Old John's bar was not busy at all. Even by himself, the old man could handle it easily.
Still, he took Henry in and had him do odd jobs around the bar—clearing tables and chairs, cleaning up, and the like. In return, he provided three meals a day for the big-bellied eater.
Henry had never realized he could eat so much. Other people measured steak in ounces; he measured it in pounds. And with the way he ate, no one would have doubted that he could finish an entire roasted cow in one meal if it were set before him.
Other people ate a plate of mashed potatoes at most, perhaps with some broccoli on the side. Yet Henry could eat an entire pot of the stuff, even though the locals considered it pig feed.
Maybe it was because he had never been full during those previous years and had been scared of hunger. Now that he had the chance, he simply could not stop himself from eating his fill.
But Old John never said anything. Once Henry finished eating, he just kept working. Eventually, Henry himself began to feel embarrassed.
What kind of background did he come from? Though he had grown used to slacking off, he still understood basic human decency.
To repay this kindness, Henry naturally helped out as much as he could, even though there was not much to do in this shabby bar...
Thanks to the memories from before his transmigration, the unfamiliar English rapidly became familiar at an unimaginable speed.
Whether reading, writing, or speaking, he could understand it as naturally as his native language without needing to translate it in his head first.
The only difference between him and the locals was probably his accent and use of certain slang. Even those were quickly changing as he spoke with Old John and the town's residents.
Henry did not deliberately hide himself. After all, he was helping out at Old John's bar. No matter how slow business was, he would still have to deal with people, and they were all regulars.
In a place like this, a new face inevitably needed an introduction. Otherwise, it would be difficult to fit into the local environment.
As for the extra strength and heightened senses this body had gained after leaving the laboratory, they were not much of an issue for Henry.
It was still thanks to habits from before his transmigration. One major principle of slacking off was keeping a low profile.
If he could avoid being noticed by his boss or superiors, then naturally he hoped they would not pay attention to him. As long as they remembered to pay him every month, that was enough.
So moving quietly and lightly was practically instinctive for Henry.
Even though his strength had increased by who knew how much, as long as he remained careful in daily life, he did not have to worry about breaking something with his extra strength and drawing attention.
The same went for his senses, which had improved by several times over. The art of seeing without seeing and hearing without hearing—playing dead like that had sunk into his bones.
He did not even need to worry that absorbing so much information from the outside world would overload his brain. Ignoring useless information was not impressive; filtering out useful information too was the highest realm of playing dead.
His sense of smell was even less of a problem. "After long in a room of orchids, one no longer smells their fragrance; after long in a shop of salted fish, one no longer smells their stench." That was wisdom passed down by his ancestors.
Simply put, once he got used to a smell, it stopped being a problem. His nose could just detect a few more scents now.
If some strange odor suddenly assaulted him, it would be unpleasant whether his sense of smell was sensitive or not. But once he got used to it, it was no big deal.
And as for taste... Henry was not a child who shoved anything he got into his mouth.
A sharper sense of taste made eating more enjoyable... or more torturous. Either way, it was not a major problem.
In short, as long as he did not try to test this body's limits, its improvements would not interfere with living like an ordinary person, given his usual habits.
As for testing his limits... why would he do that?
As long as he could perform at the level of a normal person, did it matter where his limits were?
It was not as though he planned to challenge Thanos to a contest of strength, trading punches back and forth to see who fell first.
Henry had not been without guesses about his origins. First, he could rule out being a Saiyan, since he had no tail and would not turn into a giant ape under a full moon.
Then there was the fact that he had come from another planet. He looked human, but he liked basking in the sun. And while soaking up sunlight, he could feel every aspect of himself growing stronger...
With all those traits, a term naturally surfaced in his mind: Superman. Or rather, a Kryptonian.
Damn it, did I end up in the wrong universe?
He had that question because Old John and the other townsfolk had confirmed that Captain America had indeed existed in this world.
They had even brought out evidence they had collected, such as Captain America trading cards and news bulletins. Old John, of all people, had a wartime photograph with the Captain.
Those things were all very old, so there was no need to doubt their authenticity.
Second, although he had not heard of any other familiar superheroes besides Captain America, this world had Mutants, and plenty of them.
The X-Men and the Brotherhood of Mutants' love-hate battles often appeared in tabloid papers. If the commotion was big enough, even major newspapers covered them.
The Cuban Missile Crisis of the 1960s and the Mutant Egypt War of 1983 had both received extensive coverage, regardless of whether a newspaper considered Mutants a threat.
Even today, the Mutants who occasionally appeared around him continued to remind him that this world did not belong solely to ordinary humans.
Vampires and Werewolves were no longer merely bedtime stories or movie subjects. Incidents where they created zombie-like monsters and wiped out entire towns appeared repeatedly in gossip tabloids.
The U.S. government's ambiguous attitude toward suppressing such news while not quite suppressing it also suggested something else. They did not want to make a big fuss, but neither did they want ordinary people to know nothing.
That was why the gun-control debate that erupted every year never made any progress.
This was not merely "Happy America, a shooting every day." This world was genuinely too dangerous. If ordinary people were not even allowed to own guns, they would be like helpless chicks in the eyes of those inhuman beings.
Then there was one final, very important fact. It was 1990, and Henry was in some nameless town in Alaska, United States.
When Old John answered that question, he had strangely added "Earth" at the end when describing the town's location.
Henry did not care whether Old John had noticed something, and Old John did not seem to care much either.
He was a World War II veteran. Both of his sons had died in the Vietnam War. Both had married, but neither had children.
His eldest daughter-in-law had died of illness early on. His younger daughter-in-law had also stopped contacting him and was said to have remarried.
In short, Old John truly was a lonely man with no attachments left. So he had guarded this little bar and muddled through all these years.
He was not afraid of how much Henry could eat. He merely reminded people from time to time that he was not a fool.
Before you continue