In The DC World With Marvel Chat Group

In the corridors of Manor, Lex was navigating through the darkness alone, carrying a toolbox he had just found in the downstairs warehouse. He knew he couldn't leave Lionel's corpse lying in the bathroom; he had to dispose of it.

Ascending the staircase and walking down a short hallway, he ignored the occasional gunshots and screams from downstairs. Finally, he reached the original meeting room, now only charred walls and scattered glass remained.

Lex frowned, still pondering a question: If Clark had innate superhuman abilities, why did he appear so weak during his first appearance?

Lost in thought, he entered the bathroom where he had dragged Lionel's corpse. The once dominant figure in the business world now lay lifeless next to the toilet, no different from anyone else after death.

Kneeling down, Lex looked at Lionel's face and felt the faint ache of his own wounds. He lifted his clothes at the back, touching the muscles near his waist, and the pain was evident.

Lionel had always struck Lex, every time his business suffered or someone provoked him, he would lash out at Lex, using whatever was at hand, leaving scars on Lex's back after today's encounter with Schiller.

Speaking to himself in a low voice, Lex said, "You know what's hardest? Pretending to be naive and foolish while making painful expressions when you're hit."

"In truth, I don't feel much pain. That miraculous substance seems to dull my senses and enhance my healing ability."

As Lex mumbled to himself, he picked up a saw from the toolbox and began dealing with Lionel's corpse.

Just as he removed one of Lionel's arms, suddenly the telephone in the meeting room rang. Lex furrowed his brow, looking towards the bathroom door.

Dropping the saw, he stood up, ignoring the bloodstains on his pants, and went to the meeting room. The wall-mounted telephone was still unaffected by the chaos, emitting a sharp ringtone.

He picked up the telephone and placed it to his ear, hearing a fragmented chuckle from the other end. A voice he didn't recognize spoke, "Hello, Lex Luthor. I am a comedian. Have you ever seen comedy?"

"Who are you? How do you know I'm here?"

"That's not important, Lex. Don't worry about these trivial matters. Here's the thing: I am Joker, a comedian who just moved from Gotham. To gain fame for my comedy tour, I've chosen this place as my first venue. Do you want to buy a ticket?"

"No," Lex declined and was about to hang up the telephone when he heard the voice say, "Well, it seems you want to participate in the show. Perfect! Great comedies always need some supporting actors."

"By the way, do you know where I am right now? Look down, lower your head, hahahaha!"

Instinctively, Lex glanced at the floor, following the gaze through the layers of floor and ceiling, all the way down to the underground of the mayor's mansion.

There, an out-of-place surveillance room filled with advanced electronic devices blinked with cold light. The room's airlock opened, revealing an array of screens covering three walls.

In the midst of the surrounded screens sat a man in a dark suit, his face painted like Joker, with a mad grin on display. He had one leg crossed over the other and held a telephone in his hand as he spoke to someone on the other end.

He said, "Honestly, it's much cooler down here than upstairs. I'll be quietly preparing for the next performance. When I need you to come on stage, I'll call you again."

A series of maniacal laughter came from the telephone, and Lex brought the mobile phone close to his face, deep in thought.

Someone had already arrived in the underground of Manor? Lex wondered. This was not right. How did this self-proclaimed comedian get this information, find the entrance, and get in without a key?

After pondering for a moment, he put the telephone to his ear again and dialed a number. When the other person answered, he said, "Hello? Bruce?"

Bruce's voice sounded breathless, as if he had just finished exercising, and he spoke in a low tone, as if evading someone's search. He said, "What's the matter?"

"Do you remember if there was a comedian on the guest list for the party?"

Bruce frowned, having a bad feeling about this, and then he heard Lex say, "I just received a telephone call from someone who claims to be Joker, a comedian. It seems like he's already entered the underground of the Manor. I suspect there might be some monitoring equipment there, allowing him to observe us."

"He might have found the entrance and gotten in. If you still want that treasure, you'd better act fast."

Bruce's mind was no longer focused on the treasure. He turned his head to look outside; the agents hadn't caught up yet. He spoke rapidly, "Are you sure he called himself Joker?"

"Correct. He said he's holding a comedy show here. While speaking, he couldn't stop chuckling, sounding like an uncontrollable lunatic. Before hanging up, he laughed manically, and the sharp sound hurt my ears..."

"Listen..." Bruce's tone suddenly grew serious. He said, "Although I don't know why he's there, I have to warn you, he's the most dangerous maniac in the world."

"If he calls you again, don't listen to his persuasion, don't ponder his logic, and don't ask him why."

Lex's expression also turned grave; though he had known Bruce for a short time, he acknowledged that the man possessed the same level of intelligence as him.

He understood that despite Bruce's playboy appearance, he was a serious and non-joking person, and when he spoke earnestly about something, it meant the seriousness of the matter might surpass anyone's expectations.

"It sounds like you know him. Please don't tell me he's the Joker from Gotham."

"No..."

When Bruce denied it, Lex felt relieved. In his two years of sobriety, he had heard others talk about Gotham. They said it was a city of lunatics, and every criminal who came out of there would be the deadliest killer in any other city.

However, Bruce's cold voice came through soon after, "Compared to him, the others in Gotham are not even close to being called lunatics."

This sentence was colder than the never-ending blizzard outside. The freezing wind slapped against the windows like a symphony of a classical masterpiece, echoing through the corridor with an eerie and chilling atmosphere.

Clark quickly returned to his room, not because he felt cold, but because he felt angry. The group of agents said nothing, asked nothing, they just kept shooting at him. He had never encountered such people before.

Taking a deep breath, he went to his bed, picked up a pillow, and threw it back down. He exhaled like any young person from the East Coast: when angry, he just wanted to leave home and spend time in a barn or walk in the wheat fields.

He stood up again and walked to the window. The sunlight reflecting off the snow was blinding due to the high-powered light bulbs outside. Clearly, there were no barns, no wheat fields, and no parents to find him there.

Clark began to miss home.

During his time studying at Metropolis University, he encountered many problems that every small-town youth would face. There were many things he didn't recognize, many rules he wasn't familiar with, and he had been mocked because of it.

The new world outside wasn't as exciting as he had imagined. Beyond the excitement, the price he had to pay was much greater than he had anticipated.

He urgently wanted to talk to his parents about these troubles, but unfortunately, he found himself entangled in another unfamiliar vortex and didn't know how to escape.

Clark's thoughts were a tangled mess. He stood by the window for a while before turning to leave. He thought of going upstairs to talk to the Professor; he believed it might make him feel better. However, he remembered what Schiller had said about not having enough sleep tonight. Clark felt it would be impolite to disturb him now.

But he desperately wanted to talk to someone. So he thought about going to Lex; perhaps they could continue the conversation they hadn't finished before.

But just then, with a bang, the door was pushed open, and several agents rushed in, aiming their guns at Clark. Instinctively, he took a step back, realizing these were the same agents he had fought earlier.

"What do you want?! You..."

"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Several handguns fired simultaneously, and bullets poured toward Clark, his expression growing angrier.

He waved his hand, and all the bullets hung suspended in mid-air. Then, with incredible speed, he blurred through the floating bullets. With a bang, the frontmost agent's gun was knocked out of his hand.

"Bang! Oh-"

A loud noise was followed by a cry of surprise. The leading agent was thrown onto the bed by Clark.

The agent standing at the door raised his gun again to shoot, but Clark picked up a desk lamp and threw it, knocking him to the ground. The last agent was taken down by Clark's elbow strike.

Clark took a few breaths, not because he was tired, but because he was furious. He couldn't understand why these people were targeting him.

From the beginning, his intention was to put out the fire, and he had successfully extinguished it. In the process, he hadn't offended anyone. Yet, every time these people saw him, they shot at him.

As he thought about this, Clark suddenly felt dizzy, and his body grew weak. He coughed a couple of times, then collapsed.

It felt as if something was interfering with him, reducing his biological range and weakening his strength. Most importantly, he lost the feeling of being filled with power, making him feel very uncomfortable and unable to adjust his body.

Seeing Clark suddenly collapse, the agent also froze for a moment. But soon, he reacted and turned to walk to the other side of the room, intending to retrieve the handgun Clark had knocked away. Clark tried to stop him, but his body wouldn't obey.

As the agent approached with the gun, Clark could only cough helplessly in place. But then, a figure zoomed past him, and with several bangs, he saw the agent's gun fly away between the person's overlapping fists.

In his hazy gaze, Clark saw the figure crouching down to check on him, and then, he saw Bruce's face.

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