Chapter Nineteen: The Life of Elia Esposito

Clark hesitated for only a moment before his companion, Jimmy, acting with great initiative, grabbed his arm and hauled him forward, asking nervously, "Where is he? What's going on?"

His colleague gestured toward the office of the editor-in-chief, Perry White.

Jimmy and Clark wore identical expressions of shock.

***

Perry White furrowed his brow, his forehead creasing with anxiety, while his hands incessantly straightened his green tie. His father had been a soldier who died overseas when Perry was young, and in his own youth, Perry had traveled to many dangerous places as a journalist. With such a family background combined with the demands of his profession, Perry considered himself no stranger to storms and crises. Even if he had grown a bit soft from years of marriage and a sedentary desk life, he was not like those young white-collar workers who had never left their cubicles.

But he had truly rarely encountered a scene like this:

A tall figure, lacking human facial features or skin, with a blurry outline—or perhaps a creature that wasn't human at all—was dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks, wearing a neatly knotted tie. A shock of slightly wavy red hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, and his buttons were fastened with precision. Beside him rested a silvery-white long staff that looked as if it had stepped off a fantasy film set.

A subtle metal chain hung from the edge of the staff, the other end disappearing into the cuff of his right shirt sleeve.

Of course, it never crossed Perry’s mind that this was because Erias planned to stop by for a job interview on his way home; he simply assumed that "Parallax" must be a man of refined habits.

At this moment, the "supervillain" rumored to be capable of going toe-to-toe with Superman was sitting quite leisurely in the chair opposite Perry’s desk, head bowed as he flipped through the morning edition of the *Daily Planet*. Beside him sat a cup of hot black tea that Perry had pushed over out of "politeness." When that solid black hand gripped the handle of the teacup, Perry couldn't help but curse inwardly:

"Great Caesar’s ghost!"

It was one of his favorite catchphrases. Regardless of whether the situation had anything to do with Julius Caesar, he always blurted it out when his emotions were stirred. Right now, he was worried that his teacup might be contaminated by the demon before him. Only when observing the entity up close could one realize that Parallax’s body wasn't "black" in the conventional sense. Under normal circumstances, human skin has texture, wrinkles, and microscopic blemishes...

But Perry, eyes wide enough to pop out of his head, felt that Parallax didn't possess anything resembling skin at all.

If he had to describe it, the appearance felt like a translucent, human-shaped shell filled with pitch-black liquid or mist.

It was too bizarre; this thing could not possibly be a good guy!

Yet, the entity just sat there, saying nothing and harming no one...

Perry’s internal monologue was relentless. The main issue was that after settling in, Parallax had only said he was looking for Superman, without elaborating on why—was it for a fight, a threat, a bribe, or an ambush?

None of that was clear.

Perry dared not kick him out, nor did he wish to strike up a conversation. So, after tossing a cup of tea his way to demonstrate the inclusive spirit of humanity, he sat down as if in a contest of patience, observing the other’s every move.

After a long while, Parallax finished reading the paper and finally uttered the second sentence since his arrival.

He pointed to the article Clark had stayed up all night writing—the one titled "Eighty Percent Superman, Twenty Percent Yellow Lantern"—and asked curtly, "Who is Clark Kent?"

Perry couldn't help but close his eyes in despair: I told us we shouldn't make our biases so obvious in our reporting. Look, now trouble has come knocking!

He cherished talent and still wanted to shield Clark, but Clark, who had been monitoring the office from outside, pushed the door open. Feigning ignorance of the uninvited guest, he poked his head in and asked, "Chief, I wanted to ask if I could—oh, sorry. Am I interrupting something...?"

He adjusted the black-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, allowing just the right amount of surprise and confusion to cross his face.

"Don't call me Chief!" Perry said reflexively. "Clark, who told you to just push into my office? Get out!"

But it was too late.

The chair beneath Parallax had already swiveled around, and those blue eyes, glowing within the sea of black mist, fixed upon Clark: "Are you Clark Kent?"

"Do you know where Superman is?"

***

Perry reluctantly surrendered his office to Clark and Parallax. As soon as he left, Clark shut the door tightly, turned around, and put on a facade of calm. "Hello, I, um, I’ve seen the news about you breaking into Galaxy Communications. Can I ask first, why are you looking for Superman?"

"...Because of Erias," Parallax said, observing him, his speech slow and measured. "He is the one who wants to find Superman, but he cannot reach him."

Clark was surprised and responded quickly: "Who is Erias?"

"Erias Esposito."

This time, Clark was wise enough not to ask 'who is Erias Esposito.' He frowned in thought and replied cautiously, "As far as I know, usually if you call Superman’s name, you get a response—especially if it’s someone Superman knows and they are truly in need of help. May I ask what the relationship is between Mr. Esposito and Superman?"

Actually, he wanted to ask, what is your relationship with Erias?

Unfortunately, in theory, Clark Kent was not well-acquainted with Parallax, Erias, or Superman, so he couldn't ask anything too intrusive.

Erias recalled his two meetings with Superman.

The first time, Superman had left behind a warning: if you become a member of the Sinestro Corps, you will be my opponent.

The second time, Superman encountered Erias, who had already begun using the yellow power ring, on the bridge broken by Galler.

Given those two interactions, what kind of good impression could Superman possibly have of Erias Esposito?

Parallax replied decisively: "We are enemies."

Clark: "..."

Nonsense!

How would Superman not know!

He held back his tongue, refusing to directly refute Parallax, though his impression of the creature worsened. Even when they first met at Galaxy Communications, Superman had felt a glimmer of favor because Parallax did not kill, but that favor had been eroded by subsequent developments. Therefore, Clark said unhappily, "Even so, Superman wouldn't just ignore it."

Erias thought to himself: This guy can churn out thousands of words of flowery prose about Superman; he’s clearly a fanboy. Seeing his idol questioned, his mood has soured, and he’s even got the guts to contradict a clearly dangerous non-human!

Hmm... actually, that’s understandable. Journalists, and so young—having some aspirations is better than having no moral bottom line.

Clark saw that Parallax didn't seem bothered by his attitude, continuing in the same unhurried tone: "Erias called Superman’s name, but received no response."

How could that be...?

Clark’s first reaction was that Parallax was lying. But he immediately recalled last night, when he tried to confirm the status of Erias's adopted son, his super-hearing had captured only a vast void.

Could that house not only shield Superman’s special abilities but also block the sound of Erias calling for him? What kind of principle was that?

Clark had many questions in his mind, thinking he should find time to investigate the Suicide Slum later. But before that, he had to find a way to bluff his way past Parallax—he couldn't let anyone know that Superman might have developed another weakness.

He said nonchalantly, "Perhaps Superman is not on Earth. The Justice League often has to travel into space to handle work related to extraterrestrials."

Parallax nodded, neither confirming nor refuting, and returned to his initial question: "Can you contact Superman?"

Clark said, "That might be difficult. I don't have Superman’s private contact information. Could you let me meet with Mr. Esposito first and ask why he needs to find Superman? Perhaps I could help as well."

Erias: "..."

He said, "No."

Clark: "..."

The atmosphere between them grew increasingly hostile. Erias fell into thought, while the young reporter gripped the back of his chair tightly, his face serious and resolute. After a moment, Parallax asked slowly, "Then, are you the person at the *Daily Planet* who knows Superman best?"

"I am," Clark replied firmly.

"Are you also the person in this city with the best chance of finding him?"

"That’s correct."

Clark answered again without hesitation.

"Very well," Erias said, carefully selecting his words. "You don't need to see Erias. I will tell you: his adopted daughter and a minor who came to Metropolis from New York for a visit have gone missing."

Clark froze, blurting out, "Can't you find them?"

Erias: "..."

That wasn't the point.

The point was that this segment of destiny was already fixed.

***

Time rewound a few hours.

Suicide Slum.

Erias sat half-crouched in his bathroom, watching with a heavy expression as the rope, transformed from the *Book of Fate*, dropped to the floor.

Including the visit from Sinestro, this was the second time the *Book of Fate* had failed him at a critical moment. If he couldn't figure out the problem, the book would be relegated in Erias's mind to a piece of junk—more difficult to use than a power ring and with unsatisfactory, high-drain results.

Unable to return the item, Erias considered sealing it away as soon as possible. Even though that meant he would have to pay a price every so often to feed a magical item that might kill him, without getting any benefits in return—but then again, do people get paid every time they work overtime?

And who claims that every drop of sweat leads to success?

Erias knew full well the answer was no. So, even though he jokingly referred to the *Book of Fate* as a "cheat," he never truly expected it to be useful. The thing was more like what it appeared to be: a chain tightly bound to him, preventing his escape.

Perhaps it was implying that he was a prisoner of fate.

With various thoughts swirling in his mind, Erias said to the silver-white rope before him: "Come here."

The *Book of Fate* moved at his will, transforming into a pair of silver-white handcuffs with heavy chains that locked around his right wrist. Erias watched it with a somber mood, feeling that the book was indeed completely under his control now. However, a few seconds later, he suddenly thought of another question.