Chapter 55: The Miracle of Destiny

Elijah: ?

Why did everyone assume he could foresee everything? If he were truly omniscient and omnipotent, he wouldn't have been listening to Simon recount tales of the past just a few minutes ago...

As for Sinestro's mention of "you and destiny," Elijah simply ignored it, having long since grown accustomed to such remarks.

Just as he shook his head at Sinestro, the two-dimensional outline of Simon suddenly popped out from behind Elijah's lantern, peering around anxiously as he asked, "Where is my son? Where is my big boy?"

Sinestro wore a peculiar expression upon hearing this, while Batman raised an eyebrow to study this strange two-dimensional entity, asking cautiously, "And who might your son be?"

"Sam Hathaway," Simon declared with a stern expression. "I, Simon Hathaway, have returned to the mortal realm under the guidance of the Lord of Destiny to correct the mistakes Sam has made."

A demonic yellow lantern whispered into Sinestro's ear, "Simon Hathaway has been dead for several months. Yet rumor has it he went neither to heaven nor to hell—it seems 'Destiny' arranged his fate in advance."

At this, Sinestro cast a subtle glance at Elijah, the look clearly conveying: And you said you didn't know?

Elijah: ...

He once again found himself wondering what kind of relationship others imagined he shared with the Lord of Destiny.

***

Upon hearing that Sinestro had already rushed to the battlefield, Steve paused slightly, though he remained seated right where he was. The shouts of the demons and the profanity mixed within them did not trouble him much; as a far-from-rigid superhero, he had long since given up on preaching to a group of demons who invariably peppered every sentence with the F-word or the S-word.

He calculated the time in his mind, estimating from his wealth of experience that it would take at least a few more hours for the war to fully conclude. This meant he could continue sitting here and enjoying the city's night view for quite a while longer.

Unfortunately, the demon squad under his command could not share the Captain's inclination to slack off. Believing Steve could not hear them, some of the demons muttered behind his back:

"Our captain looks like he died pretty early on, so why is he so lacking in drive? If any other demon had his strength, they would have become a lord at his age. Only the captain never competes for anything, always yields his merits to others, carries a shield that can't even kill anyone, and never uses foul language. If he hadn't ended up in hell after dying, I would have thought he was some misplaced superhero from elsewhere."

"..."

"Watch your tongue," another demon said with a solemn air. "Don't you think the captain has the true demeanor of a great demon? Did you really think all big shots sweat over petty gains like you do? Our captain's promotion speed has been lightyears ahead of everyone else! He is our captain now, and in the future, he will be the captain of all Hell. If you respect him and pick your side early, it'll definitely pay off."

"I was just talking, I wasn't disrespecting him. After all, the captain could take down ten of me with one hand, and keep going all day..."

***

Steve felt that living in such an environment was slowly eroding his temper; before long, he might just sprout a halo over his head and pass himself off as an angel. Tony Stark would be quite pleased with these changes... provided the Avengers hadn't gotten around to burying his corpse yet.

Thinking of Iron Man and his former colleagues, even with his steadfast resolve, he could not help but yearn for the peaceful, normal days of the past. He imagined the incredulous expressions people would wear after his resurrection when he told the members of the Avengers and the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., "Hydra has been completely taken care of. No, the ones who did it weren't me—it was the demons of Hell and Sinestro," and felt a long-lost sense of relief welling up deep within his soul.

At that moment, a demon trotted up to him and reported, "Captain! We found someone in the river!"

Steve snapped back to reality instantly, his sharp, eagle-like gaze falling upon the messenger: "A person? What kind of person?"

"Uh... you'll see for yourself."

A gaunt young man with messy black hair, dark brown eyes, and dark circles hanging down to his cheeks was carried before Steve by the demons. Soaked to the bone, with an unnatural pale-blue complexion, purple lips, and bloodshot whites of his eyes, the youth instinctively shivered upon seeing Steve. Yet he neither struggled nor tried to run, clearly having given up and abandoned all care for life and death.

A single glance was enough for Steve to understand: this was a deserter.

Not a deserter from the battlefield, but a pathetic soul crushed by life.

Moreover, Steve had met him once before, and vaguely remembered the young man's name was Sam Hathaway.

—The mage who had summoned the gates of Hell.

At this thought, Steve adopted a gentle expression, extended a hand—or rather, a massive paw—and said, "I didn't expect to run into you here, Sam. Your journey of vengeance isn't over yet, surely you aren't planning to end it all yourself?"

"Y-you... how do you know what I'm trying to do?" Sam lay on the ground, struggling to roll his eyes. In his murky gaze, Steve saw his own imposing reflection. "Right, of course... you demons are omnipotent."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken. Demons are not nearly as powerful as you imagine, especially since most of the demons cooperating with you this time are sinners who landed in hell after death. They are no different from the scumbags you knew in life, and they haven't learned much better in death."

Drawing back his paw, Steve said indifferently, "As far as I know, they were still tangling with Arkham's security system half an hour ago, and by now, they should be rounded up by the Batman family."

"..." Upon hearing this staggering news, Sam, despite having only half a life left in him, managed to push himself slightly off the ground. "What did you say? You failed?!"

"Them, them. I was just sitting here doing nothing. You'd better not mention me in front of Batman, otherwise it might trigger some diplomatic issues between different departments... Ah, kid, I can understand your feelings to some extent. Allow me to ask a bold question: has anyone close to you been harmed by the criminals of Arkham?"

Sam's expression shifted slightly. His body tensed up for a fraction of a second before slowly relaxing. "Before I answer your question, I'd like to point out that I'm almost forty. I am hardly a child anymore."

Steve looked at him with upright earnestness: "I am much older than you. You can completely think of me as a centenarian you happened to encounter on the street. Since I have nothing better to do, and you've made up your mind to die, it wouldn't hurt to chat a bit before you resume your river-jumping activities."

***

Sam looked at Steve in astonishment, utterly unable to discern the other's age from his inhuman appearance and vibrant blue eyes. Left with little choice, he said half-convincingly, "Fine, you win. That person... the person killed by Arkham's criminals was... well, my father."

He forced out the final few words with great difficulty, his expression turning gloomy once more.

"My father was my adoptive father, and he truly was a wonderful person," Sam continued in a raspy voice, his throat working as he swallowed. "But he didn't have a very happy youth—my grandfather suffered from severe schizophrenia and manic depression, and would frequently go mad, experience hallucinations, and suffer from persecutory delusions. When my grandfather was lucid, he was a man of great learning; yet when he turned mad... he was simply an ordinary madman. My father grew up in that kind of family environment, but he didn't surrender to the cruel side of destiny. Instead, he stood up and fought back—"

With all his might, though it still appeared rather feeble in Steve's eyes, Sam waved his arm, and a flicker of light briefly returned to his pupils: "At twenty, he chose to take university entrance exams, and by twenty-five, he had earned a medical degree. I'm not sure why he didn't end up practicing medicine, choosing instead to stay home as a freelancer. Yet even without going out to work, he remained a kind and warm-hearted man. He frequently volunteered at nursing homes and orphanages, or traveled all over the world. He made numerous friends across various professions, even if their bonds weren't deeply intimate..."

Here, Sam paused. Steve prompted at the appropriate moment, "Why?"

"Because he was studying magic," Sam whispered. "Magic is a wondrous thing, keeping him hovering constantly at the fringes of the ordinary world. You cannot imagine how extraordinary my father's talent for magic was; he seemed practically born for it. If he had wanted to use his arts to gain wealth or status, he would have become one of the most successful people in the world long ago. No matter how complex the spell, he could cast it; no matter how intricate the ritual, he could successfully perform it. Even a casual remark or interpretation of a spell from him was enough to make third-rate mages treat him with the reverence due to a master, lingering around him to obey his commands—that's how the cult that summoned the gates of Hell alongside me came to be."

"Yet he never became the leader of the cult, did he?"

"He didn't... I could tell that he always kept a tight rein on himself. The power was right before his eyes, yet he refused to let himself get lost in it, unwilling to delve even the slightest bit deeper. Until the day he died, he remained outside the threshold of those powerful, terrifying things. So much so that Simon Hathaway remained an utter nobody right up until the day he died. Even so, he never stopped obsessing over the miraculous encounter he had at age twenty, calling that entire lifetime a miracle of destiny... What absolute bullshit!"

Steve saw intense resentment and agony written across Sam's face.

"And what about you?" Steve asked quietly. "Do you want to finish the unfinished business of your father? Do you want your father's good reputation in life to become infamous after his death?"

"How dare you—" Sam sprang up and threw a punch at Steve. "How dare you describe him that way?!"

Steve effortlessly intercepted his fist. "I am merely speaking the truth."

"I didn't... I didn't." Sam covered his face with one hand, collapsing in grief under Steve's serene gaze. "He died so easily, dying nothing like the father I remembered... And I was working out of town, didn't even make it back in time to see him for the last time. His shattered, dismembered corpse kept replaying in my dreams, while I had to pretend nothing was wrong and carry on as usual... Later on, I heard that the car accident which took his life was connected to Arkham."

Steve frowned. "Where did you hear that?"

Sam smiled weakly. "From newspapers, from the news, from mafia gossip, and by piecing together clues from the lowest-level criminals. Walls have ears, and the sins committed by those lunatics in Arkham are common knowledge. Batman is a saint, and so was my father. They let those criminals live, preferring to turn the blade against themselves. But I'm not... I'm not... I'm not as good as them."

He sobbed, wiping fiercely at his face as he said, "My dad shouldn't have died like that."

Steve's gaze fell upon the purplish bruise on Sam's arm left by a needle injection, before looking away after a long moment. "You hesitated."