Chapter 661

On Santa Monica Beach in Los Angeles, under a sun umbrella, Shiler picked up a coconut, took a sip of its juice, then shook his head and said: "This coconut isn't even as good as the ones on the island..."

"These are all fast-growing commercial coconut trees, not even native to Los Angeles—of course the taste won't be good," Hal said, lying on a lounge chair with a coconut in his arms.

Lying on the sand, feeling the sea breeze and watching the waves was indeed relaxing, but after just a short while, Shiler stood up and said: "An old friend invited me to dinner—want to come?"

"No, I'm waiting for tonight's beach party—Los Angeles beach parties are famous. Aren't you going to wait?"

"I have no interest in those noisy pop songs." With that, Shiler stood and turned away. After finishing the coconut, he tossed it into a trash bin, then drove to a family-style seafood restaurant in Santa Monica.

After entering the restaurant, he gave his reservation number; the server warmly led him to his seat. He waited a short while before another figure walked in.

Clark set down his backpack and sat across from him. "Professor, sorry I'm late."

"No problem. Order." Shiler waved to the server, got the menu, and the two ordered several Los Angeles-style seafood dishes.

"I'm sorry I disturbed your vacation, Professor. I shouldn't have come—but I'm really troubled... Well, if you don't want to listen, it's fine. Just pretend I'm here on vacation." Clark looked around the restaurant; its decor had a distinct West Coast flavor—he'd never seen anything like it.

When the dishes arrived, he was drawn in by their rich aroma. Clark sniffed the air, saw Shiler pick up his knife and fork, then picked up his own utensils to begin eating.

"You coming to me is surprising. Shouldn't you be in track team training right now? Don't you need to practice?" Shiler peeled a shrimp with his fork, eating as he spoke.

"I was training, but then a strange group showed up. They said they wanted me to solve a crisis—to save America." Clark sighed, his face heavy with worry. "I thought they were frauds, so I angrily kicked them out—only to find out they were really the CIA."

"I felt bad for hurting them the first time, so when they invited me to dinner, I agreed. They booked a fancy restaurant—I was completely flustered. That was the most painful meal I've ever eaten..." Clark's eyes were full of turmoil; every emotion was written plainly on his face.

Shiler had to admit—he loved patients like this. He didn't need to say a word, didn't even need to ask. Clark would just spill everything, laying bare his entire inner journey.

"Over dinner, they mentioned the massacre in that Mexican village..." At the mention, Clark's anger intensified. "I read the reports. When I saw those photos, I was furious. I couldn't understand how anyone could be so cruel."

"I also felt deep sympathy for the slaughtered villagers—I wanted to help them. The CIA told me they'd found the killers, but because they were too cunning, the CIA couldn't stop them..." Clark's expression grew conflicted again, as if he thought the CIA's story was absurd.

"They said only I could handle those evil executioners. They wanted me to go to Mexico—to save the villagers who might still be killed, and to save Mexico and America too..."

Clark sighed deeply. "Batman told me they were full of nonsense. He said the CIA agents had no logic, couldn't even make up a decent lie—but..."

Clark looked dejected, mechanically repeating the motion of cutting his food. "Fine. I know I'm not as smart as Batman. But when they told me this, I cared more about the innocent villagers."

"I know they're trying to use my power—maybe even for evil ends. I know the wisest choice is to ignore them completely. But I just feel... if I don't act, I'll seem cold and heartless." Clark had lost all appetite. He set down his utensils, staring at the seafood feast before him with no hunger—though just minutes ago, he'd been starving.

Shiler watched Clark. He felt Clark's unusually high moral standard wasn't just from upbringing—it was tied to his nature too.

He wanted to help everyone he could. If he failed, he blamed himself. But even Superman only had twenty-four hours. He wasn't omniscient or omnipotent—there would always be those he couldn't reach.

Those he couldn't help didn't even know Superman existed, so they wouldn't resent him. But Clark constantly imagined: if he hadn't helped them, they'd suffer even greater tragedies because of his oversight.

This mindset was a form of paranoid delusion: overestimating the consequences of possible future anxieties, then prematurely burdening himself with the imagined harm.

Human mental strength can't bear both present and future anxiety simultaneously. Clark was trapped in this state. Even if he knew the CIA had malicious intent, the thought that more villagers might die if he didn't act filled him with unbearable pain.

"So, do you want to go?" Shiler asked.

"My reason tells me it's probably not what they say—they're using me, so I shouldn't go." Clark frowned, his face twisted in pain. His reason and emotion were tangled into a knot—he couldn't decide what to do.

"You're uncertain about too many things. You don't know if their story is true, you don't know the villagers' condition, you don't know what's really happening on that continent, you don't know what you'll see if you go..." Shiler tapped his fork lightly against the plate, drawing Clark's attention, then pointed to a roasted fish before him.

"What do you think of this dish?"

"I think... hmm, it's okay. The fish seems fresh, but I don't like this preparation—too much chili." Clark answered absently, confused why Shiler was asking this.

"You saw this dish brought to you. You saw its color, smelled its aroma, tasted its flavor. Based on these facts, you made a judgment. Did you feel conflicted during that process?"

Clark thought carefully, then shook his head. "No. It's simple. It's just a dish."

"What you're doing now is like never seeing this dish, never smelling it, never tasting it. You've done nothing—just sat there, suffering because you can't make a judgment without evidence." Shiler speared a piece of roasted fish, held it up, and said:

"But the truth is: if you haven't tasted it, you can't judge it. Even God can't judge something he's never seen, heard, or tried, can he?" Shiler looked at Clark.

"So I should go, see, hear, try? But even after gathering those facts, will my judgment necessarily be right?"

"That's another question. Facts give you confidence in your judgment. If, after gathering all facts, you still lack confidence, perhaps your mindset is flawed. What do you think?"

Clark thought again, then reached out. "If an ordinary person makes a wrong judgment, he might ruin a job or cause chaos—worst case, go to jail."

"But if I make a wrong judgment, I could kill many people—even destroy a nation. Maybe... maybe even the whole Earth. I don't know. I can't even imagine..." Clark clenched his lips. His expression remained troubled, hovering on the edge of anxiety.

"You clearly understand the gap between your power and ordinary humans. You feel like an outsider, trying to help others to belong in human society—but you fear the terrible consequences of failure, so you dare not judge at all..."

Shiler spoke as if to himself. Clark's problem was complicated. A lion living among ants couldn't solve such issues through simple psychological therapy, given the difference in their physical existence.

"The only advice I can give you is this: whether or not you can make an accurate judgment after gathering facts, gather them first. Seeing is believing. Maybe once you've seen it, you'll think differently." Shiler set down his knife and fork, wiped his mouth.

Clark sat still, took a deep breath. He was good at listening to advice. Since Shiler said this, he decided—he'd go to Mexico first. For him, it was just a short flight.

The Mexican government and the CIA had already tried using air power to hunt down the group troubling them.

But their leader, somehow guided by someone, had taken his underground operations literally—underground.

As mentioned before, the Sinaloa cartel boss Guadalupe had angered Congress and the CIA with a brutal agent-killing case. His entire organization was crushed. Today, the Guadalupe cartel was a spent force, on the verge of collapse.

Now, another notorious drug lord was rising: "El Chapo" Guzmán. His name dwarfed Guadalupe's. He was, in fact, a former member who had split from the Guadalupe cartel.

With Guadalupe's power gone, a new organization was emerging. Guzmán's dominance came not just from his wit and cunning, but from his clear thinking.

His drug trafficking method differed from all others—he avoided sea routes. He used land.

Many knew sea trafficking was profitable but risky. If intercepted, the entire shipment could sink instantly.

Mexican drugs weren't packed tightly. If dumped into the ocean, they couldn't be recovered—meaning the whole shipment was lost.

During the War on Drugs, the CIA and U. . Navy exploited this: whenever they caught a drug boat, whether they killed anyone didn't matter—the cargo was always dumped into the sea.

After several such incidents, even the largest cartels couldn't sustain losses. Guadalupe's collapse was partly economic.

Guzmán abandoned sea transport entirely and switched to land. But land customs weren't easy to bypass. Body smuggling was inefficient for bulk shipments. Bribing customs officials required massive funds and wasn't cost-effective.

Guzmán's new method? Digging tunnels.

In distant Eastern nations, this wasn't new. But in South America, using underground tunnels for drug trafficking was still novel.

Guzmán dug a tunnel under Santiago to smuggle massive quantities into the U. . a verified fact. After his arrest, he escaped the same way: his men dug a tunnel straight into the prison and freed him.

This literal mole had once tormented the U. . government. Tunnels required heavy upfront investment and slow returns, but once built, they were nearly impossible to counter.

Of course, in early 1989, El Chapo hadn't yet begun his rise. The Santiago tunnel wasn't finished. But in every agricultural nation, cellars were essential storage tools. Farmers' ingenuity was formidable—this was how the underground warfare tactics had originally developed.

Oliver hadn't expected his movement to progress so smoothly. At first, he himself was confused—only driven by guilt, wanting to compensate farmers harmed by Queen Enterprises' drug trade.

At first, his Spanish was terrible. He communicated with broken English and gestures. But Oliver was clever—he learned languages quickly. He mastered only the most essential phrases, then conveyed them to the farmers he knew.

Unexpectedly, the farmers of Sinaloa State were furious. When Oliver first said, "Violence is the only way," it was like a long-suppressed emotion exploded. They began shouting in Spanish, then joined the movement.

Later, Oliver learned this was tied to recent Mexican government policies and local conditions.

Before this, Mexico had capital controls—foreign investment couldn't enter freely. But in 1989, this year, Mexico lifted capital controls. Massive foreign capital flooded in, including many short-term speculative investments.

Anyone with basic economic knowledge knew foreign capital could offset current account deficits and raise currency value. But once currency value rose, Mexico's export competitiveness weakened.

With foreign capital, the Mexican government underestimated the risks of current account deficits, leading to larger deficits, requiring even more foreign capital, further weakening export competitiveness.

Once the current account deficit reached a certain percentage of GDP, it triggered catastrophic collapse. History proved this: in 1994, Mexico's economic crisis swept the globe.

When capital controls were lifted, the first sector hit was agriculture—the nation's backbone. Foreign capital didn't just invest in existing industries; its first demand was land. But farmers lived off land.

Worse, the Mexican government lacked the capacity to regulate all foreign capital. The first farmer Oliver met had lost his land without his knowledge. The factory built on it was a shell—never opened, never hired anyone. He and his wife became unemployed.

He tried elsewhere—same situation. Everywhere, displaced farmers. Even workers with formal jobs faced similar fates: local businesses were squeezed out, but foreign firms offered no better jobs.

Oliver realized these people hadn't read theory—but through their own suffering, they'd learned one truth: under these conditions, violence was the only way.

Oliver's theories and superior intellect filled their final gap. Thus, Mexico's peasant and worker movement erupted.

But Oliver wasn't Green Arrow yet. He'd only spent months on the island, not years. His martial skills weren't refined. Though he used underground tunnels and local knowledge to win tactical victories, things soon turned difficult.

The U. . government, Mexican government, and drug lords united to crush them. Lack of firepower was the biggest problem. Oliver had nearly worn out those few books—but his theories told him rigid application led nowhere. He had to find his own path.

Then, Clark arrived—here to gather facts.

As always: Clark wasn't stupid. He was smarter than anyone on Earth.

He only needed to observe carefully from above—each person's life—and he could conclude: the peasants' and workers' resistance was normal, justified. Anyone in this environment should resist.

After reaching this conclusion, Clark wanted to help. But he knew killing all drug lords wouldn't solve the problem. He began searching for a better method—then discovered the strange activity and the underground organization.

When Oliver and Clark met, it was like two old friends meeting. Then they asked each other: "You're here because of Shiler?" "Me too." What else was there to say? Get to work.

Clark's arrival solved their most critical weakness: flight, x-ray vision, super strength, heat vision—even as a scout, he held overwhelming advantage.

The situation instantly reversed. Oliver's side surged forward. More locals, deeply harmed, joined. The movement grew hotter, louder.

Predictably, Congress panicked.

"What? Withdraw all surveillance personnel and deploy them all to Mexico?? Is Congress insane???" Kayla shouted into the phone. "There are over three hundred critical surveillance targets on the East Coast. If we pull them all, what happens to our intelligence?"

"Intelligence? Without Mexico, the next target is America. Without America, what use is intelligence?" The voice on the other end was cold. "We've activated the highest-level emergency protocol. Even personnel in Moscow have been recalled. Do you think Metropolis is more important than Moscow?"

"Personnel recalled from Moscow??!"

Kayla couldn't believe it. "What about the upcoming congress and inauguration? Don't we need surveillance?"

"The big picture is settled." The voice on the other end uttered a few emotionless words. "We've completed all our work. If not for Mexico's unexpected turn, the war would already be over."

Kayla took a deep breath. "... 'll arrange it immediately."

She hung up, closed her eyes, murmured: "The big picture is settled... Yes. The big picture is settled."

"The big picture is settled?"

Another voice, smiling, was carried away by the West Coast wind, fading slowly into nothing.

On May 25, 1989, the First Plenary Session of the Soviet Union convened. Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev was elected Chairman of the Supreme Soviet.

On May 26, 1989, gunshots rang out in the Kremlin. Gorbachev was assassinated, shot in the head, killed instantly.