American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 259 The Number of the Supreme Beasts.

The Kent farm was completely silent at night.

Dior returned to his simply furnished room.

But tonight, instead of picking up those difficult books to study as usual, or engaging in meditation to hone his mental strength, he went straight to his desk and turned on that old CRT computer.

The cold light from the screen reflected on his face.

His fingers still felt stiff and awkward on the keyboard.

After all, for someone who is used to solving problems directly with the power of his Stand and his own intellect, this method of information retrieval relying on modern technology is not his first choice.

But at this moment, he needs a wider range of information sources.

He hesitated for a moment, as if confirming some vague coordinates, then slowly and clearly typed three words into the search bar:

Gamora.

The search results appeared almost instantly.

An extra-legal island nation in the western Pacific Ocean.

The brief description conveys a deliberate sense of detachment.

Only one bolded sentence in the introduction stood out:

"Perseverance is the cornerstone of this nation." — Kezan Gamora

Dior frowned slightly.

He pondered the nonsensical promotional slogan in his mind, then closed the flashy tourism page without hesitation and began searching for more specific and in-depth historical information about Gamora.

"...The Internet is indeed a good thing."

He whispered to himself.

The information that a surface network can provide is ultimately limited, but it is enough to outline a vague contour of a preliminary goal.

The information is limited, only recording its brief history.

The island was originally named Palucia and was occupied by the Gamora family in 1543. A challenger named John Cort briefly overthrew the rule, but the Gamora family quickly regained power, which continues to this day.

The island's political system seems to remain an ancient monarchy, with each monarch bearing the same title—Kazan Gamora.

Gamora Island, the Kezan family…

These fragments are slowly piecing together in his mind.

An isolated island nation, outside the bounds of international law. A mysterious family that has existed for nearly five centuries, with each generation of rulers sharing the same name.

And, a mysterious substance that can grant mortals strange powers...

Black diamond.

"You want it?"

Dior's whispers echoed in the silent room, as if questioning the shadows on the wall, or as if conversing with another version of himself.

If a Stand user were present at that moment.

Then you will see it clearly.
The "world" was silently suspended in the shadows behind Dior.

The outline of his bulging muscles was faintly visible in the shadows, and the kryptonite embedded on his shoulder emitted a faint, eerie green light, like a single eye gazing at its prey.

It simply floated silently, without moving an inch.

But Dior could sense it.

It was a resonance that required no visual confirmation; a cold yet burning throbbing sensation originating from the soul connection was coming from the other side of the "world," washing over his will.

It is a kind of...desire.

His thoughts drifted back a moment earlier, to when the deep, seemingly all-consuming black diamond projection materialized in Ron's palm—

At that moment.

He didn't even have time to think.

The "world" then solidified and appeared behind him almost on its own.

There was no hostility, no wariness, only a... almost instinctive attraction.

The feeling was fleeting, yet it was as clear as a brand, so intense that he could still feel its aftershocks even now.

The last time I felt the "world" convey such naked desire so clearly and so proactively was when it first activated the kryptonite mark on my right shoulder, facing Clark's immense solar energy.

That's greed for energy.

Or rather, it is a greed for something that can complete oneself and bring about an ultimate source of power.

At this moment, the target of this desire is that 'black diamond'.

This is not a simple desire, but more like a grasping desire stemming from an instinct for existence, a greed for power and absolute dominance.

It is cold, unbound by any moral constraints, and its sole purpose is to devour and merge that dark wonder, transforming it into a corner of its own crown.

"Ah……"

A knowing, slightly excited chuckle escaped Dior's throat.

Although Ron had warned that the thing was dangerous, unstable, and would distort those who came into contact with it.

But the yearning for "the world" is so real.

Dangerous? Unstable?

For those who yearn to climb to the top and trample everything underfoot, danger is merely a bloodstained pattern adorning the staircase to the throne.

Dior slowly raised his hand, as if grasping something.

His gaze pierced through the walls of the room, reaching towards the infinite distance, towards that lawless land in the western Pacific Ocean.

“Gamora… Kezan…”

He murmured the two names, like a tyrant surveying his future territory, or a god savoring the fragrance of an offering.

Without the slightest hesitation, he picked up the phone on the table.

With practiced fingers, he pressed a few keys and connected a number.

After a brief pause, Rocman Wecker's voice, tinged with respect and a hint of weariness, came from the other end.

"Your Majesty, what are your orders?"

Dior cut straight to the point without any pleasantries, his voice as cold as ice: "Rocoman, I need you to investigate a place."

"Please tell me."

Roccoman's voice became focused.

“Gamora,” Dio uttered the name clearly.

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone, followed by Rocman's clearly confused reply: "...Gamora? Your Majesty, if I may be so bold, is this...a small town in Gotham? I don't think I've ever heard of that name."

Dior's lips curled into a smile, as if he had anticipated the other party's ignorance.

His tone was calm, yet it carried a condescending and overwhelming sense of superiority:

"Rocoman, an island. In the western Pacific Ocean, around 13 degrees north latitude, an island nation with almost no presence in the international community, but which is a veritable lawless land."

He paused, as if explaining a simple geographical concept to students in class:

"It's not on any gang maps or lists of transnational crime hotspots that you're familiar with."

"It is very low-key, so low-key that it seems to have been forgotten by the world."

"But I want you to gather all the information about him."

Rocman gasped on the other end of the phone, clearly caught off guard by this sudden and unfamiliar country, but he quickly composed himself: "Understood, Your Majesty. Western Pacific, Gamora Island."

"I will immediately arrange for personnel to infiltrate and investigate through all possible channels."

"However... this level of investigation, especially in a sovereign country, may require time and... additional budget."

"Budget is not a problem."

“Just ask Cobblestone; he’s made a lot of money selling ‘toys’ lately anyway,” Dio replied readily. “The sooner the better.”

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Roccoman's voice regained its usual composure.

“Very well,” Dio concluded. “Remember, I don’t want published tourist brochures; I want the dust hidden under the palace carpets. Don’t disappoint me.”

Meanwhile, the Kent farm under the cover of night was not completely silent.

Locke carried a lamp as he walked through the orchard.

He reached out and gently stroked a broad apple tree leaf covered in night dew, feeling the vibrant life within it, and a pure joy appeared on his face.

Ron Jones walked silently beside him.

His serious demeanor, typical of General Swanwick, seemed somewhat out of place in this pastoral scene, but his gaze as he observed the crops was unusually focused.

After all, he grew it all himself.

"It seems that this year's harvest will be quite a challenge."

Rong En calmly stated the facts, his gaze sweeping over the vast farmland, whose abundance could still be felt even in the darkness of night.

Upon hearing this, Locke turned around, glanced at him, and chuckled as he retorted:

"With a Martian master like you who can conjure tens of thousands of clones around, what need is there for kung fu?"

"Your clone army is probably more efficient than the most advanced combine harvester, or even our legendary 'Canadian Wolves'."

“'The Canadian Wolf'?” Ron tilted his head, seemingly searching through a vast database, then thoughtfully confirmed, “Does it refer to Logan?”

"Yes, it's that friend of mine who's probably off somewhere licking his wounds or causing trouble again." Locke's tone was slightly teasing and familiar, but then it turned into a serious inquiry. "Speaking of which, Ron..."

"Even with your resources and intelligence network, you still haven't been able to find his exact whereabouts?" Ron nodded: "According to the records I've reviewed, his most recent recorded appearance was at your farm."

"The timeframe is the period around when you discover the Reaper-9 has revived and engage in combat with it."

"The unofficial record is what you said, that he last appeared in front of you on Christmas three or four years ago."

“Since then, he has seemingly vanished from the planet, leaving no trace in any known surveillance network.”

Locke sighed softly, letting the light cast flickering shadows on his face.

However, he quickly came to terms with it.

"Never mind." He bent down carefully to straighten a sapling that had been blown askew by the wind, and covered it with soil. Locke smiled magnanimously: "That guy is like a gust of wind."

"Maybe he just found his way home and went back to his own world? After all, he never really belonged here."

Are you very worried about him?

Rong En asked, his voice devoid of much emotion, more like a logical inquiry.

“At first, yes.” Locke straightened up, brushed the dirt off his hands, and his smile relaxed. “But then I thought, Logan himself is a walking adventure epic. He’s been through far more than we imagine, and…”

He paused, his tone carrying an absolute confidence in his old friend's tenacious vitality.

"He won't die. Thinking about it that way, it seems there's nothing to worry about. He has his battles to fight, and I have my corn to plant. Let's just live our own lives."

After all, it's also possible that the Heavenly Universe is a parallel world, while the Evil Emperor is in a real future timeline.

Now that the future has changed, Logan naturally has no reason to come looking for himself anymore.

"correct."

Locke seemed to remember something; his long-held curiosity overcame his nighttime weariness, and he looked at Ron, "What exactly is Logan's past in this world?"

He had been pondering this question for many years, but Luo Gen's own evasive attitude prevented him from ever getting to the bottom of it.

Ron hesitated for a moment, then raised his eyes and asked, "Do you know John Cumberland?"

Upon hearing this opening remark, Locke immediately understood, feeling a mix of amusement and exasperation.

Well, this guy is definitely going to 'talk a big game' again.
The story could probably take an hour or two to finish.

His instinct was to find an excuse to slip away, but when he glanced up at the clear moon in the sky, felt the rare tranquility of the farm at night, and thought that he really didn't have anything urgent to do...

Then Locke whistled a clear, bright whistle.

A moment later, a heavy gust of wind approached from afar, and a huge shadow loomed over the sky above them.

A magnificent griffin silently landed on the edge of the field, gently lowering its massive head and looking at Locke with its amber eyes.

He pulled out a large bag of popcorn from somewhere, still emitting a rich buttery aroma.

Locke leaned back comfortably against the griffin's warm and firm side, grabbed a handful of popcorn and stuffed it into his mouth, mumbling indistinctly:

"Alright, go ahead. I'm listening."

Seeing Locke treating this epic secret like a rural radio drama, Ron's usually stern and unsmiling face appeared even darker in the moonlight.

He stared at Locke silently for a few seconds, then, as if unwilling to be outdone, he also reached into his seemingly ordinary uniform pocket and took out a bag...

Individually wrapped Oreo cookies.

Then, with a thought, a transparent stool made of pure green energy materialized.

He calmly sat down and tore open the Oreo packaging.

I took a bite of an Oreo, and then pulled out a bottle of milk from somewhere and took a sip.

He cleared his throat, met Locke's teasing yet expectant gaze, and began his story:

"John Cumberland has an official codename in the DEO's top-secret files—'The Supreme One'."

He seemed to be retrieving precise descriptions from those ancient files.

"He was a mysterious hero who was active in the first half of the 20th century. Apart from a very few people who fought alongside him or had direct contact with him, the outside world knew almost nothing about him."

"For the vast majority of people, he is more like an ethereal myth, or a magic trick on the battlefield, a collective illusion born out of chaos."

"But in the DEO's file, he really exists, and every word is verifiable."

"We cannot pinpoint his exact birth date, but we do know that in 1938, he appeared as an adult and officially began his superhero career."

"His list of enemies is long—corrupt aristocratic families, rampant Nazi allies, arms tycoons profiting from the war..."

"He has even single-handedly prevented natural disasters such as earthquakes and tsunamis more than once."

“However,” Rong En said, a hint of regret in his voice, “the government at the time, in order to maintain a certain appearance of ‘stability’.”

"In order to convince the public that the world still follows the physical and power rules they can understand, their repeated victories against Nazis and isolationists were officially publicized as... 'collective hysteria caused by battlefield stress'."

"This systematic erasure and distortion continued until the emergence and establishment of the Justice Society under Queen Hippolyta's leadership, which brought it all to an end."

"It is precisely because of this that the deeds of the 'Supreme One' have been preserved and have not been completely buried in the dust of history, giving me the opportunity to read all of this in those long-sealed documents."

The moonlight shone on Ron's expressionless face and also illuminated Locke's slightly furrowed brows.

"But that's all in the future."

"In short, due to government intervention..."

Ron continued, his voice steady yet carrying the weight of history, “The superhero identity of ‘Supreme’ lasted only about three years before being shattered by the heavy blow of reality against his ideals, and he ultimately chose to withdraw from the public eye.”

"Even in this semi-retired state, he is not completely silent."

"Whenever there is severe turmoil in the world's political situation, there are occasional sporadic reports of his appearances. But his main activities have become traveling around the world, exchanging ideas with people from different cultures and countries, and trying to find inspiration and answers from the broader human mind..."

Rong En paused for a moment, picked up an Oreo, and seemed to be organizing a final summary.

He looked at Locke, his eyes, which seemed to see right through people, reflecting a conclusion drawn from extensive data analysis:

"Although I have never had direct contact with him, looking at all the records about him, I can draw one conclusion—John Cumberland was a thorough and pure idealist."

"It's the kind of thing... you'd see on the title page of the Earth Scout Handbook, a perfect example of 'honor, duty, dedication,' pushed to the limits of humanity."

He took a bite of the Oreo, and then added softly, as if stamping a definitive conclusion on a complex historical figure:
"An ultimate scout, powerful enough to change the world, but whose ideals are more easily crushed by reality."

"Pfft...Isn't this just a giant version of Clark?"

Locke finally couldn't resist.

The shoulders leaning against the griffin's warm wings trembled violently, and the laughter was particularly abrupt in the quiet night, causing the popcorn bucket in his hand to shake and almost spill all over the ground.

A hint of helplessness seemed to flash across Ron's dark face as he calmly stated, "Clark probably won't like hearing that assessment."

"is it?"

Locke shrugged dismissively, the smile still lingering on his lips. "But my nephew, to this day, is still incredibly proud of his Boy Scout heart."

"'Truth, Justice, and the American Way'"

"You big dummy, say it again and I'll beat you up."

Locke mimicked Clark and Dio's words after their Boy Scout field trip years ago.

His tone was full of teasing and a hint of barely perceptible pride.

Rong En's lips twitched slightly, and he decided not to dwell on the analogy anymore.

He cleared his throat, steer the conversation back on track, and his voice became calm and objective again:
"In short, the appearance of 'The Supreme One' John Cumberland greatly stimulated and fueled the fear and desire of the top brass of the U.S. military at the time for uncontrolled superhuman power. In response, they launched a top-secret project, codenamed 'The Number of Beasts'."

His words echoed in the night sky, unveiling this cold and dark page of history.

“The ‘Beast Number’ program has been dedicated to secretly capturing and imprisoning individuals with superpowers since World War II, and attempting to ‘train’ them, or more accurately, to use them to deal with other superhuman threats.”

"And because they feared that these powerful beings imprisoned would turn against their masters once they were freed, the person in charge of the project tended to 'modify' them."

"In order to achieve absolute control."

"However, the transformation process is often extremely difficult, with an alarming failure rate."

"During this process, military leaders noticed a civilian organization active in the shadows. This organization possessed a type of superhuman known as 'mutants,' believed to be a species from another world. Their unique genetic sequences and diversity immediately aroused great interest from the military."

Locke's eyes narrowed upon hearing this.

His previous relaxed expression faded considerably, and he suddenly realized, "Then Logan..."

“Yes.” Ron confirmed his guess. “Logan was captured by that civilian organization, and then, with the strong intervention of the military, his project and personnel were merged into Project Beast Number.”

"Based on this, an even more radical and dangerous project was developed—'Project Reaper'."

His voice remained steady, but the content of his narration was brutally cruel:
"The plan is based on the unconventional genetic research of Dr. Jacob Kriegerstein, the head of that non-governmental organization."

"They are trying to use Logan's unique alloy and his blood, which has a powerful healing factor, to clone super soldiers or perform large-scale mutant enhancements."

Rong En shook his head slightly, his tone carrying a cold regret based on facts: "Unfortunately, the vast majority of the test subjects became failures."

“A pile of unstable, twisted and struggling defects in endless pain.”

"The 'Number of Beasts' project itself was heavily criticized and was eventually disbanded and reorganized."

"Its core research direction has now been inherited by the sixth group of the Sky Eye Association. They have changed their approach and are committed to researching the 'Supreme One' that belongs to the military."

"The assets he left behind have now been taken over by General Sam Lane and integrated into the new 'Weapon X' project, which is mainly used to manage, or rather... eradicate, the remaining mutant-related crimes."

"The Reaper series of robots is the armed embodiment of this project."

He finally looked at Locke and made a reasonable deduction:

“If I’m not mistaken, Locke, the ‘Reaper-9’ you met on the farm back then should be one of the few living legacies of that failed ‘Kriegstein Project’ in the world today.”

Under the night sky, Locke remained silent for a moment.

The popcorn in my hand didn't seem to smell so good anymore.

All that's left is a frustratingly greasy feeling.

(End of this chapter)