Chapter 51 – The Kryptonians Arrive, The Curtain Rises

Superman nodded in understanding, but deep down, a creeping fear stirred within him. The gene sample in his hands—this so-called "Ultimate Lifeform"—it worried him. What if studying it meant opening Pandora’s box?

Seeing that fear in his child’s eyes, the holographic AI Jor-El continued reassuringly.

"This genome… it's not like the one I saw in Doomsday. Its evolutionary potential may not reach the same heights, but it does evolve—slowly and stably. That’s what makes it valuable."

But those words only made things worse. Clark realized he needed a way to contain this gene, not unleash it.

"This is too dangerous. Our priority should be researching how to limit its evolution."

Jor-El tried once again to persuade him.

"Evolution isn’t inherently a flaw, Kal. The ability to adapt—to survive—is essential. You’re the future of Krypton."

But Superman shook his head. He was content with who he was now. Powerful, yes—but not invincible. Vulnerabilities kept him grounded. They let him live a life that was… human.

"This path of forced evolution is full of danger, Jor. I can’t promise I’ll be able to control it. What if I accidentally unleash another Doomsday on Earth? No… I like things the way they are."

The hologram paused, his programming calculating. After a moment of silence, his core directive—to protect Kal-El—overrode all else.

"Very well. I respect your choice. If we must deal with creatures that evolve without limit, we can turn to methods once developed for handling Doomsday himself."

LexCorp.

Lex Luthor was frustrated.

No matter how many tests he ran, the damn sample still just read as ordinary mouse DNA. His equipment was too outdated to detect the deeper genetic patterns. It was like Schrödinger’s rat—he knew something was there, but he couldn’t prove it.

"This is your problem, Luthor," General Lane growled, pacing nearby. He wasn’t any less irritated. Having a treasure trove of alien bio-miracles sitting uselessly in front of him was infuriating.

What annoyed him most, however, was that Superman had slipped through his fingers.

He was supposed to wait. They were supposed to "have a talk." Lane had even prepped his kryptonite sidearm to shove down the alien’s throat.

But the bastard ghosted him.

Half an hour ago, freshly awakened, Lane had been duped by Luthor into collaborating on a military research project. The goal? Extract the "Ultimate Lifeform" genes from that partial mouse corpse.

Lane agreed immediately. If they could replicate such a terrifying biological weapon, they’d no longer need to fear Superman or any other powered freaks.

Creatures that could shift, adapt, couldn't be killed or even pinned down? Just the thought made his skin crawl.

"Don’t worry, General," Luthor said, dabbing sweat from his shining scalp. "Give me just a little more time. I promise, this thing will soon give up its secrets."

Lane wasn’t overly concerned with the research timeline. What he really wanted was something else.

"Fine. But in the meantime, I need weapons—something that can deal with Superman."

The moment the word "Superman" was uttered, Luthor instinctively flicked on his security feeds, scanning the perimeter.

Only when he confirmed the coast was clear did he speak again.

"You’re insane, Lane. Just researching this creature will already attract Superman’s attention. And now you want to provoke him too?"

"That bastard stood me up! I can’t let that slide. You give me the weapons—I’ll draw his attention. You just focus on the science."

Luthor blinked. Huh. Sounded reasonable.

"Alright. I’ve got a few experimental prototypes—not for sale, but they pack more punch than our standard-issue kryptonite guns."

He led the general through a labyrinthine basement into an old vault lined with discarded tech and exposed wiring—half-finished failures and dead-end designs. The real treasures were behind another lead-lined door.

With a clap, motion-sensitive lights flickered on, illuminating a rack of ominous-looking weaponry.

"Behold, my darlings," Luthor said with a theatrical sweep of his arms. "We’ve got the Kryptonite Rifle X—bigger, meaner, deadlier. While the regular models just suppress his powers, this one’s built to kill."

"This is the Kryptonite Smoke Bomb—within a contained area, its effects rival the rifle."

"And these—kryptonite-tipped bullets and a custom combat blade. Combine them with the smoke? You’re looking at a Superman-slaying kit."

General Lane’s eyes sparkled. But something gnawed at him.

"Wait a damn second… why do you even have this stuff? Were you already planning to kill him?"

Luthor waved him off.

"No, no. Don’t be ridiculous. Just… a hobby of mine. If you had to watch that guy fly past your office window every day, kissing your daughter goodbye, you’d go a little nuts too."

Lane grumbled. Just thinking about Superman and his little princess gave him hypertension.

"You’re right. Just looking at him makes me want to shoot something. Alright—these weapons are mine. In exchange, you keep your lab quiet."

"Deal."

Three days passed quietly.

Superman remained holed up in his Arctic fortress, focused on research. Luthor barely stepped out of his lab. General Lane was out sniffing around for Superman, itching to pull the trigger.

As for Max?

He was in the “Tomb of the Undead,” ruthlessly training Garfield into the ultimate emergency support unit.

Max’s goal was to fully unlock the Ultimate Lifeform’s potential—every hidden advantage Garfield had, Max intended to exploit. The poor cat became a Swiss army knife of survival: trained to administer first aid, perform internal parasite extractions, and even conduct field surgery.

And somehow… Garfield learned it all.

But the murderous gleam in his salty, dead-fish eyes spoke volumes. He’d had enough.

Three days to cram thirty years of medical experience? No wonder the cat looked like he was about to shank Max in his sleep.

To make things worse, under Max’s soul contract, Garfield could simulate rare and deadly medical conditions on himself, forcing himself to find cures. The pain was real. The learning curve was brutal.

And if not for that cursed contract?

Max would’ve been cat food by now.

Meanwhile, Krypton’s ship had finally arrived in Earth’s orbit.

It intercepted local data transmissions and located Jor-El’s son.

At noon, every human-made satellite around Earth was hijacked. Phones, radios, televisions—all began broadcasting a single phrase:

"You are not alone."

Before the world could even react, the signal shifted. A dark-armored figure stood within what looked like a high-tech spacecraft. Stern and grim, he addressed Earth:

"Kal-El, son of Jor-El. So-called protector of Earth… Superman."

He sneered.

"What a pathetic title. In my eyes, you’re nothing but a coward who betrayed his own race."

The word “coward” landed like a slap. His face flushed with rage—clearly, this wasn’t for show.

He was genuinely furious. Because even if Kal-El had been born through natural means—an inferior process by Kryptonian standards—he was still one of them.

And what did he do?

He played superhero for a planet full of genetic rejects.

"I am General Dru-Zod, the last general of Krypton. Kal-El—come face me."

Back in the Arctic Fortress…

Superman’s fists clenched.

What the hell just happened?

Some guy he’d never met had just blasted him on every screen on Earth. His alien identity? Exposed. His dignity? Gone. Worldwide.

Jor-El sighed, visibly troubled.

"I didn’t think Zod would track you down here. He’s a war criminal—exiled to the Phantom Zone before Krypton’s destruction."

"A criminal?" Superman asked.

"In my view? Not exactly. He led a military coup trying to stop Krypton’s downfall. He failed. But he acted out of conviction."

[What the AI didn’t say: it was Jor-El who had ratted Zod out. Jor-El believed Krypton’s end was inevitable. Rather than fight fate, he sent his naturally born son to another planet.]

[He’d even embedded Krypton’s genetic Codex into Kal-El’s cells—a legacy that could, over time, turn him into a near-omnipotent being.]

The revelation made Superman sympathetic. Zod had watched his homeworld die. Anyone would be angry.

But something didn’t add up.

"Why come after me? He’s got a ship full of people—men and women. That’s more than enough to rebuild their race on another planet."

Jor-El shook his head.

"Kryptonians have rigid genetic and caste systems. Every person is born with a predetermined role. But you, my son… you carry the entire Kryptonian genome."

"You’re the Codex."

"With it, Zod could clone an entire new race. But he won’t just leave Earth behind. You’re proof this planet is ideal for them."

Superman’s heart sank.

"So, what now? Invite them to stay… or drive them off?"

Even as they spoke, Zod’s ship descended—hovering over Metropolis in plain sight.

Military forces scrambled to negotiate.

They didn’t get the chance.

One Kryptonian soldier stepped forward—and with a single punch, reduced a negotiator to bloody mist.

"AAAAARGH!"