Someone was secretly saving them, secretly rescuing the future members of the Justice League.
There was too little information. Bardi had no way of determining who was behind it.
But…
Who could have known that he intended to use and control them?
Who knew their future achievements, their value, and their importance?
No one should know.
If that were the case, why would anyone intervene to save them?
Someone… knew the future.
The Morning of the Third Day
At 8 a.m., the sun shone brightly, casting intense, dazzling rays onto the laboratory building of Universe Biotechnology. The light refracted off the glass surfaces, creating a blinding effect.
On the fifteenth floor, the transparent composite glass ceiling prevented any direct sunlight from entering. Instead, an automated black light-absorbing curtain extended from the lower frame, blocking the sun's rays and casting the room into a dim gray hue.
For Bardi, in his current condition, exposure to sunlight was like poison.
He opened his eyes, nestled within the soft goose-down quilt. His pupils, initially contracted upon waking, gradually dilated as he adjusted to the dim lighting. Lazily, he stretched out his arm.
This movement caused Raven, who had been using his arm as a pillow, to shift slightly in discomfort.
"Mm…"
She murmured in her sleep, rolling onto her side. Her legs nestled between the covers, revealing the smooth expanse of her pale back. The blanket faintly outlined the curve down to her coccyx.
Bardi yawned, his mouth stretching wide as a few tears welled up at the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away, then blinked a few times before his expression returned to calm resolve. A flicker of contemplation passed through his gaze.
It had been a long time since he had indulged in such a relaxed, human-like gesture.
He got out of bed, only to be met with a wave of discomfort. A tingling sensation spread from the soles of his feet through every pore of his body.
It was reminiscent of those cartoons where characters become irritated, their skin prickling in waves.
But this was far more painful.
And today, the sensation was particularly severe. His bones ached, his limbs felt weak, as if his very marrow was exhausted, unable to produce blood. A deep soreness gnawed at his bones, leaving him drained, worse than a severe fever. His body was so fatigued that he had no desire to move—only to lie there and let himself melt away.
Yet, deep within, immense power surged, as if sealed away. It was a paradox—weakness and strength coexisting. As if one hand were frail and withered, while the other was vibrant and full of life.
His gaze drifted toward Raven's back. She lay curled slightly, her spine arching gently like a shrimp. Her delicate waist protruded subtly, the smooth skin stretching down to where her neck curled into the mattress.
Her breathing was steady.
The air in the room carried a faint warmth, a blend of fresh incense and bedding—a soothing scent, reminiscent of sandalwood. A warm, artistic fragrance.
She was thin.
The thought surfaced in Bardi's mind. He wasn't thinking about anything else—just that she looked frail.
Of course, he had always known Raven was thin.
He watched her for a while. Then, noticing the slight irregularity in her breathing, he withdrew his gaze. Steadying himself, he stepped forward and made his way to the bathroom.
The Living Room
As he passed through the living room, the muted gray tones of the space came into focus. His eyes landed on two documents, neatly placed on the glass coffee table.
No one was permitted to enter the fifteenth floor without an invitation and authorization, not even his newly hired secretaries.
Only various Heras had unrestricted access.
These documents had clearly been left yesterday. They pertained to Barry Allen in Central City and Hal Jordan.
Bardi halted, altering his course. He walked around the sofa, settling down heavily onto it. The gray-white leather cushions sank beneath his weight, his lumbar spine straightening as he leaned back.
Reaching out, he picked up the yellow folder labeled "Barry Allen." His eyes remained calm as he opened it and began reading.
In the dim, silent room, the only sound was the soft rustling of pages turning.
After carefully reviewing all the information Leon had compiled on Barry Allen, his gaze flickered with thought.
This report was… too rudimentary.
So crude that it felt hastily cobbled together, as if thrown together on the spot to meet a deadline. The listed addresses for Barry Allen were inconsistent—some vague, some missing historical details. Even the sections meant to outline his parents' information read like a rushed, third-rate novel, lacking depth or coherence.
Leon would never dare to be so careless. More importantly, he wasn't the type to cut corners. His personality wouldn't allow him to submit such a shallow, error-ridden report.
"What happened?"
Subconsciously, Bardi supported his left hand with his right, rubbing his thumb across his palm as he contemplated.
Without lingering too long, he reached for the second file—"Hal Jordan"—and began flipping through its contents.
Upon finishing, he frowned.
This report was just as lifeless and uncharacteristic. The text was mechanical, devoid of Leon's usual analytical depth. Leon always infused his reports with his own subjective evaluations, but this time, his usual touch was absent.
At any time, he would say, "I think..."
This was true even in written reports.
However, what was written here were unrealistic inferences—things Bardi instinctively knew to be false.
This had already triggered the reflex arc mechanism he had implanted in their minds.
Bardi had granted them special abilities and reinforced their loyalty. Subconsciously, their minds were conditioned with an information protection mechanism that made it impossible for machines or psychics to read their thoughts. Any attempt at forced extraction would only lead to self-destruction.
There was no doubt—this document had been written by Nasus.
But it had been compiled while he was in a state of confusion and unconsciousness.
Leon and Nasus.
They had been controlled.
Their minds hadn't been forcibly read by someone else, but they had been manipulated. That was why they were still alive, but the information protection mechanism had been triggered, creating misleading data.
But why?
What was the point of fabricating over 300 different records of Barry Allen and more than 200 for Hal Jordan?
This made no sense at all.
Bardi narrowed his eyes.
It didn't add up.
For someone intelligent, meaningless actions only bred suspicion. He would naturally seek to unravel the truth before he could feel at ease. And that process, inevitably, would take time.
This was nothing more than a deliberate misdirection by the one in control.
They were simply trying to buy time.
"The Justice League… isn't there still one crucial person missing?"
Jor-El existed.
Because Jor-El wouldn't trust anyone on this planet. Anyone could be a pawn sent by Bardi.
The controller needed time.
Time to gain Jor-El's trust.
Time… to save Clark.
(To be continued.)
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