"You're saying…" Glad blinked, his wariness giving way to incredulous curiosity. "You're Locke Kent… the uncle of His Majesty the Emperor, who's supposed to be long dead?"
"You don't believe me?" Locke crossed his arms, bracing for skepticism or even mockery.
"Believe you? Why wouldn't I?" Glad replied with disarming certainty, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"…"
Now it was Locke's turn to be thrown off.
He'd anticipated all sorts of reactions, but not this guy accepting his wild claim so easily.
He raised a brow, studying the young man.
Glad, catching his confusion, shrugged nonchalantly. "No sane citizen of the Kingdom would dare joke about His Majesty's family, especially a deceased elder. That's blasphemy. A capital offense." He paused, his tone calm but firm. "The fact that you'd even say it means you're not from around here."
"…"
Locke rubbed his chin. The logic was blunt but made sense.
"So you're not worried I might be some alien impostor, sneaking into your rebellion?"
He tried a different angle, testing Glad further.
Glad gave him a once-over, then mused, "Honestly? Not really."
"Oh?"
"Those cosmic hicks just come to Earth to beg for scraps," Glad said, his tone carrying a hint of pity. "Most don't even make it to the surface."
"His Majesty handles them like cleaning up orbital junk. The ones that do slip through?" He smirked, a strange confidence creeping in. "They're usually too weak for His Majesty to bother with. And that kind of alien? They're no match for us." He paused, adding, "We've dealt with plenty of those small-timers."
Before Locke could respond, Glad stepped forward, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a knowing look. "Honestly, sir," he said, his voice tinged with sentiment, "I'm starting to believe you."
"Why's that?"
"Because you've got this 'wide-eyed, asking-about-everything' vibe," Glad said frankly. "You don't seem like you're from this era. You really do feel like someone from that legendary, freer 'past.'"
"…"
Locke couldn't help but chuckle at Glad's smug but oddly coherent reasoning. "Alright, fair point. Truth is, I was brought here by your rebellion's leader, Jotaro."
"Jotaro?" Glad's knowing look froze, replaced by genuine confusion. "Who's that?"
Locke paused, searching for a clearer identifier. "Uh… the guy with the donut-shaped hairstyle."
"Oh!" Glad clapped his hands, realization dawning. "You mean Captain Diavolo!"
"…"
Locke went quiet, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He took a deep breath, deciding to let the name thing slide. "Yeah, him. He's the one who brought me from the past."
Glad's face lit up with shock, then exploded into ecstatic disbelief, his eyes practically sparkling. "The organization's plan… it actually worked?"
His voice trembled with excitement. "All these years, sneaking intel from the Archives Bureau… my work… it wasn't for nothing? There's really a 'hope from the past'?"
He snapped his gaze to Locke, his eyes blazing with newfound respect. All his earlier probing and doubt vanished.
"Sir!" he said firmly. "It's not safe here. Follow me, now!"
Locke trailed Glad through a maze of sewers, the younger man's guard completely down. Every so often, Glad would glance back, whispering questions about the "past" with barely contained curiosity.
Locke answered absently, his mind elsewhere.
Because, in his head, another voice echoed—one only he could hear.
It was crisp, with a hint of exaggerated gravitas, ringing through a magical link in his consciousness: "Father, we're here now, and this world looks orderly but lifeless…" The voice paused, as if mulling something over. "Why don't we just take it over? It'd be way more fun."
"…"
Locke sighed, lifting a hand to gently scratch the tiny dragon soul that had appeared, circling his head. He responded through the magical link, "You little punk, not even pretending anymore?"
The dragon soul froze midair, flicked its tail, and huffed. "It's just us two in this world. That useless brother of mine isn't here, and without me, you'd be lost, Father. So I've gotta show my true colors." Its tone dripped with mock disdain. "Besides, I'm the only one who can help you now."
"Brat," Locke shot back mentally, "don't talk about your brother like that."
"Heh." Zion let out a clear, cold laugh. "I'm just stating facts, Father."
Locke narrowed his eyes, ready to pull out the big guns. "Fine. If you're so full of ideas, then I'm eating that cake Dio's bringing home tonight all by myself."
"No…! Father! You can't do that!" The dragon soul, so smug moments ago, panicked, writhing in the air, its golden glow flickering. "The cake! I get half!"
Why was cake more important than world domination?
"Stick with me, then," Locke teased through the link, a grin tugging at his lips. "Stop daydreaming about nonsense. Or you'll end up like this world's Clark, sitting alone on some golden toilet."
"Fine," Zion grumbled. "You're the boss, Father."
"Hmph." Locke's smile widened.
Despite his mock annoyance, he wasn't really mad. If anything, he felt a quiet warmth.
He'd thought he was alone, thrown into this cold, alien future world. But somehow, this little soul, tied to Saraphiel, had hitched a ride through some mysterious connection, lingering in the enigmatic Dragon Court space.
Which reminded him…
Locke was curious. Where exactly was this Dragon Court space that he and Saraphiel controlled? It seemed to exist outside any single universe, or else how could he still be linked to it after crossing cosmic barriers?
"Sir." Glad stopped abruptly, his voice low and respectful, snapping Locke out of his thoughts.
He pointed to a heavy metal door, blending seamlessly with the rusted sewer pipes. "We're here. The base is inside."
Locke nodded, refocusing, and stepped forward without hesitation. He pushed open the seemingly heavy door and walked in—
It wasn't the rebel hideout he'd expected.
No bustling operatives, no flickering comms screens, no one waiting to greet him.
Just… suffocating darkness and cold, hard metal walls.
Click!
A sharp, icy sound of metal locking echoed behind him.
The door slammed shut, sealed from the outside.
Locke stood in the dim, cramped space—barely five square meters, completely empty. He let out a wry sigh.
That Glad guy…
All that excitement, trust, and admiration on the way here? Total act.