The Warrior Race Is Indeed Extraordinary

At a gas station in the town of Smallville, a tall, handsome young man frowned, staring blankly at the pasture that led toward the town center.

Seeing the young man so engrossed, an older employee at the station leaned in and gave his shoulder a gentle pat.

"Clark, what are you looking at? Studying how our town's crops are growing this year?"

"No."

Facing the older man's question, Clark shook his head and offered a wry smile.

"What's the point of studying the harvest? There's no money in it. If the farms in our town have a good yield, then every farm in New Jersey will likely do well, and the grain prices in New Jersey will naturally drop as a result."

With that, Clark Kent sighed and began to peel off his work uniform.

"I was just looking at the weather. I have a feeling it's going to rain over in Gotham, and it might even reach us here. Could you do me a favor and tell Leitner I need to take some time off? I need to head home and help Martha bring in the soybeans."

"You really think it's going to rain?"

Hearing this, the older employee squinted in confusion.

"It rains in Gotham all the time, but it rarely reaches us here. We're quite a distance from Metropolis, after all. But you're right—better to prepare for rain than to let it cause you a loss. I'll put in the request for you in a bit."

"Much obliged."

Clark gave a bright smile, set his uniform aside, and climbed into his beat-up pickup truck to head toward his family's farm.

Shortly after, at Kent Farm, Martha Kent looked on in surprise as Clark suddenly returned home.

"Clark, aren't you supposed to be at work? Why are you back so soon?"

"The gas pump at the station broke down. The repair crew said it won't be fixed until at least this afternoon. Since there's nothing for me to do there anyway, I figured I'd come home and rest for a bit before heading back after lunch."

As Clark explained, he reached out to take the farm tools from Martha's hands and began to work.

Even as he labored, his eyes drifted toward the distant town every now and then.

Smallville was a quiet town neighboring Metropolis, with a harmonious atmosphere where danger rarely found its way.

But today seemed different, because Clark had spotted more than one high-powered sonic weapon inside several black jeeps parked near the café in the town center.

At first, Clark even wondered if he was the target. After all, besides himself, who else in Smallville could possibly warrant the immense power of sonic weaponry?

However...

As he listened more closely, the truth became clear: those sonic weapons had been prepared by the U.S. military for a super-criminal from Gotham named Downton!

That man had set his sights on a reporter named Lois Lane, but since the reporter's father was a general, they had prepared this trap for Downton.

It was because he had overheard this that Clark decided to take time off to go home and look after his mother.

Although his farm was a fair distance from the town center, who knew just how "super" this super-criminal Downton really was, or how dangerous he might be?

If Downton was truly a dangerous powerhouse like himself, then a few measly sonic weapons and a couple dozen special forces soldiers would never be enough to stop him!

Lost in thought, Clark's focus slipped, and the shovel in his hand snapped into two pieces.

In the distance, seeing the broken shovel, Martha helplessly fetched a new one.

Handing the tool to Clark, she gave his hand a gentle pat.

"You've been distracted ever since Jonathan passed away, Clark. People are destined to face death, you and I included, so death shouldn't bring more pain to the living. Cheer up, my son. In a little while, help me take the cow to the vet; one of them has a long nail stuck deep in its left front hoof."

"Alright, Martha."

Clark nodded and continued to swing the shovel, loading manure into the cart.

Yet, even though he forced his mind onto the work at hand, he couldn't help but glance toward the center of Smallville.

He just hoped that the damn military and this so-called Downton wouldn't leave a mess for this peaceful town to clean up!

Meanwhile, near the Gotham History Museum, Bartel brought the car to a stop.

"Boss, we're here!" he said, turning his head to alert Downton.

Hearing this, Downton nodded slightly and asked Bartel a question.

"How old are you, Bartel?"

"Uh... twenty-three. What about you, Boss?"

"Twenty-six. Heh."

After a grin, Downton leaned over to the passenger seat and grabbed his tactical backpack.

"Bartel, remember to keep an eye on my location. If I suddenly appear at a different position within a five-to-eight-minute drive, follow the GPS to pick me up.

If my location is exceptionally far away, then just keep waiting here.

Besides that, find a piece of paper, write down your family's information, and leave it in the car. If you accidentally die, I'll give this car to your family.

Of course, if they don't need a car, I'll trade it for an equivalent amount of Franklins; consider it payment for your funeral."

With those words, Downton patted Bartel on the shoulder and jumped out of the car.

Taking out his phone, Downton studied the floor plan of the laundry shop in front of him.

Liv's intelligence was extremely detailed, and Downton studied it with great focus.

The Dimitrov Family rose to power during the Cold War, and their boss was not only named Yuri, but his style of operation was also full of that Russian flavor.

This Yuri didn't care for the new-age ways of making money like finance or technology; he only liked old-school methods like gambling, drugs, and prostitution.

The front he used to hide his family's business was similarly old-fashioned: a laundry shop.

If Liv's map was correct, the hidden doors and basement inside this laundry shop led to the Dimitrov Family's core underground casino.

Seeing this, Downton put his phone away with satisfaction and then gripped his twin pistols.

As he approached the laundry, the two Russians guarding the place had already spotted him.

Determining that Downton was armed and heading straight for them, the Russian gunmen raised their weapons at him.

Through the floor-to-ceiling glass window, Downton chuckled at the muzzles before suddenly stepping to the left.

While dodging the gunmen's first volley of bullets, Downton leveled his twin pistols.

Bang! Bang!

The two gunmen, standing about twelve meters away, collapsed one after the other.

The power of the Desert Eagles far exceeded the Glocks the gunmen were using; after being hit, the two men no longer had the strength to stand.

Downton vaulted over the shattered glass window, stopped beside the two gunmen, and fired a shot into each of their heads.

As flesh and blood splattered, the gunfire briefly ceased. In this eerie silence, Downton smiled and gripped the hands of the corpses.

"People learn a thing or two the more they die. For instance, if I want to know when you're going to fire, I just need to watch the movement of your trigger fingers.

I really didn't expect to dodge your bullets; I just hopped around randomly the moment you pulled the triggers. Who would have thought that hopping around like a headless chicken would actually be useful?

Thanks, you two. I declare you the second group of great teachers I've recognized, right after Rola Takizawa!"

After his mockery, Downton turned around and made a "shush" gesture to the shocked passersby outside.

Just as the few scattered pedestrians nodded frantically, Downton heard approaching footsteps. He pushed open the door to the staff breakroom and tossed two grenades inside without hesitation.

BOOM!

The grenades detonated, and Russian curses erupted from the smoke.

"Damn it, close the door!"

"The Italian Mafia is attacking!"

"Quick, call for backup from below!"

"The Italians must be crazy! The police just finished patrolling the street, for God's sake!"

Such voices left Downton slightly stunned; he hadn't expected there to be so many people left in the room after the explosion.

The fighting nation really is something else!