Setting Sail to Fish

The morning light in the fishing hut always carried a warm, salty dampness. When the seventh such ray fell across the edge of the bed through the window lattice, Shane was slowly stretching his body.

The bandages had long since been quietly removed by him. The originally ferocious wound that spanned his chest and abdomen was now only a few faint, pale pink marks.

The broken ribs had long since healed firmly, and even the previously sprained spine had fully recovered its vitality.

He clenched his fist, feeling the surging power within his body, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

The Viltrumite physique inherently possessed extremely strong self-healing abilities.

And this recovery after an unprecedented severe injury had actually granted him an extraordinary enhancement.

His muscle lines had become more symmetrical and compact, and his sense of strength was a full double what it had been before the injury.

His five senses had also sharpened considerably. The fine sound of waves crashing against reefs a hundred meters outside the window, the rustling of wind sweeping through leaves—all reached his ears with clarity.

"Pity, I never studied the settings of the Invincible comics from my past life in much detail," Shane thought to himself, his fingertips tracing the shallow marks on his chest.

He wasn't entirely sure why Viltrumites possessed such a powerful physique. His combat class grades were decent, so he hadn't been reduced to needing to study Viltrumite science.

Over these seven days, he had cooperated with Tom's care every day, feeling this body recover step by step from the brink of death.

And the return of power, along with the unbelievable enhancement, also allowed Shane to carefully feel every inch of his body's changes for the first time.

He hadn't had the leisure before. The end of a battle or special training didn't give you much time to catch your breath.

It was hard to know exactly how much stronger you had become.

Until he was specially permitted to participate in the graduation coming-of-age ceremony early, Shane's memory held only endless torment. The people around him were either eliminated or died, but those who could keep pace with him all seemed roughly equally strong.

Although he had heard from some instructors that Viltrumites could gain greater strength without limit from battles of sufficient intensity, Shane had never felt it so profoundly and personally.

When he went downstairs, Tom had already prepared breakfast—still the simple seafood chowder paired with crispy baked flatbread.

"How are you feeling? You look much better," Tom said, turning around with his usual gentle smile. His blue work clothes were still clean and tidy, but the salt stains on the cuffs seemed to have increased a bit.

"Much better. Thank you for your care," Shane said as he sat down, his gaze inadvertently sweeping over the old television in the corner of the living room.

Over these seven days, this television had become his main window into this world.

Every morning after Tom went out to fish, he would turn on the TV, piecing together the outline of this world from the programs on various channels.

At first, it was just scattered information.

City news mentioning the "Metropolis Flying Hero" and the "Gotham Night Vigilante."

The "Planet Media" logo occasionally appearing in commercials.

And topics about "Superheroes" hotly discussed by citizens in street interviews.

As the information accumulated, a clear understanding gradually formed in Shane's mind.

This place was most likely a world related to DC comics.

The "Justice League," frequently mentioned on TV, was the best proof.

Evening news would regularly broadcast the League's public operations—stopping meteor impacts, resolving urban disasters, apprehending high-tech criminals...

But what puzzled Shane was that the news mentioned the Justice League had been founded for less than two years, and the members appearing in the footage all looked overly young.

The Flash's uniform still had a brand-new sheen. Green Lantern was often away on "cosmic business," and some other Justice League heroes occasionally showed "fatal" flaws during their operations.

Forgive Shane for saying so, but based on his current assessment, he was confident he could kill more than half of the Justice League members without injury.

What concerned him more was the information about Superman.

The Superman on TV wore the classic red-and-blue costume, the S-symbol on his chest strikingly bright under the sun. White air currents trailed behind him as he flew, and he always had a gentle smile when saving people.

Shane had repeatedly compared the news footage and found that this Superman's eye color was exactly the same as the black-clad Superman who had saved him in space that day—both that pure blue.

But the temperaments of the two were worlds apart.

The red-and-blue Superman on TV was like a sunny, cheerful big boy, full of trust and enthusiasm for humanity;

The black-clad Superman who had saved him carried a far more composed and weighty presence, with a trace of barely perceptible weariness and sharpness hidden between his brows.

Even the warmth transmitted from his palm back then carried a tenderness born of having weathered many storms.

"Could there be two Supermen?" Shane picked up his soup bowl, masking the doubt in his eyes.

Besides that, this world had many aspects that contradicted the comic settings he remembered.

For example, the "Daily Planet" from the comics had become "Planet Media" here. It not only published a newspaper but also operated multiple TV channels and online platforms.

And Superman's girlfriend, Lois Lane, wasn't just a simple reporter either. She was also the host of Planet Media's prime-time evening news.

Every night at seven o'clock, she would appear on screen on time, reporting on domestic and international events in a crisp tone, occasionally hosting special interviews about superheroes.

"Maybe it's not a contradiction. It's more like keeping up with the times?" Shane thought to himself, then shook his head at his own ridiculous notion.

"Planning to mend the fishing nets again today. The winds and waves have been rough lately, so I need to get the gear in order."

Tom's voice cut through Shane's thoughts.

He set down his bowl and chopsticks, grabbed the straw hat from the corner and plopped it on his head, then turned to head out the door.

Shane's gaze fell on the hand Tom used to pick up the hat.

Over these seven days, he had never stopped observing Tom.

Tom's words and actions all exuded the traits of a genuine fisherman—heading out to sea on time every day, repairing his gear, sorting the catch after returning, and occasionally exchanging small talk with the neighbor next door.

But Shane's instincts kept nagging at him, insisting that this man was anything but simple.

Once, Shane deliberately knocked over a cup of water while Tom was mending the nets. Tom's reaction was startlingly fast—he twisted around and caught the cup without even looking.

In that moment, Shane was almost certain Tom was hiding something, but such crude probing never worked again afterward.

Yet whenever Shane tried to dig deeper with words, Tom would instantly revert to his gentle, honest fisherman persona.

He would patiently help Shane change his bandages. (Even though Shane's wounds had long since healed.)

He would bring back fresh seafood after a day at sea, sit quietly beside Shane sorting his gear while Shane watched TV, and never pry for extra information.

"I'll go with you."

Shane spoke up suddenly. He wanted to use the chance to go out to sea to observe Tom further, and perhaps find more clues about this world from the marine environment.

Tom paused for a moment, then shook his head.

"No need. It's windy out at sea, and your injuries aren't fully healed yet. Just stay inside and rest."

"I'm much better now. Staying cooped up in the house is suffocating."

Shane stood up and stretched his arm, deliberately letting Tom see how freely and smoothly he could move.

"I can lend you a hand, pass you tools or something. I won't cause any trouble."

Tom stared at Shane for a few seconds, as if judging whether he was truly fit to go out to sea.

After a moment, he nodded.

"Alright, but you'll stay on the boat. No running around. When the wind and waves get strong, hold tight to the gunwale."

"Fine."

Shane agreed, then let out a couple of hearty laughs.

"I can actually fly, you know."

But Tom looked at him seriously and shook his head.

"Flying up in the sky—what kind of fishing is that? Your position is too high; you'd lose sight of the ocean's depths."

Shane paused, then watched Tom's retreating back as he walked toward the door, a glint of sharpness flashing in his eyes.

He knew that his probing had finally made some headway.