What's wrong with Superman's son wanting to be Superman?

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Just as it was about to attack the press corps, a red and blue shadow flashed by—it was an orange cat wearing a Superman cape, the S logo on its chest stretched into a fat "$" shape.

The two creatures are fighting, both using superhuman methods.

"The epic showdown between Super Cat and Alien Dog!" The reporter screamed as he filmed the two creatures exchanging heat vision, the shockwave knocking him off his feet as he merely seized the opportunity with his phone in hand.

"My God! Superman did something... no, Superman fucked something!"

Even if you fall to the ground.

Even the reporter couldn't resist exclaiming in surprise.

Just as Hannibal was silently contemplating the futility of life, the banquet hall doors were suddenly flung open. Ian dragged in a jigsaw puzzle doll, the scene resembling a massive sale on sex dolls.

The doll has a nose like a Greek sculpture, and comes from an internet celebrity who died from plastic surgery, as well as the long fingers of a pianist. The original owner was said to be a very famous musician.

“My dear psychiatrist, come on, let’s perform the miracle of resurrection!” Ian eagerly showed Dr. Hannibal his latest masterpiece.

"??????" Hannibal lowered his head, his gaze slowly sweeping over the stitched-together grotesque corpse—especially that unusually "impressive" genitals. He remained silent for a few seconds, a crack finally appearing on his elegant face. He couldn't help it; he had witnessed just how meticulous Ian's "rigor" truly was!

He witnessed Ian cut off the true, well-deserved male dog's waist from a hellhound and press it onto this body. When he cut the dog's waist, he even lifted the hellhound up to examine it closely!

"..."

Dr. Hannibal sensed his patient's kindness, but was somewhat hesitant to accept it, realizing that his obsessive-compulsive disorder had reached its peak.

“Ian… how about I prescribe some medicine for you first, and we can talk about other things after you take it?” Hannibal said tactfully, ignoring the King of Lies’s utter exclamation that this was a work of art.

The air was so silent it was as if all sound had been sucked out.

Ian tilted his head, about to say, "Doctor, if you don't like this body, I can contact some friends on the internet and let you go to the morgue to pick out a fresh one yourself—" but he hadn't quite finished saying the words of his promise to find a kind-hearted person.

The door to the reception room was suddenly pushed open.

Then, the demon butler dragged in a gaunt man with ashen skin. The man swayed unsteadily, as if he might fall apart at any moment. His eyes were sunken, his lips were cracked, and he wore a tattered white robe that barely betrayed any semblance of his former holiness.

"Who is this……?"

Ian blinked, sensing that the other party was a god.

"I am Shiva... Child, I have come to beg you." The man raised his head tremblingly, his voice so weak it seemed to float from a grave.

"Please, Ian Kent, go home and talk to your brother. He can't see me... but you can. Tell your brother Jonathan Kent to stop asking me for power... I really can't take it anymore!" Shiva, as if his body had been hollowed out, shed tears of grievance.

He immediately knelt down in front of Ian with a thud.

Like an elf that has been drained dry.

howling.

Chapter 169 Ian: Who put the crown on my head?

Ian accepted the teacup offered by the demon butler, leaving the opportunity to bestow favor upon Shiva to himself.

He gently stroked the rim of the cup with his fingertips, and steam rose up, carrying a hint of sulfur in the aroma of the tea—tea specially supplied to the underworld that ordinary people could not drink.

Only those of high caliber who owe Ian a favor have the opportunity to taste it.

What's wrong with your third eye?

Ian didn't offer tea immediately; he simply held the teacup, letting the down-on-his-luck god watch. This is a classic example of the application of psychological knowledge.

After all, tea that is too easily obtained will not be appreciated by uninvited guests.

"My eyes? Oh, right, my eyes of destruction." Shiva subconsciously touched his swollen third eye socket, his lips twitched and he began to sob even more.

"Your father hit you!"

Shiva is filing a complaint.

"Oh?"

Ian raised an eyebrow.

The steam from the tea rose before his eyes, making his gaze appear even more astonished.

"Do you see why I only have two hands? If I hadn't cut off my hands to survive, I wouldn't have been able to escape at all. He almost used this avatar to find my real body!"

"Damn super vision! I knew there were alien monsters!" Shiva's expression still carried a hint of lingering fear, and his voice was filled with resentment.

“My dad wouldn’t hit people under normal circumstances.” Ian knew perfectly well which side he should take; the Indian deity in front of him was not even a casual acquaintance.

Hear the words.

Shiva grew increasingly indignant.

"He said I disturbed the wild elephants he was interviewing! And he wouldn't listen to my explanation at all! I said I am a legitimate god, and he said he was beating up a self-proclaimed legitimate god!"

Shiva's face was filled with grief and indignation. It was not surprising that he was beaten, after all, Clark was not in a good mood when he learned that he was going to interview African elephants that morning.

"So you didn't fight back?"

Ian blinked.

He tried his best to keep his laughter only echoing in his throat.

"Fight back? I did fight back! Didn't I tell you? I left two hands behind before I ran away." Shiva's expression instantly fell, as if a sore spot had been hit.

He actually had a special plan to fight back.

As expected of an ancient god.

"If it weren't for that disaster caused by alien monsters back then, which crippled all of us and greatly reduced our strength, my eye wouldn't have swelled up if your father had punched me." Shiva's tone was full of frustration. He firmly believed that with his strength at his peak, he could have withstood at least several thousand punches from Superman.

"You're really amazing."

Ian nodded sincerely, giving a thumbs-up. Shiva straightened his back, displaying a confidence characteristic of creatures from the Indian side.

"Of course, I am the most powerful god on Earth." As the saying goes, you don't need to think before you speak, and if the lower beam is not straight, the upper beam will definitely be crooked. Shiva clearly has a strong belief in his own judgment.

“I’m really not surprised to hear this… Okay, let’s talk about my brother Jonathan. You mean my brother borrowed too much power, which is why you’re completely drained every day?” Ian had a general understanding of the situation. He had just summarized the cause, process, and result from Shiva’s 50,000-word lament.

Ultimately, it's because the free will given by God went too far.

"Is that borrowing? That's stealing!" Shiva's voice rose several octaves. He finally got the tea that Ian offered, but he didn't realize what karmic debt he would incur by drinking a cup of Ian's tea.

The god, who symbolizes reproduction and creation and holds the power of destruction and rebirth, became increasingly aggrieved as he spoke, drinking tea to calm his nerves while continuing to lament to Ian in yet another round of tears.

Ian already understood the content very well. Basically, God gave Jonah a belt, and his older brother could transform into an armored warrior. However, Jonah thought it was the protection of the gods, but in reality, he was just forcibly borrowing power from the god he "believed" in—free will can be interpreted in many ways.

The will to borrow power is also a form of free will. Since the one who bestows the blessing is a being whose word is law, Shiva has no way to change it even if he is unwilling.

"Could you go back and talk to him? After all, I wasn't the one who stole your brother's curry rice last night." Shiva looked down at Ian with a wronged expression.

The air was suddenly quiet.

Hannibal's ghost drifted away silently, pretending not to exist. The same was true for Beria the Chihuahua and Baal the Demon; intelligent people know to play dead when discussing matters related to God and Ian.

"Cough cough."

Ian coughed twice, trying to change the subject.

"It does not matter."

He spoke seriously, feeling somewhat guilty.

Ian didn't think it was his fault. Everyone knows that staying up late makes you hungry, so it wasn't unreasonable for him to eat two bowls of his family's curry rice after saving the Marvel Universe.

"How can this not be important!"

Shiva jumped up in a panic, leaping from the sofa, his withered fingers trembling as he pointed into the air.

"Whoever ate his curry rice should borrow his power! Anyway, it wasn't me who ate it!" This ancient god was indeed trembling with anger and coldness, looking extremely aggrieved and evil.

Ian blinked.

He astutely grasped the key information—it was clear that Shiva didn't actually know who had stolen the curry rice.

“It’s different.” Ian realized that the other party was bluffing, and immediately became righteous and indignant. He shook his head slightly, lowered his voice and whispered in a serious tone, “That god who steals curry rice has too many followers and is petty. I can’t let my brother believe in Him.”

It's not that I think having faith would lower my status.

Ian was mainly worried that Jonathan would complain to his parents. Besides, even bunny girls don't date the nerdy guys in their neighborhoods, so he certainly couldn't recruit his family as his followers.

Otherwise, family bonds can easily deteriorate.

"Many believers? Petty?" Shiva gasped, as if he had instantly grasped some universal truth. "Hiss... So it was the curry rice He stole!"

He deflated like a punctured balloon, slumped to the ground, his eyes glazed over, clearly thinking of the most unapproachable being in the world.

"Yes, it's Him, it's definitely Him."

Ian nodded emphatically, his expression serious. He realized that Shiva might have thought it was a wonderful misunderstanding, so he immediately used the strategy of going with the flow from the 3,600 strategies.

Outstanding effect.

Shiva didn't suspect a thing. The two tacitly avoided mentioning the name. Ian, in particular, was extra cautious, not as direct as he usually was when shifting blame.

After all, petty people understand petty people better.

At this moment, Ian also realized a problem once again: the Goddess of Creation was clearly in love with him because God was similar to him in more than just loving to write.

Even in terms of personality, they're probably about the same.

in a certain sense.

God could even be called "Little Ian".

Although this made Ian feel somewhat wronged, he still showed his magnanimity and decided not to dwell on it. Just as he was immersed in his own magnanimity, Shiva suddenly sat up, charged forward, and slid to his knees, lunging forward to hug his leg.

This guy immediately burst into tears.

"You have to help me! Ian Kent! You have to! If you help me, I'll give you as many Indians as you want!" He seemed to be living in the last century, unaware that traditional slavery no longer existed in the 21st century. Besides, even in the last century, Indians wouldn't fetch a good price!

"..."

Ian rarely has such moments of speechlessness.

“Who would want Indians? What would I do with Indians?” He couldn’t help but sigh and rub his forehead. “I don’t have a farm that needs scarecrows planted in the ground to fertilize my crops from time to time.”

Ian didn't dream of becoming an agricultural tycoon; he knew he only wanted to be a tech giant. Looking at the effects of those home appliances and furniture, a surge of inspiration began to flood Ian's mind.

This is far more efficient than planting crops, spreading famine, and then coming out to save the world, and Ian's conscience, which has a surface area of ​​about five square centimeters, is much more comfortable.

Seeing that Shiva was clinging to his leg and wouldn't let go, Ian could only try to persuade him with all his heart: "Asian Dance King, my brother is lending you some strength in order to do good deeds."

"You deserve at least a tenth of the merit, no, about half a tenth. So, you can't be too petty as a god. Haven't you heard MacArthur say that the peak breeds fake users, and the twilight witnesses devout believers? These days, faith is lost, and it's rare to see a believer as devout as my brother."