Chapter 444

In the mansion's corridor, Lex moved through the darkness alone, carrying a toolbox he had just rummaged from the basement storage; he knew he couldn't leave Lionel's corpse in the bathroom—he had to dispose of it.

He climbed the stairs, walked a short stretch of corridor, ignored the sporadic gunshots and screams from below, and reached the former parlor, now reduced to charred walls and scattered glass.

Lex frowned; one question remained unanswered: if Clark possessed innate abilities beyond normal humans, why had he appeared so weak during his first appearance?

As he pondered this, he entered the bathroom. Lionel's corpse, which he had dragged in earlier, now leaned slumped against the toilet; the man who had once ruled the business world, weathering its tides for half a lifetime, was no different in death than any other.

Lex knelt down, studying Lionel's face, feeling his own wounds throb. He pulled up the back of his shirt; as his fingers touched the muscle at his lower back, a dull pain flared.

Lionel had always beaten Lex—whenever his business failed or someone annoyed him, he'd grab whatever was nearby and lash out at Lex; even today, when Lionel faced Shiler again, still furious, he'd left fresh bruises on Lex's back.

Lex muttered under his breath: "You know, the hardest part isn't faking that dumb, vacant look—it's making the right expression of pain when you're being hit."

"Actually, I don't feel much pain. That strange liquid seems to dull my pain and enhance my healing."

As he muttered, Lex picked up a saw from the toolbox and began dismembering Lionel's corpse.

He had just severed one arm when the parlor phone suddenly rang. Lex frowned, glancing toward the bathroom door.

He dropped the saw, stood, ignored the blood on his pant leg, and walked into the parlor. The wall-mounted phone was untouched, still shrilling sharply.

He reached out, picked up the receiver, pressed it to his ear, and heard faint, nervous giggles. A voice he didn't recognize spoke from the other end:

"Hello, Lex Luthor. I'm a comedian. Have you ever seen a comedy?"

"Who are you? How do you know I'm here?"

"That doesn't matter, Lex. Don't bother with trivial details. I'm a clown who just moved here from Gotham. To make my comedy show famous, I chose this place for my debut tour. Want to buy a ticket?"

"No." Lex hung up—but as he did, he heard the voice say:

"Then I suppose you want to perform. Good. Great comedies always need a few supporting actors."

"Also, do you know where I am right now? Look down. Look below. Hahahahahahahaha!"

Lex instinctively glanced at the floor. His gaze pierced through layers of flooring and ceilings, descending deeper and deeper, until it reached beneath the mayor's mansion.

Here was a control room utterly alien to the old mansion's style: cold glows from advanced electronics flickered along the floor's reflections. A sealed airlock opened, revealing three entire walls covered in dense, blinking screens.

lingdian.

In the center of the room, surrounded by screens, sat a chair that turned. A man in a dark long suit, face painted with clown makeup, grinned maniacally.

He crossed one leg over the other, phone in hand, speaking into it: "Honestly, it's much cooler down here than upstairs. I'll prepare my next performance in peace. When I need you on stage, I'll call again."

A cascade of mad laughter erupted from the phone. Lex held the device before him, frowning deeply.

Had someone already reached the mansion's underground? Lex wondered. That didn't make sense. Who was this self-proclaimed comedian? Where did he get this information? How did he find the entrance? How did he get in without a key?

After a moment's thought, he brought the phone back to his ear and dialed a number. When the line connected, he said: "Hello? Bruce?"

Bruce's voice was breathless, as if he'd just been running, and hushed, like he was hiding from someone. "What is it?"

"Do you remember if any comedians were on the guest list for the party?"

Bruce frowned. A bad feeling rose. Then he heard Lex say: "I just got a call. A self-proclaimed clown has already entered the mansion's underground. I suspect there's surveillance equipment down there, watching us."

"He may have found the entrance and gone in. If you still want that treasure, you'd better hurry."

Bruce's thoughts were no longer on the treasure. He glanced out the door—the agents hadn't caught up yet. He spoke rapidly: "You're sure he called himself a clown?"

"Yes. He said he's putting on a comedy show here. He kept giggling uncontrollably, like a psychotic. Before he hung up, he laughed hysterically—the sound tore at my eardrums…"

"Listen…" Bruce's tone turned grave. "I don't know why he's here, but I must warn you—he's the most dangerous madman on Earth."

"If he calls again, don't believe his words, don't try to follow his logic, don't ask why…"

Lex's expression grew serious. Though he'd known Bruce for only a short time, he admitted the man shared his intellect.

He also knew Bruce, the playboy facade, was in truth a stern, humorless man who rarely joked. When Bruce spoke seriously, it meant the situation was worse than anyone could imagine.

"You sound like you know him. Don't tell me he's from Gotham."

"No…"

As Bruce denied it, Lex exhaled. In his two years of clear mind, he'd heard others speak of Gotham—a city of madmen, where every criminal from there would be the deadliest killer elsewhere.

But then Bruce's icy voice came:

"Compared to him, everyone else in Gotham isn't even mad."

Those words were colder than the endless blizzard outside. The wind slammed against the windows like a classical symphony, echoing through the corridor with an eerie, chilling atmosphere.

Clark hurried back to his room. He wasn't cold—he was furious. Those agents said nothing, asked nothing, just kept shooting at him. He'd never met people like them.

He took a deep breath, walked to the bed, picked up the pillow, then threw it back down, exhaling sharply through his nose like every small-town boy on the East Coast—when angry, Clark just wanted to leave home, go to the barn, or walk through the wheat fields.

He stood again, walked to the window. The sunlight reflecting off the snow was like a blindingly powerful bulb, making his eyes ache. Clearly, there was no barn here, no wheat fields, no parents coming to find him in either.

Clark began to miss home again.

Since arriving in Metropolis for college, he'd faced problems every small-town youth encountered—many things he didn't recognize, many rules he didn't understand, and he'd been mocked for it.

This new world outside wasn't as dazzling as he'd imagined—or rather, beyond its dazzle, the price he had to pay was far greater than he'd expected.

He longed to go home and pour out his troubles to his parents—but instead, he'd been pulled into another vortex he didn't understand, with no idea how to escape.

Clark's mind was a tangled mess. He stood by the window a moment, then turned away. He wanted to go upstairs and talk to the professor—it might help. But then he remembered Shiler's words: he hadn't even slept two hours this night. He couldn't disturb him—it would be rude.

Yet he desperately needed someone to talk to. So he thought: maybe Lex. He could continue their earlier conversation.

Just then—BANG—the door burst open. Several agents rushed in, guns raised at Clark. Instinctively, Clark stepped back two paces—he recognized them. These were the same agents who'd fought him before.

"What are you doing?! You—"

"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Multiple guns fired at once, bullets pouring toward Clark. His expression turned even angrier.

He waved his hand—all bullets froze midair. Then, a blur too fast to see darted through the suspended rounds—CRACK—the lead agent's gun flew from his grip.

"Bang! Oh—"

A thunderous crash, then a cry—the lead agent was flung onto the bed.

The agent at the door raised his gun again. Clark grabbed a lamp and hurled it—knocking him down. The last agent went down with a single elbow strike.

Clark gasped—not from exhaustion, but rage. He didn't understand why they targeted him.

From the start, his goal was to put out the fire—and he succeeded. He hadn't wronged anyone. Yet they shot him on sight.

As he thought this, Clark turned—his arm shot out, blocking another agent's attack. The one he'd thrown onto the bed hadn't passed out—he'd been waiting to strike.

Clark was truly angry now. He raised his fist—then a wave of dizziness hit him. He staggered, weakness spreading. He clutched his chest, coughed twice, then collapsed.

He felt something interfering—shrinking the range of his biofield, weakening his strength. Worse, losing that surge of power left him disoriented, unable to adjust his body.

The agent, startled by Clark's sudden collapse, paused—then reacted. He turned, moved toward the other side of the room, trying to retrieve the gun Clark had knocked away. Clark struggled to stand, but his body wouldn't obey.

As the agent approached with the gun, Clark could only cough weakly—until a shadow darted past him. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! He saw the agent's gun fly again, struck by two fists clashing.

Through blurred vision, Clark saw the shadow crouch beside him—then he saw Bruce's face.