John froze.
He remained bent over, his right knee still on the ground, a slight smile playing on his lips.
Deep within his pupils, the ring of golden-red embers flickered briefly before dimming.
Godolkin's mental power easily penetrated the depths of John's consciousness.
But when his consciousness truly crossed that sunlit threshold, all the surrounding noise fell silent.
Godolkin stumbled and fell, his shoes touching a vast expanse of still water.
Looking into the distance, the boundary between the sea and the sky is quietly blurred by a translucent light gray.
No clouds were visible in the vast sky, nor was there sun or moon.
Strangely enough...
The entire the Deep shimmered with a dreamlike, soft light from the inside out.
The light was clear and gentle, slowly spreading from the depths of deep blue.
Like a crescent moon that has slept for thousands of years, it lies submerged in the seabed, breathing silently through the vast expanse of clear water.
The seawater was an extremely pure deep blue, so clear it resembled solidified glass, its surface smooth and flat, without a single ripple from the wind.
Calm and undisturbed.
Godolkin looked down at his feet.
The soles of my feet sank into a shallow depression.
It feels cool and soft to the touch, like stepping into the damp sand at low tide, offering gentle support and a springy feel.
However, the water remained as still as ever, without even a ripple.
He raised his eyes and looked out over the vast, desolate landscape.
Empty and quiet.
It was so vast that it seemed to transcend the measure of time.
In his memories spanning nearly a century, he was like a ghost, plundering the fates of all kinds of people.
Even with all his intellect and experience, he had never set foot in such a place.
The vast ocean is immeasurable, unanchorable, and its other shore cannot be found.
"... pretending to be mysterious."
A look of surprise flashed across Godolkin's face.
Immediately afterwards, he lowered his eyelids and suddenly stretched his arms outwards.
All the spiritual power accumulated over the past century was gathered together like a storm, and then slammed from his palm onto the sea beneath his feet.
However.
The seawater was as deep as ink, calmly receiving its cascading flow.
The violent, cold raindrops, upon touching the water's surface, were silently spread out, diluted, and then dispersed by this boundless ocean.
Then it sank into the deepest darkness and returned to nothingness.
Seeing this, Godolkin's face darkened, and his fingers froze in mid-air.
Then came a strange chill.
"It's beautiful here, isn't it?"
Just then, a familiar and calm voice rang out from not far behind him.
Godolkin was startled and turned around abruptly.
All that could be seen was a few meters above the ground.
John stood with his hands behind his back in the void, his slightly wavy blond hair falling over his forehead, silently looking at himself.
He was wearing a dark brown vintage suit.
It's easy to see from the stitching of the suit that the tailor's cutting technique was noticeably clumsy.
The shoulder pads are wide, and the fabric has a rough, cheap feel when viewed in dim light.
Godolkin stared at the dowdy outfit, a mocking smirk creeping onto his lips:
"Dressed in this shabby, stupid state... are you planning to beg me to leave you a dignified, intact corpse before I take over this body?"
"However, I'm really curious... who exactly are you?"
"After all... ordinary Superman don't have such a vast Mind Stone."
John lowered his head and gently smoothed out a crease on the hem of his suit jacket with his fingers.
Then, he glanced at his cuffs.
"It was given to me by Old Joe on the day I turned 18."
Oh, and there's also a used car.
John added.
It was late autumn when I was eighteen.
The air was filled with the faint sweetness of hay and earth, and the wheat fields of Kansas shimmered golden in the setting sun.
He still remembers that day.
Jonathan took Martha for a whole afternoon to wander around the town's department store.
Then, in a men's clothing store, he used the spare change he had saved up by living frugally.
He bought this somewhat ill-fitting, inexpensive suit as a coming-of-age gift.
That evening, a used Ford was parked outside the warehouse.
Old Joe pressed the heavy bunch of keys into his palm, patted him on the shoulder, and said:
Happy coming-of-age ceremony, son.
This wasn't some malicious seduction by those slutty lab technicians at Vought Labs.
It's not the hypocritical, nauseating cheers and frenzy under the spotlight.
That was a father's love for his son.
Memories flowed like warm water across John's eyes, then settled into a deep, unfathomable clarity.
He raised his head, his gaze calmly landing on Godolkin:
"Since you want to know, then I'll show you clearly."
As soon as he finished speaking, John's figure disappeared silently like the morning mist.
Immediately afterwards, the mirror-like blue sea beneath Godolkin's feet suddenly lit up.
Soon, the entire ocean began to roll.
The surging waves transformed into a vast panorama of light and shadow.
A vast stream of information surged forth like a reversed Milky Way.
Countless images overlapped and unfolded, divided into two parts, flowing silently around Godolkin.
Left side of the sea.
The glaring fluorescent lights and the experimental cells filled with zinc were like a heavy metal.
The baby, covered in tubes, was viewed with the same mockery as livestock by hundreds of doctors in white coats.
He saw the monster called " Homelander ".
After decades of mental torment and loneliness, he gradually descended into madness, and then perished in a bizarre and absurd way.
The right side of the sea.
A baby being held in a spaceship, golden wheat fields, a speeding old pickup truck, and hot soup handed to him by Old Joe.
The screen then suddenly zoomed out.
A hurricane sweeping across the atmosphere, trembling before that self-proclaimed " Satan ".
Finally, the image abruptly ends in the transparent view of the heart shrouded in black mist.
"What is this... So you are... So you are Homelander..."
Godolkin staggered backward, his face pale and his lips trembling.
"... You come from a far more distant place... Everett's many-worlds theory is actually true..."
"So, there's an even wider world out there..."
(PS: The Many-Worlds Interpretation is a quantum theory about the multiverse proposed by Hugh Everett III.)
Then, before he could recover from the shock, a new canvas quietly rose on the sea.
A torrent of information, interwoven with millions of bullet comments, floated continuously on the water screen.
[I cried. If John had grown up in a normal family, he would have been a true Homelander...]
[ Antony Starr's portrayal of that desperate yearning for love coupled with a near-collapse was absolutely brilliant.]
Stop torturing him, give him true redemption.
I can accept his death, but I cannot accept him dying like a groveling dog.
[Damn, Godolkin's death in Gen V season 2 was so damn frustrating, and that's absolutely right.]
[Even with Ethan Slater's best performance, it was all for naught. The writers, in order to promote a new, incompetent character, had Godolkin abruptly killed off, making for an utterly disappointing performance.]
Countless words, countless faces, gazes that transcend dimensions—
The viewers in front of their screens were weeping with regret for John's struggles and cheering with joy at his awakening.
Seeing these scenes.
Godolkin, being a researcher himself, immediately Insight the truth.
Within those densely packed words lies Godolkin's century-long endeavor to manipulate the destinies of others...
Is it merely a footnote casually written by the screenwriter?
It was a less-than-dignified curtain call for an actor named Ethan Slater under the spotlight.
A buffoon who's been carelessly discarded in a sequel filled with clichéd and self-righteous plot twists?
"Click--"
Something seemed to have shattered in Godolkin's heart.
That was the pride and integrity he had built up over half his life, through countless conspiracies and corpses.
But at this moment, it was crushed into dust by this seemingly warm curtain of water.
"So, I'm just a clown in someone else's writing, someone who peaks at the moment of appearance, and then hastily dies..."
"I was originally a figment of imagination..."
Godolkin's knees buckled, and he collapsed to his knees, utterly dejected, on the frozen surface of the sea.
He trembled as he dug his fingers into his hair, his whole body shaking uncontrollably.
Nearly a century of forbearance, scheming, and self-righteous ambition.
It turns out that from beginning to end, it was nothing more than an ugly line of ink drawn by someone else.
His life and death are fully captured in his writing.
After an unknown amount of time, the light and shadow on the sea gradually faded away.
Godolkin slowly, with a stiff expression, raised his head.
John had somehow returned to his original spot and was hovering in mid-air again, as if he had never left.
The dark brown, worn suit gleamed simply in the dim light.
With his hands in his pockets, his eyes were clear and serene, like a gentle breeze in the wilderness.
Godolkin stared blankly at him, managing to force out a dry, strange laugh:
"Heh... hehe... hahahaha..."
So you've always known.
Godolkin's voice was unusually hoarse.
"You knew all this from the beginning?"
Those who watched us through the screen, those comments, those edits... you saw it all.
Do you know that your anger is orchestrated and your pain is designed?
Those you've loved--"
He paused, looked at John, wanting to see the look of utter despair on his face.
"You know those things you cherish are just a few lines of text in the screenwriter's hands..."
Unfortunately, no.
John's expression remained unchanged.
"I've also had my doubts about all of this."
His gaze fell into the distance, his tone calm:
"I've also stood in front of the mirror and pinched my arm hard; it hurt a lot."
John raised his hand and pressed it down lightly, palm facing down.
"But when I held the hot soup Old Joe handed me, the warmth in my palm was real."
The scent on Martha, the evening breeze blowing through her hair... they were all real.
John tilted his head slightly, a faint smile appearing at the corner of his mouth:
"You say fate is predetermined, but look at the first act, and then look at what I've done... I've already forged a new path."
"Objectively speaking, if I didn't interfere with the course of the world, the grass on your grave would probably be two meters high by now."
"In that respect, you should even thank me."
Godolkin remained silent for a long time.
He stood on the water with his head down, there was still no reflection beneath his feet, only a deep blue, bottomless expanse.
"Thank you? Heh..."
Godolkin finally spoke.
How do you know that what you're saying now, and what changes things, isn't something someone else has planned and orchestrated?
How can you be sure that all your choices and resistance aren't just another page in the script, or perhaps an actor's improvisation?
John looked at him calmly for two seconds, his eyes showing no emotion.
"I have no idea."
Godolkin raised his head.
"To be honest, I don't know where those borders are."
John said.
But I only know one thing—
Those who are watching me from behind a screen, those who feel sad for me, indignant about me, and hope that I will find a new path.
They were there for me, supporting me.
Looking at them, I know that on this long and lonely road of breaking through barriers... I am never alone.
As he spoke, he glanced down at the cuffs of his suit jacket.
"It was all designed... but what I felt really existed."
He slowly spread his hands.
"Moreover, even if this world is fake, since I can see through this fourth wall."
Then one day, I will be able to gather the power to break through everything and completely shatter its barriers.
Go to the so-called reality and take a look at the actor named Antony Starr.
Godolkin was stunned.
He followed John's gaze and looked one last time at the flowing light across the sky.
Those faint yet burning thoughts, compared to his century-long, icy calculations, were as dazzling as the blazing sun.
Hahaha... Hahahaha...
Godolkin suddenly tilted his head back, his laughter, which started low and hoarse, gradually turned into a manic and unrestrained madness.
Two streams of tears slid down his dry tear troughs, a mixture of crying and laughter.
After a long while, the laughter stopped.
Godolkin stood on the water.
His shoulders were still trembling slightly, but the expression on his face had returned from his earlier the Batman Who Laughs to a serene calm.
" John... or rather, John Kent."
He called out John's "real name" in the DC Universe.
"I can't be like you, living so happily amidst all this falsehood..."
But I can't do that. For decades I've been scheming, plotting, and plundering... and in the end I haven't even gotten a decent ending."
"Even... all of this is fucking fake... Hahaha!"
He raised his eyes, a signature wicked smile that was uniquely Godolkin's own appearing on his lips.
That image once appeared on the Emissary's face, deep within the Black Noir memories, and within countless bodies he devoured.
That was Godolkin's own smile, and the only thing that hadn't changed about him in the past century.
But soon, Godolkin's smile vanished, replaced by a menacing expression as he stared directly at John.
"I will never admit defeat, I will never fucking acknowledge this damned mess!"
"What netizens, screenwriters... If there were a chance to start over, if there were a chance to break through the barriers..."
I will do everything in my power, by any means necessary, to kill them all!
" John Kent, this is where my journey ends..."
With everything I have, I will shatter this hypocritical world, until I reach that so-called reality...
Then see for me what those beasts who manipulate our lives are really like.
Godolkin lowered his eyes and looked down at the boundless, dark sea.
The water rippled very gently, lifting up that short, old reflection.
A century of scheming, plundering, and resentment.
After recognizing all the hypocrisy, everything settles into a kind of heartless calm.
He was wise throughout his life, but lived a muddle-headed existence.
He gazed at his reflection in the water, and a slow smile spread across his face once more.
Cold, arrogant, and mocking of absurd fate.
Soon, he closed his eyes and slowly raised his right palm.
The sea breeze seemed to stand still for a moment.
The energy that has parasitized and crushed countless souls over the past century is rolled up and condensed in the palm of my hand.
Then he compressed it into a faint yet sharp silver light, like a lone star falling into his palm.
Then, he flipped his hand down.
With a resolute expression, devoid of any regret, he slapped his forehead hard!
"Snap."
The sound was so faint it was almost inaudible.
His illusory body, transformed into a spiritual entity, silently dissolved from the tips of his hair to the hem of his clothes, disintegrating into billions of tiny, translucent, blood-red particles.
"Splash..."
Countless red dots of light swirled and dissipated between the sea and the sky.
A gentle sea breeze caused these floating glimmers of light to flutter and fall like cherry blossoms.
They kissed the sea surface silently, like a very pale cinnabar melting into a deep pool.
The seawater gently swallowed and permeated these specks of light, which slowly diffused in the layers of dark blue currents, before being completely smoothed out by the surging tide.
Soon, the sea surface was empty, returning to its mirror-like smoothness.
John hovered silently in mid-air, his eyes closed.
At the last moment, Godolkin stripped away all his hostility.
Only a vast and serene river of consciousness remains.
Behind John's closed eyelids, it flowed silently like mercury spilling onto the ground.
Over the past century, the glamorous world meticulously concealed by the lies of the Vought International is gradually being revealed in John's mind.
The mastermind behind the Nicaragua plot, the unspeakable dirty deals between the Wharton family mansion and the top executives of Vought.
This even includes the physical defects and psychological weaknesses that the superheroes throughout history have tried their best to hide, and every scandal that Vought's public relations team has erased.
What has settled down is the knowledge that Godolkin has absorbed and refined over half a century through countless bodies.
From sophisticated neuroanatomy and genetic engineering to Insight psychology that reveals human nature, and even more so, Godolkin's lifelong approach to understanding the mind—
How to capture the ripples of consciousness in the void.
How to quickly build Mind Stone barriers, and how to silently smooth over or dismantle a person's will.
It can even be achieved through simple Mind Stone constructs, condensing substantial "spiritual power."
This is not just applicable to psychic Superman, but rather a set of Mind Stone paradigms driven by various factors.
If one's mind is strong enough, even Superman can use it, and it is equally applicable to a mortal body.
I don't know how much time passed.
The torrent of information in John's mind gradually subsided, returning to a state of clarity.
Beyond the spiritual realm, the ruins of the White House.
Godolkin's left palm was still pressed against John's temple, his manic smile still stiffly stuck to his face.
However, this was all due to the complete dissipation of his spirit.
The light in his eyes dimmed instantly, like a lamp being extinguished.
The hand that had been resting on John's temple suddenly lost its strength and slid down limply.
His body suddenly trembled.
That arrogance vanished completely, leaving only a pale, bewildered, and helpless face.
Then, he convulsed violently.
His chest suddenly caved in, like a cancer patient on the verge of death taking a deep breath.
At that moment, those focused pupils were filled with terror.
He stared blankly at John, who was standing right next to him.
No... or perhaps it's a blank, empty passage over human bodies, the gaze passing through layers of ruins.
As if suddenly awakened, it twisted its neck frantically, searching aimlessly among the smoke and ruins like a headless fly.
He was looking for that familiar figure.
"... K... rua..."
His throat couldn't produce any sound; he could only barely move his lips.
But all around was scorched earth and smoke from battle; there was nothing else.
That embrace that could accept all his ugliness and imperfections seemed...
wrong!
He seemed to realize something, and his gaze slowly returned to his hands.
His ten fingers were trembling uncontrollably.
The tactile sensation of muscles deep within the palm at that moment.
It was the crisp sound of knuckles sinking into flesh, the muffled crack of bones breaking, and the warm spray of fresh blood...
That was clearly his own hand.
It was he who personally extinguished her life.
He cruelly tore the only woman in the world who loved him wholeheartedly in two, leaving her not even a complete corpse.
As the thought crossed his mind, the last bit of life force drained from him, and his shoulders slumped down.
"Ugh...!!"
He wanted to cry, to wail loudly.
But not a single tear could be squeezed from my bloodshot, dry eyes; only a burning emptiness and excruciating pain remained.
His throat spasmed and constricted inward, but he couldn't even utter a decent sob.
His chin drooped listlessly, and his mouth was stuck at its widest angle.
Clear saliva overflowed from the roof of his mouth, forming a glistening thin line that stretched all the way to the ground.
The wind is blowing.
John stood quietly in front of him, looking at the Homelander was weeping bitterly with mixed feelings.
He understands this pain better than anyone else in the world.
Because the limp body before him was his former self.
He experienced death and rebirth.
Only then, under the Kent Farm sun, did I finally learn how to be a human being with flesh and blood.
But he didn't exist in this world.
Because of its own interference, the trajectory of this world has been deliberately skewed.
I never imagined that I would gradually walk down a dead end, just as fate would have decreed.
Instead, they clung to Storm like a lifeline.
But the ending was equally tragic.
The once invincible "god" is now like a child who has lost everything in the ruins.
He just stood there, mouth agape in despair, drool dripping onto the ground, unable to even utter a proper wail.
John walked silently to Homelander.
The Homelander was half-hunched over, his hands still hanging in front of his chest, recalling a certain hand-holding gesture.
When John arrived, he raised his head and stared blankly at John.
Perhaps... this will make him feel better.
In the knowledge base left by Godolkin.
Fortunately, there is a method that can transfer parts of one's memories into another person.
With that thought in mind, John closed his eyes and placed his palm on Homelander's head.