My Past

"Where we're from, strength is everything. The weak have no dignity and can only become stepping stones for the strong or sacrifices to war."

His voice was very soft, a flash of rejection and disgust crossing his eyes before disappearing just as quickly.

Sunlight streamed through the window and fell on his face, outlining a profile that strangely combined youth and weathered age.

He did not hide the bloodthirsty, warlike culture of Viltrum.

Yet he also embellished his upbringing slightly, omitting the overly bloody and violent details.

Such as how he killed three older companions with his own hands just to survive during his coming-of-age trial;

or how he crushed that civilization's last hope of survival for his own chance at escape.

These details were too cruel, so he only emphasized that his inner nature had been at odds with the planet's atmosphere since childhood, making him an outcast.

"On Viltrum, weakness is the ultimate sin. Every childhood is spent fighting for competition and survival, while adult warriors revel in conquering other civilizations."

Shane's tone carried a bone-weary helplessness.

"From as far back as I can remember, all I saw was endless fighting and killing."

"The adults threw us kids into training camps and made us kill each other. Only the ultimate victors or survivors earned the right to be nurtured."

"I used to think about resisting, but Viltrum's cultural courses were the same. They discriminated against the weak and forbade showing any empathy or pity under any circumstances—they lumped all of that together as cowardice."

Shane lowered his head slightly, avoiding Tom's increasingly shocked and angry gaze.

These words omitted certain parts regarding himself.

Although his way of thinking differed from those pure-blooded Viltrumites, his innermost true thoughts felt entirely out of place in that cruel environment.

Yet Shane had hardly ever exposed this throughout his upbringing.

Except for when he was ten, when an instructor forcibly sent him to the battlefield, ordering him with the glory of conquest to mop up the final survivors.

The elderly, the women, the children, the desperate cries, the clinging stench of blood, and the shattered bones finally caused Shane, who had long lived under intense pressure, to suffer a mental breakdown.

He turned and charged at the instructor who had previously been quite approving of him.

Yet Shane quickly realized just how vast the gap was between him at that time and a Viltrumite Warrior who had experienced a millennium of wars of conquest.

From then on, Shane never showed the slightest trace of abnormality, performing more and more exceptionally even in the eyes of those Viltrumite Warriors.

At the very beginning, like the transmigration protagonists in countless works of fiction from his past life, Shane had imagined that one day he might return home.

Later on, however, as his hands grew stained with blood time and time again, Shane began to subconsciously push his initial thoughts aside.

One could even say that deep down, he had begun to dread the thought of returning home.

Countless times he woke up in the dead of night from nightmares where he had become a standard Viltrumite, finally descending upon his homeland's soil one day while carrying out a new conquest mission.

Before him were elderly relatives from his past life who did not recognize him.

Behind him were the urging shouts of the conquest team leader.

Of course, Shane did not share these things with Tom, merely describing his life over the past decade with a certain numbness.

Tom listened quietly, his hands resting on the table clenching involuntarily, clearly stirred by the cruel scenes described.

He had never imagined that in some corner of the universe, there existed a civilization that glorified slaughter and conquest.

Looking at the teenager before him who had fallen back into silence, Tom felt a few shades more sympathy.

He could sense the bone-deep helplessness in Shane, the kind possessed only by someone who had truly lived through suffering.

Tom sighed softly and pressed no further, simply waiting quietly in place.

If Shane wanted to keep talking, Tom felt he should be given enough time and space.

Moments later, Shane spoke up once more.

"I've been looking for a chance to escape that hellish place."

His tone held a hint of hard-won relief.

"I found my chance during Viltrum's coming-of-age trial, hijacking an escape pod from a planet that Viltrum had conquered."

"During my flight, I was hunted down by other Viltrumites, and the injuries on my body are from back then."

"After drifting through space for who knows how many light-years, my escape pod's energy was nearly exhausted. Perhaps driven by fate, I drifted to Earth."

He did not mention that he had killed his companions during the coming-of-age trial, nor did he mention that no matter how much his inner self rejected Viltrumite culture, he was still the top graduate designate of his cohort's Viltrumite elite.

He only needed them to know that he was a "rebel" against Viltrum, that he had completely broken away from that warlike civilization, that he posed no threat to Earth, and that he might even require sanctuary due to liquidation by his mother planet.

The contents of Shane's carefully confessed story were nine parts truth and one part omission.

He knew that Superman and any team potentially backing him would maintain a high degree of vigilance toward a civilization like Viltrum.

As an "outcast" who had fled Viltrum, he could serve as their breakthrough point for understanding this potential threat.

If necessary, he could even provide them with a portion of intelligence regarding Viltrum.

After all, a "rebel" who could actively provide enemy intelligence was far more trustworthy than an unidentified alien visitor.

More importantly, he needed to leverage the super-technology that most likely existed on this Earth.

He had to figure out whether Viltrum still existed in this universe.

If Viltrum did not exist in this universe, he could safely recover from his injuries on Earth and start a new life;

if it did exist, he had to prepare in advance, getting ready to face the hunt.

"I know the person who saved me is very powerful. You can feel it from the strength in him and that warm aura. I think he must be protecting this planet—he's this planet's Guardian."

"I don't mean any harm, and I don't want to bring you trouble."

"I just want to find a safe place to live and stay away from those endless killings and wars."

Shane's voice grew lower and lower, as if he lacked all confidence in his own request.

Hopefully, this Tom who claimed to be a friend of Superman shared a similar personality.

If Tom could believe him and relay these words to Superman, then he wouldn't need to worry about any further problems for the time being.

Tom gently patted the table, his tone gentle.

"Kid, you've been through a lot."

His gaze was filled with pity, along with a trace of firmness.

"You don't need to worry too much. Superman is a very kind person, and he's helped many alien visitors in trouble just like you."

"You don't need to think about anything right now. Just rest up and recover here; it's safe here, and no one will disturb you."

The stone hanging in Shane's chest finally dropped.

He picked up his spoon again and slowly sipped his soup.

Yet he failed to notice that an old locust tree outside the attic window concealed a miniature surveillance device.

The device's signal receiver, hidden within the veins of the tree trunk, was quietly capturing every sound inside the attic.

These sounds were converted by the device into encrypted electronic signals and transmitted to the Batcave on the outskirts of Gotham hundreds of kilometers away.

Inside the Batcave, the lighting was dim, with only the cold glow emitted by the massive displays illuminating the surroundings.

The screens displayed real-time text transcriptions of the conversation between Shane and Tom, alongside synchronized physiological data such as Shane's vocal tone fluctuations, heart rate changes, and breathing frequency.

There was even a small window playing real-time footage captured by the miniature camera attached to the surveillance device.

Though the footage was somewhat blurry and the angle wasn't ideal, it was enough to make out Shane's movements and general expression.

Batman sat in the high-backed chair before the displays, his black battle suit blending into the dim environment, leaving only his sharp eyes gleaming in the shadow of the cowl.

His fingers rested lightly on the controls, holding that exact posture like a statue.

The console emitted a faint hum of electric current, interweaving with the faint light of the displays to create the oppressive atmosphere unique to the Batcave.

"Viltrum..."