Chapter 3: Arrival on Earth(3)
A dilapidated attic.
Though the owner had meticulously and patiently swept away all the dust, and the items were arranged neatly, it was clear the house had been uninhabited for a long time. The aged wooden floorboards creaked underfoot, as if straining under the weight.
A glass of water sat on the bedside table.
Luka glanced down at the clean white bandages wrapped around his chest and the splint and plaster cast supporting his right arm, which was slung across his chest.
Pushing open the equally aged wooden door with his left hand, a faint, sour, musty scent drifted into his nose.
As Luka descended the attic stairs, step by step, he once again felt the reassuring pull of gravity.
This was Earth.
Though not the one he knew, and perhaps even more dangerous than war-torn Viltrum, at least it was Earth.
There would be no cold-blooded or volatile instructors forcing him to kill comrades he'd lived and trained with. No mandatory "survival" exercises where he'd be thrown into a cage with some hideous alien beast to fight for his life, even after diligently completing all training requirements.
Nor would he be forced to join a squad and slaughter billions of defenseless lives under mandatory orders, simply because that civilization's will to resist was unyielding.
If he had been born a true Viltrum native, it might have been simpler. A blank white canvas, ready to be painted upon, would have simply produced another qualified Viltrumite warrior.
But he was, unmistakably, an Earthling.
Two fundamentally different mentalities clashed and coexisted within his mind. The brutal law of survival he had grasped at the age of five couldn't erase the memory of his two decades of peaceful, stable life.
Countless nightmares plagued his nights, each one depicting him being sent by Viltrum to conquer his former home, Earth. In these visions, consumed by terror and rage, he would personally crush the lives of those he once held dearest.
The somewhat distant memory flashed by. Luka raised his still-intact arm and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers.
The living room on the first floor wasn't spacious. Besides an old sofa and a vintage television, a row of primitive farming tools stood neatly arranged against the wall: several hoes, an iron rake, a sickle hanging on the wooden wall, and a straw hat.
Luka's gaze lingered on the straw hat for a moment.
Though his consciousness had been close to nothing before he passed out, he was certain he was not mistaken.
"With that guy around, how could Earth possibly be classified as a vacation-level planet in Viltrum's database?"
Luka felt numb. To prevent his injuries from worsening during the journey, he had remained in a frozen slumber. Upon waking, he hadn't had time to check the ship's navigation logs.
A second transmigration? Or is this actually some kind of hybrid American comic book world?
Back then, he had been in too much of a hurry just to memorize Earth's coordinates. He hadn't had time to check Viltrum's database to see if this universe contained a planet called Krypton.
Theoretically, it shouldn't exist.
If this universe truly had a race capable of rivaling the Viltrumites under yellow solar radiation, the Viltrumite instructors would have at least mentioned them during their lectures to the young trainees.
Any special race that posed a threat to Viltrumite warriors was a key topic in the limited Viltrum cultural studies curriculum.
Even civilizations inferior to Viltrum were given significant attention, let alone Krypton.
Luka gazed at the sparsely furnished dwelling, his mind racing to assess his current situation.
He had not been imprisoned. The other party likely regarded him as some kind of alien refugee. But why was his lodging so crude?
The sound of crashing waves reached his ears. Following the sound, he glanced through the window and saw sunlight glinting on the endless expanse of the sea.
Even if he were an alien refugee, why hadn't they housed him in the Fortress of Solitude in the Arctic, the Hall of Justice, or the Watchtower? Those locations would have allowed for easier monitoring.
The rhythmic crash of waves against the rocky shore mingled with the gentle rustle of wind through the window frame.
Leaning against the window, Luka's fingertips brushed the cool glass as his gaze locked onto the distant horizon where the sea met the sky.
He needed to determine the current time, his exact location, and the identity of the man with the "S" emblem as quickly as possible.
The Viltrumite's physiology allowed him to recover much faster than an ordinary human. Though his injuries hadn't fully healed, basic movement was no longer a problem.
He flexed his uninjured left leg, noting the dull soreness in the muscles, then braced himself against the wall and slowly made his way to the center of the living room.
Next to the old television stood a wooden cabinet with peeling paint. A small brass lock hung on its door.
Luka gently pried at the lock with his left hand, and it snapped open with a crisp sound.
Even in his severely injured state, a Viltrumite's strength far surpassed anything an Earthling could imagine.
Inside the cabinet, several neatly folded pieces of old clothing lay stacked beside a yellowed diary.
He picked up the diary, his fingertips brushing against the rough pages as he flipped to the first entry.
The handwriting was slightly rough, recording mundane daily affairs.
"The waves were fierce at the beach today. The fishing net tore again. I'll need to mend it tomorrow."
"Mrs. Jane from next door brought over a bowl of seafood soup. It tasted delicious."
"The radio mentioned strange things happening in the city. People who can fly. Hope it doesn't affect the coast."
Luka rapidly flipped through the diary, his heart sinking with each page.
The diary spanned only six months. The most recent entry was from three days ago: "Found an injured seabird today. Hope it gets better soon."
There was no mention of key terms like "superhero" or "alien." The only remotely relevant thing was that line about "people who can fly."
Luka couldn't help but feel confused.
The S-shaped symbol, the ability to fly in outer space, and the "bio-feld" he faintly heard before losing consciousness...
Wasn't it Superman who saved him?
Suddenly, a faint sound caught Luka's ear.
He quickly returned the diary to its place and instinctively kicked the broken lock on the wooden floor under the sofa.
A moment later, the wooden door was gently pushed open, and a middle-aged man in blue work clothes walked in.
The man was tall and sturdy, his skin somewhat rough, his face bearing the weathered lines etched by sea winds.
When he saw Luka standing in the middle of the living room, a flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly softening into a warm smile.
"You're awake?"
The man's voice was deep and raspy, tinged with fatigue.
"How are you feeling?"
Luka's nerves instantly tensed. His left hand clenched subtly, and the last vestiges of his strength began to coalesce rapidly within him.
He remained silent, his gaze fixed warily on the man, trying to discern any hostility from his expression and movements.
The man seemed to sense Luka's apprehension. He stopped walking and raised both hands to show he meant no harm.
"Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you."
"Superman brought you here. He said you were badly injured and needed a quiet place to recover."
Luka remained tense.
Though the mention of Superman finally eased his inner tension slightly, he knew he had to maintain his facade until he fully understood this world.
As an "alien" relative to Earth, Luka was vaguely aware that in many extraterrestrial cultures, Superman held an almost mythical reputation.
This only deepened Luka's need to carefully assess the specifics of this world.
During his decade-long stay on Viltrum, he had never heard of a Superman existing on Earth in this universe.
Just which universe am I in now?