly packed his backpack and slipped out the back door. Giving himself an early dismissal was one of the freedoms of being an American student.
He walked down a familiar quiet alley behind the school where his ride was parked—a heavily modified Dodge Challenger Hellcat that looked only slightly exaggerated on the outside.
Because it had been "fed" well by Ian, the car's core had long since evolved. It might not beat Rick Sanchez's ship, but it was top-tier black magic technology on Earth.
Under the hood, what roared wasn't machinery, but some kind of bound demonic soul. It also possessed a fully independent AI self-driving system. The navigation could even pinpoint dimensional coordinates.
"To Madison's neighborhood. Keep it low-key."
As soon as Ian pulled the door open and sat inside, he gave the order.
[Optical camouflage and sonic filtering systems activated.] In reality, it was magical, but the Hellcat hadn't evolved a mouth yet. It used voice clips from a game on the radio to communicate.
The car glided silently into the lane, merging into traffic like a ghost; other vehicles and pedestrians subconsciously ignored its existence. Ian leaned back in the comfortable leather seat, tapping the armrest. He wasn't going to Madison's house to spy on her mom's private life.
Ian was still wondering why the great scientist Rick had given him that massive stone chair. A conceptual-level character who might treat the universe like a toy to be dismantled at any time definitely triggered the paranoia Ian had caught from Batman.
"He didn't beat God, so he holds a grudge and wants to see God become a joke?"
Ian speculated. When his Hellcat glided into the neighborhood where Madison lived, Ian was slightly stunned by the sight. He'd only been away for a few days, but a massive, official-looking training center had appeared out of thin air in this quiet community.
It was a sprawling building that looked like a converted warehouse, the exterior painted a serious deep blue with a giant neon sign hanging above. The sign flashed:
[SANCHEZ CENTER FOR EXCELLENT LIFE SHORTCUTS AND SKILLS TRAINING]
Below the main sign was a line of smaller text:
[Guaranteed Results, No Refunds (For Surviving Students Only)].
Ian's curiosity was fully ignited. He maneuvered the Hellcat to park silently around the corner, then scaled the roof of a nearby office building like a shadow merging into the night.
"What the hell?"
Ian pulled a strange pair of binoculars from his mimetic tactical belt—the barrels were covered in tiny, rotating gears and flickering runes. He aimed them at the eerie "academy."
The view became instant and clear. Through large floor-to-ceiling windows made of some reinforced crystal, Ian saw a jaw-dropping scene. A hall as vast as a hangar was filled with facilities. It was brightly lit, with rows of desks and chairs currently occupied by adults.
These people wore strange clothes, were covered in tattoos, and had eyes that were either fierce or lecherous. None of them looked like decent people, yet they were all sitting there as obediently as elementary schoolers.
Every single one had a notebook and a pen! There were even a few magic apprentices in ragged robes holding twisted staves. They were gathered in a semi-circle, their fanatical gazes focused on the central podium.
"So, listen up, you incompletely evolved carbon-based idiots!"
A figure was spitting words with wild intensity. His messy white hair looked like a bird's nest, a thick stubble covered his chin, and a dirty white lab coat stained with unknown chemical splatters hung loosely on his frame.
It was Rick Sanchez.
He held a laser pointer, the beam dancing randomly across a giant holographic screen showing 3D models of several distinct cities.
"Metropolis? Ha! With that muscle-brained, simple alien Superman flying around all day, how could you ever put your passion into practice? Superman can weld your vault door back exactly as it was while he's busy saving a kitten from a tree!" Rick's voice boomed through loudspeakers throughout the hall. It was nasal and carried unabashed disappointment.
"A waste of effort! Zero efficiency! Crime requires technique! You have to use your brain!"
He took a huge swig of a brown liquid from a bottle with a torn label from under the podium. Then, he wobbled over to a whiteboard and smacked it hard with a teaching rod. It was covered in complex route maps, schedules, and... cost-benefit analyses?
"All you know is robbing convenience stores, stealing cars, and collecting protection money! Low-level! No future! The profit margins are pitiful! If Superman catches you, he'll throw you straight in jail."
"Look at this! The Perfect Bank Vault Theft Plan! What you need to consider isn't how well you can fight! It's the redundant backup time of the surveillance system, the bathroom break frequency of the guards, the GPS signal delay of the armored truck, and how to short-sell gold futures for cash before the Fed even realizes what happened!"
"That's called crime! That's freaking financial art!" He suddenly raised his voice, the laser dot snapping onto a model of Gotham City. It was shrouded in dark clouds, filled with skyscrapers, with shadows that looked like bats flitting through them.
"You need to seek employment in Gotham after graduation! Don't think about staying in Metropolis. Metropolis has no future; it's a boring place controlled by Superman!"
"Only Gotham is the land of opportunity for 'ambitious youth' like you! Batman? That mortal who relies on money and gear? His psychological issues are more numerous than the loot you'll steal! The entire city's corrupt system is your natural umbrella! The police? Half are accomplices, the other half are ornaments!"
"Crime rate? That's GDP! Understand? A high crime rate means low law enforcement efficiency, which means massive room for maneuver and... artistic freedom! Here, a successful bank heist has an aesthetic value comparable to... uh, comparable to the instant noodles I cooked yesterday using quantum entanglement!"
The great scientist Rick's metaphors were often even more abstract than Ian's.
The crowd below erupted into enthusiastic applause and whistling. The thugs and spies were flushed with excitement as if they had found their purpose in life. A warlock apprentice in ragged robes raised a hand, his voice trembling: "Master Rick! What about... what about magical crime? How is it in Central City?"
"Central City?" Rick sneered, as if hearing a low-level joke. "The Flash? That 'human electric moped' who stays super-fast by eating carbs? His speed perception? His timeline anticipation? Before you can even finish the 'ka' in 'Abracadabra,' he could tie you into a knot and send you to Iron Heights a hundred times over!"
"Pure suicide! Unless..." He paused intentionally, letting the suspense build, then said slowly, "Unless your magic is precise enough to manipulate the flow of time itself. Like... uh, an Iris West naked-cheese-trap that creates local time stasis? Unfortunately, the materials for that are extinct in Dimension C-137. Otherwise..."
Rick didn't finish. He started drinking again, drawing sighs of regret from the audience.
"Anyway, Gotham! Talent is abundant, the locals are simple-hearted, and Arkham offers room and board for continuing education! Central City? Flash is fast but his brain short-circuits often! Star City? Green Arrow is a former terrorist himself, easy to communicate with! Coast City? Green Lantern is okay, but his sector is too big to manage! These are all high-quality criminal vacation spots, you idiots! Market selection! Do you get it?!"
Rick actually listed the cities in the DC universe where crime was most likely to succeed. He was truly a devoted mentor.
The students looked enlightened, applauding and cheering. Rick seemed satisfied with the result. He stood with his hands on his hips, then habitually checked a broken watch on his wrist that had been spinning randomly for years.
"Hmm... about time..." he muttered. His expression changed instantly, switching from passionate lecturer to off-the-clock slacker.
"Alright, alright! That's it for today's 'How to Efficiently and Safely Commit Felonies and Evade Superheroes' class! Class dismissed!" He announced with impatient haste, then tossed his teaching rod and materials behind him. The textbook traced an arc through the air, landing precisely in a bin labeled "Hazardous Waste."
Simultaneously, Rick ripped off his mentor lab coat, revealing another identical lab coat underneath.
"Same time tomorrow, we'll discuss how to use cross-dimensional methods to find tax loopholes for money laundering. Remember to bring calculators." With that, he didn't wait for a reaction. He dashed off the podium with an agility that defied his age and drunken appearance, sprinting out the back door of the training center.
Ian quickly adjusted his binoculars to track him.
Rick burst out the back door, looked left and right, then ran toward a... vehicle parked in the alley? The design was truly bizarre. The chassis looked like steel pipes welded together at random. The body was made entirely of countless green cucumbers held together by a transparent slime! The wheels were four giant zucchini that were still dripping juice! The hood featured a bubbling glass jar filled with purple liquid with several electrodes stuck inside.
"Cucumber... car?" Ian felt his vocabulary failing him.
Rick skillfully pulled back a giant lettuce leaf—the door—and hopped into a driver's seat that looked like a hollowed-out pumpkin. The cucumber car made a "pfft pfft" sound, like flatulence, and the exhaust pipe emitted green mist. Then, it wobbled and levitated, defying the laws of physics.
With a *whoosh*, the cucumber car shot into the sky. It flew in a certain direction with staggering speed.
"Is this even still technology?" Ian kept his binoculars trained on it, his gaze following silently from a distance too far to be noticed.
The cucumber car was incredibly fast, and its flight path was erratic—making right-angle turns or suddenly diving into clouds as if trying to lose a tail. It succeeded.
But just as Ian was feeling frustrated, the cucumber car descended from the clouds, landing in the yard of a suburban house less than a hundred yards in front of the building where Ian stood. The levitating car made of glowing cucumbers and other food looked like a giant flying pickle jar; it was hard not to notice.
"..."
Even without super-vision, Ian could see it clearly. The house had a beautiful garden and a neat lawn; the only discordant part was the garage, which was ridiculously large—nearly twice the size of the main house. The garage door was shut tight, plastered with warning signs: "DANGER!", "HIGH VOLTAGE!", "KEEP OUT!".
Rick jumped down from the cucumber car, grabbed a bottle from a window made of transparent melon skin, and took a swig. Then, wobbling and muttering drunken words no one could understand, he dove into the garage that seemed to hide all the secrets of the universe.
The garage door slammed shut behind him, sealing out the sunlight and warmth of the outside world.
Inside the garage was a different dimension entirely. No normal vehicles were parked here. Instead, it was filled with massive machines glowing with dangerous light, connected by twisted pipes, emitting unknown smoke and odors. Tools, blueprints, and various dissected alien specimens hung on the walls.
Because Ian had his own "cheats," his magic binoculars could see this scene.
"Hmm, here, over here. I know it now, which means I knew it before." Rick didn't even turn on the lights. He accurately found a workbench in the dark, grabbed a bottle marked "XXX," took a massive gulp, and started hammering away at a half-finished piece of cosmic armor.
Amidst the shower of sparks, the scientist—who was more scientific than Tony Stark—continued talking to himself.
Just then, the side door opened, and a boy with glasses looked in timidly. It was Rick's favorite grandson, Morty.
"G-grandpa?" Morty whispered, trying to get attention over the deafening clanging and humming of machines. "Wh-what are you doing?"
Rick didn't look back or stop his work. His drunken voice came through clearly.
"Morty? Is that you, Morty? *Burp*~ We're going on an adventure today, remember, Morty? A great adventure! An adventure for just the two of us!" His voice was raspy and nasal; every syllable sounded like it was squeezed through a rusty pipe.
"Today is our big day! Adventure! Remember, Morty? A real adventure! Not one of your boring, error-filled pubertal craft activities!"
Rick looked ready to go.
"Adventure? What adventure? Crap! Today was adventure day? Grandpa, I... I have history homework to write, about... about the Civil War..."
Morty was clearly resistant.
"The Civil War? Bah! That's not history!" Rick spun around suddenly, holding a sparking energy core, his face full of alcohol-fueled excitement and that near-mad scientist gleam. "Morty! I found a great place! A truly exciting place! Do you know Apokolips? Of course you don't, Morty; your tiny brain only has room for Jessica's underwear color!"
Morty's face turned bright red. "Grandpa! I do not!"
Rick ignored him, continuing to gesture wildly. "Apokolips! Darkseid's nest! But now, Morty, good news! That rock-faced tyrant seems to have gone missing! The place is a mess! Super-weapons lying around, crazed Parademons everywhere, and all sorts of amazing alien animals you've never seen!"
"We can go raise some hell! And while we're at it... *burp*... pick up some trash!" Rick burped, a pungent mix of cheap alcohol and ozone hitting Morty's face.
"Apokolips?! No way! Grandpa! That's too dangerous! And I really have to do my homework! It's due tomorrow!" Morty, who was clearly more knowledgeable than a normal student, turned pale with fear.
"Really, there are so many... so many amazing animals, Morty! Ten thousand times more 'amazing' than the dinosaurs in your textbooks! You'll fall in love with them after one try!"
"We're going! Now! Immediately! To scavenge some good stuff! Maybe we'll find Darkseid's spare remote—that thing can control the TV listings for the entire universe!"
"Think about it, Morty. You can watch whatever you want from now on!" Rick suddenly lowered his voice, leaning into Morty's face with a grandfatherly temptation.
"I'm really not going to finish my homework!" Morty remained steadfast, only wanting to study hard and get into the same high school and college as his crush.
"Homework? Hah!" Rick sneered as if he had heard the funniest joke in the universe. He rummaged through a pile of trash on his workbench and pulled out a small device that looked like a TV remote but with weirder buttons. Without looking, he pressed one in a certain direction.
*Whoosh—*
A moment later, Ian noticed it too.
Several blocks away—likely where Morty's school was—there was a thunderous explosion. The entire school building looked like it had been squeezed by a giant invisible hand, arched upward, and then collapsed into ruins amidst terrified screams and alarms!
Smoke rose into the sky like a small mushroom cloud. Fortunately, there were no casualties.
Even Ian was shocked by this simple and crude solution. He realized he was indeed too young; his thinking wasn't nearly as clear.
"Urgh~"
In the garage, Rick—who had just let out a drunken burp—listened with satisfaction to the distant explosion. He tossed the remote aside and shrugged at the dumbfounded, petrified Morty.
"See, Morty? Now you don't have to do your homework. Problem solved. Come on, stop dawdling; our adventure is beginning!"
"No more 'Wubba Lubba Dub Dub'! Now it's just pure family time!" With that, he didn't give Morty a chance to react or protest. He grabbed his grandson by the collar.
Rick hoisted Morty like a chicken and hopped into another "ship" in the corner that looked like it was pieced together from a scrap boiler, rusty pipes, and a few microwaves. The junk ship let out a piercing roar, its rear spewing thick black smoke and green flames.
*Bang bang bang~*
The ship smashed through the garage roof and shot into the sky at a near-suicidal angle—wobbly but incredibly fast—vanishing beyond the atmosphere in a heartbeat.
On the roof, Ian silently lowered his binoculars and let out a long, deep sigh. A feeling of inferiority washed over him.
"Well, at least blowing up the school shows he has some shred of logic left and isn't a total maniac." Ian tossed his empty coke can precisely into a bin in the corner of the roof.
Before he could finish the sentence, the space around him began to twist and fold like ripples on water. A second later, his figure was erased like a pencil mark.
He left only a few falling leaves dancing in the evening breeze. Time seemed to freeze for a few minutes. The roof returned to silence, with only the distant fire alarms from the gas explosion at the school echoing. The firefighters eventually moved away.
Long after, from the bin where Ian had tossed his coke can, a retro, static-filled telephone ring suddenly sounded—*ring ring~ ring ring~*.
Then, the bin lid was pushed open from inside, and a head popped out—it was Rick Sanchez, who was supposed to have left Earth for Apokolips with his grandson! He looked a bit disheveled, with a large bump on his head and even messier hair.
"Diane! I'm at work! Very important work! Why are you calling me during working hours?" Rick held the empty coke can Ian had just thrown away. When questioning his wife, his tone wasn't angry, but he had raised his volume significantly.
"Rick, are you really working hard?" a woman's voice came from the can, sounding concerned and suspicious. She knew her husband wasn't a species that liked working.
"Of course, Diane." Rick immediately adopted a righteous tone. "My work is very meaningful! Very... moral! I am contributing to social stability and the employment rate! Because of me... the employment rate for superheroes has risen significantly in the last two years!"
"It's called... yes! Structural talent output and demand balancing! Without me, many superheroes would be unemployed! Their employment rate has soared 300% in the last two years! It's all thanks to me; I created jobs! Stabilized society! I haven't let a single superhero stay unemployed at home!"
"Oh, goodness, just like I promised you, I am indeed doing charity!" Rick was wondering if he could hide inside the can next time. He used the art of language on his wife, describing his criminal training center as if it were as great as a Nobel Peace Prize.
Diane on the other end seemed convinced, or perhaps she was just used to her husband's nonsense.
"Fine... as long as you're okay. By the way, the Broadway show is about to start. You promised to come with me and Beth. Do you remember your drunken promise?"
"Hurry over." Rick's wife urged him. She was perhaps the only person who could boss Rick around.
"Broadway? *Ugh*—those guys in tights singing on stage? It's mental pollution! I'd rather go home and watch interdimensional cable..." Despite saying that, Rick climbed out of the bin.
"A bunch of monkeys in funny clothes singing and dancing on stage, telling boring, fake fairy tales full of false hope? A waste of time! A waste of life! A living demonstration of entropy!"
While Rick was grumbling and complaining, the coke can in his hand suddenly emitted an abnormal light.
*BANG!!*
With a dull thud, the can exploded! While it wasn't very powerful, it was enough to leave Rick's face covered in black soot, his hair standing on end and smoking.
"Cough cough cough!" Rick coughed, syrup dripping from his eyebrows and beard.
"Rick?!" Diane's panicked voice came through the phone. "What happened?!"
Rick wiped his face, clearing away the syrup and debris to reveal a face pretending to be calm. He spoke into the phone with his usual nonchalant tone.
"Nothing, nothing! A minor accident!" Rick looked around, his gaze sweeping the edge of the roof. "I met the new governor, Diane. He gave me a little greeting gift."
"What new governor?"
"You know, the one I told you about. The old governor was rotten to the core—corrupt and completely lacking professional ethics. I'm trying to get him out of office!"
"This is... a necessary sacrifice!" As he spoke, he pulled out a spray bottle, sprayed his face once, and became brand new again. He only had a few pieces of rotten lettuce leaves hanging on him.
"Wait for me! I'll be there! Give me five minutes... no, three minutes!" With that, Rick threw the broken can back into the bin without waiting for a reply.
He looked around, pulled several unrecognizable parts, a battery, and half a tube of mustard from his pockets, and crouched down to start building on the spot. In less than ten seconds, a crude jetpack sparking and smelling of mustard was built!
*Pfft—BOOM!*
Rick strapped the pack to his back and pressed the button. The next moment, the pack spewed a flame of yellow mustard and black smoke, pushing him wobbly but very quickly toward Broadway.
The great scientist left a bizarre yellow smoke trail in the sky. As soon as Rick's mustard-flame silhouette vanished, the air on the roof rippled, and Ian's figure slowly reappeared. He frowned, brushing off non-existent dust, but his eyes were fixed on the quiet bin.
"How did he get in there?"
Ian really wanted to learn that skill. He walked forward to investigate. However, just as he was one step away from the bin...
*PFFT!!!*
The lid was smashed open! A giant, inflatable, distorted balloon of Rick's face popped out, grinning with a huge mouth, letting out a piercing, recorded cackle.
"Hehehehehe~"
The sound was pure. Then, the balloon Rick's mouth opened wide, and a stench so thick it was offensive—a mix of rotten eggs, expired cheese, sulfur, and some sort of alien excrement—sprayed toward Ian's face like a high-pressure water gun!
Commonly known as getting "fart-blasted."
"Damn it! I knew it!" The giant Rick balloon kept "farting" at Ian, leaving him furious and retreating until he vanished without a trace.
In his place, only a cloud of world-class foul-smelling yellow gas remained, along with the still-cackling Rick balloon. The balloon laughed for a while before slowly deflating and shrinking back into the bin. The roof returned to silence, with only the terrifying smell proving what had happened.
...
Night slowly fell.
Metropolis, downtown plaza. Light pollution was everywhere. The plaza was brightly lit at night, but pedestrians had grown sparse. The giant Superman statue cast a long shadow under the lights.
"Why isn't he here yet?"
Sam Winchester carried a heavy backpack filled with various exorcism tools he thought he might need. He paced anxiously, looking up from time to time. He had been waiting for nearly an hour. The time agreed upon with Ian had long passed, but not a soul was in sight.
"Damn it... is that guy standing me up again..." Sam thought uneasily. Although Ian had agreed, the guy's reliability was truly questionable; he might very well be sleeping at home.
"Do I really have to go to that place and pawn my soul?" Just as Sam was about to give up hope, a figure slowly walked over from the other side of the plaza.
It was a tall, thin boy. He didn't look very old. But despite his youth, he wore glasses that didn't match his age. He was dressed in an ordinary hoodie and jeans, looking hesitant, even afraid to meet Sam's eyes. He dawdled over to Sam as if he'd finally made up his mind and whispered:
"Ex... excuse me... are you Sam Winchester?" Politeness—still polite. Perhaps it was the glasses that made the tall boy look incredibly scholarly.
Sam was stunned, eyeing the stranger warily. "I am. Who are you?" His suspicious expression was unconcealed.
The tall boy looked embarrassed and seemed relieved, but he still didn't look up, his voice sounding a bit weak. "G... good. L... let's go then."
With that, he prepared to lead the way.
Sam was even more confused. "Go? Go where?"
The tall boy seemed surprised that Sam would ask, and subconsciously answered: "To... to save your father and brother, of course." His tone grew increasingly guilty.
"Hmm? To save my brother and father?" Sam was instantly stunned, his pupils shrinking. He subconsciously took a half-step back, his hand quietly reaching for the dagger hidden at his waist. "How do you know about that?! I only told Ian Kent! Who the hell are you?!"
He had already started to suspect this boy was a minion of a demon.
"Well..." The tall boy looked even more embarrassed. He hesitated for a moment. Finally, he introduced himself.
"I *am* Ian Kent! My magic just had a minor problem! I... I turned into this temporarily!" He tried his best to make his tone certain. The acting skills he'd just learned were coming in handy.
Sam narrowed his eyes, studying this "Ian." Suddenly, he realized something.
"Crap! Motherfucker! You're Ian's second brother, right! Jordan Kent!" Sam remembered what Ian had said before, so his brain moved fast.
He was just about to complain about Ian's lack of ethics. Jordan—the failed-impersonation version of Ian—blushed bright red like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. He denied it hurriedly.
"I am not! I am Ian Kent!"
"C-can't you stop being so stubborn! Just come with me!" He was indeed refusing to admit it, but his frantic attempt to change the subject was clearly unconvincing.
"If you call me Ian a few more times, I'll be Ian. Names are just labels; you can be called Ian, he can, and of course I can." Jordan pointed to people on the street, raising the issue to a philosophical level. He had no choice but to be stubborn; the mouth of a second-generation Superman couldn't be soft.
Thinking of the adventure Ian had taken a hundred thousand words to describe—the near-death experience to "secretly photocopy" those ten out-of-print, full-color magazines from the "Presidential Library" for him—Jordan spoke up.
"Let's go! If we wait any longer, your father and brother will reincarnate as a pair of star-crossed siblings."
Jordan knew he absolutely couldn't betray his third brother, who was probably still taking a bath. He had to complete this mission for the order business Ian had sacrificed himself to find.
"..." Sam looked at the boy who couldn't even lie straight, and thought of his unreliable younger brother. He felt a deep sense of helplessness.
This trip to Seattle was looking grim.
***
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