Chapter 1: The Last Son of Krypton
The 41st Millennium.
The galaxy is in flames.
It is an age of nothing but war, darkness, and despair. The decaying Imperium of Man spans a million worlds, but beneath the golden spires of its magnificent cathedrals lies a suffocating bureaucracy, soul-crushing endless tithes, and unutterable horrors whispering from the lightless depths between the stars.
The thirsting Chaos Gods laugh within the Warp, eyeing every soul with predatory greed.
...
Hive World: Necromunda. Deep within the Underhive.
This is the lowest circle of hell.
Thick industrial exhaust mixed with rotting fungal spores forms the primary atmosphere here; breathing it into the lungs brings a searing sensation of rust and sulfur. Miles above, a heavy ceiling completely blots out the sky, sealing this place into an eternal sarcophagus.
The tens of billions of Underhivers living here, from birth to death, spend their entire lives never knowing the true color of the "Sun."
But deeper still than the Abandoned Thermal Well No. 17, within a hidden cavity shielded by layers of lead plating, discarded armor, and ancient force-field generators, lies the brightest light on this planet—perhaps in the entire sector.
Hum—!
A low, ethereal hum echoes within the cavity, worlds apart from the noisy grinding of gears outside.
A diamond-shaped silver metallic pod floats in mid-air.
The patterns on its surface are ancient and elegant, possessing the texture of flowing liquid metal. It is entirely different from the Imperium's crude, lumbering Gothic machinery—reeking of engine oil and adorned with skulls—nor does it belong to any known xenos technology. It glows with a soft, pulsing silver light, like a miniature, breathing stellar embryo.
Above the ship, a man hangs suspended, bare-chested, his arms spread in a cruciform.
Light.
A pure, golden stream of light, simulating the full-spectrum output of a Yellow Star, pours incessantly from the ship's core. These light particles seem sentient, scrambling to dive into the man's pores, flushing every cell and emitting faint crackles reminiscent of a burning star.
If a Magos Biologis of the Adeptus Mechanicus were here, observing with the Auspex scanners in their bionic eyes, they would discover with horror that this man's cellular structure was undergoing a reaction akin to nuclear fusion.
That was no mere flesh and blood of a mortal; it was an entity of destruction—compressed to the extreme by the energy of countless suns.
"Charging complete. Current bio-field activity: 100%."
"Cellular energy storage: Peak."
A cold, emotionless mechanical voice rang directly in the man's mind. It was the ship's central AI, the final legacy left by his late biological father, Jor-El.
Clark Kent slowly opened his eyes.
They were a pair of deep azure eyes, as profound as the purest oceans of Ancient Terra. The moment they opened, two golden solar flares seemed to flash within his pupils, instantly illuminating the dim space. The air even grew thick with the smell of ionized ozone.
He descended slowly, his bare feet touching the cold metal floor without making a sound, as if gravity were merely an optional suggestion to him.
As the light faded, his body—carved as if by the gods themselves—was revealed.
Standing nearly 1.9 meters tall, every muscle looked as though it were cast from Adamantium. He did not appear bulky, yet he contained a terrifying explosive power capable of pushing a mobile fortress with his bare hands. His broad shoulders and back formed a perfect inverted triangle, and the dark hair on his chest looked primal and powerful against his marble-like skin.
He walked to a polished sheet of scrap steel and looked at his reflection.
It was a face that could drive Imperial noblewomen to madness and leave Space Marines bewildered.
Inky black wavy hair was swept back, revealing a high forehead. His nose was straight and sharp as a blade, his lips pressed thin, exuding grit and coldness. Most striking was the iconic cleft in the center of his chin—the "Cleft Chin."
It added a touch of classical Greek sculptural beauty to his rock-hard facial lines, lending him a divine majesty that was difficult to look at directly.
This was the face of Henry Cavill, a face only matched by the God-Emperor.
But in the world of Warhammer, this face represented a dangerous misunderstanding.
Because a countenance so perfect, almost entirely devoid of genetic flaws, usually only appeared in the legendary Age of Technology, or upon the immortal Custodes within the Imperial Palace of Holy Terra.
In fact, if he were to don a suit of golden power armor, devout Imperial citizens would likely collapse in tears, believing a lost Primarch had returned.
But he knew he was not.
He raised a hand, his fingertips tracing the reflection in the mirror.
Memory drifted back twenty years.
As an infant, he had traveled in this escape pod, pierced through the shattered Warp, and crashed onto this cursed world.
He was found by a pair of scholars exiled to the Underhive—Jonathan and Martha.
When Jonathan first touched the silver ship, a warm psychic ripple penetrated his mind. In that moment, Old Jonathan seemed to see a symbol of "Hope" from Ancient Terran legends, along with a name.
And so, Kal-El received a human name: Clark Kent.
"Whew..."
Clark exhaled softly.
This should have been a tiny action, unable to even stir dust. However, the moment the breath left his lips, the air was instantly ionized due to the high-density gas compressed in his lungs and the furnace-like heat of his body.
Bang!
A crisp sonic boom, like a firecracker exploding by the ear, echoed in the narrow cavity.
The small cloud of white mist acted like a miniature air cannon, slamming directly into the Adamantium wall three meters away. It actually blew a shallow dent into the heavy steel plate—a material that even a Bolter would struggle to mark. The dust of many years was stirred by the turbulent airflow, forming a visible ripple of shockwaves.
This was his body now. Every breath was a storm a mortal could not withstand.
Clark lowered his eyes and restrained his aura. He walked to a pile of grease-stained junk in the corner and picked up his clothes.
They were a pair of grey overalls covered in old oil stains and a worn-out tank top, faded white with frayed edges.
His movements became extremely slow and cautious, as if he were dismantling an unstable Melta bomb.
His fingertips gently pinched the edge of the vest—this was the most difficult control training for him. Since his fingers possessed the strength to crush tank armor, the slightest release of even one microampere of bio-electric signal from his nerve endings would turn the fragile fabric into dust instantly.
In this sunless Underhive, this Kryptonian ship that fell with him was his only "power bank" and his last home.
Necromunda has no sunlight, only suffocating toxic clouds. Without a yellow sun, his power would be like water without a source. The ship's residual fusion core was his only guarantee to maintain his peak state in this mad universe filled with gods and demons.
He walked to the polished scrap steel again, using it as his dressing mirror.
The man in the mirror looked down to adjust his collar. The coarse work clothes could not hide the body carved by a Greek god; his broad pectorals stretched the vest tight, every muscle line containing destructive explosive power. That face—with the signature cleft chin and sharp features—carried an innate resolve and coldness.
His finger inadvertently touched the center of his chest.
The skin there was smooth as jade, without a single blemish. But in the depths of his soul, that spot bore an eternally bleeding, unhealable scar.
[WARNING: Limbic system activity detected in host. Cortisol levels rising slightly.] [Idealistic Field stability decreased by 0.01%.]
In his mind, that cold, rational mechanical voice rang out again.
It was [SOL].
Full name: "Kryptonian Codex Guidance Intelligence." It was his final line of defense for his sanity.
His parents built him to protect him from daemon influence and learn about the universe.
Following the AI's warning, memories flooded back like a black tide breaching a dam, carrying the nauseating scent of blood.