Chapter 447: The First Snowstorm (Part 1)

The sky had gradually brightened, but the blizzard had not ceased; the dawn's light, filtering through the endless snow, fell upon the ruined reception room without bringing true warmth—instead, it felt colder than the darkest night.

When Lex entered, his face was pale, expressionless, his frame thin, as if he had stepped out of the snowstorm itself—a demon. Clark's fingertips trembled slightly, betraying his inner turmoil.

But quickly, more anger drowned him. He fixed his gaze on Lex's eyes and asked: "Did you kill him?"

Seeing Lex's denial, Clark's voice brimmed with fury: "The blood on your pant cuffs is his—I can tell."

Lex's feigned weakness faded, replaced by mockery. When he spoke, his voice was colder than the wind and snow outside.

"With your superpower? You can tell whose blood is whose? I'm curious—what else can this power do? Count insects in the field while plowing like a dumb ox?"

Even Lex himself didn't realize that behind his sharp words lay a hidden fear.

Opposite him, Clark stood before the restroom door, shadows from the corner cloaking him. In Lex's vision, he looked like a colossal predator lurking in darkness.

At that moment, Lex realized he felt profound revulsion toward those with unknown powers. His rising anger still stemmed from fear—the primal fear of a creature at the top of the food chain.

Out of that fear, he instinctively refused to communicate with Clark. "What I did is none of your business. Stay out of it."

Seeing this attitude, Clark grew angry too. The sight of Lionel's corpse had shaken him deeply. His life in the town had been simple—he'd never seen a corpse, let alone such a bloody crime scene.

He took a step forward, forcing Lex to retreat one step. Clark's voice was low: "Luthor, murder is illegal! And he's your biological father—isn't he?"

Lex let out a dismissive snort. "I know—you're the kind who believes in laws. I'm not. I don't want to explain to you."

He turned to leave. Clark rushed forward, grabbed his arm, and growled: "I won't let you go unless you swear to me you'll never hurt anyone else…"

"Swear?!" Lex raised his voice, yanking his arm free and turning to face Clark. "If you never trusted me, why should I swear to you?"

Before Clark could reply, Lex glanced at the restroom door, then back at Clark: "If I remember correctly, our plan was for three of us to investigate the door leading underground. So why are you here?"

"You want to investigate me. You want to catch me in a lie, Clark. Your hypocritical saintly facade makes me sick."

Lex stepped back, standing by the door, watching Clark: "You put on this benevolent act, preaching to me and Wayne to cooperate—but now? What are you doing? Following our plan?"

"Or are you just another hypocritical liar, making us do your dirty work while you secretly investigate us, looking for leverage?"

"I never thought that," Clark said helplessly.

"But you did it," Lex said, unaware his voice was trembling.

Clark was too close now. Even with at least two meters between them, Lex already felt the suffocating pressure. He'd seen Clark fight—he was certain that if Clark wanted to strike, he'd be dead before a second passed.

Human fear of a predator that can kill you is instinctive. Clark's abilities proved he wasn't just ordinary—he might not even be human.

Lex didn't know how Clark thought, when he'd strike, when he'd kill. He only knew: one thought from Clark, and he was dead.

No one could stay calm under such emotion. Lex's chest heaved violently. He kept retreating, wanting to flee—but lacked the courage to turn his back on Clark.

Seeing Lex had no intention to communicate, Clark took a deep breath and walked toward him. As the distance shrank, primal fear swallowed Lex—he turned to run.

Instantly, Clark grabbed him. Clark had no intention to attack—he only wanted to stop him, to make them talk, to clear this misunderstanding.

Even now, Clark still believed Lex might not have meant it. After all, compared to that mysterious phone call from an unknown source, Lex was someone he'd actually dealt with—someone he trusted more.

But Lex had shattered completely. The moment Clark grabbed him, he felt like a trapped insect—this stronger hand, like death itself, closing in. He couldn't even flutter his wings—only wait, paralyzed, for death.

He needed to do something to mask his fear. So he raised his voice, speaking rapidly: "I killed him! I cut him apart myself! That's what I intended to do! What are you going to do? Kill me?"

"I told you before, Clark—your strength lets you ignore harm from ordinary people. So of course you can pretend to be kind!"

"But you want to use that power to judge me—to kill me. You're no different from me. You monster!"

Lex's tone was furious. The moment Clark heard him admit to the murder, rage surged through him—not just because of the gruesome scene, but because he couldn't understand how someone could commit such cruelty and show no remorse.

Lex stepped back again. Clark lunged forward, raised his arm, and struck Lex's neck, knocking him unconscious.

My Healing Game

Clark stood still, breathing heavily. For some reason, violent emotions churned in his chest—he'd clearly seen the fear in Lex's eyes the moment he struck.

He told himself: Lex was afraid his crime would be exposed. But another voice inside him whispered: No—he's afraid of you. Afraid of your power.

He sees you as a monster, not his equal. He thinks you can't be reasoned with—only feared.

It made Clark feel terrible—as if he truly had become a predator hiding among humans, using his strength to strike at will.

As he bent down to lift Lex and carry him back to his room, the crushing weakness returned. Clark gasped twice, then knelt.

Before, when he relaxed, took deep breaths, the feeling faded. But this time, Clark stood there, breathing heavily for a long while—and the sensation grew stronger.

Suddenly, a shadow appeared above him. He looked up and saw a man in a long suit standing before him. Above, his pale hand held a peculiar container—inside, a stone glowed green.

Clark strained to look up. A face, grinning maniacally, filled his vision. As expected, wild laughter boomed from above.

The container's lid opened. The green stone was thrown directly onto Clark. He let out a pained groan, unable to hold himself up, collapsing to the floor.

Suddenly, a clown-painted face appeared before Clark. The Joker leaned close, even reached out and patted Clark's cheek, smiling broadly.

The Joker picked up the green stone, waved it in front of Clark's eyes, then raised his arm high and slammed it down.

"Ugh!"

Clark let out a low cry of agony. The moment the green stone touched his skin, searing pain erupted. Worse still, the weakness intensified, making him dizzy and nauseous—he'd never felt this before.

Suddenly, liquid coated his eyes, clinging to his lashes, making it hard to open them.

The smell of blood came from right beside him. He stretched out his hand, touched his forehead—pain flared. He brought his fingertip to his eyes. It was covered in thick, sticky blood.

He was bleeding?

Clark's breathing grew frantic. He felt an emotion he'd never known before—perhaps fear. This was the first time in his life he'd been wounded, the first time he'd bled.

Blurred vision from blood, through the pair of leather shoes, Clark saw Lex lying on the floor. The blood on his nape had dried into black scabs.

The ever-present stench of blood reminded Clark: ordinary people hurt when they bleed.

But then, the man in the long suit walked to Lex's side, knelt, and poked Lex's arm with his finger, one tap at a time.

Lex's body was frail. After being knocked out, he didn't wake quickly. He showed no reaction. But the clown-faced madman chuckled to himself:

"Oh, look at this poor thing—Lex Luthor, abused for years by his father, left with scars all over…"

The Joker pulled up Lex's shirt from the back. Clark's eyes widened—he saw a dense pattern of wounds, new layered over old, clearly not from a single day.

Clark slammed his fist against the floor, struggling to rise—but the green stone was too close. His upper body barely lifted before he crashed back down.

"How hard he worked for revenge. Waited so long—finally got his chance to kill that sick bastard, to avenge his mother and himself…"

"He succeeded… succeeded!" The Joker puckered his lips, nodded as if approving—but then burst into laughter again, and said:

"But he's a clumsy, outdated playwright. Nobody likes this kind of revenge story. People want every performance to end with a funny twist!"

The Joker stood unsteadily, looking down at Clark: "He can't do it? I'll help him."

"Now, this scene has a funny enough ending…"

"Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!"

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