A dilapidated attic.
Although the owner of the house had meticulously and patiently cleaned away all the dust, the items inside were arranged neatly enough.
Even so, it was still evident that the house had been uninhabited for at least a quite long period of time; when feet stepped onto the floorboards, those old wooden planks emitted an unbearable creaking sound.
A glass of water still sat on the bedside table.
Looking down, pure white bandages were wrapped around Shane's chest, and his right arm was suspended in a sling with splints and plaster.
The left hand pushed open the similarly ancient wooden door, and a certain faint, sour-musty scent drifted to his nose.
As Shane stepped down the attic stairs one step at a time, he once again truly felt the gravity that brought him peace of mind.
This was Earth.
Although not the one he was familiar with, and to some extent, this place was probably even more dangerous than Viltrum during the civil war.
But at the very least, this was Earth.
There would be no indifferent or hot-tempered Instructor forcing him to beat his inseparable companions to death, nor would there be compulsory lessons where, even if he wholeheartedly completed the training metrics, he would still be thrown into the cage of some ugly alien beast to fight it to the death.
There would certainly be no need for him to follow his squad, under mandatory orders, in slaughtering billions of weak lives, just because that civilization's will to resist was indomitable.
It would be fine if he were a born Viltrumite.
A clean sheet of white paper ready for ink to be splashed upon, left or right, it would amount to no more than cultivating yet another qualified Viltrumite warrior.
Yet, as it happened, he was a human from Earth.
Two completely different psyches intertwined and vied for control within his mind, and the brutal rules of survival he had grasped at the age of five did not help him forget twenty-odd years of mundane and stable life.
Countless nightmares at night involved him being dispatched by Viltrum to conquer the Earth of his past life, and then, in a state of extreme terror and tyrannical mental anguish, crushing the life out of the people he once held closest with his own hands.
The somewhat distant memories flashed by and vanished, and Shane raised his still-uninjured arm, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers.
The first-floor living room was not spacious; besides an old sofa and a vintage television set, a row of rather primitive farm tools was neatly arranged against the wall—several hoes, an iron rake, a scythe hanging on the wooden wall, and a straw hat.
Shane's gaze lingered on the straw hat for a moment.
Although his consciousness had been close to nothingness before he lost consciousness, he was certain he hadn't seen wrong.
With that guy around, how could Earth possibly be rated as a vacation-level destination in Viltrum's database?
Shane felt thoroughly numb all over. Along the way, to prevent his injuries from worsening, he had remained in a state of cryogenic stasis, and after waking up, he hadn't had the time to check the escape pod's navigation log.
Second time transmigrated?
Or was this place actually some kind of mixed-genre American comics world?
Back then, he was only in a rush to record Earth's coordinates, and hadn't had the time to check in Viltrum's database whether this universe had a planet called Krypton.
In theory, it didn't exist.
If this universe had a race capable of becoming a formidable rival to Viltrumites under the radiation of a yellow sun, then at least Viltrum's instructors would have mentioned it a few times when lecturing those boys back then.
Every special race capable of threatening Viltrumite Warriors was part of the limited content to be studied in Viltrum culture classes.
Even those civilizations still inferior to Viltrum would be highlighted, let alone Krypton.
Shane looked out at the unobstructed residential home, beginning to ponder his current predicament.
He hadn't been captured; the other party most likely regarded him as some sort of alien refugee, but why was his living quarters so rudimentary?
His ears caught the sound of ocean waves not far away, and following the sound, sunlight and the boundless sea were visible through the window.
Even as an alien refugee, rather than taking him in at the Fortress of Solitude in the Arctic, he ought to have been placed in the Hall of Justice or the Watchtower for convenient monitoring.
The sound of waves crashing against the reefs rose and fell, mingling with the soft rustle of the breeze passing through the window lattice, adding a touch of vitality to this silent attic.
Shane leaned against the window, his fingertips touching the cool glass, his gaze locked tightly on the distant place where the sea met the sky.
He needed to figure out the current time, his location, and the identity of that man with the "S" symbol as soon as possible.
A Viltrumite's constitution allowed him to recover much faster than ordinary people; although his injuries had not healed, basic movement was already out of the question.
He exercised his uninjured left leg, feeling the slight aching soreness from the muscles, and then, supporting himself against the wall, walked slowly to the center of the living room.
Beside the vintage television set stood a wooden cabinet with chipped paint, a small bronze lock hanging on its door.
Shane tried to gently snap it with his left hand, and the bronze lock broke instantly.
A Viltrumite's physique, even in a state of severe injury, possessed strength far exceeding a human's imagination.
Inside the wooden cabinet, a few old items of clothing were neatly folded, alongside a yellowed diary.
He picked up the diary, his fingertips brushing over the rough paper pages, and opened to the first page.
The handwriting was slightly crude, recording nothing more than daily trifles.
"The wind and waves by the sea were very large today, and the fishing net broke again; I'll have to mend it tomorrow."
"Madam Jane Sher next door sent a bowl of seafood soup, and the taste was very good."
"The radio said something strange happened in the city, with people who can fly; I hope it doesn't affect the seaside."
Shane quickly leafed through the diary, his heart sinking the more he read.
The diary's time span was only half a year, and the latest entry stopped three days ago, with the content reading, "Found an injured sea bird today, hope it gets better soon."
It made no mention of any key information regarding "superheroes" or "aliens"; the only thing related was that sentence about "people who can fly."
Shane could not help but fall into bewilderment.
The S-shaped symbol, the ability to fly in outer space, and the bio-force field he faintly heard before losing consciousness.
Was it not Superman who saved him?
Suddenly, a certain subtle sound was caught by Shane's ears.
He swiftly returned the diary to its original place, and subconsciously kicked the broken bronze lock on the wooden floor beneath the sofa.
The next second, the attic's wooden door was gently pushed open, and a middle-aged man wearing blue work clothes walked in.
The man was tall, with somewhat rough skin, and his face bore weathered lines carved by the sea breeze.
He saw Shane standing in the center of the living room, a trace of surprise flashing in his eyes, which instantly turned into a gentle smile.
"You're awake?"
The man's voice was low and hoarse, carrying a trace of fatigue.
"How do you feel?"
Shane instantly tensed his nerves, his left hand quietly clenched, and the remaining power within his body began to gather rapidly.
He did not speak, only staring alertly at the man, attempting to judge whether there was any hostility from the other's expression and movements.
The man seemed to sense his guard, stopping in his tracks and raising both hands to signal that he meant no harm.
"Don't be afraid, I won't hurt you."
"Superman brought you here. He said you were heavily injured and needed a quiet environment to recuperate."
Shane remained tense.
Although upon hearing the word Superman, a trace of relaxation finally arose within him, before he fully figured out the situation of this world, he had to continue masquerading.
Though as an "alien" relative to Earth, Shane roughly knew.
If this truly was Superman's world, in a fairly large portion of alien planets, Superman actually possessed an unbelievable reputation.
Yet this also made Shane begin to seriously examine the specific circumstances of this world even more.
During the dozen or so years he previously spent on Viltrum, he had never once heard of Superman existing on this universe's Earth.
Just which universe was he in right now?
Before you continue