But in John's dictionary, the word Old Joe used doesn't actually exist.
escape?
Why did he run away?
He could smell the tense atmosphere in the air and the sweat from the 12 M-type heavy tanks that were being surrounded in the distance.
You could even hear the heartbeats of the special forces soldiers inside the armored vehicle...
But, I'm sure you've all forgotten...
John once slaughtered a "horde of zombies" consisting of tens of thousands of people in the Boys World, and cleared the entire area.
Nothing else
He only needed to jump up in 0.1 seconds, his eyes reddening with grievance.
Oh... that would send this fully armed armored brigade, along with its personnel and vehicles, flying everywhere spraying molten iron and bits of flesh.
But John didn't move.
Because he saw Martha's face, blurred with tears, pressed against the glass behind the window not far away.
For some reason, his heart suddenly ached.
That was the woman who had raised him for twenty years...
Old Joe would stand in his way without hesitation for his own freedom.
Martha could leave the last bowl of hot soup for him.
He could completely regard the billions of people on Earth as insignificant ants.
But he absolutely could not let these two elderly people who loved him watch him turn into a bloodthirsty beast.
"... Who said I was leaving?"
John raised his head, a gentle, even somewhat innocent smile curving his lips:
"Dad, I'm not going anywhere."
"Boom--!!"
The next second, the 70mm film format suddenly filled up amidst a dull roar.
With the telephoto lens pressed down to the muddy surface of the wheat field, within the depth of field, the wheat stalks, crisped by the autumn sun, were trembling slightly.
"Click--!!"
The M1A2 main battle tank brutally pierced through the white cedar palisade.
Dry splinters scattered and flew everywhere like shrapnel.
The tracks' slippery teeth frantically gnawed at the turf, tearing the entire patch of fertile soil and grass roots into two undulating waves of mud.
The tank spun halfway in place, its tracks scraping against the sand and gravel, sending up blinding sparks.
Then, forming an arc-shaped crescent formation, it trapped the red-roofed wooden house in the middle of the chaotic earth.
Immediately afterwards.
The smoothbore gun barrel, over five meters long, lowered its elevation angle in unison, accompanied by the mechanical hum of the hydraulic system.
Poised and ready to go.
The six mine protection and anti-submarine vehicles following behind braked sharply, spewing out thick smoke mixed with diesel fuel.
"Execute! Get off! Spread out! Disperse in a crisscross pattern within the red zone!!"
The explosion-proof vehicle doors slammed open with a series of loud bangs.
Thirty-two fully armed special forces soldiers trudged through the mud and leaped into their positions.
They were covered entirely in charcoal-black, heavily flame-retardant, and cut-resistant exoskeleton suits.
Behind the sealed M50 gas mask, heavy breathing was muffled by a layer of white fog inside the polycarbonate lens.
Immediately afterwards.
Dozens of tiny red spots of light, each the size of a pinhead, crisscrossed, piercing through the wheat dust and shining onto the load-bearing pillar of the wooden porch.
Then, in unison, came the image of the figure with their hands in their pockets in front of the corridor—
Throat, chest, glabella, femoral artery.
All of them are crucial.
But they were also trembling slightly.
Even holding the most stable carbine in the United States, the team members' index fingers, which were on the trigger ring, were still twitching with tension.
Because of that colossal object, which lies perpetually in Earth's orbit and is a full 3.6 kilometers long...
They specifically named the farmer's adopted son.
"Everyone on the farm! Lay down! Stay back!!!"
Behind the bulletproof shield.
A colonel, holding a megaphone handle, shouted:
"Lie down on the ground! Put your hands where we can see them!"
Any action you take will be considered a crime against humanity!
On the porch, Old Joe's cheeks were twitching violently.
This elderly man, who had toiled under the Kansas sun for nearly half a century, wasn't even wearing a coat.
The blue and white checkered shirt he was wearing had worn through at the elbows, revealing his forearms, which were tanned dark brown by the sun.
And there were these twelve blackened, dangerous pipes.
Instead of panicking, the old man took a step forward, his two large hands gripping the crossbeam in front of the porch like two forks.
"You... get out of my territory!!"
Old Joe's furious roar exploded from the depths of his lungs.
"This is a private farm! I've been paying taxes on this land for forty years!"
You don't have the county sheriff's papers, nor the signature of a federal judge.
Take your crappy tanks and get out of our farm!
"That old fool who doesn't know his own mortality..."
The commander looked at Old Joe and gently beckoned to the soldiers on the left rank with his right hand.
Next second.
Then came a series of "slap slap!!" sounds.
The safety catches on all thirty-two rifles slammed inward at the old man's roar.
And it was at this moment...
A long, smooth hand gently landed on Old Joe's sweat-soaked nape.
The force was very small, like an evening breeze brushing against ears of wheat.
But Jonathan's body, which had been as taut as iron, relaxed the instant that hand touched him.
A gentle yet irresistible force pulled him back half a body length.
Then John emerged from the shadows deep in the porch.
Under the lens.
The hem of the dark gray sweatshirt billowed in the wind, and the cuffs of the dark blue jeans were covered with bits of hay that had been brought out of the stable that morning.
His face was extremely calm; even the blue light in his pupils resembled a deep pool, reflecting everything before him.
"Tap, tap."
He walked down the wooden steps, his boots crunching softly on the debris.
Click.
The rifle muzzles followed John's movement, all aimed at his vital points.
John quickly stopped ten meters away from the shield.
Crimson veins were densely packed around his chin and chest.
John even smirked with amusement as he met the tense eyes hidden behind the masks.
He slightly raised his chin, his expression gentle.
He was like a kind Father in a church.
"Don't be nervous, everyone."
John's voice wasn't loud, but it pierced through the roar of the engines, landing clearly in the ears of every soldier:
"Take a deep breath... Don't tighten the fuse too much, I might... Oh, sorry, it might misfire."
Then came John's signature fake smile.
"Lead the way... I'll go with you."
Oh, by the way... I find your commander quite pleasing to the eye, what's his name?
The two shield-wielding commandos didn't respond to John's words; instead, they exchanged a glance.
A glint of shrewdness flashed in his eyes, and then he lunged forward!
The heavy shield slammed into John's side chest.
But the force of John's body reaction caused the two burly men to experience excruciating pain in their wrists, as if they had hit a steel pillar.
"Quick!"
They dared not slacken their pace any longer and hurriedly twisted John's arms behind his back.
Then he pulled out a matte-finish shackle weighing forty pounds from his vest.
Incidentally, this is a military-grade lock made of high-density tungsten carbide and a microcrystalline absorbent coating.
"Snap!!"
With a combined force of nearly 100 pounds, the two teeth clamped down hard on John's wrist bone.
Even with the heavy chains hanging from his wrists, his forearms remained firmly suspended in mid-air, without falling at all.
"Walk...!"
Four soldiers pressed their gun barrels firmly against John's back, shoving him toward the armored vehicle in the center.
"Everyone... tell me quickly, what's your commander's name...?"
John did not resist.
He stepped onto the platform with steady steps, teasing the four silent soldiers as he did so.
However, just as the 20-centimeter-thick explosion-proof door was about to close—
John turned his head to the side.
[ Insight ]
My gaze pierced through the billowing smoke from the chemical protective vehicle's exhaust pipe, past the layers of trees trembling in the autumn wind.
It landed on the slightly aged figure under the wooden corridor.
Old Joe was still standing there.
He was gripping the doorframe tightly, his eyes bulging as if they were about to burst, his lips trembling, but not a single tear fell.
"Bang!!"
The bolt slammed down, clamping shut.
With a roar from the engine, the convoy turned around and plowed a large, horrific rut into the wheat field.
They sped away towards the leaden-gray horizon to the north.
The strong wind suddenly stopped.
One hour later.
John was escorted into the central interrogation room by eight fully armed guards.
There are no tables or chairs here, only a guard post welded to the ground.
Two soldiers, sweating profusely, wielded wrenches to fasten four titanium clamps, each ten centimeters wide.
It was locked around John's ankles, forearms, and both sides of his cervical spine.
With a few crisp sounds, the entire restraint device was connected to a superconducting deflection electric field of up to 20,000 volts.
Directly in front of the interrogation table is a bulletproof viewing window that is 20 centimeters thick.
Across the window stood more than ten officers in civilian clothes.
And in the very center of these officers stood an elderly man in an army uniform, wearing the insignia of a brigadier general.
Deputy Commander of the Army Special Operations Command.
Brigadier General Nathan Walker.
Walker was resting his hands on the edge of the console.
On the screen in front of him, the Zod fleet's 24-hour countdown had only seventeen standard hours remaining.
With each tick of the red numbers, the veins on Walker's temples twitched violently.
"Zzz--!!"
The intercom system is activated.
Electrical static penetrated the glass, echoing in the cold, empty interrogation room.
" John Kent... or should we use the name that unknown fleet in the sky gave you... Carl El?"
"Who... who are they?"