Today,
the sun was bright.
The weather was perfect.
And yet,
the horned demon felt like it had never spent a single second of its life walking on thinner ice.
This was real hell.
Compared to this, the place it used to live had probably been fake hell.
"Let me go, let me go."
Its desperate attempt to struggle with only its facial muscles was completely useless. Ian, now fully practiced, squeezed the demon's head over the fuel port like he was squeezing toothpaste.
"I don't have any hell-blood! Please... don't do this."
That's the thing about demons. They lie through their teeth, but the flood pouring out of its severed neck wasn't something Ian's eyes could be fooled by.
As the demon screamed,
the gas tank made a loud glug glug sound.
No one knew what kind of principle was at work here. Neither the car nor the blood made any scientific sense, but that didn't stop both of them from feeling perfectly reasonable.
At least, Ian didn't find any of it strange.
In his mind, The Book of Unsolved Mysteries held a very high status.
So,
anything he couldn't explain could simply be filed away under that category, and instantly it had a perfectly good explanation. That had always been how Ian dealt with things he didn't understand.
Oil was valuable, and blood was even more expensive.
But for demon blood,
both could be abandoned.
To Ian, the fact that his newly bought Hellcat had weird taste in fuel wasn't a problem at all. It was a matter of efficiency. The demon's head was absurdly sponge-like.
No matter how hard he squeezed it, there somehow always seemed to be more left inside. Maybe demon descendants weren't endless, but hell-blood clearly was.
"I'm dry! I don't have another drop left!"
The demon's cry still sounded full of energy.
"Sure you do, sure you do. I heard somewhere that demon blood, if you only drain half each time, can last forever."
Naturally, Ian wasn't about to believe a demon.
And anyone with experience, from casual drivers to real gearheads, knew you filled the tank all the way in one go. Otherwise, if the guy next door from Mexico saw it, he'd definitely laugh at free Americans for not being able to afford gas.
"I choose what fuel I use. That's fuel freedom, which is exactly what a free and democratic society is all about."
Ian found solid legal justification for his actions.
And just like that, a world where only hell residents suffered was complete.
Exploiting a demon, after all.
Since demons weren't lawful American citizens, just undocumented runners who'd snuck over from Hell, Ian's exploitation of it was really just him going with the cultural mainstream.
"I've always said I'm adaptable. My real nickname should be Doctor Darwin."
Ian finished filling the tank, then casually tossed the limp, lifeless demon head back into his backpack.
Of course,
even though he'd cleaned off Demon No. 66's fuel hose, the thing was still howling too loudly. For the sake of his backpack's cleanliness and hygiene, a few sanitary pads were obviously still necessary.
That was nothing more than a quick stop at the convenience store.
"What's crying in there?"
The cashier had sharp ears.
"Nothing. I'm listening to music."
Ian's expression was calm and natural. He wasn't worried about drawing suspicion, and he definitely wasn't worried about animal rights activists.
He'd already checked on his phone. Demons weren't on any animal protection lists.
America had its own unique social realities.
If there was no profit in a cause, animal rights groups usually didn't bother giving it a second glance.
Even if a demon head rolled right up to their office door, it still wouldn't be able to file a successful complaint. At best, it'd just get lumped in with some poor undocumented guy crouched in a corner.
Ian had understood how society worked since he was eight.
Just like he always said, if you ignored the constant threat of death, he really was excellent at adapting to his environment.
"You're buying sanitary pads for your girlfriend? There aren't many boys that considerate."
The cashier clearly liked to chat, but as a newly minted multimillionaire, Ian felt he should carry himself with the proper wealthy attitude.
"No, they're for my brother's backup pleasure cup."
Ian tried to be as economical with words as possible, copying the mannerisms of the elite as he lifted his hand to check the time. Unfortunately, he wasn't wearing a watch.
That didn't stump him.
All he needed was a borrowed pen and a little improvisation.
"Your music stopped. Did your player run out of battery?"
The cashier took back the pen he'd lent Ian, still too slow to understand what Ian meant.
Normally, pleasure cups were paired with tissues, right?
If you needed sanitary pads too...
Could that mean this world actually had a naturally gifted spray warrior?
The cashier fell into deep thought.
He seemed to recall certain midnight horror films he'd watched in secret.
"No, it didn't run out of power. My player just got a little scared by me, that's all."
Ian got the effect he wanted and wisely chose not to continue terrifying the demon head.
After all, he was a kind-hearted good person.
"Oh. Right."
The cashier nodded with vague respect.
Ian stuffed the pads into his backpack and headed back to the open lot where his test-drive car was parked.
There was no question that he'd gotten a great deal. The Dodge Hellcat was one of Dodge's high-performance models, world-famous for its brutal horsepower and pure American muscle-car identity.
And Ian's was the even more extreme Demon trim.
Just like the name suggested, it was all massive displacement, rear-wheel drive, and ridiculous straight-line acceleration, the purest expression of "horsepower is justice."
"I'm a little car from Hell~
I'm a little car that kills~
The killing little car keeps driving on~
Those nine people deserved it all~
I'm no ordinary little car~
I'm a true avenger~"
...
By the time Ian approached the Hellcat, its radio was already playing a song.
It was a killer car, apparently.
The lyrics were wild.
So was the car.
Clearly, demon blood had been an incredible experience for it.
It had obviously never tasted anything refined before.
"So let me get this straight, nine soul rings, a full seven deadly sins, and the last two came from someone disrespecting you by stubbing cigarettes out on the steering wheel and another guy filling your tank with soybean oil?"
As the saying went, music spoke to the soul.
Ian understood exactly what it was trying to say.
"Listen, buddy."
Ian spoke in the tone of a TV life coach.
"Killing people is wrong. Even if they offend you, all you can do is send them to prison."
"Once I build a prison in Hell, then you can send people there. That's what the no-kill rule is all about. Do you get it? I've met Batman. I bet you haven't."
Ian knew this was a car with crooked values, violent tendencies, and a vicious soul. Even so, he firmly believed he could eventually reform it and make it a proper car again.
"Amen~"
The Hellcat suddenly switched to a Christian radio station.
As though it had truly been touched by his words.
"That's more like it!"
Ian nodded, satisfied.
"When you're good enough and kind enough to match my second-generation holy soul, I'll have my teacher Tony teach me how to evolve you into a Transformer."
He made the promise smoothly.
Even at a young age, a mature future millionaire knew how to paint a nice big dream for people.
And just like that,
"Thank you~~"
The Hellcat switched over to a comedy station with some performer thanking the audience.
The whole car trembled in excitement.
It clearly had pretty good taste, and this was probably the first time in its life anyone had tried to emotionally manipulate it.
The Hellcat's four doors opened automatically, and Ian, naturally, slid into the passenger seat.
"From now on, this is Ian's seat."
He buckled in, and the chair adjusted itself to the most comfortable angle. On the passenger dashboard, a new line of engraved lettering slowly appeared.
[Reserved for Ian]
The script was surprisingly elegant.
Ian was deeply pleased.
This was exactly the kind of dream car he'd once heard about in his sleep, out of some long-forgotten poem.
"Let's go. Time to cruise around like a street menace."
Ian issued the order.
The Hellcat launched itself like an arrow.
This was what real smart driving looked like.
The Hellcat cut through traffic like a black mamba. Ian almost felt like he could hear the ghost of some old NBA legend whispering to him through the engine.
The engine roared.
Even though this was clearly a wild car, it obviously had a more delicate side too. Despite all that speed and fury, it still obeyed the traffic laws and stopped at red lights.
"Right, right, that's exactly it. Follow traffic laws, starting with you."
Ian felt that his murderous little car might actually still be redeemable. It might even earn God's forgiveness one day.
This was the kind of moment where it really did make sense to invoke God, because if he invoked his godfather, his car would probably be sent straight to the scrapyard.
Ian was busy enjoying the benefits of smart driving while the harmonious surface of daytime Metropolis slid by outside the window. The tension between homeless drifters and polished city elites was on full display.
"Give me my bag back!"
"Lady, look at my skin tone!"
"Help! If you don't let go, I'm calling Superman!"
"Damn it! Even so, I'm still claiming this bag, which nature clearly intended for me! I'm a gambler, so I'm betting Superman's life isn't more valuable than mine!"
"I'm gonna win!"
...
A beautiful sight.
Daily life in Metropolis really was always like this.
Ian admired the uniquely American scenery.
He had no intention of getting out of the car to stop any of it. In a society ruled by the strong, if you weren't strong enough, you couldn't keep your bag. Natural law was on full display.
You could save one person.
You couldn't save everyone.
A bag originally bought from one Black guy getting reclaimed by another Black guy was not something Ian, as Superman's second-generation heir, had the power to interrupt. The market would regulate itself.
"Pull over!"
It wasn't until sirens shattered his moment of enlightenment that Ian finally tore his eyes away from the window.
Faced with the police, the Hellcat also chose to be law-abiding.
Maybe it loved following the law as much as Ian did.
"You again! Stan Lee, right?"
A familiar traffic cop approached with a stern face, knocking on the window. Through the empty driver's side, he could clearly see Ian sitting comfortably in the passenger seat.
Ian remembered him.
This was the guy from the fire hydrant incident.
"License."
The officer sounded severe, although he also shot the new car an undeniably envious look.
"It got revoked."
Ian had a habit of blinking whenever he lied.
The officer immediately adopted an "I knew it" expression. Ian's previous driving record was still fresh in his mind.
"Very well. I'm sorry to inform you that I may have to place you under arrest."
He pulled out his handcuffs and motioned for Ian to step out.
"I wasn't driving. The car was moving by itself. Why would I need a license?"
Ian sat in the passenger seat, looking genuinely confused. To him, the intelligence level of American traffic officers really seemed questionable.
"Don't play games with me!"
The officer let out a cold laugh.
"You definitely saw me coming and slid over into the passenger seat! I've seen your type before!"
One hand hovered near his gun, clearly meant as a warning.
"I don't believe that. People like me are one of a kind on this entire planet. There's no way you've ever seen another one."
Ian retorted while patting the Hellcat's dashboard.
The Hellcat immediately got the message.
It gave the officer a perfect reverse park followed by a crisp side-parking maneuver, then bounced twice like it was dancing just to show off all its shiny new capabilities.
"!!??"
The officer was stunned.
This was absolutely outside his professional experience. He no longer knew whether he should write the ticket or not, and the handcuffs he'd already pulled out slowly, uncertainly drifted back down.
"Oh. The light's green at the next intersection."
Ian looked calmly ahead.
The next second, the Hellcat shot forward with a shriek of acceleration, leaving the officer frozen in place, questioning his own reality and wondering if this was some kind of corporate driverless-car test.
"So cab drivers are just going to lose their jobs now?"
The officer rubbed his eyes. He noticed the license plate on the back of the Hellcat seemed to keep changing.
The car really did behave like Schrödinger's vehicle.
"Am I hallucinating?"
The officer instinctively reached for his radio to ask another officer what the hell he'd just seen.
But then he hesitated.
Because, in all honesty, he was scared.
In the end, he lowered the radio.
"Maybe I'm still in bed right now. But then why would I dream about still being on duty? That doesn't make sense... Maybe, just maybe, I'm actually just a brain in a vat."
The traffic officer became a philosopher.
That was how deeply he was questioning life.
Of course, part of the reason was also the unique beauty of Free America. When cops found certain illegal plants, those plants often had a way of disappearing later.
Where they disappeared to,
that was one of those questions nobody was supposed to ask.
God knew, though.
...
After leaving the officer behind,
the Hellcat's engine let out a happy roar.
Blue flames sprayed from the exhaust pipes and left scorched streaks on the asphalt.
A beautiful sunny day
deserved some truly sunny activities.
"Take me somewhere with active trafficking in controlled military-grade chemicals. Preferably the kind of place where their legal awareness is weak, they haven't paid taxes, and even the IRS wouldn't protect them."
Now that he'd tasted the beauty of Perfect Divinity, Ian was already thinking about holiday grinding.
He gave the navigation prompt directly.
Smart people trusted their smart little cars to understand them.
And as it turned out, he was right.
You hate the sin.
You hate the temptress in the bottle.
...
A mature car knew how to pick songs on its own.
The engine roared, and it sped toward an abandoned industrial zone on the outskirts of the city.
The tires crushed a No Trespassing sign under them,
and Ian noticed the odometer on the dash was actually counting backward.
This car had a soul that longed to be young again.
"A drag queen demon?"
Ian looked deeply puzzled.
But he no longer had time to think about what gender his twelfth-hand car might identify as, because the Hellcat, apparently capable of tracking criminal activity, had already delivered him directly to an active crime scene.
Inside the abandoned factory,
a bald man in military fatigues was conducting a deal with several Russian thugs, accompanied by his own men.
It was a classic setup.
"Here's the product."
Inside the silver briefcase carried by the bald military man were ten neatly arranged blue syringes.
The label on them clearly read:
[Simulated Superman Serum (No Kryptonian Genes Included)]
There wasn't an actual Superman inside, of course,
but it looked like there might really be serum.
Advertising standards had reached unprecedented heights of honesty.
Even so,
it was still illegal business.
And illegal business meant it wasn't protected by the law.
Which meant Ian was free to choose his own preferred method of transaction.
He didn't even need to do much math to solve the equation. A quick glance told him everything he needed to know.
"Fifty thousand. No bargaining."
The military bald man wiped sweat from his face and looked around nervously.
"Success rate's only one percent, but it's still more reliable than that God Project of yours."
That instantly made the Russian bruiser across from him frown.
"You Americans don't get to insult our project!"
The Russian looked furious, but the bald military man, eager to finish the deal, just gave a helpless shrug.
"Fine, whatever. I don't care."
Then he motioned for one of his men to inspect the merchandise.
And that was when,
Vroooom.
The Hellcat smashed through the iron doors, its arrival cutting straight through the middle of the deal.
Dust billowed everywhere as Ian stepped out of the car, flesh-colored stockings over his head. He hadn't found a leather jacket, so he simply pretended he had one.
"I smell the stench of sin!"
He lowered his voice dramatically.
Just as he pulled out his lighter, intending to temporarily use the Ghost Rider account across worlds,
"Rat-tat-tat-tat!"
the ruthless criminals gave him no such chance.
The Russians opened fire first, and the storm of bullets enveloped Ian from head to toe.
[You attempted to learn how to catch bullets barehanded. Student EXP +1]
[You attempted to learn how to catch bullets barehanded. Student EXP +1]
[You attempted to learn how to catch bullets barehanded. Student EXP +1]
...
Ian responded with a cold little smirk.
His arms moved so fast they blurred. His Student EXP climbed rapidly. And when the bald soldier's men joined in, Ian's hands were practically leaving afterimages.
[You attempted to learn how to catch bullets barehanded. Student EXP +1]
[You attempted to learn how to catch bullets barehanded. Student EXP +1]
...
It was an extremely successful grind.
"I knew I could do it."
Ian spread his hands open, and two piles of mangled bullets clattered to the ground.
It was his first real success, and it put him in a wonderful mood.
"Modern firearms are nothing special."
Ian tried to recreate a smug dragon-king grin.
The air went completely still.
The illegal arms dealers stood there in total shock, speechless. The bald military man and the Russian thugs alike were trembling, their faces chalk white.
A light breeze drifted through the factory.
Several people could be heard swallowing hard.
"What is he? Human or ghost?"
One of the Russians asked in horror.
"I... I don't know..."
The bald military man sounded just as shaky. He tried to retreat behind the Russians, but the Russians immediately shoved him back to the front.
With no other option,
the bald man slowly lowered his now-empty gun.
"Why... why aren't you dead?"
His voice wavered violently.
He had seen a lot in his life. He had even witnessed Superman's power. And yet the impact of what he was seeing now dwarfed all of that.
"Heroes don't die to small arms fire. So obviously I wasn't going to die."
Ian followed their stares downward, glanced at his body, then instantly turned around and presented them with his back instead.
"All your bullets got caught by me. I was never in danger."
While speaking, he was secretly plucking bullets out of himself as fast as he could.
Around seven or eight hundred rounds had lodged into his muscles.
There was some blood.
But the bullets had only broken the surface of his skin.
[Berserker EXP +1]
That tiny gain was the best proof that the injury was still too light.
Reality once again proved that Ian was still just a hair away from true invulnerability.
The low-level Iron Body only made him bullet-resistant by cold-weapon-era standards.
Forty times human physical ability was far from invincible.
It wasn't enough to let Ian completely ignore rifle rounds and submachine-gun fire the way some people might imagine. Human technology still deserved a little respect.
"Honestly, I was only just short by a tiny bit. My capillaries still need to toughen up."
Ian hadn't felt any pain at all, so he remained confident about the future.
"This time doesn't count. Do it again. I promise I'll perform even better."
Ian wiped the blood off his face with the pads he hadn't finished using.
He wanted another round.
But not every bad guy was stupid.
"Run!"
The bald military man reacted immediately.
He had realized that this was no mere superhuman.
Everyone scattered like birds.
The Russians even threw down their weapons to make themselves lighter.
Unfortunately,
none of that mattered. They were clever, but Ian was cleverer. Purely through physical ability, he forced himself into a burst of speed, catching them one by one and dropping them all with a single punch.
The military bald man, who'd been leading the pack, got hit with a ferocious tackle and went face-first into the floor.
Then Ian dragged him back to the deal site by one leg.
"Done. Case closed. This batch goes on my family's record."
Ian didn't like killing people to cover up loose ends, because he didn't even need to look up to know there were already two suns in the sky over Metropolis.
So,
after weighing things carefully, Ian decided this should become one more important credential in his student record.
Ever since he was little, he had hoped his grandfather would keep climbing the ranks, because as long as that happened before Ian graduated college, he'd someday be able to write his masterpiece:
My Five-Star General Grandfather
"Hello? General Lane?"
As he tied up every criminal until they looked like one long human centipede, Ian took out his phone and dialed a number.
"I'm a superhero who doesn't wish to reveal his name. I like bringing people blessings. As it happens, your blessing has arrived. I accidentally caught a bunch of people trafficking military materials and some illegal entrants."
"Who am I? How do I know your private number? That's not important. I already told you I don't reveal my identity. Yes, I'm drinking something. If I don't drink now, there might not be any left later."
Ian used his top-tier voice-changing skills as much as possible.
[Barbaric Tyrant EXP +3]
[Barbaric Tyrant EXP +2]
...
[Barbaric Tyrant Lv.3 (1/40)]
He kept chugging enhancement serum.
And finally leveled again.
[Strength: 22.1 → 23]
[Constitution: 41.5 → 44]
[Intelligence: 3.2 → 3.3]
[Spirit: 7.7 → 7.9]
His stats rose again.
Maybe one more round
and he'd finally be able to catch even more bullets.
He didn't spend his new skill point.
He planned to save up two and level up Iron Body again.
"Once it evolves into Steel Body, it'll definitely stop bullets."
Ian felt full of anticipation.
He'd gotten stronger again.
That was a good thing.
However,
according to the law of conservation of energy,
bad things had a way of staying right behind good ones.
On the other end of the phone,
his grandfather's suspicious tone came through.
Ian became instantly alert.
"No, my voice is fine, and this isn't a prank..."
"Believe me, I really am a superhero. I just have circumstances that make going public difficult. What? What are you talking about? Who's Ian? Why would I sound like Ian?"
"Fine, fine, if you're going to accuse people like that, then I'll confess. I'm Batman! Baitman! Check where this phone came from and you'll know!"
"What do you mean now you're even more certain? Huh? Mom already told you? Told you what? That I have a cross-dressing problem? She's so eager to tattletale, maybe she should've gone into journa—"
"Pff, pff, pff! Mom definitely wasn't popular with her classmates when she was younger!"
Even after taking the serum, Ian still managed to reach a fresh new level of exasperation.
That was just the reality of chemically assisted life.
"You can come or not, I don't care! I'll tell Dad! You're secretly researching Superman serum! Totally corrupt!"
He hung up furiously.
Then, still mad, he gave each of the tied-up criminals another kick.
Even the stray orange cat passing by stopped and stared.
It clearly sensed that Ian's rage meter was already halfway full.
The cat puffed up and hissed at him.
"Get lost. You're not high-tier enough to hiss at me."
Ian really would snap at a passing cat.
"Meow~"
The stray cat kept puffing up at him.
Its eyes flashed red for a second.
But before anything could happen, Ian had already snatched it up by the scruff and shoved it into the hole-riddled backpack.
At the same time, he stuffed the demon head's mouth shut.
That was to stop the demon from eating the cat.
"Nice quality. Wrap you in a gift box, and you'll be my apology present when I get home."
Ian held down the orange cat, which was still thrashing wildly in the bag.
"Strong little thing."
Ian noticed something was off.
Still, he had real business to do, so he took three hundred dollars, wiped off the fingerprints, and stuffed the money into the bald military man's pocket.
He knew the true market value of enhancement serum.
After all, he'd already bought some at the gym.
"Done. Time to go."
After paying,
Ian hopped back into the Hellcat and drove off.
We shall overcome evil.
For the Lord is always on the side of victory.
The little car played him another new song.
The blue flames bursting from the exhaust took the shape of a raised middle finger behind them.
People with personality
always drove cars with personality too.
"At least he remembered to make the call. I guess technically that really was an official number."
Just like relativity said, when Ian was happy, someone else somewhere was probably having a complicated day.
Once Ian had gone,
the second sun above the clouds of Metropolis slowly descended.
Seeing the criminals bound together like one human centipede, Clark's red cape fluttered a little messily in the wind.
"At least he does have the heart of a hero. That's true."
Not knowing how else to judge Ian's actions, Clark had no choice but to tell himself that and soothe his own conscience.
Maybe,
Superman shouldn't have become a reporter.
Maybe he should have become a lawyer.
Just as he was sighing over what a mess it all was,
"Hiss..."
Someone suddenly sucked in a sharp breath.
One of the Russian thugs.
Their physical condition really was impressive.
Bang.
Before the man could fully wake up, Superman stepped forward and struck him in the back of the neck with a move that only ever seemed to appear in TV dramas.
Which just went to show, Ian couldn't really be blamed for loving knockout hits.
It was family tradition.
And if anything, Ian had simply taken it one step further than the generation before him.
(End of Chapter)
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