Let's live an honest life from now on, Lex Luthor

Chapter 29: Time to Live Quietly, Luthor

Under the bright sunlight.

By the quiet lake near the forest, the aftermath of last night's party lay scattered in a mess.

Boom!

A hand suddenly broke through the thick ice, like a zombie's hand clawing out of the earth in some horror legend, rising from the lake.

The skin was icy blue, like a corpse frozen to death.

A figure crawled out of the lake, stumbling onto the shore.

Soaked and shivering violently, he looked perfectly normal for someone who'd fallen into a freezing lake—except for the oddity of having lain in it all night.

Sean's eyebrows were crusted with frost. Trembling, he sat on the ground and lit a campfire with a discarded lighter.

He stretched out his frozen hands to warm them.

But the flames, packed with searing heat, were absorbed from a distance. The kindling he'd just lit turned into a pile of ice.

The heavy chill on his body dissipated, and the icy blue of his skin faded.

As if coming back to life, Sean stared at his own hands in disbelief. His half-frozen mind churned—something incredible seemed to have happened to him.

He clenched his fists, feeling better than ever, frighteningly strong.

Restored to health, he prepared to go home. But the moment he stepped out of the woods, the bone-deep cold struck again.

Frost formed on his eyebrows. Trembling, Sean waved at a passing car for help.

Shh.

"Kid, you alright?"

The car stopped. A middle-aged man got out, reaching out to help him—then froze.

The next instant, his body heat was drained like a tidal wave. He turned into an ice statue, toppling onto the hard road and shattering into a pool of bloody ice shards.

Sean's cold eased. At the same time, his strength grew. He reached out and easily lifted the car like a plastic toy.

He instantly understood. His gaze turned toward a certain direction in the town, like a greedy gold panner who'd just found a speck of sand gold and then spotted a mountain of it. His eyes blazed with unprecedented excitement and hunger. He couldn't help swallowing.

There—a thermal power plant!

Crackle.

The thick woolen curtains were drawn, blocking out the sunlight.

Flames burned quietly in the fireplace.

Luthor took a sip of whiskey. A line of fire traced down his throat, but his face showed no reaction.

He browsed through old news articles and posts from the town's residents on forums, just like his usual work.

On the table beside him sat stacks of cash.

Click.

The door opened as a servant entered.

A middle-aged man in a trench coat walked in. His eyes flickered with shrewdness, and his hair was slightly balding, giving him an air of sharp competence.

A brown paper file folder in his hand slapped lightly against his thigh, as if in idle rhythm.

"Mr. Luthor. The money I asked for—you've got it ready?"

"Roger Nixon, if I remember correctly."

Luthor slowly stood, poured a glass of amber-brown liquor, and handed it to him with a smile.

"A reporter for the Metropolis Inquirer? You said you had something to show me."

"This photo alone sent our sales skyrocketing."

Nixon pulled a newspaper from the file.

In the center was a striking printed photo: outside a bank, Lex Luthor, pistol in hand, just after robbing it and bolting out the door.

"That's old news."

Luthor chuckled. "I think a reporter like Mr. Nixon must know the latest on the bank robbery case."

"That's how news works—it goes out of date fast.

Keeping your articles on the front page is no easy feat."

Nixon shook his head.

"Mr. Luthor, ever dug up potatoes?"

Before Luthor could answer, Nixon locked eyes with him, as if he already had the situation firmly in hand, and smirked smugly.

"I figure a silver-spooned rich boy like you wouldn't know—when you dig up one potato, a whole bunch tend to come with it."

Nixon held out the file folder, handing it over with a feigned sigh.

"This thick—almost like a stack of cash—is all your juvenile criminal record. Quite surprising."

"It seems the reporter didn't lie to me on the phone. You really do know something about my wild youth."

Taking the file and flipping through it, Luthor's voice dropped low, a smile spreading across his face.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Nixson."

"Thank you?" Nixson was puzzled. Thank him for what? For the blackmail?

"These are all destroyed electronic records, sealed files. How did you find them, Mr. Reporter?"

He walked back behind his desk, slowly sat down, and shifted to questioning.

"I can imagine your father must have spent a pretty penny to bury these files.

I'm not as rich as your father, but luckily, bribing a guard in a dusty archive room doesn't cost much."

Nixson sneered, silently thanking that bored guard who liked flipping through old files for handing him a windfall.

"Think about it—what would happen if these got published?

The newly exonerated heir of Luthor Group, revealed to have a sordid past, with bank robbery being the least of it."

"From my experience as a reporter, people love twists and more twists."

He set down his glass, shrugged, and cast a sly glance at the crisp 100,000 US Dollars on the table, still smelling of ink, as he rambled on.

"This is bound to take a bite out of Luthor Group's stock price!"

"Mr. Nixson, this money is yours."

Luthor smiled unhurriedly, pulling a black cloth bag from under the desk.

"Mr. Luthor, you provide the bag too?"

Nixson was a bit surprised, stuffing stacks of cash into the bag.

"You must be feeling pretty good right now."

Watching him pack up the blackmail money, Luthor showed no sign of urgency.

"Beating the famous Luthor father and son—yeah, it feels good."

After packing the money, he tossed out a line like an adult scolding a child, smiled, turned, and walked away, his hand about to touch the doorknob.

"What I gave you is the only copy. Live quietly from now on, Lex Luthor."

"If you walk out that door now, I guarantee you'll vanish from this world instantly."

Luthor set down his glass and spoke with a smile that sent chills down the spine.

"What are you going to do, kill me over this little bit of money?"

Nixson turned back, sneering in defiance.

"Coming to blackmail a billionaire heir—you think I'd come unprepared?"

If he didn't return on time, his email would automatically send the files to every major newspaper. Besides, was 100,000 US Dollars worth Luthor committing murder?

He wasn't greedy—he'd only asked for a modest sum.

"No, you'll live just fine.

But there won't be a single trace of you left in this world." Luthor shook his head.

"What are you talking about?"

"Driver's license, passport, bank accounts, even tax records—all wiped clean."

Still browsing the news on his computer, Luthor's tone was casual, as if discussing something trivial.

"One phone call, and there's no proof you ever existed."

"Mr. Luthor, are you trying to scare me?"

"Call your bank and see if your account is still there."

As if looking at someone who doubted a basic fact like the sun rising every day, Luthor glanced up at him.

"If your phone number still works, that is."

Pulling out his phone to make a call, Nixson tried several times but couldn't get through.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, his face turned panicked, and his voice grew shrill with tension.

"How did you do that?"