The sky above Smallville was clear. No clouds. No sound except the faint whistle of the wind at high altitude.
Clark sliced through the air like an invisible arrow, his body attuned to the current, senses on high alert. The city lights had long vanished below him. Now, only the dark outline of the sleeping countryside stretched across his peripheral vision.
[Remaining distance: nine hundred and thirty-two kilometers.]
Jor-El's voice resonated with precision in his mind. It wasn't invasive, just constant. As if it had already become part of his instinct.
'Is the location still the same?'
[Yes. However, the detected energy is unstable. There's an unusual interference. Vibrations that don't match any recorded technology.]
Clark increased his speed. Arms extended forward, body aligned with the airflow. No radar could detect him at that altitude. He was too fast. Too precise.
'Could it be magic?'
[Possibly. But there's something else. The distortion feels… alive. In constant motion.]
Clark narrowed his eyes. The wind stung his face, but he didn't blink. The direction pointed to Gotham. A city known only through headlines and echoes of violence. He had never visited. Never needed to.
But now, the crystal was there. And if magic was involved, he needed to be more than fast—he needed to be cautious.
[I will monitor all energy signatures around the primary location. But I recommend caution. Something in that environment does not conform to Kryptonian logic.]
'Not the first time.'
The coastline began to appear ahead. Gotham was still distant, but not distant enough for hesitation. Clark adjusted his course slightly and sharpened his senses.
The wind around him hissed louder as he gained speed. Scattered clouds passed like blurs of cold mist. The city slept, but the atmosphere already felt different. Gotham carried a weight in the air that he could sense even before crossing its boundary.
Clark kept his breathing steady. He didn't need oxygen like others, but he used the act of breathing to maintain focus.
'Diana was right to be upset.'
No response from Jor-El. Clark pressed on, his thoughts direct, unsoftened.
'You heard the conversation. So tell me… did I do the right thing?'
[Whether you acted rightly or not… only the future will tell. But you must remember one thing, Kal: she left her world to be with you. You defeated Ares together. She is a warrior.]
[Of the women by your side, she is the only one who can truly hold her own on any battlefield. Your attempt to protect her… might end up pushing her away. Instead of keeping her from danger, perhaps you should prepare her to face it by your side.]
Clark kept his gaze fixed on the horizon. Jor-El's words rang too clearly. He couldn't ignore the truth in them.
'Diana isn't fragile. Never has been.'
The city began to take shape ahead. Gotham's silhouette clawed at the sky like black talons pointing upward. The lights were scarce, dim, as if even electricity hesitated to linger there too long.
Clark slowed gradually, staying above the cloud cover. His body thrummed with contained energy. The tension wasn't from the mission—it came from the choice he'd left behind.
"You're right, Jor-El. I'll change my approach. Next time… I'll include her. Share at least some of the information with her."
The silence that followed was brief.
[Kal… the signal has vanished.]
Clark maintained his flight, but his eyes locked onto the city below with heightened focus.
[Not just the crystal's signature. The interference has vanished too. As if everything was… erased.]
[I've checked the upper and lower atmospheric layers. Nothing. No residue. No distortion. It's as if it never existed.]
Clark slowed further and hovered above a band of thick clouds. Gotham lay below, cloaked in its own shadow, as if the city deliberately rejected light. He used his telescopic vision—scanning the terrain, rooftops, streets.
Nothing pulsed. No magical heat signatures. No abnormal frequencies.
'It was there. You saw it yourself.'
[I did. I analyzed it. I have records of the reading. But now… the city is energetically neutral. Almost as if something is masking not only the crystal—but the memory of its presence.]
Clark clenched his jaw. The feeling of helplessness didn't come from a lack of power, but from a lack of direction. He was in the right place. At the right time. But the target had vanished into thin air.
Literally.
Descending a few meters, he remained invisible to standard radar. No plane, helicopter, or drone could detect a body at that altitude and speed.
'What are the odds this is a trap?'
[High. But a trap requires a purpose. And for now, we've detected no direct movement against you. No visible hostile signatures.]
'Then it's worse than I thought. If they don't want me to see… maybe they also don't want me to understand.'
Clark slowly circled what remained of Wayne Tower. The top was sealed with containment structures. Reinforced tarps. Idle machinery.
'If the crystal is gone… maybe the best move is to go straight to Bruce.'
The thought came as strategy, not impulse.
'But… what if he's not who I think he is?'
The doubt was valid.
The Bruce of this world might just be a bitter heir, isolated from the world. Or someone more dangerous. More hidden. With no intention of cooperating.
'Is it worth revealing myself? Making contact? Telling him I'm here for an alien crystal hidden under his city?'
Clark remained motionless in the air for a few seconds. The wind passed through him, but his body stayed steady—suspended, controlled, discreet.
Without reaching an immediate decision, he chose the safer path.
His body vibrated faintly until it vanished from visible light. The particles around his skin ceased to reflect, as if he'd been erased from the physical world. Invisible.
It was an ability he rarely used. Drawn from his Martian side. But in this city… it was prudent.
Gotham didn't like being watched.
And Clark was now just a ghost above it.
---
Clark descended slowly over the grounds of Wayne Manor. He hovered silently, still invisible, and passed through the main entrance. No security systems triggered. No signs of recent heat or movement.
He used his X-ray vision to scan the interior, floor by floor.
The main rooms were empty. Living room. Study. Library. No sign of Bruce.
But then… he saw the hallway.
And the body.
Clark moved with precision, passing through walls unseen. The figure slumped on the floor at the entrance to the living room caught his attention immediately. An older man. Neat suit, but stained with dried blood.
'The butler…'
Alfred.
Clark landed softly in the room, still invisible. The atmosphere felt different. Heavy. Cold. As if the entire space had absorbed the trauma.
A little further ahead, another body.
This one was different.
Pale skin, smeared grotesque makeup, a carved smile even in death. Stained clothes. A caricatured figure, but violent in expression even without life.
Clark narrowed his eyes.
'The Joker…?'
He'd never seen him in person. But the figure was unmistakable. Even without confirmation, the appearance spoke for itself.
Two bodies. No sign of Bruce.
And that said more than any report.
'If Batman existed in this world… and killed someone…'
The line between justice and vengeance had been crossed.
Clark approached the body sprawled near the fireplace slowly. Even invisible, he felt the weight of the environment. The stains on the floor, the trail of dried blood, the shards of what seemed to be a broken frame… all pointed to a loss of control.
But nothing was clearer than the face of the dead man.
His skin was unnaturally pale, too artificial to be natural. His hair, faded green, clung to his skull with dried sweat and blood. But what stood out was the face.
The jawbones were shattered. The nose caved in. The upper dental arch broken in multiple places. The face's contours had lost any recognizable shape—as if it had been crushed with raw brutality. No weapons. No surgical precision.
Just fists.
Dried blood coated the clenched teeth. The eyes were half-closed, covered in purple and black bruises. The smeared makeup—if it could still be called that—only highlighted the destruction on the face.
'This wasn't a gunshot. Or a knife.'
Clark analyzed each crack. Each fracture.
'He was killed with bare hands.'
The force required to cause that kind of damage with direct blows didn't come from an ordinary person. But it wasn't born of irrational rage either. It was something else. Something that blended anger and resolve.
Clark stood, still observing the body.
The Joker's mouth remained open. Lips torn, teeth missing. As if his very laugh had been crushed out of him.
And in that moment, Clark understood.
'Alfred died first.'
The Joker laughed afterward.
And someone—someone who broke their own code—responded with what they had.
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