Chapter 207: Unexpected Yet Predictable Turn

Hollywood gossip, just idle chit-chat with old Gary. Henry had no intention of returning to that world of fame and fortune, content to remain an inconspicuous background figure.

The reason was simple: he'd experienced it, and found it neither fun nor worthwhile. So he didn't want to play anymore. But no one ever said being a background actor had to be one's lifelong vocation, to be pursued until death.

What to do in the future? He'd think about that later. Right now, Henry just wanted to build a household cleaning robot capable of basic cleaning and maintenance tasks.

Humanoid robots were the least considered option—they were the least practical. Just bipedal locomotion involved too many complex variables, not to mention arm movements and overall coordination issues.

A robot with tracks below and a humanoid upper body was acceptable. Not only did it offer stable mobility, but adding new functions simply meant attaching the appropriate robotic arm.

But its appearance was less than appealing. If one sought an industrial aesthetic with practicality as the priority, this design was the most suitable and easiest to build.

Yet if too many functions were crammed in, with too many arms added, it might end up looking like an industrial Cthulhu.

Still, Henry wanted to put some effort into its appearance and didn't plan to overload it with every feature at once. His plan was to design the robot as a core unit that could freely swap various functional modules.

Manufacturing these components separately and assembling them only when needed had the advantage of avoiding the need to integrate all functions at once, while also reserving space for future upgrades.

Moreover, upgrading a single cleaning module or the core itself required no full rebuild of the entire cleaning robot system—as long as the connectors were standardized.

The downside was… well, if you didn't bring spare functional modules when going out, its utility diminished. This downside assumed the core robot would be taken outside for use.

But Henry just wanted a small device to watch over his home; this downside wasn't a major concern.

He didn't even need to draw blueprints. As soon as the idea formed in his mind, he had a clear mental blueprint. He didn't need to design the exact shape himself—he could simply borrow templates from sci-fi works he'd seen.

The most fitting model was the core robot series from Star Wars, particularly the space-faring robots led by R2-D2.

But Henry didn't want a mobile trash can in his house, so he decided to build BB-8—the spherical robot that hadn't yet appeared in any film in this world.

Its internal design wasn't overly sci-fi; it originated from a toy company in the early 21st century, partially owned by Disney.

Henry's goal was to add his own required functions to this base, transforming the simple toy into a practical, multi-functional robot core.

He'd given serious thought to developing his super-brain. Right now, if he tried to hand-build a spaceship capable of interstellar flight and space-jumping, he didn't even know where to begin with the theoretical foundations.

So modifying known technologies to suit his own needs was far more feasible.

Thinking of this, Henry recalled the massive battle months ago, when the X-Men dragged him into it. He should've brought back an alien spaceship. Maybe now was a good time to go look for his escape pod—the one he'd landed on Earth in.

But where to hide such things? He'd have to think more about that…

Then there was another question he'd never dared to verify: Did a lonely fortress exist in the Arctic, belonging to him?

Was he a Kryptonian wearing Superman's template, backed by some Kryptonian family? Or was he just an ordinary cosmic orphan?

Because he retained memories from before his transmigration, his search for his origin wasn't so much about struggling to define himself as alien or human—it was pure curiosity, a spectator's amusement at this bizarre life.

In short, he observed this absurd life from a third-person perspective.

His starting point was already a catastrophic one. If he didn't even get a beginner's treasure chest, he'd be triple-cursed—a Kryptonian orphan no one wanted.

So, should he take time to visit the Arctic? Or maybe the Antarctic? No rule said a lonely fortress had to be in the north. What about underwater?

After all, he hadn't landed in Kansas—he landed in Siberia. The lonely fortress could just as easily be misplaced in the wrong pole.

But none of this was urgent. If such a place existed, it wouldn't vanish because he delayed a few days. If it didn't exist, rushing out now would be just as fruitless.

Henry refocused on what he could do right now: building his own household robot.

First, he needed to head to a junkyard. As the world's top automobile nation, America's used-car market and junkyards were a defining feature.

But Henry wasn't going there to find usable parts—he was looking for raw materials.

Any valuable components from vehicles entering junkyards had long since been removed and sold. What remained might be repairable, but wasn't necessarily useful to Henry.

He'd reshape everything anyway using heat rays and manual labor, so he didn't care whether the parts were broken—he only took suitable alloy materials. Doing alloy processing in his rented apartment was too troublesome.

Besides, he had no accumulated knowledge in materials science. Even if he got a steel ingot, he wouldn't know what additives to mix to meet his needs. By the car part's location, he could estimate its material strength.

So Henry avoided parts that looked repairable. Instead, he picked the truly unwanted scraps—and bought them by the pound… true scrap-metal prices!

But today, he hadn't even walked far before reaching his parked car when he was stopped.

A black two-door GMC Yukon, newly released last year, was a stylish and practical SUV.

This brand-new vehicle sat by the roadside. Two men in black suits stepped out and flashed their credentials right before Henry. "FBI. You're Mr. Henry Brown, correct? Please cooperate with our investigation."

At that moment, a line of poetry surfaced unbidden in Henry's mind: Half a lifetime of quiet seclusion ends today; one step into the Jianghu, endless is the path.

This day was bound to come. Unless he'd hidden himself away in some Alaskan backwater, never intending to leave.

Henry asked: "Can I ask what this is about? Or do you have an arrest warrant?"

One of the men in black gave him a sharp look. "Arrest warrant? What have you done that requires our arrest?"

The other said: "Don't worry, kid. Just come with us. Nothing bad will happen."

"What if I refuse?"

"Then you'll be in trouble." The two men, having tucked away their FBI badges, spoke with absolute certainty.

(End of Chapter)