Ian's will was like a high-dimensional camera.
With great interest, he watched everything happening inside the library.
He saw Belial holding that copy of *To Live*, his body transitioning from stiff to violently trembling—a convulsion born of a mixture of extreme rage, humiliation, and the collapse of his beliefs.
The Dark King had never felt such a localized, tangible fury.
"Outrageous! ABSOLUTELY OUTRAGEOUS!!!" Belial suddenly slammed the book onto the floor, his sharp claws flailing wildly, tearing through the quiet bookshelves around him!
"I am Belial! Monarch of Darkness! Sovereign of the Universe! The New Ultra King! How could I be... some bullshit 9th-Tier NPC caught and imprisoned like a dog!!!"
Books fluttered down like snowflakes, and wooden shelves were shredded to splinters. He roared incessantly, attempting to vent this misplaced fury in the most primal way possible.
Belial instinctively wanted to destroy the place that had insulted him. However, just as his destruction was reaching its peak, a rapid "buzzing" vibration came from his left wrist.
Belial's movements froze. He looked down and realized that at some point, a sleek wristwatch flashing with metallic cold light had appeared on his arm.
Lines of text were clearly surfacing on the dial screen, accompanied by a cold, emotionless electronic voice prompt.
[Warning: Citizen [9th-Tier Ordinary NPC - Belial] has been detected committing acts of public property destruction.]
[Damage List: Ancient text *To Live* x1 (Unique copy No. 10000874332), Oak Bookshelves x343, Library Tranquil Atmosphere x several units...]
[According to Article 114514 of the "Super Grateful Ian Only God · New Utopia Top-Tier Dimensional City Management and Punishment Regulations," the fine is set at: 50,000,000 Energy Credits.]
[Your Current Account Balance: 10 Energy Credits (New Resident Gift).]
[You are now automatically in debt:
49,999,990 Energy Credits. Interest is currently being calculated...]
"Fifty million? Debt?" Belial froze for a moment before letting out an earth-shattering sneer. He threw his head back and roared at the library's invisible ceiling.
"Hahahaha! Foolish! Boring! You think mere debt can shackle me, Belial? Go ask the aliens of the universe! When has Belial ever paid back money he owed?"
"No matter the world, in any world, no one can judge me! No one can do anything to me! This world will eventually surrender to my pow—"
The final sound of "power" hadn't even fully left his throat when his voice came to a screeching halt.
Swish! Swish! Swish!
Several figures appeared instantly around Belial.
His power had been suppressed by the dimension and sealed to an extremely low level, so he didn't even have time to react before he was firmly surrounded and forced into a face mask!
These people wore uniform blue-black suits with an "X" symbol. Their movements were clean, efficient, and perfectly coordinated. The leader was a woman with long red hair.
Clearly.
This group was the X-Men.
They had finally landed government jobs, so they were likely moved to tears of gratitude several times a day. And the woman leading them was Jean Grey, also known as Phoenix.
Like every Western woman named Grey.
Jean Grey was exceptionally charming.
She possessed telepathic powers to read the minds of others. She could control things according to her will, read multiple minds simultaneously, and use mind control in her secondary persona to render opponents unconscious.
As the most powerful Omega-level mutant, she was often hailed as the most powerful telepath and telekinetic in the universe.
Of course, Jean Grey's most famous identity was as the host of the god-level Phoenix Force, along with her subtle status as the top must-eat "dish" in the X-Universe.
Though she certainly didn't know that part herself.
"Target locked."
Jean Grey's eyes were sharp. With a slight lift of her hand, Belial felt an invisible, irresistible force slam his hands behind his back!
**Click! Click!**
Two sets of special shackles flashing with energy-suppression waves instantly locked onto his wrists and ankles. The moment the shackles touched him, Belial felt the dark power within him—already heavily restricted—completely crushed. Not a single ripple could surface; he became even weaker than an ordinary human.
"You?! Who are you?! Let go of me!" Belial was both shocked and enraged, struggling desperately, but he was like a crab caught in iron tongs—completely useless.
"Vandalism, massive debt, and resisting arrest?" Another burly man with Adamantium claws sliding from between his knuckles and a cigar in his mouth glanced at him with disgust.
This was a man who needed no introduction. No one would have guessed that Logan, the Wolverine—destined for a life of wandering—would one day land a stable government job.
"And a deformed heavy-offender... Tsk, with this look, which Abyss Troll from the West Continent did he mix blood with? Or did he eat some radiation and mutate?"
Logan leaned in close to Belial, using his nose. Though he was just a wolverine and didn't have the classic dog nose, a wolverine's sense of smell wasn't half bad.
And his fight-if-you-don't-like-it personality wasn't inferior to his distant cousin, the honey badger.
"The smell is pungent, too. Like a mix of a Swamp Dretch and an Ogre." Quickly, Logan pinched his nose and gave a seemingly serious evaluation.
"I think he looks like a two-headed Ogre Knight toasted by hellfire, the kind that lost one head," said the man who could control frost, the most frustrated Omega-level mutant in history, Iceman Bobby, offering his own opinion.
He was a top Omega-level, known as Omega No. 2, second only to Jean Grey. His ability to lower temperatures to Absolute Zero could literally shake the foundations of the universe.
"Regardless, he doesn't look like a normal human."
"Maybe an alien?"
"No, I know aliens. Most of them look like us."
The X-Men law enforcement team chattered away, engaging in professional and incredibly hurtful racial speculation about Belial's appearance, their tone as flat as if they were discussing the weather.
"I... I'm going to kill you! I will definitely kill all of you!!!"
Belial was so angry that black smoke literally rose from the top of his head; his lungs were about to burst. This humiliation was ten thousand times worse than being sealed by the Ultraman King back in the day!
However, no one paid attention to his impotent rage.
"Whatever he is, it doesn't matter to us. He is technically a citizen," Jean Grey said with a wave of her hand. "Take him away. Send him to the Citizens' Court and see how the judge rules."
And so, the once-unrivaled Dark Demon God was carried away like a little chick, dragged by two X-Men out of the library doors.
It wasn't until they were outside, illuminated by the graceful afternoon sunlight, that Belial regained a sliver of his senses from his extreme rage. He suddenly seized a moment when the guards were switching hands, used all his remaining strength, and slammed his head into the Wolverine next to him! Clearly, Belial never made the right choices.
**Clang!**
A dull thud.
Belial felt as if he had hit a steel plate. He saw stars, his head spinning. Wolverine, the man with the literal iron head, didn't even wobble.
He just let out an impatient "Tsk," lifted his leg, and used the heavy sole of his combat boot to unceremoniously stomp on Belial's face, grinding his entire head into the cold ground!
"Behave, scum," Logan said with a thick nasal tone. "Move again, and I'll stuff you under Colossus's butt to use as a cushion or a household item."
That sentence was terrifying if you thought too deeply about it.
"He's got some strength... Seems he really is a hybrid from those brute races in the West Continent." Jean Grey looked down at Belial, who was still struggling futilely under Logan's boot, and muttered something.
"..."
Belial gave up struggling. Not because he had surrendered, but because he was afraid that if he got any angrier, he might become the first Dark King to be literally hissed to death by mere humans.
Thus.
Belial became obedient. He was roughly dragged and escorted across the street.
"Damn it! What the hell is that guy who set me up!" Another certification collected, another achievement unlocked. This internal monologue was mostly because Belial was desperately observing this bizarre world.
The buildings in the distance were grotesque.
Some looked like they were made of randomly stacked building blocks, hovering in defiance of gravity.
Others were transparent soap bubbles, with the figures of office workers inside blurred and distorted. The tallest tower was constructed entirely of a massive, automatically shuffling deck of playing cards, the patterns on the cards changing every second.
"Is... is this a madman's dreamscape?!" Belial felt a wave of dizziness; his dark aesthetics seemed pale and powerless here.
The "vehicles" were not metallic creations but huge, round, fluffy dandelion puffs. They were powered by internal clusters of flickering fireflies, floating silently along fixed airflow tracks. Occasionally, a passenger would be thrown out, land lightly, and then chase after another dandelion while cursing.
For some reason.
All the heavy trucks were made of marshmallows.
As if their entire bodies were buffer zones.
There wasn't a single hard spot on the vehicles, vaguely hinting at the creator's incomprehensible sentiments regarding big trucks.
Not only that, the streetlights looked normal at first glance, but up close, one could see they were actually giant lollipops emitting a soft glow.
The streets weren't paved with asphalt or stone, but with compacted crumbs of giant, smooth, colorful crayons. Stepping on them gave a slight feeling of softness and a waxy aroma.
Very fairy-tale.
Very bizarre.
A Bizarre Fairy-Tale.
Ian's understanding of Utopia was clearly different from normal people.
Even Belial, who was also different from normal people, found it hard to accept.
The X-Men escorting him were used to it.
Colossus blurred past like a gust of wind, casually snapping a piece off a lollipop tree and stuffing it into his mouth. Iceman snapped his fingers, freezing a drop of syrup rain that was about to fall on Jean Grey's hair. Wolverine impatiently kicked away a crying emotion cloud that was blocking the path.
The cloud immediately turned from white to black and began raining what smelled like vinegar.
"What the hell is this place?!"
Belial felt like he was about to develop a split personality. Finally, he was escorted into a grand building that looked somewhat normal—the Citizens' Court.
The building looked like it was made of countless giant, crooked pop-up fairy-tale books. The edges of the pages glittered with gold dust, and above the doorway hung a "Scales of Justice" emblem woven from crooked yarn.
Inside the court, the judge's high-backed chair was a massive, dozing Teddy bear.
In the clerk's seat sat a fox wearing a wig, its tail curled around a pen. The jury consisted of twelve clay dolls with varying expressions.
Belial was pressed into the defendant's seat.
A spring bed that kept trying to bounce him off.
He stared intently at the judge's bench, waiting for that sinister boy to appear. However, the side door opened, and the person who walked out made Belial freeze again.
The person sitting on the judge's bench was indeed a boy, but it wasn't that treacherous, cunning, venomous, sinister, despicable, shameless... (insert ten thousand words) drama-queen boy.
It was the even smaller boy Belial had met earlier in the library.
They looked exactly the same, but the feeling was... slightly different. The one in the library had deep, calm eyes. This one was cracking melon seeds, swinging his legs with boredom, and occasionally glancing at a floating screen playing *Tom and Jerry*. He looked exceptionally unreliable.
"He can clone himself?" The thought flashed through Belial's mind.
Just then, the seed-cracking child judge finally seemed to notice the new face in the defendant's seat.
Franklin lifted his eyelids.
He lazily scanned Belial.
His gaze lingered for a moment on Belial's skin and exoskeleton.
He scratched his head.
He seemed to be undergoing some rigorous judicial reflection.
Then he slapped the lollipop armrest.
"Fine. For hybrid ones, labor reform means being sent to mine chocolate!"
This was clearly a tool-personality clone created by Franklin to stay close to Ian's line of thinking and better anticipate the Imperial Will. The verdict was a perfect inheritance of Ian's legacy.
There's a reason why people who know how to suck up have done well throughout history. Witnessing this, Ian was in a great mood. He decided that once Franklin reached adulthood, he would keep the boy by his side as a close personal favorite official.
As for why he had to wait for adulthood—well, the position of Chief Eunuch is hard to pass through censorship with a minor.
"It's a deal!"
Ian had a plan.
The Little Boss was completely unaware of this.
Having finished, and without giving Belial any chance to defend himself, the child judge picked up a chocolate gavel and gave it a thump.
"Case closed! Adjourned!"
He announced, then immediately lowered his head to continue cracking seeds and watching *Tom and Jerry* with great relish, muttering things like, "Run, Jerry! Tom is so stupid!"
Two X-Men law enforcement officers stepped forward with expressionless faces, dragged the completely stunned, blank-minded Belial from the defendant's seat, and walked toward the portal at the back of the court.
Belial was dragged along like a puppet.
Belial protested loudly, but in such a solemn place as the court, even though he shouted "What kind of presiding judge are you, I'm not afraid of you," his voice remained unheard.
No one paid him any mind.
Thus, Belial was brought to the portal. The vortex was made of countless rotating repentant emojis and dried paint streaks, with a deep cry of [Labor is the Most Glorious] at the center.
"No! You can't—" Belial's roar was swallowed by the vortex. He felt like he had been thrown into a tunnel composed of faded dreams and forgotten fairy tales.
The world spun.
Finally, the Dark King slammed onto the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.
"Damn it! How are they planning to torture me!"
He shook his dizzy head and struggled to open his eyes. Before him was a vast, desolate, grey-white wasteland. The sky was a low-hanging, oppressive grey velvet cloth, with a few non-glowing stars made of buttons sewn onto it. The air was dry, smelling of old newspapers and dust.
In the distance, scattered figures were working mechanically and numbly, bending over. They held all sorts of strange tools: some were using giant combs to groom the ground; some were using slotted spoons to scoop something up; others were using bicycle pumps to inflate grey-white plants that looked like giant dandelions.
A man who looked like an overseer walked over.
He was a man in a tattered suit whose head was a giant, ticking alarm clock.
"New arrival?" The Alarm-Clock-Head made a shrill, bell-like sound and poked Belial with a cold, metallic pointer-finger.
"Come get your tools! Your task today is to mine one million chocolate bars."
The overseer's cold metallic finger almost poked Belial's eye—which was quite large even by Ultraman standards. The sound of ticking gears was mixed with an unquestionable command.
"Inspection at sunset. For every one you're short, you'll lose a bite of dinner—and according to the rules, if you're short too many, you'll end up owing us dinner."
The clock-head's voice cut through the air like a rusty saw.
It was heart-wrenching.
"?????"
The twisted expression on Belial's hideous face froze instantly. He even wondered if his powerful auditory organs had been assimilated by this bizarre world and developed a malfunction.
"How... how many?" He asked instinctively, his voice cracking slightly from extreme disbelief. "How much chocolate did you say I have to mine today?!"
"ONE! MILLION! BARS! Is your auditory receiver clogged with earwax?! Do you need me to use a cleaning rod to poke through it?! Hybrid No. 114514!" On the clock-head's glass face, the red second hand representing "Anger" suddenly jumped to the peak.
It let out a sharp "Ding!" The entire alarm clock head seemed to vibrate from overload, its voice suddenly rising an octave like a steam whistle.
The overseer was very annoyed.
And after confirming he hadn't misheard, Belial felt a rush of blood to his head. The suppressed rage and humiliation exploded like a volcano!
"MOTHERFUCKER!!!" He slammed the rusty, broken comb in his hand onto the grey-white earth, pointing his sharp claws at the smiling sun in the sky.
"Back when I enslaved entire planets! Enslaved Giants of Light! Enslaved the Dark Nebula Monster Army! None of them were as ridiculous as you lot! One million chocolate bars?! Why don't you motherfuckers ask me to polish the stars?! Why don't you ask me to give a black hole a middle-part hairstyle?!" Belial let out an earth-shattering roar.
His voice was filled with a sense of the absurd and extreme resentment.
His roar echoed across the wasteland, causing a few abstract figures working in the distance to glance over briefly, but they quickly lowered their heads and began working even harder.
"Heh."
The Alarm-Clock-Head overseer seemed used to this kind of reaction. Instead of being intimidated, it leaned its metal casing closer to Belial, the ticking becoming faster and louder, almost like a roar. The sound was sharp enough to pierce eardrums:
"Ridiculous?! Who are you calling ridiculous?! Huh?! Don't forget the Only God created My Little Ponies for you—and not just one, but one for every person!"
"You're ungrateful and a criminal. Who else is there to blame?"
"I, the Alarm-Clock-Head, will absolutely not allow anyone to ignore the facts here!"
"If you criminals don't grow or mine more low-level materials, where will the Only God's factory get the raw materials to produce mid-level products in the other universe?"
"If the factory has no raw materials, what will the millions of hungry angels eat?! What will they drink?! If the angels starve to death! If they get thin! If they stop being shiny! How will the Only God have the mind to spread his grace?! How will he have the energy to maintain the fairy tales and fantasies of these ten thousand worlds?!"
"You tell me! Can you take responsibility for that?!"
A series of soul-searching questions, mixed with incredibly noble reasons and utterly nonsensical logic, slammed into Belial's already collapsing cognition like consecutive heavy hammers.
"??????"
Belial opened his mouth.
He found he couldn't say a single word in rebuttal.
He realized that the now-silent Ultraman King was wrong after all; the most insane person in the world definitely wasn't himself. Every lifeform in this universe seemed far more insane than him.
Belial's chest heaved a few times. Finally, as if his bones had been removed, his shoulders slumped. He painfully bent over and picked up the tool he had thrown down.
When under someone else's roof, one must bow... endure humiliation for a great task... sleep on brushwood and taste gall... as a Galactic Emperor, his greatest skill was endurance.
Firm in his belief, Belial nodded secretly. However, he still tried to find a rhythm for negotiation.
"Master Overseer... I... if I work for three years... will my fifty million debt... be cleared?" Belial lifted his wrist and flashed that damned watch.
Hearing this.
The Alarm-Clock-Head let out an extremely shrill, metallic-sounding sneer.
"Cleared? In your dreams! Listen up, hybrid boy!" Its pointer jabbed hard at the watch screen. "Debt is debt! Labor reform is labor reform! They are calculated separately! Two different things!"
"Your food and housing here."
It pointed to a distant cafeteria made of broken teapots and straws emitting eerie green smoke. Then, it pointed to a low-lying slum made of what looked like flattened cardboard boxes.
"And breathing the air here! Stepping on the ground here! Being bathed in the Only God's light! Which of those doesn't cost money?! Huh?! ALL of that is extra billing!"
The clock-head stated rules Belial had never imagined.
The Galactic Emperor was shocked.
He listened dumbfoundedly, and then a new, purer rage ignited again!
"Pay-to-stay prison?!! I've traversed the universe for tens of thousands of years! I have NEVER heard of such a rule!! This is extortion! This is a shakedown!"
Belial was furious. He was a prison veteran and truly had never heard of pay-to-stay imprisonment. The person who set such a rule was in a mental state that couldn't even be described by darkness.
"Heh."
The Alarm-Clock-Head shrugged indifferently, its entire clock body tilting with a creak of its metal shell. "Oh? Well, now you've seen it. Welcome to 'Southberia,' kid. The rules here are set by the Only God. If he says to charge, then it's the truth and the harshest punishment for criminals."
"Those citizens who don't break the law live very, very well." It seemed to remember something and added, its tone carrying a sense of being very rigorous.
"Oh, right. What did you just say? Three years?" It used its pointer to tap Belial's watch screen. "Is your eyesight bad? Look for yourself. Is that three years?"
Belial froze and hurriedly looked down.
He saw that the small text regarding the labor reform period had changed at some point. Or was it always like that, and he had just been too angry to see clearly?
It clearly said:
[Heavy Offender Labor Reform Period: Three years and another three years.]
Seeing these words.
Belial was completely stunned.
A cold wave of despair shot from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.
"Three... three years and another three years?!" The Dark King couldn't stay dark anymore. His voice was dry, carrying his final struggle. "Exactly... EXACTLY how many years is that?!"
The clock-head didn't answer his stupid question. It just impatiently tapped the broken comb in Belial's hand, making a "clank clank" urging sound.
"How many years? We'll talk about that when your production can catch up with the growth rate of your debt interest! Now, right now, immediately! Start your 'brain-cavity'! Go mine your chocolate!"
The Alarm-Clock-Head issued the order.
"Brain-cavity?"
Belial hadn't recovered from the blow of "three years and another three years."
"Use your rusty brain! Exercise your abstract imagination!"
The clock-head roared. "Think 'mine choco'! Mine lots of chocolate!' The harder you think, the faster it mines! This is the grace the Only God bestowed upon this land! Don't waste it! Think!"
Belial held the broken pickaxe.
Looking at the boundless grey-white wasteland, feeling the absurd task of needing to imagine a million chocolate bars, and seeing the desperate three years and another three years and the rolling debt interest on his watch... for a moment, the Dark King felt desolate. He still didn't understand how he had fallen to such a state in the blink of an eye.
There was no other way.
He had to work.
After all, he had to [Endure].
He lifted the tool in sorrow and anger and, facing the desolate ground, began his first day in Southberia. No Ultraman in the Ultra World could have ever imagined such a scene.
Belial, the former Dark Demon God, was now waving a rusty giant pickaxe with crooked end, performing brain labor on the grey-white wasteland. He had to frantically imagine the image of chocolate mining vigorously in his mind while physically digging the ground.
As if this could catalyze abstract imagination into real-world harvest. It was a double torture! Mental humiliation and physical fatigue were like two venomous snakes!
"Damned false god! Damned clock-head! Damned broken pickaxe!" While mechanically waving the comb, he cursed in a low voice using all sorts of profanities from his own universe, his voice hoarse and full of malice. "When I get out... when I recover my power... I will turn this place... that brat's kingdom... all of it into scorched earth!!"
"I will make you all kneel on the ground and plant dark spores for ten thousand years!" His curses drifted across the wasteland like small stones thrown into dead water, failing to trigger even a single ripple. The various figures around him continued to work numbly, as if they had long ago lost the ability to receive complaint signals.
The more he worked.
The more Belial realized he was a giant failure.
His efficiency was too slow.
"Damn it! From the moment I was born, I was destined not to do this kind of thing!" Belial's deformed, giant eyes rolled irritably, flashing with rays of resentment and calculation.
This couldn't continue!
He needed allies! He needed to create chaos!
Belial suddenly stopped, took a deep breath of the air smelling of cotton and sweat, and used his remaining strength to make his voice sound inciting.
"HEY! ALL OF YOU!!"
He roared toward the nearby workers.
"Look at yourselves! Enslaved like livestock! Working like machines! All for that bullshit and debt that can never be paid off! Are you satisfied with this?! Where is your dignity?! Where is your spirit of resistance?! Rise up! Join me! Overthrow this absurd rule!"
Belial expected a response.
Even a weak agreement. However, the surroundings remained dead silent, with only the wind whistling across the wasteland and the rustling of various tools against the ground.
"Truly a group of humans that cannot be propped up!" Belial was so angry he almost snapped the pickaxe. "Cowards! You humans are all cowards! You deserve to be enslaved forever!"
He cursed loudly.
Frustrated by their lack of spirit.
Just then, a slightly hoarse, somewhat cynical voice spoke from behind his shoulder.
"No, friend. You're wrong."
Hearing this, Belial turned around sharply and saw a man who had temporarily stopped his work—his tool was a giant glass knife with a nick in the blade, and he was laboriously cutting into a massive, transparent crystal of sorrow.
"We aren't cowards, and we aren't being enslaved. We are just a group of criminals who are atoning for our sins and have seen reality clearly." The man wore a tattered leather jacket, his muscles bulging. His face bore several scars, and his eyes held the untamed fieriness of a weather-beaten beast.
Of course, deep down, there was a trace of resigned exhaustion. He deliberately emphasized the words criminals and atoning, his tone dripping with mockery.
Belial curiously studied this human who finally spoke and seemed to have the temperament of a leader. "Atoning? Hmph, I have no sins! I was tricked in here by that sinister brat! I'm not one of you. I'll find a way to escape! Either join me or stay here until you completely rot!"
He tried to entice the man.
Displaying the domineering aura of a former Dark Monarch.
Unfortunately, it had no effect.
"It's like this. Newcomers are always like this."
The man just sneered, seemingly finding Belial's grand words very naive. He slowly pulled a thick, high-quality-looking cigar from the inner pocket of his tattered jacket, took out a vintage copper lighter, skillfully lit it, took a deep puff, and exhaled a perfect smoke ring.
"You... you still have extra money to buy this kind of thing?" Belial was stunned. He learned quickly, so he knew that obtaining such luxuries in this hellhole was no easy feat.
"Of course I have no money."
The man smiled smugly, revealing sharp canines. "My brother... is a 'civil servant' here, I guess. He has some minor authority and brings me supplies periodically."
He waved the cigar. "How about it? Want some?"
"No, human, use your brain. Do I look like I can smoke?!" Belial looked at the burning cigar, then pointed at his hideous face covered in an exoskeleton with no normal lips or oral structure, giving an "Ultra" eye-roll.
"...Uh... sorry, didn't notice." The man stared at Belial's face—which was indeed incompatible with pleasure—gave a dry laugh, and awkwardly tucked the cigar away.
This wasn't the social interaction Belial cared about. The urgent Belial pulled the topic back on track: "So? Join me? Together, we can definitely find a way!"
He suppressed his disdain for humans.
And performed another emotional disguise.
"About that."
The man didn't answer directly. Instead, he used the hand holding the cigar to point toward a young boy not far away. The boy was working very hard—meticulously, even—using a slotted spoon to pour some kind of rainbow oil over a grey-white plant. The boy's expression was focused to the point of being nearly pious, his movements as standard as if he were performing a sacred ritual.
"See that kid?" the man said, exhaling a smoke ring. "When he first arrived, he made a bigger fuss than you. People called him Legion. He was an extremely dangerous psychiatric patient."
As he spoke, he showed a slight sense of lingering fear.
"Hmm?"
Hearing this, Belial's giant eyes lit up! Psychiatric patient? High ability? Great destructive power? This was the perfect candidate for rebellion!
Easy to incite, high utility value!
"Oh? A psychiatric patient?" Belial immediately became interested, lowering his voice to ask, "Exactly what kind of psychiatric patient? Paranoid? Manic? Anti-social? What are his specific abilities?"
He began brewing a conspiracy in his mind again.
However.
The man again played a card that defied common logic.
"None of that matters anymore."
He interrupted Belial, his tone carrying a strange sense of lament.
"Doesn't matter?" Belial was confused.
"Yeah," the man took a deep puff of his cigar, slowly exhaled, and looked at the boy called Legion with a complex expression. "Because he's only been here for... three months."
"And guess what?"
The man turned his head, looked at Belial, and said word by word, "His psychiatric condition is cured. Completely. He's as gentle as a lamb, works harder than anyone, and has never had an 'episode' again. I heard the thousands of personalities inside him now spend every day having meetings to discuss how to produce more resources."
When those words were spoken.
Belial was struck as if by lightning.
"....." One sentence, like an ultimate erasure beam, instantly blasted all of Belial's enticement, calculation, and revolutionary passion into dust.
He was silenced.
A long silence.
The Dark King opened his mouth, finding all his vocabulary pale and powerless at this moment. Finally, he squeezed out a dry sentence.
"I... I think you're fucking sick too."
This was Belial's heartfelt evaluation. Hearing this, the man wasn't angry; instead, he burst out laughing, his laughter traveling far across the wasteland.
"My brother often praises me with those same words." He laughed enough, wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, and then extended a rough, powerful, scar-covered hand toward Belial.
"Let's get acquainted. I'm Victor Creed, but people here call me—Sabretooth." The man was weak, but that was only compared to the former Belial.
The current Belial was at a stage where he would measure how many versions of "himself" someone could beat just by looking at them.
"Uh..."
Belial hesitated for a moment but eventually extended his exoskeleton-covered claw and shook hands. Sabretooth had a very strong grip, making his claw hurt a bit.
"I am Belial! Ruler of Darkness! Once controlled..." Belial habitually began rattling off his long list of glorious and outdated titles, trying to overpower the other in terms of presence. However, before his introduction was halfway through, his voice stopped abruptly, as if he had been strangled.
There was no helping it.
He had seen Sabretooth lean in suddenly.
The man's beast-like pupils were staring intensely at his arm and claw covered in dark scales. His nostrils twitched slightly, and a very strange expression appeared on his face.
"Your... claws are really beautiful. This line, this texture... and, your body... smells so good..." Sabretooth's voice became somewhat low.
Carrying a few hints of an ambiguous feeling.
"???????"
Belial was struck by ten thousand bolts of lightning. He petrified instantly, his giant eyes bugging out as if they were going to fall out of their sockets the next second. An indescribable, bone-chilling cold, mixed with extreme absurdity and physiological discomfort, instantly swept through his entire body!
At this very moment, the Dark Demon God Belial, for the first time in his life, gained an incredibly deep, painful, and abstract understanding of the word "living."
Yes, the Dark Demon God Belial finally—thoroughly and deeply—understood why that book called *To Live* could be considered a "power fantasy" for spiritual comfort.
To be honest.
Belial would rather fight the Ultraman King for another thirty thousand rounds than stay here for one more second being told by a beast-like man that his "claws are beautiful" and his "body smells good"!
He missed the Ultramen so much.
After all, there were no Gay Ultramen!
...
"Wonderful~~~"
Ian's will, like a member of an audience who had just watched a hearty comedy, slowly withdrew from Black Adam's consciousness space, which was filled with "joy."
In the real world, the bizarre silence was broken.
The bodies of Ian and Black Adam, lying side by side, simultaneously began to twitch violently!
"Heh heh heh~" Ian's twitching had a bit of a rhythmic feel, like a dancing king getting electrocuted. The corners of his mouth occasionally split into a silent, extremely satisfied smile.
"Giggle giggle giggle~"
Black Adam's twitching was even more unrestrained. His limbs flailed wildly, and a "he-he" weird sound came from his throat, as if he might laugh himself to death at any moment. He looked exactly like a fool who had suddenly been possessed—just as stated before, Ian's joy had filled Black Adam's mind.
That was not something that would happen without impact.
Of course.
It was only a temporary impact.
This sudden turn of events made the observing Justice League members tense up.
Wonder Woman tightened her grip on the Lasso of Truth, staring warily at Black Adam in case he suddenly lashed out. Superman was more concerned about his son, his brow furrowed as he prepared to step forward and check on him.
"It seems it's almost over."
Batman's wheelchair slid forward silently by half a meter. The gaze behind his white lenses was sharp as ever, but the slight tightening of his fingers on the armrests betrayed a trace of imperceptible tension.
Ian's twitching stopped first.
He snapped his eyes open, the remnants of joy still lingering in them. With a smooth movement, he sat up directly from a lying position, patting off non-existent dust.
He looked radiant.
Almost at the exact moment he sat up, Black Adam next to him also snapped his eyes open! But unlike Ian's clarity, Black Adam's pupils were dilated, and his mouth was split into an exaggerated arc, letting out a deafening, meaningless mad laugh. He laughed while drooling.
Clearly, the "pollution trauma" to his mental world was not small.
"Is the matter resolved?"
Having judged Black Adam's situation, everyone's gaze instantly focused on the perfectly normal-looking Ian, away from the mad Black Adam.
Ian looked around at Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman, his face wearing a standard, professional expression—like a specialist who had just completed a high-difficulty surgery.
He cleared his throat and, in a serious tone used for announcing major events, said:
"Everyone, regarding the issue of the 'extra-universal parasite' inside His Majesty the ancient emperor, I have completed a preliminary diagnosis and... hmm, a very proper handling." He deliberately paused to build suspense, then slowly held up two fingers, followed by a slightly cautious tone.
"Now, I have a piece of good news and a piece of bad news. Which one would you like to pay to hear first?" In his common phrase, Ian added one specific word. That said, his eyes were like precise laser-guided missiles, locked firmly onto Batman.
Almost the second Ian's voice fell.
**Fwip!**
Batman's hand, like a magic trick, had already presented a custom bank card—pure matte black, with no bank logos, only a tiny bat symbol in the corner—in front of Ian.
The movement was smooth, without the slightest hesitation. Clearly, he was experienced and well-prepared.
"Uncle Bruce, you are indeed as brilliant and far-sighted as ever, predicting my prediction in advance." Ian grinned and unceremoniously took the card. He pulled out a strange-looking POS machine from somewhere, swiped it skillfully—**Beep!** After a light sound, the transaction was complete.
Taking back his card, Batman's voice came through his mask. It was emotionless, but his choice fit his consistent style: "Good news first."
His voice was low.
"Hmm, I guessed it."
Ian raised his chin smugly.
He used his thumb to point at the still-giggling, drooling Black Adam.
"The good news is—he was indeed invaded by something dirty from the outside universe. The tier wasn't low; it was almost able to open a chain of stores inside his head."
Speaking to this point, Ian paused, puffed out his chest, and put on a "praise me" expression: "But! You are lucky to have me! Ian Kent, universal specialist in difficult and complicated cases. I conveniently pulled the entire threat out by the roots and thoroughly purified him! I hide my name and deeds; no need for too much thanks."
Superman breathed a slight sigh of relief, and Wonder Woman's wary gaze softened slightly.
But Batman's frown deepened.
He knew this little rascal too well.
"And the bad news?"
Batman pressed, his voice dropping a bit lower.
"The bad news is, for every letter of what I just said, you were billed ten thousand dollars." As the words fell, a dead silence descended over the ruins.
Only Black Adam's foolish laughter drifted in the wind. Superman covered his forehead with his hand. Wonder Woman opened her mouth, seemingly wanting to say something, but ultimately just sighed helplessly.
And Batman.
Batman was still alive.
Everyone clearly heard, from beneath that cold metallic mask, an extremely heavy, extremely suppressed sound—as if he had used all his strength just to barely maintain control.
"Hoooooo..."
Shocking!
Batman actually let out a clearly audible, heavy breath in public; it might be a sign that he is about to ascend to the Steroid Planet!
***
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