There was a secret formula in the universe that humanity could not yet decipher, though they could roughly describe its theory.
That was, after matter + energy + space + story came together, some rather interesting phenomena would appear. Or, from the perspective of alchemy, this was the recipe for the Philosopher's Stone.
Legend had it that the Philosopher's Stone could turn stone into gold, create things from nothing, and grant wishes. Many sorcerers throughout the ages had tried to create it, but they were often stuck on the final step: they could not add a story to the Cauldron.
A story was an intangible thought, a logically consistent account, a very lucid dream that was often told for someone else to hear.
As for who that someone was, and who could hear the story, only that someone knew.
In any case, Little Superman still did not know. His story had already changed drastically, and even the missions he was carrying out now had all been written by Deadpool.
At first, he had found it somewhat disgusting, strange, and abnormal.
But after two days, he seemed to have adapted to it. After four days, he had even started to enjoy the feeling a little.
"Surrender! You are no match for me! Put down your weapons now, and I guarantee you will receive a fair Judgment!"
Dressed like Homelander, he was confronting a group of Servants atop a mountain of corpses littered with white bones. Yet he was a little uncertain, mainly because he did not know whether they could understand what he was saying.
But the camera drones arranged by the Adjutant were still following him, so he had to deliver his lines regardless.
Yes, his opponents this time were Lizardfolk. The mountain of bones beneath him had once had