The fiery shockwave rolled past, heat licking at their backs.
As the inferno died down, Peter slowly lowered his arms, revealing the three figures behind him, shielded and unharmed.
Not a single burn touched his skin.
Not even a scratch.
"Dad?!" Adam stared in disbelief, his voice tight with awe and confusion.
It clicked.
The Laser Eyes.
The unnatural strength.
The ability to withstand explosions.
He hadn't just gotten lucky. He had inherited it.
His dad was superhuman.
Adam's admiration surged. His eyes sparkled with pure reverence.
So that's it… I got my powers from him! Dad's not just strong—he's… a hero.
He clenched his fists. One day, he'd be just like him.
Cool. Unstoppable. Fearless.
What Adam didn't know—and what nearly everyone else around Peter already did—was that he was adopted. It wasn't some deep government secret. It was just… something they hadn't told him yet.
Not out of cruelty.
But because in Peter's heart, he was always his son.
Meanwhile, Clark was breathing heavily behind Peter, his heart pounding as the implications sank in.
His godfather—was Superman.
The pieces were falling into place. His own enhanced senses. His growing strength. Just last week, he had accidentally stuck his hand into a rotating farm thresher—and pulled it out without so much as a scratch.
At first, he thought he was just lucky.
But now?
Now he wondered if he was something more.
His eyes drifted to Adam. Could they have been… switched at birth?
Could he be the real son, and Adam… adopted?
Clark chewed the inside of his cheek. The questions roared through his head like a hurricane.
But there was no time to ponder it now.
"BOOM!"
Another fireball burst behind them, sending debris flying.
Peter reacted instinctively.
He pulled Adam into one arm, sheathed his blood-drenched katana, and darted toward the exit.
As they cleared the burning warehouse, the crowd outside was in chaos.
Police officers shouted from the station steps, trying to coordinate incoming fire trucks and control the panicked citizens. Lights flashed, alarms howled, and smoke clouded the air like a war zone.
Among the chaos, Nier stood helplessly near the barricade, sobbing and screaming for Lana.
When she finally saw her, she broke into tears, sprinted over, and scooped her into her arms.
"Oh my God! Lana! You're okay!" Nier nearly collapsed in relief, planting frantic kisses on the girl's soot-covered cheek.
"I thought I lost you—I thought I…"
Lana, ever composed, gently patted her aunt's arm. "I'm fine, Aunt Nier. Really."
"You're safe… that's all that matters," Nier whispered, holding her tight.
"How did you get out?" she asked, looking over Lana carefully for injuries.
"It was Patrick Uncle," Lana said, looking past the fires, her eyes searching for Peter.
The blaze lit up the street like it was noon. Pajama-clad townsfolk sprinted through the smoke, dragging pets and pushing carts. Cops waved flashlights and tried to direct the flow of chaos.
But Lana wasn't focused on any of that.
She was looking for him.
She couldn't spot Peter through the crowd, but she felt his presence—somewhere in the smoke, still fighting.
Her heart ached with a quiet longing.
---
Elsewhere, in the dark woods beyond town...
Amidst the gnarled trees and dim moonlight, a twisted altar stood tall—stone slabs soaked in blood, etched with dark runes.
Father Norma stood before it, trembling with fury.
Clutching his black magic book, his hands shook as he turned the blood-stained pages.
"Damn it… DAMN IT!" he cursed aloud.
The ritual had gone haywire.
One by one, the zombies he had painstakingly raised, controlled, and spread through the town… were disappearing.
Their magical link—severed.
Sweat dripped from his balding head as the realization sank in: someone was killing his undead.
He had orchestrated this massacre for a reason. According to the cursed grimoire, to obtain true necromantic power—power strong enough to cure his terminal lung cancer—he needed to sacrifice hundreds of souls.
Hence, the Great Hall.
The panic. The slaughter.
It was all part of the ritual.
At first, everything went smoothly.
But now?
The connection between him and his creatures was vanishing like mist.
If the government got wind of what he had done—he wouldn't just lose his power.
He'd lose everything.
"Rustle. Rustle..."
A sound in the trees made him freeze.
"Who's there?!" he barked, raising the book defensively.
From the shadows, a voice responded. Calm. Familiar.
"It's me, Father Norma."
He squinted through the branches.
A silhouette emerged.
Peter.
With him stood Clark—and Adam, the boy now glowing faintly with residual Laser Eyes.
Norma took a step back, stunned. "Peter?!"
The "simple farmer" now looked anything but ordinary. He was calm, battle-hardened, and radiating power.
"Why are you here?" Norma asked, voice quivering.
Peter didn't answer at first. His gaze shifted to the grotesque altar.
"Father…" he finally said. "This isn't faith. This is a perversion."
Norma raised his hands. "It's a spiritual purification ritual. You don't understand."
Peter took a step closer, face stern. "Sacrificing innocent people? Raising the dead to slaughter the living? That's your version of purification?"
He reached out and ripped the book from Norma's hands.
The priest lunged to stop him, but Peter backhanded him with such force he hit the dirt like a sack of flour, teeth clattering loose.
Peter flipped through the book.
He stopped on a page, eyes narrowing.
"Undead resurrection… swamp burial… blood moon rituals…"
He looked up. "So that's how it worked."
Norma struggled to his knees, spitting blood. "How do you… how do you know all this?!"
"You told grieving families they could bring their loved ones back," Peter said. "My cousin Louis lost his son, Terry. His wife buried Terry in that swamp like you instructed."
He slammed the book shut.
"And when Terry came back… he wasn't Terry anymore."
"Louis and his wife were killed by the thing they brought home," Peter continued coldly. "And you used them. You used everyone."
Norma's lips curled into a bitter smile. "And what if I did? I'm dying. I have LUNG CANCER. You think God was going to save me?"
He stood shakily, wiping blood from his chin.
"I spent years believing in righteousness, helping people. But God didn't help me. So now—I'll save myself."
Clark, standing a few feet behind, was frozen.
This was like something out of a horror novel.
He thought stories like The Monkey's Paw were fiction.
Not reality.
Adam stood stone-faced. His dad had this under control. He didn't need to step in.
"Every life is a donkey cart racing toward a cliff," Norma growled, voice filled with venom. "So let's all tumble into the abyss together!"
He began to raise his hand to cast one last spell.
But he never got the chance.
CRACK!
Peter moved like lightning.
His hand snapped forward, and with a sickening twist—
Father Norma's neck cracked.
The old priest collapsed in a heap, lifeless, his body twitching once before going still.
The forest fell quiet.
No more chanting.
No more rustling.
Only the flicker of moonlight dancing over the bloodied altar.
---
Clark's voice broke the silence.
"So… are we done?"
Peter looked at the two boys—his godson and his adopted son—and nodded.
"For now."
But deep down, he knew this was just the beginning.
He'd killed the puppeteer.
But what if the strings led somewhere deeper?
The book in his hand throbbed faintly.
It wasn't over.
Not yet.
---