American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 133 Gotham really needs a king.

The coronation ceremony concluded without incident.

The news that Smallwell High School had produced two Homecoming Kings for the first time in its history spread like wildfire throughout the school. Students discussed this unprecedented event in small groups, their excitement lingering for a long time.

The Kent family walked out of the school gate with the crowd.

The night was filled with the relaxation and joy of the celebration.

Lex seems to have something to take care of in town.

As soon as the coronation was over, he left with that enigmatic smile.

"What are we having for dinner?" Jonathan asked, still wanting more. "Should we celebrate?"

“What’s the rush? Let’s wait for Martha and Salafir.” Locke stretched. “They haven’t arrived yet.”

"Beep beep~!"

The principal parked his slightly old car next to them.

He clearly saw them; he rolled down the car window, his face pale with shock, but he still managed a professional smile and nodded to the Kent family, especially the two newly crowned kings.

"Mr. Kent, tonight... uh... was very memorable. Congratulations."

His voice was still a little unsteady, "I'm going back now."

Goodbye, Headmaster.

Clark responded politely.

Jonathan waved back cheerfully.

With another wave, the principal closed the car window and let the car slowly drive away.

then
"Sizzle...sizzle..."

A strange noise, like a short circuit, suddenly came from under the car!
Immediately afterward, under the watchful eyes of the students who had not yet dispersed, thick black smoke billowed from the rear of the car without warning.

The smoke quickly became thick and pungent, and almost instantly, flames shot out from near the hood. The fire spread extremely fast, engulfing half of the car body in the blink of an eye!
"Fire! The principal's car is on fire!"

"Oh my god! Help!"

Exclamations and screams instantly shattered the evening's tranquility.

"Mr. Principal!"

Clark's expression changed drastically, and he instinctively rushed towards the burning vehicle.
With his speed, he could have easily rescued the principal before the explosion.

But at the very moment he exerted his strength—

"Clark."

A steady hand rested on his shoulder.

It's Locke.

Clark turned around anxiously: "Uncle! The principal is still in the car!"

Can.
But Locke didn't seem too panicked.

He simply waved the object he was carrying in his other hand.

It was none other than the headmaster, who was already unconscious! He was being held limply in Locke's hand, like a cat being grabbed by the scruff of its neck.

"?!!"

Clark was stunned.

When was Uncle...?
He didn't even see any movement!

He instinctively looked at Dio standing to the side, trying to get a clue from his brother.

But Dior had his hands in his coat pockets, his face showing his usual indifference.

Even upon meeting Clark's gaze, a clear message was conveyed in his crimson eyes:
Don't ask me, I don't know anything, and I didn't see anything.

Oh ~
Clark understood instantly.

It was Uncle who activated the power of "Platinum Star" and stopped time!

In a brief moment that no one could perceive, the uncle had already rushed into the burning car and rescued the unconscious principal!

Having figured this out, Clark suppressed his shock, quickly turned around, and locked his gaze on the fire hydrant by the roadside.

"open!"

He let out a low shout, not bothering to hide it.

Grasp the heavy cast iron cap of the fire hydrant with both hands and apply slight force.

"Crench--!"

With a sickening metallic twist, he ripped open the cover with his bare hands, a task that required a wrench!

He picked up the fire hose and shoved it into the hole.

"laugh--!!!"

High-pressure water jets were sprayed out and shot directly at the burning vehicle.

The water and fire clashed, producing a loud noise and a large amount of white water vapor.

Strangely, although the fire looked fierce, it seemed to be mainly concentrated in the outer shell and chassis area.

The internal combustion was not severe.

Under the powerful scouring of the water, the open flames were quickly suppressed and extinguished, leaving only the car's exterior charred black.

Just as the fire was completely extinguished—

Clark felt as if his vision blurred very slightly, like a television signal briefly skipping a frame.

Upon closer inspection, the principal, who had just been being carried by his uncle, was now safely back in the driver's seat!

He seemed to have just woken up from a coma, coughing violently, his face covered in soot and a dazed look of shock, as if he had just miraculously crawled back from the brink of death.

Clark immediately realized:
It was the uncle who activated the time stop function again, and just as the fire was extinguished, he shoved the principal back to the spot where the incident had occurred.

Without further ado, Clark quickly ran forward and, together with several passersby who had also come to their senses, helped the still bewildered principal to a safer area further away.

"It's alright, Principal, the fire has been put out."

Clark offered words of comfort, his gaze also sweeping over the burnt-out car.

Complete external combustion…

even
In the shade of a large oak tree not far from the school gate.

A somewhat familiar-looking man stood there quietly with his arms crossed.

Unlike the others, he did not show any panic or concern. His face was expressionless as he coldly stared at the still-smoking wreckage of the car and the principal, who was surrounded by the crowd and looked disheveled.

When Clark's eyes met his, he turned and walked away, as if it had nothing to do with him.

Coach Arnold
Even though they were far apart, Clark recognized him at a glance.

After a while.

After the vehicle was handed over to the fire department for proper handling.

The family waited until Salafir got out of school.

However, just as they were preparing to find a place to celebrate this unprecedented coronation of two kings...

Dior, however, did not seem to have any intention of joining.

"I went to the cake shop."

He succinctly uttered a single sentence, and without even waiting for his family's response, he turned and walked in the opposite direction from the crowd, his steps hurried.

"."

Standing there, Locke stroked his chin, looking curiously in the direction Dio had left, his eyes sparkling with a hint of inquiry, and even a touch of restlessness.

This kid.
Is he really going to work at a cake shop?

"stare--!"

However, his thoughts were immediately noticed by his family.

Martha, Jonathan, and even Salafir all turned their heads in perfect unison, their silent gazes fixed firmly on Locke.

Feeling a little embarrassed by the three gazes, Locke coughed awkwardly and muttered:
"Okay, okay... I won't go... I'm just a little curious..."

His little idea of ​​stalking her died instantly under the watchful eyes of his family.

"Dad, you have to believe in Dior."

Salafir blinked her big eyes and said earnestly.

"."

Now I'm even more suspicious!

Locke scratched Salafir's little head in annoyance.

What exactly is she hiding from him?

"clang--!"

The doorbell rang.

As soon as Dior pushed open the greasy glass door, he heard old Cebrelo roaring into the telephone receiver.

"What?! What do you mean the car is stuck in traffic?! Do you even want to sell it or not?!"

"Tell me, what do you mean the car is currently passing through a 'dangerous area'?! Is there any area in all of America more 'dangerous' than Gotham?! What the hell is this dangerous area that could hold him up for three days straight?!"

"..."

but
Seemingly because something else was said on the other end of the phone, Cebrelo's roar abruptly stopped, and he fell into a sudden silence.

Dio could even hear his heavy breathing.

"So this is ah."

A few seconds later, the experienced driver's tone took a complete 180-degree turn, he chuckled, and his voice became somewhat helpless:

"Oh... Gotham... Well... never mind then. Got it, got it... Okay... I'll contact you again if I hear anything..."

He hung up the phone almost impatiently, then sighed helplessly.

Then, turning around, he saw Dior standing behind him at some unknown time.

Sebrello was startled, then shrugged impatiently and pointed to the phone:

"You heard that? Your precious car is stuck in Gotham. Damn, that place is really cursed... Are you going to go and 'rescue' it yourself, Your Majesty?"

"It's nothing." Dio's face remained expressionless as he simply shrugged. "Anyway, I didn't bring any money with me today."

He had long expected that the old man was unreliable.

"Hey! What does that mean?!" As if he could see the disdain in Dio's eyes, Cebrello looked like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
"That's Gotham! Who knows what happened to that unfortunate truck driver who transported your vehicle? Was he robbed? Kidnapped? Or maybe he joined some gang in a shootout? How can you blame me for that?!"

Dio didn't need to waste words with Cebrelo; he knew the answer without even thinking.

This guy was definitely trying to save money. Instead of choosing the more reliable but expensive air freight to the metropolis, he opted for land transport, which seemed to be the shorter route. And wouldn't you know it, the route just had to pass through that chaotic city—

Gotham.

Don't look at me like that 'I knew it all along' look!

Cebrello again understood the disdain in Dio's eyes, and angrily retorted:
"To tell you the truth, logistics via Gotham are actually more expensive!"

"I agreed with the seller that it would be as fast as possible; the shipping cost is not a problem!"

"To our surprise, it really was the case that the faster the better; the driver even dared to enter Gotham City."

"..."

Dior was utterly speechless.

So, that custom Harley he had been longing for, the one he was going to give to his father as a birthday present.

They are currently trapped in some unknown corner of Gotham City, their fate unknown.
This is really...
-
Riding his Harley, Dior was like a black lightning bolt blending into the night.

With practiced ease, we drove into the Gotham landmark once again and turned into the heavily guarded VIP parking lot entrance behind the Iceberg Club.

I just parked the car and turned off the engine.

A familiar waiter immediately jogged up to him, a professional and respectful smile on his face, ready to take his car keys.

However, before Dior could even remove the key...

"boom!"

The parking lot side door was suddenly pushed open.

A burly man with a face full of scars casually tossed a young man dressed as a waiter out like he was throwing away trash!
The guy crashed heavily onto the cold, rough cement floor, letting out a painful groan.

He was beaten so badly that his face was bruised and swollen, his mouth was cracked and bleeding, and his expensive waiter's uniform was covered in stains and footprints, making him look extremely disheveled.

Dio frowned and glanced at the groaning person on the ground; the person looked somewhat familiar.

This waiter…

He usually seems to be in charge of the VIP area on the fourth floor that he frequents, and he's quite efficient.

"Ugh"

Seeing this, the waiter who was about to park Dior's car showed a hint of pity. He sighed softly, took Dior's keys, and muttered under his breath, "Still too young..."

Dio hadn't originally intended to interfere, but since it was someone he knew, he instinctively asked:
"what happened?"

"what?"

The waiter seemed surprised that this usually taciturn and imposing 'king' would speak to him. He paused for a moment before lowering his voice to explain, "He... he was too eager to make money. He worked for twelve hours straight without a break, trying to earn more overtime pay... and ended up being caught by Mr. Ogilvy, who was on patrol."

"Ogilvy?"

Dior frowned slightly. Why was it this fool again?

"Um…"

The waiter's voice lowered, tinged with fear:
“Mr. Ogilvy was furious, saying he had broken the club’s ‘rules’.”

"He was fined four hours' pay as punishment, and now it seems he's been beaten up again."

"?"

Dior finally turned his head, his eyes revealing undisguised confusion for the first time.

He thought he heard wrongly.

"You mean..."

His voice turned cold. "Working overtime in this godforsaken place, not only do we not get extra pay, but we also have to pay out of pocket?!"

This is an unprecedented and unfair contract term.
Even in Gotham, it seemed too blatant and foolish.

The boss, whom everyone calls the Penguin, doesn't seem that stupid.

Seemingly noticing the look of utter disbelief in Dior's eyes, the waiter, who had been explaining, appeared utterly helpless and frustrated. He swallowed hard, his voice barely audible:

“Mr. Ogilvy said... eight hours of work, which is the legally mandated... ‘reasonable’ working hours.”

“Voluntarily working twelve hours is a ‘violation’ of regulations, and if caught, you will be fined by the management bureau.”

"Now that Mr. Copperpot is not here, we...we must do our best to maintain the Iceberg Club."

"..."

Yeah…

Dior sneered inwardly.

His gaze swept over the enormous, brightly lit Iceberg Club, a building constructed from money and desire.

Laws? Regulations?
In Gotham, especially in this club called 'Iceberg'.

Who dares to actually fine the Iceberg Club? Which organization dares to investigate their employment records?

Ultimately, it's nothing more than that gorilla abusing his negligible power to tyrannize and exploit these powerless, low-level employees in various ways.

To tell the truth
This dirty and foolish trick made Dio feel nauseous.

He glanced at the young waiter on the ground who had been beaten half to death and was now being fined for trying to earn more money.

He glanced again at the waiter beside him, who dared not speak out against his anger.

He said nothing, but simply took his Harley key back from the waiter's hand.

I'll park the car myself.

He coldly uttered a sentence, ignored the bewildered waiter, and pushed his heavy Harley straight towards the VIP parking area.

But a little while
He then parked his Harley precisely in his designated parking space.

The movements were swift and efficient, without a single unnecessary movement.

After straightening his perfectly neat collar, Dior put his cold mask back on and strode toward the staff side door, preparing to, as usual, take this dirty but efficient shortcut into that world of extravagance and debauchery.

Can.
Just as his leather shoes were about to step onto the threshold.

"boom!"

A blood-stained hand, using its last bit of strength.

Suddenly, it darted out from the shadows and grabbed his trouser leg tightly.

Dior suddenly stopped walking, his brows furrowing instantly.

It wasn't that she couldn't react, but rather that she never expected this guy, who was even more disgusting than frog piss, would actually dare to touch her.

A trace of undisguised disgust and hostility flashed across his scarlet eyes.

He lowered his head, his cold gaze fixed on the owner of that hand—

This was the same young waiter who had been beaten half to death and thrown out like trash.

The waiter looked up at his face, which was covered in scars and bruises, his eyes almost unable to open due to swelling.

But those eyes were filled with the last glimmer of hope bursting forth from despair.

He recognized the shoes, and he recognized that aura.
He knew that the blond young man in front of him was the 'king' who was wildly sought after by the socialites and celebrities at the top of society, and a special person who even Mr. Copperpott regarded differently.

"Sir... Mr. Diego... please..."

"Your Majesty, I beg you, Your Majesty."

The waiter's voice was hoarse and broken, tinged with blood and foam, and almost inaudible.

But the hand gripping the man's trouser leg was unusually tight, as if it were the last piece of driftwood before drowning:

"Help me...please...I can't lose this job...and I can't...I can't owe the club money..."

He coughed violently, each cough aggravating his injuries, causing him to curl up in pain, but...
The hand still did not let go.

“My sister…she was in a car accident because of the heavy rain a few days ago, and she’s in the hospital waiting for surgery…I need money…I really need money…” Tears mixed with blood streamed down her face, her voice filled with utter despair and pleading, “Mr. Ogilvy will ruin me…”

"When he comes out and sees me, he'll throw me into Gotham Bay... Mr. King. Please... only you... only you could..."

"I really need it."

His words were disjointed and illogical.

But that sense of utter despair was crystal clear.

He wasn't begging for charity; he was pleading for a chance to live.
A faint hope of not being completely swallowed by this cannibalistic abyss.

Dior stood there, his trouser leg tightly gripped by that dirty hand.

seriously.
He should have kicked away this nuisance without hesitation, like brushing away dust.

This is Gotham.
Everyone has their own tragic story, and compassion is the cheapest and most deadly thing in Gotham.

Can…

The scenes that had just unfolded that afternoon flashed uncontrollably through his mind—

In front of the entire school, Clark offered him the crown that symbolized honor, saying that he was the true king.

Lex, that guy, took it upon himself to force another crown onto his head and pushed him to the front.

The students in the audience…

Even some teachers…

The look in his eyes that was a mixture of curiosity, awe, and a hint of expectation...

And father
"If you want to wear a crown, you must bear its weight."

king
This title, which he had previously scoffed at, seeing only as a farce and a tool for making money, suddenly became incredibly heavy and real because of the despair of the humble life beneath his feet.

If you want to wear a crown, you must bear its weight.

king
Is it enough to simply receive cheers on stage?
Is it enough to simply seize wealth from those foolish noblewomen?
Look at the person at your feet.

Look at the outside world, Gotham, a place so chaotic that even buying your own car can cause a three-day traffic jam.

Look at this 'kingdom' filled with injustice, oppression, and dirty rules.

He's in Gotham, at the Iceberg Club.
Every penny earned here is built on the exploitation and trampling of countless such "waiters".

The reason why people like Ogilvy can act so recklessly is because those who enjoy luxury at the top never even look down at the mud beneath their feet.

Two prisoners looked out of the prison window.
One saw mud, the other saw stars.

But the stars.
Is it really more noble?
As the stars on his neck radiated a long-lost heat, an unprecedented and strange feeling surged within Dio.

That wasn't disgust for Ogilvy, nor was it pity for the weak.
It's just a feeling of being offended and annoyed.

The rules of the Iceberg Club
When did it become Ogilvy's place to set the rules?
When did it become his place to use such foolish methods to disrupt the 'order' in his establishment and to mess with his people?
(End of this chapter)