The dust settled.
The terrifying entity capable of annihilating planets vanished like a bad joke, erased effortlessly by the Emperor of the Kingdom as if it had never existed.
Jotaro collapsed to his knees, hands braced against the cold ground, his body trembling faintly. The glow of Golden Experience flickered dimly behind him before fading entirely. It wasn't physical exhaustion but a profound mental shock, a crushing sense of powerlessness that drained his will and strength.
From Doomsday's creation to its annihilation, everything seemed to have unfolded exactly as the Emperor had foreseen—completely under his control. The humiliation of being crushed by such absolute power, of being manipulated like a pawn, gripped Jotaro's throat, making it hard to breathe.
Clark descended slowly, his feet touching the ground without stirring a speck of dust. His emotionless gaze swept over the crumpled Jotaro before settling on the eerily calm Lex Luthor.
"Lex," Clark's voice held no trace of warmth, only the weight of an absolute verdict. "Take them and live."
"Open your eyes wide and watch. Use that brain of yours, so proud of calculating everything, to truly grasp the gap between us. To understand what despair really means…"
"And then, like now, kneel powerlessly and bear witness."
His words fell, and without giving anyone a chance to respond, Clark's figure blurred. In an instant, he was beside Locke.
Locke felt an irresistible yet gentle force envelop him. The world around him warped and twisted, too fast for him to react.
The next moment, their figures vanished from the scarred, desolate plaza like phantoms.
Left behind were Jotaro, slumped on the ground; Lex, expressionless but with fathomless eyes; the unconscious Charles and Bruce…
And Glad, who had witnessed the earth-shaking yet anticlimactic spectacle from start to finish. He stood frozen, mouth agape, eyes wide, still reeling from the Emperor's arrival.
He remained rooted like a statue for several seconds until the suffocating pressure lifted. Then, with a jolt, he snapped out of it.
"Mr. Bruce! Professor Charles!" he shouted, scrambling toward the unconscious Batman and Professor, his voice echoing in the empty plaza, thick with panic. "Wake up! Come on, wake up! What… what do we do now?!"
---
The sun dipped low, casting golden rays across the earth.
Locke's vision blurred, a wave of dizziness from high-speed movement washing over him. When his sight cleared, the scene had transformed completely.
The cold, cracked, battle-scarred underground base was gone.
In its place was a serene landscape. Sunlight bathed everything in a soft glow, the air rich with the scent of grass and soil. Ahead lay a neatly tended farm. The familiar red-roofed barn stood quietly, a few plump Rhode Island Red chickens strutting lazily in the pen, clucking contentedly. In the distance, fields of corn and oats swayed like golden waves in the breeze, rustling softly.
An old but polished tractor sat nearby, its metal glinting in the sunset, tires caked with fresh mud as if it had just finished a day's work.
It felt so familiar it was almost disorienting—like the cosmic clash and Doomsday's roars were just a nightmare dispelled by the sunlight.
In that moment of calm, a gentle voice broke through, carrying a rare, relaxed warmth. "Uncle, have dinner with me."
Locke turned.
Clark stood by a smoking barbecue grill, no longer clad in the imposing golden armor and scarlet cape. Instead, he wore a simple red plaid shirt, faded blue jeans, and grass-stained work boots. The cold expression on his face had softened. Though traces of long-earned authority lingered in his brow, his eyes—once glowing gold—were back to the familiar blue Locke knew.
He stood there, holding a pair of tongs, looking every bit like the big kid who used to clumsily but earnestly help with family barbecues on countless lazy weekend afternoons.
"Uncle, come on," Clark repeated, his voice even softer.
He smiled, lifting the lid of the massive grill. A mouthwatering aroma of fruitwood smoke and spices wafted out, stirring Locke's appetite.
"This batch," Clark said with a hint of pride, "I smoked for thirteen hours."
"…"
Locke stared at the jarringly warm scene, momentarily at a loss for words. He stood silent for a few seconds before shaking his head with a wry chuckle, his expression a mix of exasperation, nostalgia, and an unnoticed trace of relief.
"What kind of meat?"
"Doomsday's."
"Oh, Dooms—"
"?!"
"Hahaha!" Clark burst out laughing. "Just regular brisket, Uncle."
"You little…" Locke muttered, half-grumbling, half-relieved, like the awkward opening line of a long-overdue reunion.
Without another word, he stepped forward, as he had countless times before, snatching the tongs from Clark's hand. He flipped open the grill cover to inspect the meat.
Amid the swirling smoke, a large, deep-red brisket lay there, its surface perfectly caramelized. It looked tender yet intact, the juices locked in.
Locke leaned in, took a deep sniff, and immediately frowned. "Clark, how many times have I told you? You've gotta keep the meat moist during smoking! Spray it to prevent the surface from drying out and getting bitter! Where's the apple cider vinegar?"
Pointing the tongs at the meat, he scolded, "Tell me, where's the vinegar?!"
Far from annoyed, Clark's face lit up with a genuine smile. He shrugged sheepishly, pointing to a small spray bottle of clear liquid by the grill. "Sorry, Uncle. That's the recipe you tweaked about twenty-five years ago. You said a mix of beer and broth works better—no need for extra vinegar."
"…"
Locke froze, his face flushing slightly. This world's me had the nerve to overhaul the sacred family recipe?
He huffed, masking his embarrassment by grabbing a carving knife. With a flick of his wrist, he sliced off a thick piece from the brisket's fattiest part. Beneath the crisp, smoky crust was tender, pink meat, marbled with glistening juices.
The rich aroma hit him hard.
Locke took a bite.
"Hm?"
His chewing paused, his expression shifting. From habitual nitpicking to surprise, then focused savoring, and finally… pure, astonished appreciation.
The meat was melt-in-your-mouth tender yet retained a perfect, chewy texture. The smoky flavor was deep and layered, complementing the beef's natural richness without overpowering it. The spices were balanced—savory, slightly sweet—with juices bursting in his mouth, delivering unmatched satisfaction.
This heat… this seasoning… this texture…
Not bad at all. Had this kid really mastered barbecue to this level?
"Father! Are you falling for his food trap?!" Zion's voice rang in Locke's mind, laced with suspicion and a hint of jealousy. "Watch out—he might've spiked it! Who knows what this Emperor's up to!"
"…"
"Keep it down," Locke shot back mentally, exasperated. "I'll figure out a way to sneak you some."
"Hmph! I don't need his…" Zion started, but trailed off.
Clark's gentle voice cut in, as if unintentionally interrupting their magical exchange. "Uncle, let the little guy out."
He casually sliced another perfectly even piece of brisket and placed it on Locke's plate, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Locke's chewing stopped, his pupils contracting slightly.
This kid… could sense Zion? And even pick up on their subtle magical communication?
"Uncle," Clark said, catching the shock on Locke's face. He smiled warmly, his expression open and without malice. "Don't get me wrong. I can't hear what you're saying, but…" He pointed to himself, then Locke. "Its energy signature, its 'aura,' matches something in you, yet it's distinct."
"That kind of close bond—it's not like it's… another uncle I've never met, right?"
Locke stared at Clark for a moment, confirming the genuine warmth in those blue eyes, then shrugged helplessly. He'd been carefully hiding Zion deep within himself, shielding it with his Earth-Mountain energy to avoid detection by this world's Clark.
Clearly, that was overkill.
If Clark didn't care, there was no point in hiding.
With a thought, a wisp of dark-red magical energy, tinged with faint draconic authority, rose from his shoulder, coalescing into the tiny, fierce-eyed dragon soul.
The moment it appeared, Zion struck a defensive pose, raising its head and letting out a menacing growl at Clark. "Don't think I'm scared of you, you petty Emperor!"
It was quite the show of bravado—if you ignored how it cowered behind Locke's head, only peeking out with wide, glaring eyes.
Locke couldn't help but laugh at his son's tough-guy act. Shaking his head, he cut a small, juicy piece of beef and held it out to Zion, explaining to Clark with a touch of embarrassment, "Zion's… got a bit of a personality. Bear with him. Once you get to know him, he's a good kid."
Father's praising me? Zion's heart swelled.
Still, it eyed the meat warily, glancing at Clark's smiling face before the temptation won out. With a twist, it transformed into a small boy identical to Saraphiel, snatched the meat, and chewed furiously.
Even its glare at Clark softened just a fraction.
Watching this slightly comical yet heartwarming scene, Clark's face broke into a knowing smile. To anyone else in this world, the idea of this sunny, warm guy being the cold, all-seeing Emperor of the Kingdom would be unthinkable.
"It's alright, Uncle," Clark said softly, his voice full of genuine acceptance. "He's your son, so he's my brother too."
"Who's… chew chew chew… your… chew chew chew… brother?!" Zion mumbled through a full mouth, struggling to maintain its dignity. "We're not… chew chew chew… from the same world! And this world doesn't even have me!"
Locke couldn't resist reaching out to ruffle the magic-formed boy's head, chuckling at its stubborn yet adorable defiance. Not bad, the texture's pretty solid.
Standing slightly, he casually sliced another perfect piece of brisket and set it on Clark's plate. Without waiting for a reaction, he walked to the porch steps and sat down, patting the spot beside him.
Clark paused, his gaze lingering on the meat his uncle had cut for him, then on Locke's familiar gesture. A complex glint passed through his blue eyes. Silently, he walked over and sat beside Locke.
The two sat shoulder to shoulder on the porch steps, the comforting farm stretching out before them. The sun sank slowly, painting the horizon in vibrant oranges and purples. The air carried the smoky aroma of barbecue, the earthiness of soil, and the fresh scent of grass, broken only by the rustle of the breeze through the cornfields—and Zion's sneaky attempt to carve off more brisket.
Staring at the almost too-perfect farm, Locke fell silent for a long moment.
Finally, he let out a soft sigh, heavy with unspoken emotions.
He turned, his gaze steady on his nephew. "You…" He paused, his voice clear and certain. "You're not Clark."