Chapter Six: Fxxking

Fate weaves its threads so intricately. On the very day Elia resolved to overcome his social anxiety and reach out to others, he unexpectedly ran into the one person he least wanted to see under the current circumstances. At that moment, Elia’s mind teetered on the edge of collapse: Metropolis dwellers, do you really think your methods are so clever?!

Yet, he could hardly call it clever—

If Superman did not know that Morgan Edge was a criminal, his immediate thought would likely be: A citizen in distress? Let me see.

If Superman did know Morgan Edge was a criminal, his thought would turn into: A supervillain calling for help? Strange! Let me see.

No matter what, Elia could not escape Superman’s gaze; Morgan Edge’s life-saving tactics had truly succeeded.

Caught completely off guard, Elia’s scalp tingled with shock. But, since he usually disliked speaking, his body reacted faster than his mouth. He planted the long staff—formed from the Book of Fate—firmly into the ground, lifting his head with a composed, seemingly well-prepared demeanor, and looked up toward Superman through the ceiling. To any ordinary onlooker, this gesture was nothing short of provocation. Beside him, the instigator Morgan Edge muttered:

“So brave…”

His words bore a mixture of respect and caution, for when people evaluate someone, they always consider their opponents. If the opponent is weak, the person facing them hardly seems impressive.

But Elia was now facing Superman!

Who was Superman?

To Morgan Edge, only those living mundane, ordinary lives would consider him harmless and safe. Every criminal who had ever faced him could write volumes describing the terror of standing against him—as if confronting a collapsing mountain, a boiling sea, and a sun close enough to scorch.

Steel body, super speed, super hearing, super intellect, flight, heat vision... Combining all these powers, Superman was enough to shake the confidence of every supervillain. The vast majority facing him had only two choices: surrender or flee.

Hence, those who could even stand against a god among mortals inevitably became forces to be reckoned with on Earth and even in the universe. Morgan Edge even thought that if the stranger in front of him managed to walk away from Superman unscathed today—or at least without utter humiliation—the whole city of Metropolis would hear his name by nightfall.

But Elia had no luxury to think so far ahead.

Under the shadow of a formidable enemy, all he could think of in response to Morgan Edge’s chattering was: Stay silent and maybe I can pretend you don’t exist!

Who in their right mind would boldly draw attention on a battlefield? Is this what being extroverted means?

Without hesitation, Elia seized the moment. Raising the silver-white staff, he swung it in a sharp crescent arc, striking swiftly at the momentarily distracted Morgan Edge!

Morgan Edge tried to dodge, but was a step too slow.

He never expected Elia to be so fast, nor to dare attack right under Superman’s watchful eyes.

He certainly didn’t expect Elia’s movements with the staff to be so steady and graceful, like a mage casting spells, only to realize that the staff was actually a weapon for striking!

Unable to wield magic, Elia had become a battle mage, and now he had drawn first blood. Morgan Edge took a solid hit to the head with a crisp thud, his eyes darkening in disbelief as he collapsed.

Whether Elia’s retaliatory strike was worth it was hard to say—because Superman was right behind.

The crimson cape cut through the air like a sudden splash of vivid paint. At the very instant Elia struck, Superman shattered the ceiling and entered, casually snatching a steel beam mid-flight to block Elia’s counterstrike aimed for self-defense.

“Normally, I’d advise you to consider surrender carefully, but this time there’s no time. Although Morgan Edge is a villain, I suggest you call the authorities rather than settling matters on your own.”

The clash between the metal beam and silver staff sent a fierce gust tearing through the half-open CEO’s office, instantly shredding the beam into a storm of dust and debris.

Amidst the brownish haze, Elia stood firm, feet planted solidly. The blazing summer sun of Metropolis pierced the air, casting a golden slanting beam that lightly illuminated Elia’s powerful frame and his abyssal blue eyes.

Superman’s words faltered in the weight of this strange presence. Then his eyes glowed a dangerous red before he carefully added, just before unleashing heat vision: “As for Metropolis... she is my city. Next time you visit, you should announce yourself first. That’s the basic courtesy.”

—Superman’s choice of words was deliberate.

It was Elia’s first thought after straining his nerves to the limit.

Half of what Superman said was lost in the chaotic moment.

“Bang!”

The broken metal beam crashed down behind Elia with a deafening clang, masking the awkwardness caused by their communication gap. Seizing the opportunity, Elia moved forward instead of retreating—

Damn it, if I don’t fight back now, we’re going to start chatting!!

Objectively, Elia’s physical attributes alone were no match for Superman. But in moments of crisis, the inspiration granted by the Book of Fate would flash unexpectedly, allowing him to briefly predict Superman’s attack direction.

Thus, the battle reached a brief stalemate. The building housing Galactic Communications wavered precariously between two “non-humans.” Before long, more factions throughout the city noticed the fight, and a helicopter emblazoned with a television station’s logo appeared overhead.

Elia caught a glimpse of the camera lens stretching straight toward him and the urge to retreat swelled within him.

He really couldn’t understand this city of Metropolis: supervillains calling for superheroes at their strongholds, the heroes arriving faster than the police; two superpowered beings fighting fiercely in broad daylight while reporters followed in helicopters, as if the entire city could relax, confident that Superman would hold up the sky—even if it fell.

Do you ever think about the poor souls in the slums who can’t even afford a meal?

Of course, ordinary poor folks don’t carry two guns, wear two Senesto Legion rings, and brawl with Superman in the heart of Metropolis.

The world is as uneven as it is magical.

Meanwhile, Superman grew increasingly curious about Elia.

He had been constantly monitoring Metropolis lately, hoping to find the unknown new member of the Yellow Light Legion. Otherwise, he wouldn’t always have his super-hearing on, and might not have arrived so swiftly when Morgan Edge called out.

But his current opponent... did not seem like a heartless thug.

Firstly, Superman had long suspected Morgan Edge was no good, possibly tied secretly to the criminal organization “The International Gang,” though he lacked proof. Also, before Morgan Edge passed out, Superman overheard his conversation with Elia—this attack appeared to have a cause.

Secondly, Elia had only knocked Morgan Edge unconscious without delivering a fatal blow. No matter Elia’s reasons for mercy, Superman’s respect for his restraint grew, tempering his aggression to mostly containment.

Minutes later, Superman pressed down gently but firmly on Elia’s staff, speaking with a tone both friendly and firm: “We should talk. For instance, about that name you mentioned just now with Morgan Edge—Elia Es…”

Elia didn’t want to talk. The more he spoke, the more mistakes he made. He remained puzzled by the sudden emergence of an alias. He had no mood to explain to an unfamiliar superhero, cutting Superman off with stiff words: “That’s not important.”

Hovering in the air, Superman raised an eyebrow.

How to put it... The more this stranger emphasized that “Elia Esposito” was unimportant, the more it underscored how significant that name was to him.

But pressing further would be intrusive. Superman was about to switch to a more fitting topic when Elia clenched his staff and turned his head, solemnly uttering a phrase in a language unlike any Superman had ever heard—words that struck deep into his soul.

It might have been a single word, or a full sentence.

Neither the alien Superman nor the reporters stationed in the safety zone understood it. Yet their reactions were nearly identical.

The noisy world fell utterly silent.

Like a mighty river frozen in a snowbound winter.

The bright sunlight, blue skies, roaring propellers, and faces whispering in surprise—all were veiled in ominous crimson through Superman’s eyes. At the heart of this blood-red shadow stood a figure.

After revealing his full hand—just short of hurling a ring like a hidden weapon—Elia took a moment to approach, heart pounding at nearly 180 beats per minute.

He flexed his arm, still aching from Superman’s earlier strength, and looked at the other with a complicated expression. He was not surprised to find Superman was the only intelligent being present still capable of thought. However, for the moment, Superman’s extreme physiological fear responses left him rigid, rooted to the spot.

Then again, Elia hadn’t expected his eerie intimidation to work at all. After all, Superman’s body was virtually invulnerable. Even immobilized, what could anyone do to him?

Cart him off to outer space on a train?

Elia bore no grudge against him and had no desire to test the sharpness of the Book of Fate’s edge on that remarkably distinct chest.

He wanted to explain that today’s chaos was all Morgan Edge’s fault, that the blow to his head was a just consequence for the mafia boss. But the explanation was too convoluted; after long thought, Elia couldn’t find the words.

In the end, frustrated by his rare urge to speak but unable to express himself, he steadied his mind and placed the staff’s handle over the letter ‘S’ on Superman’s chest, condensing a thousand emotions into a low, somber English sentence:

“Don’t fucking bother me again.”

When he recalled the moment later, Elia thought the insertion of “fucking” was exquisitely precise.

Indeed, mastering a foreign language always begins with mastering the art of cursing.

With the rest of his body still immobile, Superman’s trembling fingertips at his side grudgingly shot a disapproving glance.

“Or else—”

Elia abandoned the unfinished threat, glanced around to ensure nothing was amiss, and prepared to leave directly.