The Fortress of Solitude rose from the Arctic ice like a cathedral built by alien hands—crystal spires catching the endless daylight, humming with a frequency that resonated in Robert's bones. Beside him, Clark stood silent, his breath misting in the frigid air.
"It's beautiful," Clark whispered.
"Let's see what your dad left you," Robert said, his voice echoing in the vastness.
The key from Clark's ship slid into the console with a crystalline chime. Light exploded outward, coalescing into the form of a man—tall, regal, with Clark's jawline and kind eyes.
"Kal-El," the projection spoke, its voice rich with age and sorrow. "My son. If you are seeing this, I am long gone."
For hours, the AI of Jor-El spoke. It told Clark of Krypton, of its pride and its fatal flaws, of the House of El and its legacy. It showed him star charts and histories, taught him the language of his birth planet, explained the powers that would grow as he matured. Clark absorbed it all, his eyes sometimes glowing with unshed tears, sometimes blazing with the fire of discovery.
Robert stood as silent guardian, watching his brother become what he was meant to be.
High school ended in a blur of caps and gowns, then came the real world.
Clark took to journalism like a fish to water—the Daily Planet gave him a junior reporter position within months. Chloe, sharp as ever, landed at the same paper. Their relationship, which had simmered through senior year, went public with a photo of them sharing a victory milkshake after Chloe broke a story on city council corruption. They moved to Metropolis together, a tiny apartment that smelled like takeout and ambition.
Pete surprised everyone by diving into computer science. Wayne Industries scooped him up before graduation, LuthorCorp's rival offering a salary that made Jonathan's eyes pop. "Bruce Wayne himself conducted my interview," Pete bragged over beers, though Robert suspected it was probably just Lucius Fox. Still, Pete was happy, buried in code and coffee, building systems that would one day support a man in a cape.
Robert became a freelancer. Not a reporter—though he could have been—but a true freelancer. He fixed things. People called him when the weird happened: a warehouse that blinked in and out of existence, a man who could walk through walls robbing banks, a woman whose voice could shatter steel. He'd show up, solve the problem, and vanish. His rates were high. His results were final. He'd saved the Kents' farm a hundred times over, though Jonathan and Martha never asked where the money came from.
They still worked the land, but now it was love, not necessity. The new tractor ran itself—one of Bob's cousins, though they didn't know that. The bills were paid. The mortgage was gone. Robert had made sure of it.
Lana had moved in two years after graduation.
The sex started at seventeen, clumsy and eager in the back of Robert's truck after a football game. She'd whispered "I'm ready," and Robert hadn't needed to ask what for. She was warm and willing and his.
But his body wasn't human, not really. His stamina was endless. She'd come apart three, four times, thighs trembling, voice hoarse from crying his name, and he'd still be hard, still moving, still building toward a release that never seemed to arrive.
"Baby, please," she'd gasped, nails digging into his back. "I can't—I'm so sensitive—"
He'd pulled out, groaning, and finished with his hand while she kissed his neck, whispering apologies.
She didn't get pregnant. He controlled that instinctively—the same way he controlled his strength, his speed. His seed only lived when he allowed it.
After that first time, she became obsessed. Not clingy—obsessed. She'd wait for him naked in his bed, her eyes hungry. She learned what he liked, what made him groan, what made his eyes glow faint. She'd wake him with her mouth, fall asleep with him still inside her.
"Robert," she panted one night, riding him slowly, her D-cup breasts bouncing in the dim light, "you're so strong. I can't keep up. You should get three more girls. So you don't have to be... unsatisfied."
He grabbed her hips, stilling her. "I'm not into harem stuff."
"But—"
"You're enough." He thrust up hard, making her scream. "More than enough."
She came, clenching around him, and he let himself follow, filling her with pulse after pulse that she took greedily.
The day Clark moved to Metropolis, Martha cried.
"I'll visit every weekend," Clark promised, hugging her tight. "It's only a few hours by bus."
"You'll be busy," Martha sniffed. "With your job. And Chloe."
Chloe, standing by the truck loaded with boxes, blushed. "I'll make sure he calls, Mrs. Kent."
"Ma," Robert said quietly, his hand on her shoulder, "he'll be fine. And you're not getting rid of me."
She'd hugged him then, fierce and grateful. "I know, honey. I know."
That night, after Lana had fallen asleep curled against his side—naked, satisfied, her thigh thrown over his—Robert slipped from the bed. He walked to the window, looking up at the stars.
With a thought, he opened a pocket of reality. Inside, floating in stasis, were his trophies. A perfect replica of Mars, red and dust-storm swirled. A spiral galaxy, small enough to fit in his palm, its stars twinkling. A dead world, its core turned to diamond by pressure. Each one a memory, a conquest, a moment when he'd tested his limits and won.
Bob, now the size of a small dog and patrolling the farm perimeter, pinged him through their link. All secure.
Robert smiled. The farm slept. Lana is smiling in her sleep. His family was safe.
He added a new trophy to his collection—a perfect, crystalline shard of the Fortress itself—and closed the pocket.that the life i want this is so Peaceful :) .
Life was good.
[Give this power stone to u egoist author 😁,i write this hole chapter with my own hand, now no one can say i write this with Ai shit😏]