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

Page 382

The angels would have to work for him their whole lives. The morning classes continued, sunlight streamed through the windows onto the desks, and the air was filled with the atmosphere of an approaching Christmas.

When the bell rang, Lillian, who was in the front row, suddenly turned around, the end of her red braid brushing against Ian's desk.

"How are you spending Christmas?" She waved her phone, which she'd secretly brought to school; the screen saver was a sparkling Christmas tree. "My dad said he's taking us skiing in Switzerland."

“Switzerland? That’s a nice place too, but this year my dad promised to take me to the North Pole to find Santa Claus.” Madison is never one to miss out on these moments of comparison.

There is no Santa Claus in the world.

Lily, but Miss Potter rolled her eyes.

“Who says there’s no Santa Claus? My mom still firmly believes in Santa Claus.” Mark from the football team interjected, chewing gum. “My dad is also outrageous. To appease my mom, he’s planning an outrageous party this year, requiring everyone to dress up as Santa Claus—even my golden retriever has to wear a red hat.”

I don't know if this guy is complaining or showing off his family happiness.

“There will definitely be Santa Claus in Metropolis this year.” Ian, who was in a slightly more relaxed mood, joined the conversation, his tone full of firm conviction.

“Dude, how old are you to still believe in this stuff? Last year I stayed up until 3 a.m. and all I got to film was my dad stuffing a game console into my sister’s socks.” Mark chuckled as he recounted his experience.

I believe you!

Madison suddenly looked up, her utility knife snapping open with a "snap," startling Mark and Lily so much that they both retreated out of the classroom. Everyone knew there was a crazy, manipulative woman in the local junior high.

Seeing others leave.

Madison, his eyes also shining, lowered his voice.

"Ian, are you going to be Santa Claus?"

Her eyes lit up as if she had discovered a new continent. "You give gifts to obedient children, and you give AIDS bombs to disobedient children."

Miss Witch still enjoys playing with AIDS.

“It’s the traditional Santa Claus who delivers gifts.” Ian sighed, turned to Madison thoughtfully, and then suddenly lowered his voice to extend the invitation.

"Want to come along? Santa Claus, who appears every Christmas, should take on an apprentice. He could train the girls their own Santa witch."

Ian thought his plan was brilliant, but he was mainly worried about America's increasingly politically correct stance, and that feminists would start suing Santa Claus for sexual harassment this year or next.

Ian's invitation left Madison conflicted. Her expression was as if she had been given a mouthful of sour lemon. "I'd like to go, but I don't think I'll have time."

She took out her phone and swiped a few times. The schedule on the screen was densely packed, with the Christmas schedule being particularly packed, and almost all the destinations on the schedule were Los Angeles.

"Crowley arranged so many film shoots for you?"

Ian asked in surprise.

"Actually, there are only 6 films so far, but I've finally set foot in Hollywood, which has caused some problems." Madison showed Ian all the details of his schedule.

"Ever since I was blinded by greed and went astray, but then I got back on the right path and helped a kind older sister get pregnant, many celebrities now come to me when they want to have children."

"Those guys seem to all have a bit of a delusional disorder. A lot of them are planning to get pregnant on Christmas Day, thinking they can conceive a Jesus." Madison's voice carried a hint of weariness from exhaustion.

"What?"

This time, it was Ian's turn to be dumbfounded.

"Didn't expect that, did you? I didn't expect it either." Madison twirled his phone smugly, the charms on the case rustling. "I'm making a fortune in Hollywood with pregnancy magic."

Thankfully, it wasn't the situation Ian had imagined. Thanks to his super brain's foresight, he didn't let the witch next to him learn gender-swapping magic in his magic notebook.

This is why many renowned teachers are unwilling to teach students real skills. Ian's potion, which he obtained from Thanos, hasn't even been used yet, and it seems he's already been sidelined by the witch.

"Luckily, Ian doesn't care about money and has never liked touching it," Ian consoled himself. By the time the school bell rang at noon, Madison had already packed her backpack full of dangerous items.

"I've gone to contact the old stonemason."

Madison is quite different from Ian. She doesn't understand the value of hard work, so she doesn't eat her lunch at school like Ian does, even though she's rich.

Ian watched the girl's golden ponytail disappear around the corner of the corridor, then turned around and blended into the restaurant. After eating and drinking his fill, he ate the equivalent of fifty people's worth of food before skipping his afternoon classes.

“I never thought I would go astray.” Ian never dared to imagine that he would miss any class. He felt that he might have lost his mind in the power recently.

This matter requires drinking two bottles of disinfectant recommended by Trump to cleanse one's soul.

Berserker Experience +1

[Savage Tyrant Experience Points +2]

Berserker Experience +1

[Savage Tyrant Experience Points +2]

……

As the saying goes, every little bit counts. Nothing major has happened in the past two days, and Ian, who couldn't open any treasure chests, has found a cheap alternative. It's a wise choice that's better than nothing.

Soon, Ian arrived at his New Paradise factory in his Hellcat, where he inspected the Angel-made products, which were undoubtedly of higher quality than those made in Hanyang.

The product qualification rate was very high, and Ian was very satisfied, so he decided to reward the angels with the opportunity to hold a general meeting, and let the chief angel gather all the angels together.

"I just had afternoon tea with my Uncle God, and he said you guys have been doing well lately, but you still need to keep working hard!"

Ian jumped onto the makeshift platform made of stacked packing crates and clapped his hands. Five hundred angels immediately folded their wings and formed a square formation, some even taking out notebooks to take notes.

He started with a winning hand.

A commotion arose within the angel formation.

Ian snapped his fingers.

The holographic projection displayed the "Paradise Factory Five-Year Development Plan".

The "Employee Benefits" section, written in bold, states: Working overtime every Sunday earns you Heaven Points; 100 points can be exchanged for a 1-minute opportunity to meet Saint Ian.

"We aim to build innovative companies that surpass Silicon Valley!"

Ian's speech was reaching its climax: "Don't ask what New Paradise can give you, ask what you can contribute to New Paradise! Our goal for next quarter is to increase our market share."

Ian's speech, which revolved around the themes of struggle and hard work, was something he had learned from Twitter while traveling. The effect was remarkable. Apart from Michael, who was living a second life dressed as a greasy, domineering CEO, all the other angels were excited. Just as he was getting to the crucial moment of his speech, his cell phone suddenly rang, interrupting his impassioned speech.

The caller ID displayed a batarang icon.

"Hey, Bruce?"

As soon as Ian answered the phone, he began to change how he addressed people.

“Your marketing director, Don Draper, said…” Batman’s voice came through a voice changer, with the screams of criminals in the background, “You canceled our outsourced customer service and replaced it with a more ‘down-to-earth’ team?”

Ian gestured to the angels to "keep clapping."

Walk to the new holy water pool in the corner.

"It means exactly what it says. Don't worry, the new customer service still uses Wayne Technology."

He made a guarantee.

“I screened all the qualified outsourcing teams.”

Batman's voice carried a dangerous calm, but also a hint of confusion: "No qualified outsourcing team has ever taken your order."

This is something that Batman, with his limited imagination, could never have researched.

Ian didn't know how to explain it either.

He could only speak softly and gently.

“Hey Bruce, find a place to park your wheelchair. If you’re not feeling well, you don’t need to kneel down. Your Uncle Ian has something to tell you.”

Ian was a little embarrassed to be an elder like this for the first time, and didn't speak very boldly.

of course.

Even so.

"??????"

the other side.

Then came the sound of Batman's wheelchair running over the criminal's hand.

He didn't speak.

It was just the familiar panting of the Nine Dragons.

The main reason was that the bat's intelligence had already made the Gotham King realize that something was very wrong.

Chapter 167 Perfect Customer Service! God's wicked intentions never die!

Bats possess top-tier intelligence, comparable to DC's.

Bruce Wayne's mind raced faster than a car engine, and by the time he realized what information his intelligence had deciphered, it was too late—by the time he no longer wanted to believe in his own intelligence.

Gotham's daytime wasn't exactly dark, yet it still couldn't illuminate the ashen face of the Gotham Freak. The main culprit was the continued, clumsy voice of Ian Kent coming through the communicator in his hand.

"Brother Thomas is just too enthusiastic! Even though he didn't drink any fake alcohol, he still insisted on making me swear brotherhood with him. I postponed it three times in a row for Uncle Bruce's sake... In the end, Brother Thomas made such a fuss and threw a tantrum that I really had no choice but to accept his absurd request and become sworn brothers with him."

"To be honest, it feels a bit awkward for me to call Uncle Bruce 'Bruce's nephew.'" The emotionally intelligent Ian noticed that Bruce's mood was off.

So he began to express his intentions to Bruce, saying that in terms of seniority, he was willing to accept that each person should be treated differently, and that calling Bruce "uncle" would not prevent Bruce from calling him "uncle."

This is what is meant by the tolerance and concession of elders.

"?????????????" Bruce's face turned ashen, his fingers tightening on the armrests of his wheelchair, the high-grade carbon fiber creaking under the strain.

"I don't want to know what you're talking about." Batman's voice was no longer just low; it was also laced with gritted teeth. He truly wished he didn't know the truth about his father being in hell.

however.

Everything is too late.

Bat intelligence had already helped him understand everything; his brain, like Ian's, had its own thoughts, even if those thoughts were not accepted or acknowledged by the original body.

“I’m serious, Thomas is so enthusiastic, he even said he’d give Gotham to me.” Ian was talking non-stop, and every word he said contained at least a little bit of the truth.

The more Bruce Wayne listened, the more his head throbbed, and he snapped the emergency brake lever off his wheelchair. His breathing became heavy, while Ian continued his incessant chatter on the other end of the communicator.

Each word was like a pacemaker, slowly squeezing Bruce Wayne's heart. Every word Ian uttered possessed a terrifying lethality far exceeding that of the Joker. At this moment, Bruce Wayne realized that the Joker he was dealing with in Gotham might just be the uncolored Joker in a deck of cards.

The real "King" is in Metropolis! Bruce's finger hovered above the button to end communication, his knuckles white from the force. Three seconds later, he chose a more direct method—the entire communicator was slammed to the ground, shattering into pieces amidst the grotesque cries of the badly injured criminal who exclaimed that Batman was being incredibly wasteful.

"Ding Ding Ding ~"

Batman's spare phone rang. It was a text message from Ian, who wanted to prove his honesty and willingness to tell the truth. The message contained a photo and video that could be considered irrefutable evidence.

It was a photo of Thomas Wayne and Ian with their arms around each other, and a ten-second video played through an earpiece, allowing you to relive your dad's familiar voice.