General Zod's eyes narrowed the moment a red-and-blue streak cut across the skyline. Too fast for humans to follow, but he didn't need a clear view. The symbol on the chest was enough. The House of El.
Kal-El.
Across the broken street, Superman dropped in hard, boots cracking what was left of the pavement. Dust lifted, then settled. For a moment, things slowed around him.
He straightened, scanning the damage, then felt the shift in the air and turned.
Zod came down a few meters ahead in his armour, landing steady, eyes fixed.
Neither of them moved.
Zod looked him over like he already knew what he'd find.
"So," he said, calm but tight, "you are the son of Jor-El."
Superman didn't answer. He just held his ground, watching him.
Zod stepped forward.
"I am General Zod," he said. "Defender of Krypton… its rightful leader."
"And you," Zod said, meeting his eyes, "are the key to its future."
Wind pushed through the street, carrying dust and distant sirens.
Neither of them looked away.
Clark's eyes hardened as he stepped forward, placing himself between Zod and the distant line of fleeing civilians.
"What are you doing on Earth?"
General Zod didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned his head slightly, scanning the skyline, the broken buildings, the fragile world around him. There was no admiration in his gaze—only judgment.
"What must be done," Zod said at last, his tone measured, almost patient. "Look at this planet, Kal. Its technology is primitive. Its people are divided, disorganized… still reaching for a future they cannot secure."
He gestured faintly to the city around them.
"Across the universe, civilizations rise and fall by strength. Krypton understood that once. We were not weak—we were shaped for survival." His voice tightened, conviction sharpening every word.
"And now, that purpose falls to me."
Clark didn't move. "You're talking about replacing this world."
Zod turned back to him, meeting his gaze directly.
"I am talking about restoring Krypton," he said. "Earth is suitable. Its atmosphere, its resources… it can be remade."
A brief pause followed, heavy and deliberate.
"Into a new Krypton."
Clark's expression shifted, the weight of that implication settling in.
"And the people here?" he asked.
Zod didn't hesitate.
"They would perish," he said, as if stating a natural law rather than a choice. "Every species has its role. Humans have had theirs. Now they stand in the way of something greater."
Clark's jaw tightened.
"They're not in your way," he said, his voice lower now, edged with anger. "This is their home."
Zod took a step closer, unfazed.
"Krypton was my home," he replied. "And it was taken from me. Everything I am… every instinct, every purpose… was bred into me to protect it."
His eyes locked onto Clark's.
"I will not allow it to die again."
The space between them shrank, tension thickening, the argument no longer philosophical—it was inevitable.
Clark didn't step back.
"Then you'll have to go through me."
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction flickered across Zod's face.
"Of course," he said quietly.
The distance between them vanished in an instant.
Clark moved first, faster than thought, his fist driving straight toward Zod's face with enough force to level a building.
Zod didn't dodge—he caught the punch mid-strike. The impact cracked the air, shockwaves rippling through the street, but Zod's grip didn't budge.
For a brief second, Clark pushed harder, muscles tightening under the yellow sun's strength.
It didn't matter.
General Zod twisted his wrist and drove a knee into Clark's ribs. The hit landed clean, precise, forcing the air out of him before he could recover.
Zod followed immediately—pivoting into a brutal elbow that snapped Clark's head to the side and sent him skidding across the broken pavement.
Clark dug his hand into the ground, stopping himself before crashing through what remained of a concrete wall. He launched back in, faster this time, trying to overwhelm him with speed—two strikes, then a third, aimed at Zod's centerline.
Zod shifted just enough.
The first blow glanced. The second was redirected. The third never landed.
Zod stepped inside Clark's guard and drove a punch straight into his abdomen, folding him slightly before slamming both hands together across Clark's back. The force drove him face-first into the street, shattering asphalt and sending debris outward in a violent ring.
Zod didn't let up. He grabbed Clark by the cape and hauled him back to his feet, only to slam him again—this time into the side of a collapsed building. Steel bent on impact. Concrete fractured around Clark's body.
"You rely on strength," Zod said, advancing without hurry. "But strength without discipline is nothing."
Clark pushed himself free from the wreckage, eyes narrowing, adjusting, trying to read him now instead of rushing blindly. He circled slightly, shoulders tightening, watching Zod's footing, his timing.
Zod saw it.
A faint, humorless smirk touched his face.
"Good," he said. "You're learning."
Clark surged forward again—but this time he feinted high, then drove low, aiming to take Zod off balance.
Zod didn't fall for it.
He stepped aside at the last possible second, hooked Clark's arm, and used his own momentum against him—flipping him cleanly over and driving him hard into the ground behind him.
Before Clark could recover, Zod planted a boot against his chest and forced him down, the pavement beneath them cracking under the pressure.
"I was bred to be a warrior," Zod said, looking down at him. "Trained from birth. Every instinct, every reflex—honed for combat."
He leaned in slightly, voice sharpening.
"What were you trained to do, Kal?"
Clark strained against the pressure, trying to push the boot away, but Zod increased the force just enough to keep him pinned.
"Grow up?" Zod continued. "Hide among them? Pretend to be one of them?"
His eyes hardened.
"You have power, but you lack purpose. You hesitate."
Clark's hands tightened into fists.
Zod lifted his foot just enough—
Clark exploded upward, driving a punch into Zod's jaw that actually forced him back a step.
A step.
For the first time, Clark had moved him.
Clark followed, pressing forward, faster now, more controlled—his strikes tighter, less wasted motion, adapting mid-fight. A hit landed across Zod's shoulder. Another grazed his side.
Zod absorbed it—and then answered.
He slipped inside Clark's next strike and delivered a devastating combination—two rapid punches to the torso followed by a final blow to the face that launched Clark off his feet and through the remains of a building behind him.
Dust and debris swallowed the impact.
Zod stood still for a moment, watching the settling cloud.
"Better," he said quietly. "But still not enough."
From within the rubble, Clark pushed himself up again, slower this time, but steadier.
*****
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