Marvel: Father of Superheroes

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Watching the mocking faces around him, Beryl shouted, "Come on, Clark! Say something!"

Clark remained calm.

He had seen this kind of thing before and had long since gotten used to it.

But as Beryl looked at Clark's silence, her anger slowly turned into confusion.

Why wasn't he saying anything?

If it had been anyone else, they would've already retorted.

"He doesn't know, does he? He's just a softie!"

"Hahaha!"

"Softie! Softie!"

"Shh!"

Hearing the jeers, Beryl's confusion shifted to disdain and bewilderment.

Why wasn't he fighting back?

Could it be that he really was a softie? Had she misjudged him?

Clark put his headphones back on, casually dropped the ball at his feet, and started walking out of the field.

"Haha, he's a softie! His dad must be a softie too, to raise such a useless kid!"

Clark paused in his tracks, turned around, and looked at the boy who had spoken.

The boy mocked Clark, gesturing with his hands, and said, "Come on, coward, kick the ball to me! Do it, good boy!"

Clark took a deep breath, turned up the volume on his music, and walked toward the ball.

Watching this, Beryl's shock shifted to disgust as she covered her mouth.

She had really misjudged Clark.

When she had first transferred here, she'd noticed something different about Clark, but she never expected him to be this weak.

Clark stood in front of the ball, staring at the boy with contempt, then... raised his foot!

Whoosh!

The black-and-white soccer ball whizzed through the air with a gust of wind, passing inches from the boy's face before vanishing from sight.

A cold sweat appeared on the boy's forehead as he stared at Clark in horror, and the others also looked at him in shock.

That kick had been terrifying! If that ball had hit them in the face...

Just thinking about it made the boys shudder instinctively.

"Ha, hahaha! You kicked it off, didn't you? I thought you were supposed to be good! Now give us our ball back!"

The boy swallowed nervously and mocked Clark once more.

Clark walked toward him.

"What do you want?" the boy asked, puffing out his chest and glaring at Clark, while the others gathered around, surrounding him.

"What did you just say?" Clark took off his headphones and asked calmly.

The boy looked at his friends, smirking. "I said you're a softie!"

Clark shook his head. "No, what did you just say about my dad?"

"Softie dad, softie son, hahaha!"

Clark put his headphones back on. The rock music in his ears grew louder, more intense, almost as if it were about to explode. But Clark only grew calmer, his blue eyes as still as an icy lake.

Then, when no one expected it, he raised his hand...

Smack!

A sharp sound rang out.

The boy who had spoken was struck across the face with a slap and fell straight to the ground.

His head didn't explode, and he didn't lose consciousness, but he was dazed, his mind buzzing.

"How dare you hit me!"

The boy glared at Clark in fury and tried to stand, but his legs were weak.

Clark nodded. "Yes, I hit you."

"Everyone, get him!"

The boy roared in anger.

Seeing this, the other boys, who had been stunned by Clark's slap, clenched their fists and charged toward him.

Clark raised his hand...

Smack!

Smack!

Smack!

Each boy received a slap—Clark was fair, ensuring that every slap delivered the same level of power, perfectly controlled.

Just a few seconds later, the ground around Clark was littered with fallen boys, each of them holding their right cheek, staring at him in terror, as though they had seen a demon. Some even had tears in their eyes from the sheer fear.

Clark looked down at the group of boys and asked, "Does it hurt?"

The boys quickly nodded.

Clark calmly said, "If it hurts, then cry."

He raised his hand again.

Seeing this, the boys, actually scared, began to cry out loud.

Clark lowered his hand and looked around at the other stunned students on the field. He turned to Beryl, who was still frozen in place, and called, "Hey, Beryl, you should go get the teacher."

Beryl, her mind blank, turned and ran off.

On the soccer field, Clark stood quietly, surrounded by his classmates—some sitting, some lying down—all crying in pain. The scene was truly something to behold.

Looking at the sight, Clark muttered, "I hope no one says anything out of line again after this."

He glanced at the crying kids, who dared not move, and raised his hand once more.

The boys immediately shut their mouths.

Clark spoke softly, "Got it?"

They nodded.

"When the teacher arrives, what are you going to say?"

Clark said calmly.

"Just say you were playing soccer!"

"You tripped!"

"You hit yourselves!"

Clark nodded.

He just didn't want to stoop to their level. After all, they were just thirteen or fourteen-year-olds.

But if they spoke about him or his father again, that was another story.

His father had told him that kindness is an innate nature, and goodwill is a choice. But when kindness is trampled on, and goodwill is mistaken for weakness, allowing things to get worse, it's acceptable to retract that kindness and use force.

However, it was important to control the strength of that force.

Soon, the teacher arrived.

When the teacher asked, the boys, still frightened by Clark, gave their excuses, but none of them admitted that Clark had struck them.

The teacher had no choice but to call them to the office.

But no matter how hard he tried, the boys wouldn't admit that it was Clark who had done it.

The image of Clark's slap was too terrifying for them to confess.

In the end, the matter was left unresolved.

After letting the boys go, the teacher watched them run off, shaking his head with a sigh.

"Clark!" the teacher called, stopping him. "If they trouble you again, you can always tell me."

Clark nodded and said, "Thank you, teacher."

With that, Clark turned and left.

Tell the teacher?

Then the teacher would surely call their parents, and in the end, it would be the parents who got the blame.

Clark shrugged.

After school, Clark hopped on his bike and headed home.

What had happened today didn't affect him in the slightest. Over the years, he had encountered situations like this more than once and had long since gotten used to it.

Suddenly, he stopped his bike and looked toward a small alley outside the school gate.

There, a few tall, muscular boys who looked like high schoolers were surrounding two boys with obvious slap marks on their faces, pushing them around.

From Clark's sharp hearing, he could tell they were robbing the boys.

Clark parked his bike, picked up several stones from the side of the road, and, carefully controlling his strength, tossed them at the legs of the bullies when no one was paying attention.

With several cries of pain, the bullies collapsed to the ground, clutching their legs. The two boys being robbed, startled, glanced around and quickly ran off.

Clark watched their retreating figures and smiled faintly, then hopped back on his bike and headed home.

(End of chapter)