Chapter 442: Metropolis Mystery (23)

When Selina ran up the stairs, she never expected anyone to be at the stairwell; seeing Clark's shadow cast on the steps, she instinctively dodged left, rolled swiftly, and shot past him.

The incident happened too suddenly, and Selina moved too fast; the agents behind her, seeing Clark blocking the stairway, assumed he was her accomplice and fired at him without hesitation.

Of course, bullets couldn't harm Clark—his biofield made him impervious—but Clark was angry. He was kind, but he had a temper. These people had come at him without warning, firing real bullets. If he were an ordinary person, he'd be dead. How could they be so irresponsible?

He didn't know these agents were furious from being toyed with by the elusive Catwoman. She wasn't strong in direct combat, but her skills in ambush, positioning, and hit-and-run were unmatched. In the dim corridor lighting, she'd knocked out several agents with stealth strikes, enraging the others. They'd abandoned even their leader Benjamin and chased her all the way up here.

"Stop!" Clark shouted. "There are ordinary people here! How can you just fire guns?!"

The agents actually paused—they'd never seen anyone like Clark. During operations, ordinary people either screamed and ran or cowered with hands on their heads. Someone daring to stand directly in their pursuit path? They'd never encountered it before.

"We're on official duty. Get out of the way!"

"But you just shot at me! Do you have authorization? Who gave you permission to attack civilians?!" Clark demanded loudly. The agents were even more confused—this kid, where did he come from? How dare he stand up to the FBI?

They didn't know Clark was a small-town boy who'd never been farther than a seed factory in southern Delaware. He'd barely even seen police in Metropolis. Expecting him to understand agents was impossible.

The lead agent raised his pistol, stepped forward cautiously two paces, and stared fixedly at Clark's face. Clark told them: "Stop! Don't come any closer! Whatever you're doing, I won't let you enter areas where ordinary people are!"

The lead agent glanced back at his team, then said: "On official duty—take him down first!"

"Bang! Bang! Bang!" Gunfire erupted. Clark's expression darkened. When he grew serious, he radiated an aura of quiet authority.

Instantly, his biofield activated—all bullets froze midair, then fell like raindrops.

Bai Meng Shu

The agents stared in shock, regaining their senses. One three-man squad charged Clark. As Clark prepared to subdue them, two other agents sprinted past him and continued chasing Selina.

When they reached the corridor on this floor, they realized Selina had vanished. They could only search room by room.

They opened the first door on the corridor. Inside sat Lex, seated at a desk. One agent stepped forward, about to question him, when another grabbed his arm and whispered: "That's Luthor's son—he's autistic. Asking him won't help."

Looking at Lex's vacant expression, the agent shook his head, waved his hand, signaling his team to search the room. But another agent blocked him: "We can't search the Luthor family's rooms. If Lionel Luthor comes back, we'll be in trouble!"

He told the others: "Quick check. Get out fast."

Several agents hesitated—they all knew Lionel Luthor was dangerous. They hastily flipped through the room's contents and left. After they departed, Selina emerged from the bathroom and said: "Thanks."

Just then, Clark returned, having shaken off the agents. Seeing Selina, he paused and asked: "What's going on? Aren't you Bruce's girlfriend? Why are they chasing you?"

"It's hard to explain." Selina didn't want to waste time. She turned to leave—but then gunfire erupted downstairs.

Selina frowned, listened carefully, and realized the shots came from the room where Bruce and Benjamin were. She bolted out. Clark followed behind. As she ran, she shouted: "Why are you following me?!"

"Were those agents firing again?! How can they do this?! I have to protect the ordinary people here!"

Selina opened her mouth—she wasn't sure bringing Clark to Bruce was a good idea. But in that instant, Clark moved faster than her eyes could track, vanishing before she could stop him.

Bruce, who'd been holding off the agents, never expected Clark to be the first one to arrive.

Originally, Bruce had finished questioning Benjamin. He'd lured the agents here only to get them to rescue Benjamin—Benjamin had taken two heavy blows. If left frozen overnight without aid, he might die. Bruce didn't want him dead.

But Clark's interference made the situation uncontrollable. Bruce could've used his recovered advanced equipment to escape the agents quickly. Now, Clark was determined to punish these reckless shooters.

Clark's tactic was pure brute force. Facing such a formidable opponent, the agents fired bullets like they were free. Clark's biofield nullified all gunfire—but Bruce couldn't. Narrow corridors filled with ricochets. Bruce couldn't escape, forced to join the chaos.

When Selina descended the stairwell, the muzzle flashes blinded her. She didn't understand why their evasion strategy had turned into open combat—but seeing Bruce dodging stray bullets, she had no choice but to join the fight.

The estate held more than just these people and agents—many banquet guests had been herded back to their guest rooms. The gunfire was loud, and many agents' weapons lacked suppressors, spreading the sound far. Many, confused, opened their doors to investigate.

Originally, agents guarded the halls, keeping them confined. Now, all the agents were gone. The crowd spilled out. More people meant louder noise.

At first, it was discussion and speculation. But after being locked in this place all night with no release, tempers flared. Soon, shouting erupted.

Though most guests were high society, one rule in arguments never changed: whoever shouted loudest seemed most right.

On one side of the corridor, the banquet's elite were loudly arguing.

"They locked us in this damn hellhole! Now they're having gunfights—do they want us killed by stray bullets too?!"

"What the hell is this place? Did we come to a banquet or a war?!"

"Those damn agents won't let us out or guarantee our safety—I'm filing a complaint!"

"Don't talk big, old Damon! You can't even touch the FBI's threshold—go home and eat your farmer's lunch!"

"Damn it, can't you shut up?! Someone get a gun—we need to protect ourselves…"

On the other side of the corridor, Clark, Bruce, and Selina fought the agents fiercely.

"Brute force wins" suited Clark perfectly. His strength was immense, and his biofield nullified ranged gunfire. In this narrow corridor, he moved like a god among mortals.

Bruce refused to be outdone—he was the Emperor of Movement, trained in Shiler's dreams. He dodged bullets and fought hand-to-hand with equal skill. Selina provided flank support. The three held their own against the agents.

One might say it was a miracle the agents could even keep up with these three.

Mostly because Clark only wanted to subdue them, not injure—so he held back his strength. Bruce could only perform at average levels in ambush combat. Selina was terrible at direct fighting.

During this time, gunfire rang like firecrackers. Combined with the shouting from the other side, it formed a symphony echoing through the estate.

So what was Shiler doing at this moment?

Yes, Shiler, who'd just fallen asleep, was woken again.

Before he opened his eyes, he heard from below:

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

"Shh! Shhh!"

"Shit!" "You're the shit!" "Shut up!" "Oh—"

"Boom!"

"Splash—splash—"

Shiler sat up in bed, eyes still closed. He took a deep breath, glanced down at his watch.

Good. This sleep broke his record tonight—26 minutes straight.

Shiler slowly walked to the guest room's shelf, took a glass from the rack, returned to bed, and now held a bottle of liquor. He uncorked it—the rich, intoxicating aroma spread instantly.

He poured a small amount into the glass, tilted his head, and swallowed it in one gulp. The bottle vanished. The glass fell to the floor, shattering into shards. Under the effect of the crazy liquor, Shiler entered a deeper, more stable dream.

In the center of the Dream Palace, Shiler walked toward a hole in the middle of the open space, muttering to himself:

"Good thing I didn't fill in this hole. I knew it'd come in handy someday."

At the hole's edge, without hesitation, Shiler jumped down. Through swirling, bizarre illusions, he landed on solid ground—before him stretched a lawn.

Shiler took one step forward—"Zeng!"—a pale-faced man in a black robe appeared before him. Shiler greeted him: "Long time no see, Dream Lord Morpheus."

Morpheus showed no interest in small talk. He eyed Shiler warily: "What do you want?"

"I need to borrow your path—to enter someone's dream."

"Who?"

"The Joker."