Chapter 452: The Scream Poem (Part 2)

In an endless blizzard, a massive island rose into the sky, the surrounding snowstorms dancing like spirits celebrating a god's descent, while howling winds sang a hymn to this awesome power.

Beneath this vast island, a tiny figure lifted one hand to hold up the entire structure, flying through the blizzard.

His face was pale to the extreme, yet his expression remained resolute; he did not turn back, did not look at the enormous extraterrestrial meteor buried beneath the mayor's mansion, nearly covering the entire estate.

Just moments ago, when he had lifted the entire mansion-island, that immense radiation had inflicted severe damage upon him again, but Clark gritted his teeth and continued flying forward, bearing the massive estate through the storm.

The blizzard blurred his vision, drowned his voice, and even began to cloud his thoughts.

All he saw was white—earth and sky alike.

No direction, no purpose, no hope—Clark knew only one thing: he must fly farther, even farther, as far away from the lethal radiation as possible, and place this estate somewhere safe.

This goal echoed endlessly in Clark's mind; he no longer knew what was sustaining him to do it.

He was not foolish—he knew everything that had just happened in the estate revealed the most vile side of these so-called elites.

They cared nothing for truth or justice; like mere ants barely holding together, they looked down upon all life from above in this flourishing society built by ordinary people, yet in both ability and character, they were far inferior to the hardworking masses.

They believed themselves above society's rules, yet they knelt before raw power faster than the howling wind outside the window; whether in this absurd play or this intricate ant-hill society, they had become too deeply immersed in their roles.

He did not know how long it had been—perhaps a century—when the strength sapped by kryptonite finally drained away entirely.

He struggled to maintain stability, but in the final descent, he could no longer properly control the estate's center of gravity; when it touched ground, one corner struck first, then crashed with a thunderous "boom" into the earth.

156n.

Merely the shock of this landing triggered massive changes throughout the estate.

Ordinary people were incredibly fragile; one moment they marveled at divine power, the next, disaster struck.

The unbalanced estate jolted violently, then swayed left and right, becoming a centrifuge.

Guests in the guest rooms were thrown into the air, then slammed onto the floor, some bouncing off walls—everyone suffered head wounds and bleeding.

The only advantage of this landing over an earthquake or plane crash was its brevity; those in wrong postures died quickly.

Nearly everyone in the three-story building was injured in this unstable descent; the least severe were cuts on foreheads or arms.

Most suffered minor fractures; deaths were few—about five or six—mostly elderly, unable to withstand the violent impact.

Clark, having expended his last ounce of strength, collapsed onto the ground, feeling snowflakes strike his face in the freezing snow.

Clark felt his body growing colder, yet he sighed in relief—he believed he had saved everyone in the estate.

Without kryptonite, his strength returned swiftly; within moments, he felt he could stand—but just as he tried, he saw a figure approaching through the endless blizzard.

He wore a suit, had green hair, and wore clown makeup—but he was not the clown from the banquet hall; his face felt familiar to Clark, and in an instant, Clark cried out: "Professor Shiler…"

Before his eyes rose the kryptonite, raised high and brought down again.

When Clark awoke again, he found himself back in the banquet hall, bound once more, the kryptonite firmly fastened to his chest—clearly, this time he could not escape.

Batman, watching from the surveillance room, saw the true face of the clown's accomplice—the other clown.

Batman narrowed his eyes, wearing his most habitual look of suspicion; he lowered his head, staring at the Batman doll he had thrown on the floor, lost in deep thought.

But the farce in the banquet hall was far from over; the tall-suited clown approached Clark, crouched down, toyed with the button, and spoke to Clark, face streaked with blood:

"Do you think I'd be so bored as to let a group of fools execute two other fools?"

"My God! This is the worst script in the world—boring, dull, utterly ignored…"

"If I were only this good, I'd starve to death—but Jack is the greatest comedian on Earth!"

"Now… the real performance begins…"

As he spoke, he grinned madly at Clark—when suddenly, a woman with disheveled hair burst from a guest room, rushing to the courtyard railing and screaming wildly:

"Kill him! Kill that damned monster!"

She swept back her hair, revealing a massive wound stretching from one cheek to her neck—like a cut from colliding with something during the landing.

Aside from this wound, she was stunningly beautiful, with a sensual figure, her gown glittering—but the scar and blood on her chest made her look like a demon.

"He ruined my face! Destroyed my entire acting career! I had a movie to shoot this fall—if I breach the contract, I'll be bankrupt!"

"No!"

"

"Kill him! He's a monster! Waaahhh…"

The woman's shrill screams and sobs echoed through the estate—she was clearly on the verge of madness.

From another room, a politician with a cane emerged, face covered in blood, one arm bent at a grotesque angle; he looked at the clown and said:

"It's not over! Not over… I'm voting for Clark!"

"He moved the entire mayor's mansion of Metropolis—how do we explain this to the public? How do I face the state legislature's interrogation?! My career is ruined!"

"Are you insane?!" Clark exclaimed. "I was saving you! I was saving everyone in this estate…"

But more people emerged—each wounded, drenched in blood, shouting: "You monster!"

One elderly man, like a host, stood and pointed at Clark: "You didn't want to save us—you wanted to kill us!"

He pointed his arm at the clown: "We did as he said—we voted. At that moment, we were safe! But you—you caused this catastrophe, and you killed Sunda…"

A corpse was dragged from a guest room; a woman knelt over it, weeping bitterly—likely the dead woman's wife.

"You didn't want to die—you feared we'd vote for you, so you created this chaos!"

"If you couldn't guarantee our safety, why do any of this?!"

"You're not human—you're a monster. Only a monster could do this. You never cared for us!"

"My arm hurts so much—someone help me, God…"

"My face is ruined—how will I host shows again? You've doomed us all…"

"Even cancer would be better—I could afford to cure cancer. Now, I'm permanently disabled!"

"You're not human—you're a monster! A madman!"

Everyone wailed, dragging their wounded limbs out of the rooms, into the courtyard corridor, accusing the unconscious Clark lying in the center of the banquet hall.

Clark felt surrounded by a blizzard of wind and snow—those screams, wails, accusations, and curses cut deeper than icy flakes, piercing his bones, draining all strength and will to resist.

Had he done wrong? Clark wondered. Perhaps he had.

That terrible madman—the one who understood the human heart best—the clown—had given everyone hope, made them believe that if they voted as he instructed, only one person would die today: either Clark or Lex.

This made all Clark's efforts and sacrifices appear selfish—acts of self-preservation at the cost of everyone else's safety.

Only now did Clark realize: this was all a conspiracy. The madman had never intended anything but to torment him.

From forcing him to face Lionel's corpse, to misleading him into defeating Lex, then revealing the truth to induce guilt, to staging the so-called vote—perhaps even the kryptonite he had easily broken free from was part of the plan.

The clown's entire scheme was to cast Clark into the coldest blizzard on Earth, to make him understand: nothing is colder, nothing more biting than the wind of confronting human nature.

Suddenly, from somewhere, a scream echoed through the empty estate:

"Vote! I vote! I vote for Clark! Kill him!"

"Mr. Clown, exercise your power! My vote gives you power! Kill him!"

That scream jolted everyone—they turned to the bound, utterly weakened Clark, then to the two clowns holding weapons.

They suddenly realized: the voting game was not over. On the contrary, the performance had just begun.

When one person moved, all began struggling back to their rooms—even with broken arms, bleeding bodies, and pain surrounding them—they found ways to press the button.

At this moment, the sole spectator of this performance watched everything from the surveillance room.

As blue light crept over Batman's eyes, only endless black tide remained.