A Trace of Original Flavor from Thanos

"Come down for breakfast, David."

His mother Martha's urging call came from downstairs. "You and Clark are going to be late for school."

"Coming, Mother."

Golden morning sunlight poured through the window into the room. David, who had just finished washing up, responded and changed out of his pajamas.

With short black hair, sharp and well-defined features, and a tall, lean body, his clothes came off to reveal a set of chiseled muscles. He gave off a clean, steady impression, like a quietly standing ancient Greek sculpture.

"Too bad..."

Standing before the mirror, David clenched his fists. Bones and muscles denser than high-alloy steel tensed and flexed, a terrifying power akin to a volcanic eruption surging within him.

Purple quickly spread across his skin, and rigid lines like ravines on the earth appeared on his jaw, adding an intangible touch of majesty. The mirror reflected a silent king gazing steadily back.

"The Thanos template progress keeps rising, but if I push too hard, the skin discoloration still hasn't improved."

Template Fusion Progress: 81%

He glanced at the progress, and once he stopped exerting force, the skin color gradually faded. He pulled on his clothes.

A hint of helplessness crossed his face as he headed down the stairs.

"What's this supposed to be? Keeping a bit of the original flavor so I know I'm fusing the Thanos template?"

Still, at least he wasn't like Thanos—two meters sixty-seven tall, with beady little eyes and a bald head like a purple sweet potato.

David touched the hair on his head, sighing inwardly.

That kind of hairstyle for a powerhouse—he, just a high schooler, couldn't handle it.

Ding!

The crisp sound of the toaster.

In the first-floor living room, the wheaty aroma of toasted bread wafted into his nose.

Tap tap tap!

As David came downstairs, light footsteps followed behind him.

"Morning, David."

Passing his younger brother, Clark—tall with a pair of blue eyes—entered the living room. Feeling a bit thirsty, he casually opened the fridge and looked back. "Want a couple gulps of milk to wake up?"

He said this while pulling out a large glass bottle of milk and taking two swigs straight from it.

David raised an eyebrow and walked toward the dining table, ignoring his foolish older brother.

"Don't drink like that, Clark."

Their mother Martha hurried over and snatched the cold milk bottle into her hands.

"Milk straight from the fridge tastes better," the future Superman, still just a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old youth, said with a raised hand and a smile.

"Where's our family's manners, Clark?"

Martha, who had just finished preparing breakfast, said with a headache.

Over the years, a few fine wrinkles had quietly crept onto the corners of this mother's eyes.

"Sit down and eat breakfast, David, or you'll miss the school bus."

"Good afternoon, you two sleepyheads."

Jonathan, the burly farmer who had just finished feeding the cows, came inside, took off his coat stained with hay, and tossed it onto the sofa.

He took the milk from his wife's hand and naturally chugged a couple of mouthfuls, commenting on his two sons who had just woken up.

His movements were practically a carbon copy of Clark's just moments ago.

"Well, I see where your manners come from," Martha said, covering her forehead.

"Remember, after we got the new sofa, Mom told you to dust yourself off outside before coming in after feeding the cows, Dad," David said unhurriedly, taking the bottle from his father, pouring a glass of milk, and biting into a steaming piece of bread.

Some hay from the coat had gotten onto the living room sofa.

"Next time, I'll definitely remember next time," Jonathan said, glancing back at his wife with a bit of embarrassment, his rough-and-tumble habits hard to break.

He pulled out a chair at the dining table, sat down, coughed twice, and put on a serious face.

"Honestly, I think choosing this hard-to-clean fabric sofa was a mistake in the first place. I mean, we live on a farm."

"At least there's one person in this Kent household who's like me."

Gentle Martha, not angry about the dirty sofa, pressed her hand on her younger son's shoulder and gave the two of them a proud wink.

Clark rubbed his forehead and covered his face, unable to deny it. Born and raised on the farm, he was usually just as careless about household cleanliness as his father, while his younger brother David was more meticulous.

"From Superman Clark's helplessness +3."

The information stream flickered past his eyes. David didn't even lift his eyelids, just took another bite of bread.

He had to admit, growing up alongside Clark—a walking goldmine—was exactly why his Thanos template had fused so quickly, granting him power beyond ordinary imagination.

Timeline-wise, for the Kent couple, David had arrived first.

But before reaching Earth, the Son of Krypton had traveled through space for a while, making him visibly older than David, who'd only been born a few days prior.

So the Son of Krypton became the older brother, and David became the younger son.

"What are you looking at, Clark?"

Martha sat down, took a sip of milk, and noticed her eldest son zoning out over a piece of paper while eating, a faint smile curling at the corners of his mouth as if lost in pleasant thoughts.

"A permission slip."

Clark fumbled a bit, trying to tuck the paper away.

"A permission slip for what?" Father Jonathan paused mid-reach for the butter knife, casting a glance over.

"School football team tryouts this afternoon."

David, who was in the same school and same class as Clark, added casually.

Even if he hadn't, his honest Kryptonian brother would've told their loving adoptive parents anyway.

"Clark..."

Hearing it was for the football team tryouts, the atmosphere at the table shifted, suddenly falling silent. Only David kept eating nonchalantly.

The couple exchanged a look. Martha hesitated, as if wanting to speak.

"What's wrong? Dad, you played on the school football team too."

Clark, eager to join, sensed trouble and looked to the head of the household.

"But you're different, Clark. We both know that."

Jonathan's tone grew serious, though he tried to soften it for his teenage son.

After hauling the spaceship with a pickup truck and carrying Clark home, the couple had once wondered—was this baby they'd found really an alien?

He looked exactly like a human: no horns on his head, no tail behind him, no strange skin color.

"When you were little, you could lift a pickup truck with one hand."

It wasn't until Clark was seven, one day on the farm while fixing a car, that the jack tipped sideways, and a ton-plus vehicle was about to crash down.

Nearby, young, innocent Clark showed unimaginable strength, catching the car like a Plastic dinosaur toy and setting it aside.

But—Jonathan, stunned wide-eyed in shock, hadn't noticed that on the other side of the car, his biological younger son had reached out even faster.

Clark hadn't noticed either, because anything over a ton was laughably light for both of them.

"On the field, I'll try to hold back my strength."

Meeting his parents' eyes, Clark earnestly promised to control himself, not to hurt anyone, hoping to sway his father.

"The beauty of sports lies in the thrill of competing against others and surpassing yourself."

At the table, David suddenly spoke with a feigned puzzled tone: "I don't quite get it, my dear brother..."

Especially football—American football—where physical contact is intense, and players have to charge around the field with the ball.

"Joining the school football team—which part of that would you actually experience?"

Compared to the young Son of Krypton, human bodies were like glass that shattered on contact. On the field, he'd probably be too busy focusing on controlling his strength.

"Dad, I promise I'll be careful."

Hearing his brother's "dear brother" line, which only made their parents' eyes turn skeptical, Clark felt deeply frustrated.

It must be that other families doted on the younger son, while his family was oddly more concerned with the eldest. His little brother always picked on him, claiming it was for his own good.

"I know you will, but what if—just what if—an accident happens?"

Having played football himself, Jonathan knew the field was all about running and colliding every second.

How could an elephant, charging at full speed, manage to bump into a kitten every time without hurting it?

"I..."

As always, sensing the seriousness and resolve beneath his father's gentle tone, Clark slumped in defeat.

It was always like this—every time he opened his mouth, it was "what if," "just in case," "suppose..."

How could he argue against that?

"Dad, I've had enough."

The more the young Clark stewed, the more stifled he felt, his voice rising with agitation.

"I'm sick of dodging every activity, stuck in a corner of the campus reading books, unable to do anything.

I could be more popular, just like everyone else..."

Thanks for everyone's collections and reads. I'm working hard to sort out the plot, and once the contract is signed, I'll start posting two chapters a day.