The Final Battle (Part 1)

…Kal-El would never let Soren see another snowflake.

On Christmas of that year, Kal-El gave Soren a gift—something he had painstakingly tracked down at one of the last remaining Justice League merchandise stores still in operation.

It was a plush Superman doll with a red cape.

Since Kal-El had to suppress uprisings all over the world, he couldn't stay by Soren's side twenty-four hours a day.

Sometimes, when Soren woke up and couldn't find him, he would cry in panic.

Hearing Soren's helpless calls for him tore Kal-El's heart apart.

With this doll, at least Soren could have some comfort when Clarm wasn't around.

These kinds of Justice League items hadn't been produced since Kal-El established his regime, and all he could find was this old version of Superman in a red cape.

When Soren receives the doll, he curiously compares their outfits, confused by the difference.

But soon enough, Soren accepted the plush Superman dressed in blue with a red cape.

He carried it with him everywhere, holding it close at almost all times.

Every night before bed, he would lovingly place the doll beside his pillow, right next to the old photograph.

It seemed as though this was his entire source of happiness.

The soft, harmless doll became Soren's constant companion.

Throughout most of the day, he kept it tucked in his arms, cradling it through the winter and even into the following spring, never letting go.

He even gave it a name.

After getting Kal-El's permission, he called it Clark.

When Soren said that name, Kal-El nearly dropped the glass of water he was holding.

Kal-El looked at Soren, his gaze probing, searching the boy's expression as he asked in a hoarse voice, "Where did you hear that name?"

Soren remained completely oblivious, still pressing the plush Superman doll against his chest, beaming up at Kal-El with a bright smile.

Then he pointed to a picture on the wall and exclaimed, "There!"

It was a crude drawing he had made last year with crayons, a mess of chaotic lines and colors.

Among the tangled strokes, two stick figures stood amidst golden crayon lines—according to Soren, this was a field of wheat from a dream he had once.

And the two figures? One was Kal-El, the other was Soren.

Kal-El asked softly, "Did you see me in your dream?"

Soren blinked, puzzled by the sadness in Kal-El's expression.

He hesitated, thinking he had said something wrong, and replied quietly, "Uh-huh… I heard it in my dream… I was calling—calling Clark..."

His voice grew smaller and smaller, as though he was afraid Kal-El would be upset.

Soren hugged the plush doll closer, lowered his head, and curled his feet up on the chair, shrinking into a posture that showed his insecurity.

Kal-El's heart ached at the sight of him.

He quickly softened his expression, forcing a gentle smile as he reassured the boy, "Clark is a beautiful name. You can call it Clark. I think it would be happy to have such a special name."

But Soren was still anxious.

He tugged lightly at Kal-El's cape with his small fingers, as if seeking approval.

His tiny, upturned nose quivered slightly, and his wide baby-blue eyes searched for Kal-El's gaze. "…Don't be mad, okay?"

Kal-El's chest tightened even further, but he reached out, resting a hand on Soren's head, and whispered, "I'm not mad, Soren. I promise."

"I'm not angry," Kal-El whispered, though his heart throbbed with unspeakable pain.

He gently stroked Soren's hair and pulled him into a tight embrace, pressing soft kisses against his neck, hair, and fingertips. "…You don't even know how much I love you. I swore I would never be angry with you again, never hurt you again. We'll stay together, okay? Just the two of us."

The god of mankind, his temples now streaked with gray, held Soren's hands tightly, filled with bittersweet sorrow and a deep, almost unbearable love.

As spring neared its end, something strange happened—the Resistance had gone silent.

Normally, their activities were quickly detected by Cyborg's global surveillance system, but weeks passed without any sign of them.

This was unusual.

Victor reported the situation to Superman, who, after much thought, still couldn't pinpoint the cause of the sudden disappearance.

So, he decided to investigate the Avengers' movements himself.

He knew the Avengers' new base was in Africa, the same continent where uprisings and revolts were most frequent.

The base, which already had Wakandan technology, had been further fortified by Iron Man and Batman, making it even more impenetrable and hidden.

Despite all his efforts, Superman had yet to discover its exact location.

He scoured the African coastline repeatedly, unaware of what was happening on the other side of the ocean.

In Washington, inside one of the Justice League's break rooms, the distinct sound of a Corundium steel window being forced open echoed through the space.

Brilliant yellow sunlight poured into the room, instantly drowning out the artificial light.

Soren, terrified, clutched his Clark doll tightly and curled up in fear.

But amidst the radiant late-spring sunshine, he saw a flutter of bright red—a cape billowing in the wind.

The glowing figure, with ocean-blue eyes like those of a Kryptonian sun god, appeared before him, silhouetted against the light.

Soren stared blankly at the big man in the red cape and blue uniform standing before him.

Hugging the doll tightly to his chest, he instinctively whispered, "Clark."

It was as if he had always been meant to say that name, as though it had always belonged on his lips.

Clark.

When you say the name, your tongue brushes lightly against the roof of your mouth.

The first two syllables are crisp and firm, while the final one is formed at the back of the tongue, near the soft palate, released with a breath that feels like a sigh that ends before it even begins.

Clark.

It felt as if he had spoken this name countless times, in countless days and nights, in every place he had ever been.