DC Universe.
Leader LV1 [1/10]
Following the quiet appearance of a new ordinary profession on his personal panel, Ian pulled his head away from The Book of Genesis by Ian. His expression was joyful, he had personally verified it, so there was no need to consult Quora or ask the Almighty God, the OAA.
This super-flatterer demon book truly possessed the power of creation. Golden light flowed through the pages like a living thing, upon which lines of patterns and symbols that belonged to no known script had already appeared.
"Perhaps I should call it Ian Script," Ian mused. He knew that angels had an angelic language and demons had a demonic language, so naturally, he should have his own language.
Mages across all worlds should study Ian Script.
After all, Ian had indeed created his own unique magic system.
He had even directly laid the cornerstone of his system moments ago, but due to his insufficient magic power, this newly born source of magic only had enough energy for trial magic creation.
Four-Dimensional Appendix Modification Technique
No matter how absurd the name of this spell was, anyone who truly understood magic would realize how cool it was to transform a useless appendix into a practical wallet.
"And it's very practical," Ian knew the safest place was inside his own body. What better anti-theft measure existed than storing all your wealth within yourself?
He had to remember that not everyone in this world had a Fortress of Solitude like he did.
Ian needed to consider his future "followers." He didn't want people to think he was some high-and-mighty Master Ian, detached from reality with an air of, "Why don't they eat meat?"
Getting closer to the masses.
Considering the suffering of mages.
That was the true Master Ian.
"I believe my followers will feel my goodwill," Ian thought highly of himself. He already possessed the virtues expected of a superior, his mind full of creative ideas focused on the "people's" well-being.
However, those ideas could not yet be implemented.
How to describe this feeling? It was like a newly enthroned emperor with grand ambitions—the lack of magic was the most significant factor restricting his efforts.
"Darn it, my super-brain is clearly incubating so many miraculous spells," Ian felt as miserable as if his brain had been sucked dry through a straw.
The top of his skull felt as parched as a sponge baked in the sun for three days.
Previously, he had the sensation of his brain being waterlogged with magic, now it was the hollow feeling of brain dehydration. This was likely a sign of excessive magic consumption.
The use of the demon book was heavily reliant on magic.
No wonder the previous Prince of Hell acted like a weakling.
"A mature magic book should know to provide its owner with magic," Ian's PUA tactics were everywhere, but the book on the desk only sprouted a tiny mouth on its cover.
It made a pitiful, whimpering sound.
"Just crying, you won't get to eat three demons in this lifetime," Ian sighed helplessly. Just then, the demon head stored in the cabinet seemed to sense a keyword and opened its eyes.
"If it won't eat, I will."
This guy had already tasted the pleasure of getting something for nothing.
True degradation was no more than this.
"Fine, just wait. Tonight, I'll use my poo to make you some egg tarts... Wait, you think I'm rewarding you?" Ian snatched up a black cloth and immediately covered the demon's expectant face.
He almost forgot.
Dogs were not the only animals in biology with "coprophagia."
Cows were too.
"It seems I'm the only normal person in this room," Ian was a bit disappointed, but he could only take a long-term approach. Accumulating magic was not something that could be done overnight.
Fortunately, he had already anchored himself as a new form of capitalist.
How much magic Ian possessed.
Depended entirely on how hard his followers worked.
The expansion of the Church of Ian would undoubtedly be rapid. This was beyond question, as he had just created his own magic system and already had a guinea pig who couldn't wait to become his follower.
This was proof of a promising future.
"I wonder who this lucky person is, with such sharp investment vision," Ian had his suspicions, but he wouldn't say them, because not saying meant he would never be wrong.
The flexible application of equations and inequalities was this simple and unpretentious.
[You are creating, Author EXP +1]
[You are creating, Author EXP +1]
[You are creating, Author EXP +1]
...
Magic was not so much depleted as its vitality was used up, and it needed time to recover. So, using this time, Ian began simultaneous creation of literature and comics.
His two hands worked independently, one drawing comics and the other writing a novel. This was the benefit of having a super-brain. Ian believed he would eventually gain the ability to use his hands and feet simultaneously.
At that time, he could simultaneously practice zither, chess, calligraphy, and painting. As for growing extra hands, that was out of the question, a normal person should only have two hands and two feet.
"So hungry."
Ian's creative inspiration and hunger coexisted. His stomach had long been rumbling loudly, but he knew he couldn't even bite his pen cap if he wanted to complete the profession change.
It was always right to be careful.
Ian believed in his willpower.
But he didn't trust his craving mouth. Being too respectful of every part of the body's desires was the consequence of pampering. Ian desperately distracted himself with writing and drawing.
The pen was literally smoking from being wielded.
Just as he was absorbed in creation,
"Ding ding ding~"
Ian's phone rang.
"Hello, this is Ian."
Ian simultaneously stopped writing for a break. He picked up the phone. The call had no caller ID, but he remembered it was his father's number. Perhaps Batman had shared the phone's information with his dad.
"Ian, remember to go to your psychologist appointment at three o'clock sharp this afternoon. For the sake of your studies, Dr. Hannibal specially carved out an hour on his weekend for you."
Clark's voice came through the phone. The background was the typical noise of a newspaper office, with keyboard clatter and paper rustling.
It sounded very busy.
"What about the patient who was supposed to be treated on the weekend?" Ian clamped the phone to his ear. He remembered his psychologist always had a packed schedule.
"Apparently, they fell in love and no longer need to see a psychologist," Clark was working while on the phone, likely cheating a bit using his super-speed.
Hearing this, Ian's eyes narrowed.
"Did that patient fall in love with Star Anise or Fennel?" Ian continued to probe his father, but Clark only seemed confused by his words.
"What are you talking about?"
Clark was more willing to suspect his hearing or the phone was malfunctioning than to doubt Dr. Hannibal. This reaction genuinely surprised Ian.
"Nothing, I just think Dr. Hannibal has the aura of someone who cooks very well," Ian replied thoughtfully. He didn't believe Clark hadn't conducted a background check on Hannibal.
Therefore, this situation must conceal something strange.
As for telling his dad directly?
What a joke.
In the superhero competition, even between father and son, there was rivalry. The glory belonged to Master Ian, and tonight, he wanted to see Ancestor Man make the headlines.
Clark didn't notice Ian's little scheme.
"Anyway, remember to go."
Clark continued, with the sound of a printer breaking in the background, "Have Jordan accompany you. I have to go interview a real estate mogul this afternoon."
"I'll fix your little car when I get back tonight—don't tell your mom, she'll be back even later." He was instructing Ian while fixing the printer.
"Mom?" Ian cocked his ear to listen to the sounds from the next room. He understood and didn't think his exhausted older brother would have the mind to accompany him to the doctor.
"Your mother is interviewing an astronaut. NASA seems to have found aliens, and she's quite excited," Clark said while apparently repairing the printer.
"..."
Ian opened his mouth.
He didn't quite understand why his mother was so interested in aliens.
They clearly had some of that species at home.
And more than one.
"Remember to come straight home after seeing the doctor. Don't wander around," Clark cautioned warily. Only after receiving Ian's firm assurance did he hang up.
"The person who gave the assurance was Ian, not my Ancestor persona," Ian grabbed his silk stocking. He checked the time and prepared to drive his car out and level up along the way.
It was twelve noon.
There was still quite a bit of time until three o'clock.
Metropolis was due for a new hero protector. Otherwise, if Clark was only in his forties, when would Ian get to become the new Sky of Metropolis?
Thirty-year-old crown princes were common.
But Ian, a preparatory superhero for twelve two-and-a-half-year periods, didn't want to be one at all.
He had a rebellious streak.
The kind that needed to rebel now!
"Perhaps the adoration of the public can also aid my growth," Ian was not having a rebellious phase. His rebellious streak only surfaced when there was profit to be made.
Leader LV1 [1/10]
The emergence of this new profession was primarily what gave Ian an idea. Who said people in the DC Universe had to be discriminated against and couldn't become followers of Master Ian?
Whatever the Marvel Universe had.
Ian would not allow the DC Universe to lack it! Even if Jesus came... Jesus had better not come. With his wings not yet fully grown, Ian didn't want to be branded a heterodox cult god.
He only wanted to find some excellent Pals to cultivate magic power for him. He was certainly not wrong, but some worldly viewpoints were always influenced by various factors.
For instance.
Ian looked at his demon collection and the demon book.
"It's all your fault for making me look like a cult god," Ian, under the slightly bewildered gaze of the demon head and the demon book, once again demonstrated his exceptionally skilled scapegoating technique.
"Aren't you a cult..."
Just as the demon head opened its mouth, about to say more.
"Ding dong~"
The doorbell rang downstairs.
Ian chose to go downstairs and open the door himself, not wanting to disturb Jordan.
He was eager, hoping it was a super-villain coming to kidnap a child, but he found a man in a high-end suit outside. Men like this usually wouldn't reveal their true nature unless you used a demon to tempt them.
"Who are you looking for?"
Ian slightly regretted not hanging the demon head on his butt.
"Oh, is someone actually home? I thought everyone was out," outside stood a man in a sharp suit, hair meticulously combed, with a confident smile hanging on the corner of his mouth.
"Richard Castle."
The man introduced himself, giving a flirty wink, "I'm a best-selling mystery novelist, a regular on the New York Times bestseller list, hailed as one of the most charming men of our time."
"If you're a stylish boy, then you must have read my work." Castle held a bunch of items—detective tools that looked impressive but were mostly useless.
"Oh, it's you, that idiot on the plane..." Ian's upbringing made him swallow the sound of sudden realization, "So it's the famous best-selling author!"
He switched to a flattering tone.
"That's right, it's me. Want an autograph?"
Castle genuinely thought Ian was a fan.
He clearly hadn't recognized Ian as the boy who drove the race car. Because Ian's Hellcat was covered in a blanket, the author hadn't had a chance to explore Ian's yard out of curiosity.
"No, thank you."
Ian wasn't interested in mystery novels, and since even "Sherlock Holmes" had become his follower, how could he lower himself to collect autographs from others?
That would be disrespectful to his follower!
Wait.
He seemed to have secretly voiced that one guess he swore he'd never speak. He was still not cautious enough. Fortunately, no one could hear his inner thoughts.
Ian thankfully patted his chest of steel.
Castle gave him a strange look but didn't comment. He pulled a letter from his suit, "I followed a few scattered hints and found my way here."
"Someone hoped I could meet a certain mysterious author," Castle looked at Ian, "I suspect the person who stole the publicity resources for my new book is your... father."
His gaze shifted towards the inner room behind Ian.
"I see, you're a student sent by Mr. Wayne to study—you must have cost him a lot of money," Ian suddenly understood, realizing the person who came was a boastful, novice author.
He himself often boasted.
He understood the feeling.
Ian gave him a look that saw through everything.
Castle rubbed his nose.
He felt Ian's gaze was making him feel like he was basking in the sun.
"Um, your colored contacts are very nice... Actually, I think he sent me to mentor an author. Was I wrong? Not your father, but your mother?"
Castle first stared at Ian's eyes for a moment, then tactfully corrected Ian's incorrect statement. He didn't want to get angry over a child's misunderstanding.
Castle was a mystery novelist.
After eliminating several possibilities, he understood that the person in front of him was the author someone wanted him to mentor and guide. A teenager certainly needed a sufficiently excellent mentor.
Castle was narcissistic in his thoughts.
However.
"That's just what he wants you to think. You don't understand Mr. Wayne's wisdom." Ian ushered Castle into the house and poured him a glass of stale tea from last night.
He always had good manners.
"Uh... The Earth Exploration Publishing House is indeed a subsidiary of the Wayne Group... Wait, are you saying the person who hired me to come here is Bruce Wayne?"
"The Bruce Wayne everyone knows? Is he a relative of your family!?" Castle, who had taken a sip of the tea, seemed to realize this only now, his eyes widening.
Seeing Ian nod.
He felt like his publicity resources would never be recovered in this lifetime.
"Not exactly a relative, but my father owes him some money, and he owes my father a few lives," Ian corrected Castle seriously. He sized up this writing apprentice sent by Bruce Wayne, wondering if there was a chance to recruit him into the Church of Ian.
Was there such a person in the DC Universe?
Ian wasn't sure.
"Isn't that closer than being relatives..." Castle, perhaps intelligent enough, figured out the relationship and immediately felt that this family was anything but simple.
Owed so many favors.
No wonder he was sent to mentor the family's child in writing.
"You like writing?"
Castle cautiously inquired.
"I don't just like writing, I'm very good at writing... Have something to eat," Ian enthusiastically started preparing lunch for Castle. He had to endure hunger, but he could make others full.
That was the breadth of Master Ian's vision.
"Don't be so polite."
Castle, who was sitting in the living room, quickly waved his hand.
"No, it's courtesy," Ian's voice came from the kitchen, accompanied by the clatter of pots and pans. He was directly boiling a large pot of water in the kitchen.
"Alright, thanks then. I haven't had lunch yet. Do you need any help?" Castle thought perhaps all Metropolis residents were this warm and hospitable.
He didn't want to refuse the child's kindness.
However.
"I'm a great cook. Trust me, I've read many cookbooks." Ian pushed Castle out of the kitchen and closed the door. Then, he began boiling all the ingredients his mother had stockpiled in the refrigerator that he disliked—namely, all the broccoli and that nefarious imported kangaroo meat—in one pot.
If Castle ate it all, Ian wouldn't have to. Ian's plan was sound. American stoves had very low heat, so Ian decided to let the family's cookware taste something good.
He looked back.
The boy's eyes erupted with golden light.
As the light surged out, Ian slightly reduced the beam's power. For some reason, the color didn't change, only the brightness decreased.
However, Castle outside the kitchen door still sensed something amiss.
"Did something catch fire?"
Castle saw an eerie golden light leaking through the kitchen door seam.
He felt a bit anxious.
The image of his own daughter insisting on cooking for him resurfaced.
"No, I'm making a special dish. It's normal for it to glow," Ian's calm answer was reasonable, but Castle grew even more uneasy.
His rich imagination led him to wonder if Ian was practicing alchemy inside.
"Damn it! I should have done a more thorough background check!" This was a world where supernatural phenomena truly existed, so Castle's suspicion that he had stumbled into the lair of some evil sorcerer was rational. After all, he was an author with a rich imagination and a long-standing interest in the supernatural.
"Actually, I'm not that hungry."
Castle wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
"I'm not a local here. I heard Metropolis has great signature dishes. I've seen quite a few on the [Gourmet Hunter] app."
"That's a new app just launched by the Wayne Group, I think you've heard of it... So, why don't we go out to eat? Or using the delivery function on the Gourmet Hunter app would be good too."
"The Wayne Group is integrating the nationwide food delivery industry. The delivery speed is really fast." Castle tried to use a slightly unnatural, even linguistically awkward, approach to stop Ian from cooking.
However.
His long speech only resulted in Ian's silence.
"..."
The golden light in the kitchen suddenly flickered violently twice.
No one spoke.
"Um, are you still there?"
Castle cautiously knocked on the door.
He suspected the boy had poisoned himself to death in the kitchen.
"I'm here, I've always been here~"
Ian's voice was calm, but on the other side of the door in the kitchen, his expression was gradually distorting, and he was stiff as if struck by lightning.
This all-too-familiar app.
The cunning Batman!
The despicable Bruce!
That man was indeed a qualified capitalist!
The kind that needed to be hung on a lamppost for an extra ten days when the time came!
"Is this the difference between a super-capitalist and a regular capitalist like me?" Ian understood. He felt like he was about to turn evil. Tonight, he would immediately post Batman on a gay dating website.
A thousand of them!
He would use New Tony-Sensei's black-tech box to lock Batman's information onto dating websites worldwide! The entire kitchen seemed permeated with Ian's deep resentment.
Castle outside the door was completely oblivious.
"Won't you really try the new delivery service?"
He was still trying to persuade Ian.
"The Wayne Company plagiarized a wise man's idea. I don't eat anything they recommend." Ian looked down at the dish, which had turned into a black, messy concoction due to his emotional fluctuation.
Wasting food was shameful.
This was no challenge for him.
After all, he *had* actually read cookbooks.
"The strategy for dealing with this situation is very simple..." Ian collected himself and performed a little trick, dumping a few boxes of curry cubes into the pot.
Thus.
The black delicacy was miraculously transformed.
It now looked perfectly reasonable.
"Click~"
The kitchen door opened.
"Please enjoy."
Ian, carrying the "delicacy," walked out, his demeanor restored to one of politeness. Looking at the food on the plate, Castle wasn't horrified but rather surprised.
"My goodness, that's the most authentic Indian curry I've ever seen!" He exclaimed, feeling guilty for doubting the boy's cooking. He hadn't expected the other party to be such an excellent chef.
Full of anticipation, Castle quickly grabbed a spoon and took a bite.
The next moment.
His joyful expression instantly froze.
His expression changed repeatedly. He tried hard to hold it in.
"Well, it certainly *looks* authentic."
The excellent author managed to use a truly excellent adjective.
"Thank you."
Ian stared at Castle.
"..."
Castle gripped the spoon, not daring to take another bite—as a multi-millionaire, he was genuinely afraid of dying right there, leaving his daughter and mother to inherit his wealth and enjoy a life of reckless spending in his stead.
Quick-wittedness kicked in.
"Gulp~"
Castle stared at the black substance on the plate, which was still faintly bubbling.
His Adam's apple bobbed up and down a few times. In that moment, the best-selling author suddenly felt that discussing literary creation was a safer choice than continuing this dangerous lunch.
"Uh, little guy, why don't we talk about your work? I'm very interested in the creations of young authors." Castle's transition wasn't too jarring.
After all, this was his original purpose for coming here.
Hearing this.
Ian was first taken aback.
"Of course, no problem. I'm always happy to share my work and, incidentally, mentor those who seek knowledge." Ian also needed someone to critique the manuscript he had just finished.
With that.
He rushed upstairs like a gust of wind, the wooden stairs creaking under his heavy steps.
"Phew~ I've escaped the fate of death." Castle let out a long sigh. He knew this was his chance, finally an opportunity to dispose of that terrible "cuisine."
"Where's the trash can?"
Castle quickly scanned the living room for the trash can. Just then, an orange cat, seemingly just waking up, crawled out from under the sofa and stretched on the rug.
"Hey, little guy," Castle showed a ingratiating smile, carefully picked up a piece of "curry" with his fork, and offered it to the orange cat, "Want to try some?"
He was trying to feed the dark cuisine to the family's cat.
The orange cat looked up.
A strange red light flashed in its cat eyes, like a warning light on a late-night highway.
"Hiss..."
Startled, Castle quickly retreated a few steps, his fingers trembling uncontrollably. The fork clattered onto the floor. He simply couldn't believe what he was seeing.
A cat.
With glowing eyes!
Just like Superman!
Just as Castle felt a chill down his spine and the cat's eyes grew redder, the sound of heavy footsteps came again. With Ian's descent, the red light in the cat's eyes quickly vanished.
It lay on the rug, licking its paws as if nothing had happened. However, the scene moments ago still left Castle feeling deeply unsettled.
"Your cat? It..." Castle saw Ian return to the living room. He bit his hand, trying to speak, but felt he would be labeled insane if he did.
Who would believe a cat's eyes could glow?
"My cat is very well-behaved. I took out a loan from its mother to buy it. We agreed it would come back in its next life to collect the debt," Ian placed a stack of manuscripts on the table.
He hadn't seen the cat mother when he found the kitten, but he still hoped the cat mother would be reincarnated and come knocking. That way, the Kents could raise another free kitten.
It had to be reincarnated first.
Otherwise, the old cat's lifespan was too short.
Low return on investment.
"No, that's not what I meant." Castle vigorously rubbed his eyes. When he looked at the orange cat again, its eyes had returned to the gentle amber color of an ordinary house cat.
The red light just now seemed only a hallucination.
"This is my work. Although Mr. Wayne screwed me over, I won't blame you for it," Ian didn't pay attention to the reaction of his older apprentice, Castle.
He spread the manuscript in front of the man. Then, he casually extended his foot toward the orange cat's belly and, with a technique many soccer players didn't possess, used his foot to lift the cat directly into his hands.
He proceeded to stroke it.
"..."
Seeing this, Castle could only suppress his startled and unsettled feelings. He forced himself to attribute what he had seen to having partied too much with the girl he met at the hotel last night. He did some mental conditioning, convincing himself, and then picked up the manuscript, adjusted his posture, and began to read seriously.
Castle was always serious about writing.
However, as he read deeper, his expression grew stranger and stranger. His right hand kept moving from his mouth and back to pinch his lips, as if trying to physically stop himself from saying something inappropriate.
But, in the end, he couldn't hold it in.
"Who taught you to write like this?"
Castle tried to use a relatively normal tone.
"Self-taught, purely talent."
Ian opened a bottle of cola for himself and poured a cup of stale tea for Castle. The orange cat he was holding purred with its eyes closed in his arms.
Ian fed the cat a sip.
The cat happily drank it. Ian gave the rest of the cola to his pet. After all, those who knew, knew that cola drinkers only enjoyed the first sip.
"Self-taught?"
Castle's expression was a little rich. He stared at the manuscript in his hand, his mouth repeatedly opening and closing. His whole face was screwed up as if he had prematurely aged to fifty.
"Is it... not well-written?"
Ian began to doubt the other party's appreciation level. Novice authors were all like this, thinking that the great masters' work was poor and only believing they themselves had the potential for platinum-tier writing.
Such a novice would be very difficult to mentor.
"Uh..."
Castle started biting his fingers again, swallowing hard, "Actually, it's not bad. Your prose is quite good, but the writing style is... well, novel."
He was indeed a writer, his way of speaking was pleasant. Ian regained some goodwill for this older man with a writer's dream, thinking perhaps he still had some future on the path of writing.
"You can recognize my New Wave literature. You have great potential," Ian walked over and patted Castle's shoulder, like rewarding a top-performing student.
"..."
After a moment of silence, Castle began to organize his words, "I can see you're writing a story about Superman and his romance, but why, after establishing Superman as an absolute power, do you focus so much on the female protagonist learning... Ian's Divine Arts, making her a sorceress?"
"It seems a bit redundant since it's a romance story, and the female protagonist doesn't need power." It had to be said that Castle was quite professional in analyzing the work.
He had done his research.
He knew the boy in front of him was named Ian.
Therefore, the context of the Church of Ian mentioned within was quite obvious. If he were to be honest, in the section where the female protagonist embraced the faith and began praising Ian, Castle felt he truly saw the boy's talent. The richness and grandeur of the vocabulary were at a level that made him feel deeply ashamed.
How narcissistic did a person have to be to write so many non-repeating praises and hymns in English for themselves?
Castle was utterly astounded.
"Heh."
Ian saw Castle's astonished expression. He knew the man was already subdued by his talent, so he showed some patience toward such a devout apprentice.
"Because all urban novels have to be like this in the later stages. Otherwise, how would you make money? Once we finish the romance story, we start writing the protagonist's growth story."
"For instance, I've divided mages into nine ranks, and each rank can fill a million words. When they can't upgrade anymore, we can introduce enemies from beyond."
"This upgrades our world view. Things like a demon invasion, God descending, and new cultivation ranks can be introduced. It smoothly transitions from a romance novel to a fantasy novel."
"This writing style, if combined with a long-term contract with a publishing house, trust me, it's enough to feed you for life." Ian was truly sharing everything he knew.
He was not afraid of competitors.
He was only afraid of having no admirers.
Moreover, a technique like this was like a martial arts secret manual, not everyone who practiced it would achieve the same result.
"This..."
Castle's jaw nearly dropped to the floor.
He was utterly shaken.
His mouth was open wide enough to fit an orange.
"Did you learn it?"
Ian asked in a deep voice.
"I learned it... I think?" Castle answered reflexively, even though he was completely unsure what he had learned. However, this didn't stop him from adding a tonal shift at the end.
Defending his dignity as a traditional author.
"It's good that you learned it. Remember to tell Mr. Wayne to send the money... Also, I want to see my shares within three days, or I'll go to Gotham and lead his son astray."
"I'll make his son fall hopelessly in love, and I also know a few GBT people," Ian believed his threat would carry more weight than the Joker's.
"I don't have his contact information," Castle felt helpless. He was also deeply shaken by Ian's threat—the way this boy threatened people was simply unheard of.
Yet, it was terrifying.
"Did you bring your phone?"
Ian packed up his manuscript.
"I did."
Castle pulled out his latest smartphone.
"Then there's no problem."
Ian's response left Castle utterly confused.
Before the best-selling author could figure out what this had to do with Ian asking him to relay a message, Ian looked at the clock on the wall and began ushering him out the door.
Or perhaps it could be called chasing him out?
This kid had surprising strength.
"It's getting late. I have to go see my psychologist."
Ian grabbed his jacket. Although he was now highly resistant to temperature changes, he always needed to look like an ordinary person when going out.
This was how a superhero concealed himself.
"Why are you seeing a psychologist?" Castle was pushed to the front door, then out into the yard, and unconsciously found himself standing on the street.
"If you have to ask that question, I think you should probably see a psychologist too?" Ian closed the outermost wooden fence and gave Castle a very polite wave goodbye.
"Study hard, practice well. Believe in yourself."
His encouragement held a hint of gentleness.
"..."
Castle didn't know how to respond.
His head was buzzing.
Standing on the street.
The usually lively author was slightly quiet. Because his mind had been inexplicably polluted, he didn't even notice the Hellcat driving out of the side metal gate.
"I suppose I don't know how to write books anymore," Castle was still struggling with the writing technique problem. He stared at the house in front of him, Ian's whispers seemingly echoing constantly in his mind.
At this moment.
The street was very quiet.
"Bang~"
But perhaps it wasn't completely quiet. The sudden sound of something exploding rang out. Castle was startled, snapping out of his existential contemplation.
"Did something explode?" His expression was startled and uncertain, like a frightened large animal, but he couldn't find the source of the explosion no matter where he looked.
"Pat~"
Something fell in front of Castle.
There were also bricks and wood chips.
"The roof of this family's house blew out!" Castle finally realized the explosion had occurred right in front of the house. A large hole had been blown right through the roof.
"Is that..."
Castle saw a pink object rushing into the clouds—and then, someone seemed to rush out of the ruined house and shoot into the sky at a dazzling speed.
It was a boy.
His hand was raised high.
His expression was anxious.
He seemed to be rushing to save that... toy that had been completely shredded?
"What the devil is wrong with this family!?" Castle vigorously rubbed his eyes, confirming he wasn't insane or had been secretly drugged with some hallucinogen by his bed partner last night.
"Ding ding ding~"
Suddenly.
The ringing of his cell phone pulled Castle back to reality from his daze.
Caller ID:
Bruce Wayne.
Castle hadn't stored this name's phone number, yet it displayed. However, Castle, already beyond shock, was numb to such occurrences.
"Hello?"
He answered the phone.
"You need to forget what you just saw." A rather magnetic voice came from the other end—a distinctive voice often heard on television.
"Are you really Bruce Wayne?"
Castle swallowed.
"I am."
The other party gave a concise reply.
"Did you talk to the boy?"
Bruce asked the question he was most concerned about.
"I did, but right now, I only want to know what exactly is going on with this family, and... why you chose me," Castle clutched his phone and jogged away from this bizarre street.
"Because you're the most convenient to use—and tell that boy that his father said he'd become bad if he got money, so I put his share in his trust fund!"
"That damn brat, he blocked me!"
Bruce's voice carried irritation.
Castle didn't hear that last part.
He was distressed that he wasn't some incredibly capable man whom a rich man would notice. Just as the imaginative man was feeling depressed,
Bruce's voice sounded again, "You don't need to worry about this family's situation. You just need to control your mouth. I know you haven't even started writing your new book. If you don't want to pay the breach of contract fee, then complete the commission I gave you—if all goes well, I guarantee your net worth will double."
A classic carrot and stick approach.
The threats and promises of a "money ability" possessor carried a lot of weight.
"I understand." Castle stopped, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead, "But I need to go back and think about it. I need to properly organize the content I saw today."
His words piqued Bruce's wariness.
"What do you need to organize about the nonsense he wrote?" Bruce's voice was flat, but the sense of doubt was very clearly expressed.
"Uh..."
Castle's expression grew conflicted, "Actually, some of the boy's content wasn't bad. For example, in one plot point, Superman is holding Metropolis with one hand, yet he's still able to kiss the female lead and make a domineering declaration. That kind of romance has a substantial audience in certain markets."
He couldn't quite accept it.
But that didn't mean he couldn't discern the market.
Castle believed a business tycoon like Bruce Wayne must also have the ability to discern the market.
However.
"I didn't ask you to look at that one!"
Bruce's tone was calm, but he was practically grinding his teeth.
"Right, there was another one, a story about Batman. That book was certainly more absurd, but I think the plot where the Joker is hit by a car, and Batman threatens the doctor that if they can't save the baby *and* the Joker, he'll let all of Gotham burn, should gain quite a few readers in the specific Gotham market."
Castle's professional judgment was incredibly strong.
While he didn't know why Bruce had recently set his sights on the less profitable novel market, he felt that Bruce, as a capitalist, would surely believe in releasing whatever made money.
However.
Castle received no judgment from Bruce Wayne on this core market insight.
He only heard heavy breathing.
Then.
The phone line suddenly went dead silent.
...
The Hellcat sped down the highway, its wheels crushing a stone on the pavement.
As the car darted past, the scattered fragments of stone hit the outer wall of a church before rolling into the church's doorway.
Even in broad daylight, the dim candlelight inside the church had not been extinguished.
It illuminated the tall crucifix and the solemn statues all around.
The afternoon sun streamed through the stained-glass windows into the empty church, drawing Jonathan Kent's shadow long. He sat quietly on a pew, gazing up at the suspended crucifix.
The Kent family's eldest son had remained in this position for nearly six hours.
"The Lord watches over everyone."
The priest slowly approached from behind the altar. Noticing Jonathan's presence, he softly asked, "Young man, is something the matter? I see you've been sitting here almost all day."
The priest's concern was genuine. Jonathan didn't answer immediately, he seemed lost in his own thoughts. After a moment, he looked up, his gaze unfocused, and turned to the priest.
"I'm pondering a question."
Jonathan's voice held a trace of hesitation.
"What question?"
The priest asked gently.
Trying to understand the young man's inner struggle.
"God can save all of us, right?" Jonathan's voice carried a hint of uncertainty, yet it was filled with the desire for an affirmative answer.
The priest nodded slightly, offering an affirmative reply, "Yes, God's love is boundless, and He welcomes every soul that truly repents."
Hearing this.
A flicker of relief crossed Jonathan's eyes.
"Mm, that's great then." With that, he performed an action that surprised the priest—Jonathan stuffed the black notebook in his hand into the church's donation box.
The book fell to the bottom of the box with a dull thud.
However.
The priest seemed not to see anything.
"It belongs to God now."
Having said that.
Under the priest's confused gaze.
Jonathan left without looking back.
"Ian is the smartest one among us. Thinking like him must be right," the older boy's convinced murmur gently echoed in the slightly empty church.
"Is this boy sick?"
While the priest was puzzled.
In his unseen visual field.
A black angel silently appeared.
It was John Constantine's acquaintance.
The angel Manny.
"What in God's name is that?"
The angel tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes gazing at the ordinary plastic donation box. An unidentifiable sense of dissonance emanated from the box.
It was like something that shouldn't exist, yet it was right there.
"What is this? Something from an outside universe?"
He extended his pure black hand.
And accurately pinched the edge of the black notebook.
The next moment.
The hidden, deeply evil essence within the black notebook, known to no one, seemed to find a more suitable host—it silently latched onto him.
"Hmm?"
The angel's pure golden eyes began to show signs of being stained black.
However.
He seemed to be completely unaware of it.
***
Read 30 Chapters early on P-atreon.com/Redestro666