Chapter 37
Superman
Death. Such a strange, mundane concept when you think about it.
Jon had always been fascinated by its dichotomy.
See, some deaths were peaceful affairs - quiet, serene farewells idealized by somber deathbed scenes. Slipping into that eternal night surrounded by loved ones, fading gently away after imparting some poetic last words about being reunited on the other side or some such drivel. Almost...nice, from an outsider's perspective.
Then there were the others. The messy, brutal exits that jackhammered their way into the deepest folds of your grey matter to take up permanent residence. Gruesome, gore-saturated scenes burned into the insides of your eyelids, skullfucking your tranquil dreams into raw, masochistic night terrors.
That dichotomy - the silent vs the shrieking, the graceful vs the garish - that's what made death such a twisted, perverse fascination for Jon. Only some flavors proved violently disruptive enough to leave mental scars. Yet it remained the most mundane, inescapable constant in the universe.
We've all tasted it by now, one way or another. Swatting a fly, cutting down a tree, consuming that burger or tuna steak - we're all routine dealers of death to something or someone, however small or detached. Hell, Jon's own culinary killings were habitual enough that they never quite managed to put him off his omnivore tendencies.
No, the deaths that haunted him to this day came in two distinct flavors: the ones he'd witnessed firsthand like his dad and Uncle Stan's, or the ones he'd outright, intentionally caused - like the two gangly punks who killed his old man in the first place.
Marc Riley and Gus Thompson. Ah yes, those names.
Jon had successfully blocked them out for long stretches, burying them under newer, fresher layers of beautiful trauma. But they always managed to slither back into the harsh fluorescent glow of his consciousness eventually, like persistent psychological parasites.
According to the police report, the two suspects "were no older than 19 years old at time of incident." Just a couple of dumb kids whose choices had gone horrifically, tragically wrong. The fact they were barely adults themselves never stopped needling at Jon's more tender conscience, no matter how justifiable the outcome.
It was like a bad comedy skit gone horribly wrong. One minute, the sniveling amateur Gus was whipping himself into a frothing frenzy over their shared grand atrocity - working himself up into such a tizzy.
"Oh god, oh god! We killed them! We fucking killed them!"
His partner Marc tried desperately to regain some semblance of control, barking at the quivering hostages to stay put while simultaneously attempting to talk his partner down from whatever panicked ledge he'd flung himself towards.
But by then, the floodgates had burst wide open. Gus was paralyzed, rabid terror coursing through his veins with all the visceral potency of napalm-grade adrenaline. In that moment, Jon could practically smell the ammonia reek of the guy's bladder loosening in panic.
"Fuck that, I can't do this!"
The words punched out in a strangled whimper as the yellow-bellied coward turned to flee, putting as much space between himself and Jon's personalized waking nightmare as humanly possible. Jon watched the bumbling idiot scramble away in a fever-dream haze, sights and sounds contorting at grotesque, sickening angles.
One second, the cooling, sightless husk of his father lay before him, that lone visible eye already dimming as the final tendrils of his soul made their exit. The next, Gus was barreling straight towards Jon in a blind, animalistic panic - face twisted into a mask of pure desperation as he clawed and shrieked his way forward, treating Jon like little more than a minor obstacle to bull-rush in his path.
Then, in one of the most poetically timed cosmic punchlines ever witnessed, Gus slipped.
He slipped down hard on the spreading pool of Jon's father's cooling blood.
And his gun fell to the ground, like a gift from fate, right beside the son of the man he had just murdered in cold blood.
Heavenly retribution.
To Jon, the world seemed to grind to a glacial crawl in that infinite beat. He stared in whirring slow-motion at the black steel instrument of death clutched in his tiny fist, its weight feeling more like an anchor of pure lead than a simple firearm.
A Ruger SR22 semi-automatic pistol, he'd find out later. But in that moment, it was the heaviest thing he'd ever tried to heft. He remembered his hand shaking uncontrollably as his fingers frantically fumbled for the trigger.
When Jon's eyes finally met those of the crumpled Gus, the fear reflecting there jolted straight through him like an electric current.
"Ple-" The syllable barely made it past Gus's lips before Jon's clenched fingers finally found their mark. An ear-splitting percussion cap detonated scant inches away as the pistol's barrel bucked. The force of the recoil took the gun away from Jon's grasp.
Gus's fearful eyes blew impossibly wide for one eternal suspended breath, body arching like a puppet yanked by its strings.
Then the high-pitched, almost comically shrill scream of fear ripping from Marc's throat as the pistol swung towards Jon next.
Another hostage - some big, beefy dude whose face Jon could barely recall - inadvertently bumping into Marc with an errant elbow and throwing off his aim just long enough. Just long enough for Jon to recover, to raise the pistol in a detached, out-of-body trance and put two more slugs center-mass, sending the second shooter down.
It was done. Just like that, in a matter of seconds stretched to eons by his addled brain's stuttering time-dilation effect. The smoked, stinking pistol slipped from Jon's hand to clatter across the floor, bouncing against sticky red pools.
As the arriving cops tentatively moved in, Jon remained rooted in place, frozen. Breath coming in ragged, soul-shredding gasps, tears of anguish and horror streaking down his face. In that moment, the numb shock cradled by the blessed anesthetic of adrenaline, he'd thought he'd served righteous justice to the "bad guys."
Jon thought killing Marc and Gus would bring him closure, some sense of justice for his father's murder. That it would make things right again. But it didn't. His dad was still gone, along with Uncle Stan. And now there were two more bodies added to the pile by his own hand.
Taking those lives didn't fill the gaping void inside him - it only deepened the chasm. Instead of relief, it left him angrier, more haunted than ever before. Just like the old man he killed when he first arrived.
Which is why, seeing Jianyu so calmly and coldly separate that Minghan's head from his body, was deeply unnerving for Jon. With a practiced, casual indifference, as if he were simply swatting a fly.
A freshly severed head is a grisly, haunting sight. At first, there are involuntary twitches and movements as the eyes flutter, the mouth gapes, desperate for words. The skin pales but the cheeks flush from the draining blood. Facial muscles spasm in eerie pseudo-expressions until the eyes go dull and lifeless. It's profoundly disturbing to witness the fragile line between life and death so vividly.
Seeing it now made Jon's stomach churn. He had killed before, but never like this - up close and so...visceral. The lack of emotion from Jianyu as he did it was deeply unsettling.
Jon stood nearby, helpless, watching the horror unfold.
He had failed to stop young Bao from witnessing the execution, and now the boy stood frozen, eyes wide with terror.
He knew this sight would haunt Bao forever.
Jon often turned serious situations into jokes, a habit he'd developed over the years. His friends always saw him as the funny, immature guy, always ready with a quip to lighten the mood. But deep down, he knew it was more than that. Deep down, the little boy he was had never truly grown up, never left the bank.
The jokes were his way of coping, a defense mechanism he clung to since the day his world shattered. Even now, after everything that had happened, he still wore that clown mask to avoid going crazy from all he'd seen since arriving in this world.
‘Hey, I'm in deep shit, but maybe if I treat this like an adventure to an isekai land, I'll be fine,’ is what Jon subconsciously told himself.
So far, it had worked, despite the horrors he'd witnessed. But now, seeing the fear in Bao's eyes again, Jon felt like a spectator to his own past trauma. The boy's terror mirrored his own buried fears, the ones he never wanted to face.
At that moment, something shifted in him, something he had never felt before. A protective instinct surged within him, stronger than his need to deflect with humor. He couldn't let Bao go through what he had. He couldn't let the boy's innocence be shattered without trying to do something about it.
Jon turned towards the boy, knelt down, bringing himself to Bao's eye level. "Hey, kid," he said softly, his usual humor absent from his voice. "I know this is scary. But you're gonna be okay. I'm here, and I won't let anything happen to you."
Bao's eyes were still wide, but he nodded slightly, some of the fear easing from his face.
Jon reached out, gently pulling Bao into a hug, getting his face in the opposite direction of the body. For the first time in a long while, he let himself feel the weight of his own emotions, his own fears.
There was something stirring in his chest, a warmth growing hotter and hotter. He recognized it as his qi.
Soon, he could feel it rushing through his body—powerful, fast, energizing. The pain in his body eased, and he felt lighter.
His emotions converged to a single point. For some reason, he could only think of one thing:
Protect Bao.
"Hmm?"
Jianyu, wiping his hand from the blood, noticed the subtle shift in the atmosphere. He smiled and focused his attention on the situation unfolding.
"Be careful with that," he said, his tone both warning and amused. "You’re powerful, I’ll give you that, but so much qi at once could get you killed if your body isn't used to it."
Jon barely heard the words. His gaze had found Bao once more and then said, "Hey,” he called out, mustering his most disarming grin despite the grim reality pressing in on all sides.” Wanna see me kick the bad guy’s ass?"
Bao looked at him, wide-eyed. "U-Uncle Jon...your eyes..."
Jon blinked, only then realizing the change that had overcome him.
He could feel his irises burning like twin blazing suns, overflowing with the incandescent deluge of qi raging through his meridians.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Jon smiled, "I know," he replied with a conspiratorial wink. "Mad cool, right?"
He clasped his hands before him, slowly rising until he stood at his full height – utterly uncompromising in his proud, indomitable stance.
"Tell me Bao, have you ever heard of 'Superman'?"
Bao shook his head, still confused.
"Well, he was my dad's favourite hero," Jon proclaimed with the same bravado he might've once used to address a crowd of awestruck children. "And he can fly without a sword, lift mega heavy stuff, even shoot fire out of his eyes...."
He let the words hang there for dramatic effect, basking in the moment as the sun's first rays crested the horizon in brilliant ambiance.
Then, looking at Bao one final time, he finished with the glow of a benevolent sage about to bestow some invaluable wisdom.
"But most of all, do you know what makes him so strong?"
Bao silently shook his head once more, utterly transfixed. Jon took a steadying breath as he relished the words he'd always yearned to hear as a child himself.
"Hope," he uttered softly, infusing the simple syllable with profound, reverential weight. "Hope that no matter what happens, things will be okay. That's what makes him so strong."
Bao's eyes widened further, the fear melting away and being replaced by something new, something Jon interpreted as admiration.
The rising sun framed Jon in a warm, radiant light, making him seem larger than life. Good. Focus on me kiddo. Don’t think of anything else. Jon mused internally.
Then he heard Jianyu's irritating voice again.
"Hope."
Jianyu said, his voice laced with undisguised curiosity and the faintest hint of sardonic amusement.
"That is quite an interesting concept." He cocked his head slightly, eyes glittering with inscrutable intensity. "Is that your Dao?"
Jon didn't immediately respond, too caught up in the hypnotic thrum of qi surging through his meridians.
What a strange feeling, this qi thing. For a few charged moments, Jon could understand why cultivators seemed so arrogant and full of themselves. The power thrumming through his meridians was utterly intoxicating - a full-body tingle that crested in waves of euphoric intensity.
More than anything, it was the sense of absolute invincibility that was so disorienting. As that torrent of elemental energy swelled through his core, Jon felt like he could bend reality to his whims through sheer force of will. No obstacle seemed insurmountable, no challenge too daunting to overcome. He was a sovereign force of nature unto himself.
Yeah, he could definitely see how this kind of power could breed arrogance to all-consuming levels. Hell, even the most grounded, humble individual would have a hard time not getting drunk on these heady tides. Jon flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling the qi dance across his knuckles with each minute movement. He couldn't see it, but it was there.
Jon could only imagine what sustained immersion in these cosmic energies did to cultivators over decades or centuries of cultivation...
Understandable, sure. But not excusable.
"Well, I don't know about that," he said at last, his deep timbre resonant and sure. "I just don't want the kid to make your freak show the only thing he gets from this event."
A wry grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, emboldened by the intoxicating rush overflowing his very being. Pivoting on his heel, Jon began a measured advance toward the casually poised cultivator.
"Also..." He paused, gaze sweeping over Jianyu in a silent, assessing look. "I kinda hate you. So I wanna give you at least one good punch in the guts."
A rich, rolling chuckle broke from Jianyu's lips, devoid of the slightest trace of concern or apprehension. "Well, I suppose that's understandable," he conceded with an indulgent air.
One elegant brow arched in mild curiosity. "I felt the same way the first time I truly awakened, the feeling that the world could be at your feet..." he pressed coolly. "But I quickly learned that I was not the first one to have felt such thing, and those who did before me could simply... flatten me for my ignorance."
Then, the smile still on his lips, but this time, in a very serious tone, Jianyu said "Why start another fight you'll quite obviously lose?"
Jon didn't so much as break stride, eyes locked on his target with laser-like focus.
If he was to die here, he wouldn't let Bao suffer the same crushing disillusionment that shattered his own world as a child.
On that fateful day when his father was murdered before his eyes, little Jon's unshakable faith in heroes and goodness prevailing was decimated in an instant. His vision of life as a place where the virtuous would always triumph was violently ripped away, leaving him adrift in a cruel reality devoid of hope.
But now, Jon was determined not to let that same light be extinguished in Bao's young eyes. He would be the stalwart protector, the unwavering symbol of heroism that his father could not.
The intoxicating rush of qi undoubtedly played a role in divorcing him from his usual fear in the face of oblivion. With this much raw power thrumming through his meridians, Jon felt like he could stare down death itself and spit in its terrible face. An arrogant delusion, perhaps - but one he was more than willing to indulge if it gave him the strength to act as Bao's guardian.
Let the kid rely on him as the hero Jon had desperately needed all those years ago.
Ironic. He had always feared to die the same way his father did, and yet, here he was.
"Like I said..." His voice dropped to a gravelly baritone of barely contained intensity. "...the kid needs hope."
He took another ground-eating step, practically snarling the words through gritted teeth. "He needs to know that heroes exist."
With that avowal, Jon slid into a low, powerful stance - corded muscle rippling beneath his tattered clothes as primal energies thrummed through his core. "That way," he growled with blistering conviction, "he won't end up like me."
Inclining his head slightly, Jon regarded Jianyu through half-lidded eyes blazing like miniature suns. "So be nice and don't move," he ground out in a tone that brooked no argument.
Fingers clenching into white-knuckled fists, he leveled one last soul-scorching glare at the cultivator. "I wanna make sure you feel this."
Then at less than a second's notice, Jon disappeared, leaving behind a cloud of dust and crushed ground.
The world seemed to slow yet Jianyu moved at normal speed, patiently waiting for his opponent’s attack.
Jon's first thought was, What a damn monster. I guess I need hope too; don’t wanna appear all heroic in front of the kid and get my ass handed to me less than a second later. We’d both end up traumatized.
Jon pressed on, and Jianyu smiled, clearly relishing the challenge.
In a heartbeat, Jon closed the distance, launching his first strike. Jianyu blocked it effortlessly, and the collision of their fists birthed a shockwave that, in their current speed realm, slowly expanded outward, rippling the air between them.
Locking eyes with Jianyu, Jon smiled. In fact he smiled so much that Jianyu now gave him a curious look.
In his younger years, Jon had been obliged by his mom to take all sorts of martial arts classes to channel his anger issues—jiu-jitsu, taekwondo, MMA, boxing. It had served him well when he and Eddy would bully the bullies of the school, and now, it seemed he could use it here too.
Time to think outside the box, Jon.
Jon feinted a high punch with his right hand. As Jianyu moved to block, Jon suddenly shifted his weight, dropping low and spinning into a sweeping kick.
Jianyu stumbled back, caught off guard by the unexpected move. Jon didn’t waste a second. Using the momentum, he twisted his body, launching himself into the air and bringing his knee up in a powerful strike aimed at Jianyu’s head.
Jianyu barely managed to block the knee with his forearm, but the force pushed him back.
Gotcha, you smug bastard, Jon thought, landing lightly on his feet. He immediately followed up with a flurry of punches, keeping Jianyu on the defensive.
In a flash of insight, Jon saw his opening. He faked a right hook, and as Jianyu moved to counter, Jon pivoted, bringing his left elbow down hard on Jianyu’s collarbone. Jianyu winced, and in that split second of distraction, Jon shifted again, bringing his right fist up in a powerful uppercut aimed at Jianyu’s gut.
Jianyu reacted, throwing a punch of his own. Jon saw it coming, instinctively raising his left arm to block.
The impact sent a jolt of pain through his arm, but he didn’t let it slow him down. His uppercut connected with Jianyu’s stomach, and the force of it drove the air from Jianyu’s lungs in a surprised gasp.
Guess you didn’t see that coming, did you? Jon thought, satisfaction flooding through him as Jianyu staggered back, clutching his midsection.
Jianyu’s smile faltered for a moment before he regained his composure. “Impressive,” he admitted, his voice strained. “You’re full of surprises.”
Jon grinned, shaking out his stinging arm. “You have no idea. Do you wanna continue? I’d like to show you a technique of mine. Have you heard of the ‘Ultimate Dragon Nutcracker Punch’?”
Why did I say that? Please say no, Jon thought. He could already feel his qi weakening, it seems like whatever plot armor allowed him to finally activate it, was now gone.
Bao watched from the sidelines, eyes wide with admiration as the sun continued to rise, casting a warm glow over the battleground, his hope was rekindled, just as Jon had intended.
A rasping, sputtering laugh ripped from Jianyu's lips in a ragged exhalation - the cultivator doubling over as his slender form shuddered.
"Hahaha! The last person who punched me in the gut like this was that pink-haired Mount Hua dancing bastard!"
He straightened, clutching at his midsection with one hand. Despite the rictus of residual pain etched across his aristocratic features, his expression brimmed with an unmistakable amusement and perhaps… respect?
"You have a lot of potential, Brother Li," he acknowledged, eyes glittering with frank appraisal. "Let's fight another time, when we meet again."
The cultivator's words washed over Jon like a tidal surge of cathartic relief and vindicating triumph.
As the ephemeral rush powering his enhanced state ebbed, he could perceive his own qi with vivid, crystalline clarity. And from the brief, explosive clash with Jianyu, one truth became starkly evident.
The cultivator hadn't even been trying.
Not really, at any rate. The full, unrestrained depths of his power remained an untapped wellspring - the glimpse Jon had witnessed little more than a mere ripple atop unfathomable depths.
A humorless chuckle rumbled from deep within Jon's chest as the weight of that realization settled upon his shoulders. There was no need to continue this any further. His goal had been achieved...
He'd landed one hell of a gut-punch. And, for some obscure reason, Jianyu was letting him go.
Hmm, in all those cultivation novels, this is usually the part where he'd go apeshit.
The inner quip surfaced with practiced irreverence, a puerile indulgence underscored by profound gratitude. After all, Jianyu's surprisingly calm and reasonable demeanor stood in stark contrast to the bipolar tendencies so endemic to villains of that ilk.
'You dare strike me, you miserable worm? I'll grind your bones to powder and feast on the ashes while cackling over your freshly-interred corpse!’
The mocking inner-monologue adopted the same overblown cliches Jon had seen regurgitated ad nauseum in virtually every other xianxia romp.
"Okay then," Jon acquiesced with an indulgent chuckle, raising his hands in a disarming 'well, that was fun' gesture. "Let's stop here for now."
As if on cue, the remaining qi flowing through him dissipated. Yet, to Jon's astonishment, the residual weariness and debilitating toll he'd expected never materialized.
Rather than tumbling into unconsciousness like in the clichés, he felt...invigorated.
Jianyu gathered up Minghan's severed head with an almost casual air, the grisly face lolling obscenely as he turned to look at young Bao. A thin smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"Boy," he declared, every syllable dripping with inscrutable meaning, "this is a cruel world."
He paused, gaze scrutinizing the horror and haunted realization writ large upon the child's expression. For the span of several heartbeats, a weighty silence draped the clearing - only the whispers of wind caressing splintered boughs disrupting the brittle quiet.
"And from what I saw in your eyes," Jianyu continued at last, "you probably dream of becoming a cultivator, just like your uncle, don't you?"
Bao's head lolled to one side, the boy refusing - or perhaps simply unable - to meet Jianyu's piercing stare. Jon felt the retort rising in his throat like acid reflux, fists clenching with impotent frustration, yet could not deny the wisdom of silence.
Best to let Jianyu say his piece and be done.
Seemingly satisfied at the lack of rebuttal, the aristocratic cultivator inclined his head in a subtle nod. "You will see a lot of this if you take our path," he murmured in that same uncannily mild tone. "Worse than this, even."
A mocking, hollow chuckle bubbled from somewhere deep within his chest as he cradled Minghan's skull loosely against his hip.
"At least, now you know."
As Jianyu finished talking, Jon heard movement in the distance. More than one person.
It wasn't the usual sound of footsteps but something more rhythmic, almost like they were... jumping? The odd noise grew louder, echoing through the trees and the clearing.
Jon's curiosity piqued, he turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of the strange sounds. Jianyu noticed and smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes.
"Ah," Jianyu said. "Brother Zhen Wu and Chaotzu are finally coming over here."