American comics: Damn it, I’m surrounded by those who worry about their fathers!.

Chapter 982 The Pharaoh Appears
He took a deep breath, as if pouring all his faith into his next words, “Watch, son, one day everyone will see the true light in you, not the fleeting glitter on the dance floor, but a light like the sun… warm, lasting, that can illuminate the darkness. You will find your stage, a place that truly belongs to you, and you will… shine.”

He spoke the last four words with exceptional clarity, with a prophetic certainty.

Martha Kent, sitting in the passenger seat, turned her head.

She reached across the seat and gently patted Clark's clenched fist.

“Your father is right, Clark, you are the best. Enjoy tonight and just be yourself.”

Sitting next to Clark was his godfather, Peter.

Peter is wearing a smart suit today.

He didn't launch into a long speech; he simply turned his head and gave Clark a deep look with his seemingly insightful eyes.

Peter pressed his hand firmly on Clark's shoulder. "Don't worry, Clark, you won't embarrass yourself. At least Azu can't dance."

"Thank you, Dad, Mom... Godfather."

Clark thanked Peter and his parents with some emotion.

Jonathan withdrew his gaze with satisfaction, a pleased smile on his lips, and refocused on the road ahead.

Martha smiled at Clark and turned away gently.

The car was once again enveloped in a warm and expectant tranquility, with only the steady hum of the engine and the soft rustling of the tires against the road.

The highway stretched ahead, passing through a relatively open field, and the lights of the school auditorium could be faintly seen in the distance.

at this time.

A blinding white light appeared!
Without warning, two beams of intense light ripped through the night sky and shot out uncontrollably from the left fork in the road!

The sudden burst of light was so intense that it instantly swallowed up the pickup truck's dim headlights, illuminating the faces of everyone inside the vehicle in a deathly pale light.

Clark's pupils contracted suddenly in the bright light.

Jonathan only had time to let out a short, startled, and instinctive roar: "No—!"

"boom!!!"

A deafening roar shook the heavens and the earth, as if the whole world had exploded in their ears.

Time has lost its meaning.

Space was violently distorted.

Clark felt an irresistible, destructive force slam into him from the left.

The whole world spun around in an instant, and the shrill sound of shattering glass was like a million icicles piercing our eardrums.
The groans of metal being torn, squeezed, and twisted could be heard.

The seatbelt tightened to its limit instantly, like a red-hot iron chain digging into his flesh and bones, almost cutting him in half.

The immense inertia slammed him forward, only to be pulled back by the seatbelt, his internal organs feeling as if they were being gripped and crushed by a giant hand.

Out of the corner of Clark's eye, amidst the swirling, inverted fragments of his vision, he saw a scene that tormented him.

He saw his father Jonathan's head slam into the deformed steering wheel, the airbag deploying delayedly, instantly turning the area crimson...

Martha's body, like a fragile leaf, was thrown from her seat by the immense force, her head slamming heavily against the twisted A-pillar, and her eyes instantly lost all their light...

The godfather Peter was thrown against the deformed car door by the enormous impact, the metal deeply dented, and he closed his eyes before he could even make a sound.

Warm, rusty liquid splattered all over Clark's face and neck.

My vision was filled with crimson, darkness, and the menacing angles of metal.

Clark's desperate cry was stuck in his throat, but no sound came out.

The world was left with only the deafening roar of destruction and the acrid smell of gasoline, blood, and dust.

"Do not--!!!"

A heart-wrenching scream, as if the soul had been torn apart, finally broke through the throat!
With a "whoosh," Clark sprang up from the bed.

Cold sweat instantly covered my entire body.

Cold, sticky sweat soaked through Clark's thin pajamas, clinging tightly to his violently heaving chest and back, as if he had just been pulled out of ice water.

My heart was beating wildly in my chest.

My lungs were pumping violently like a broken bellows, each breath accompanied by a burning pain, as if I were inhaling flames and gasoline from a car accident scene.

Clark was breathing heavily, his pupils dilated.

Shattered windshield, splattered blood, his father's pale face, his mother's vacant eyes, his godfather's fallen figure... a suffocating despair assaulted his newly awakened consciousness wave after wave.

There was dead silence in the room.

Outside the window, the pale golden sunlight of the Kansas morning streamed through the gaps in the curtains, casting warm patches of light on the floor.

There was no smoke of gunpowder, no bloodshed, no groans of twisted metal.

He was alone.

Sweat trickled down his forehead, dripping onto his slightly trembling fist. Was it a dream?
A nightmare so vivid it's etched into my very soul, a nightmare that pierces to the very marrow.

Clark slowly raised his hand, his trembling fingertips touching his forehead and cheek.

The skin is smooth and intact, with no wounds or bloodstains.

He looked down at his chest; his pajamas were soaked with cold sweat and clung to his muscular chest, but there were no signs of the seatbelt breaking them.

But... why does that feeling feel so real!
The deafening noise that shattered my eardrums instantly stripped me of all warmth and comfort.

Clark suddenly clutched his head, burying his face deep between his still trembling knees.

Overwhelmed by immense grief, lingering fear, and an indescribable sense of exhaustion.

The sunlight outside the window was warm and serene, illuminating the vibrant Kent farm.

Why would I have such a dream?

Normally, I would never have such a realistic dream.

Clark suddenly had a bad feeling.

at the same time.

A certain parallel world.

Antarctica, Witte Antarctic Station.

The stark white light pierced through the reinforced dome's filter layer, precisely cutting through the constant, low-temperature air inside, and falling on the face of Adrian Witte—known to the world as the "Pharaoh."

Witt's eyelids snapped open instantly, without a trace of the confusion one might expect upon waking.

His movement to sit up was fluid and efficient, without any unnecessary steps.

The silk pajamas slipped down, revealing a body with perfect proportions, like an ancient Greek sculpture. Every muscle was in a state of precise control, exuding both strength and extraordinary self-discipline.

Not a single ounce of excess fat—this is an absolute victory of willpower over biological instinct.

Stepping barefoot onto the cold, mirror-like composite floor, the chill traveled up the nerves in my feet and straight to my central nervous system, yet it failed to cause the slightest shiver.

He enjoyed this absolute clarity of mind.

Standing before the enormous floor-to-ceiling window, one is met with an endless and suffocating white desert stretching out before them.

This is the end of the world, a sanctuary he built himself, far removed from human clamor and folly, and also the command center where he plotted to save humanity from its own folly.

However, beneath this extreme silence and order, an undercurrent, undetectable by sophisticated instruments, was surging—an almost obsessive, burning anxiety.

Dr. Manhattan.

That blue presence.

That walking cosmic constant.

That... the only variable.

Witte's gaze pierced through the wind and snow, as if trying to penetrate the curtain of time and space.

Jon Osterman, the former nuclear physicist, is now a quantum observer.

He possesses all the power that Witte craved—the ability to manipulate matter, rearrange particles, and see through the flow of time, and even…theoretically, the ability to alter that predetermined, nuclear-destructive future that Witte himself orchestrated.

“He saw it.”

Witte whispered silently, his voice echoing only in the empty, cold room, the only sound the echo of his own thoughts.

Dr. Manhattan can see all possibilities on the timeline, including Witt’s meticulously planned “necessary sacrifice” that trades the lives of millions for the survival of billions.

He saw the earth-shattering explosion in New York, disguised as an alien attack; he saw the lives that turned to ashes in an instant; and he saw... Witt himself.

What was the doctor's reaction?
A rare, uncontrollable ripple flickered in the depths of Witt's pupils.

Is it indifference? As a quantum observer, human life and death may be as commonplace to him as particle annihilation.

Was it anger? Even though his emotions seemed to have faded along with his humanity.

Or... some kind of higher-level "intervention" that Witte couldn't comprehend?
Is it escapism?

Is it a protest?
Or... is it preparation for some kind of action that Werther has not yet understood?
This uncertainty, like an extremely fine yet incredibly resilient thread, wraps around the heart of Werther's perfect logic, bringing an discomfort that is almost like "itching".

He controls everything—from every screw in the base to the economic and political fabric of human society, and even every cell in his own body.

But Dr. Manhattan cannot control, or even fully predict, his situation.

Track him, understand him, and confirm his intentions.

This is no longer a strategic need; it has been elevated to a spiritual necessity.

Werther needed an answer, a confirmation from a higher being (even an indifferent one) to prove that the path he had chosen was the only correct one.

He needed to know whether, in the eyes of that blue god, he, Adrian Witte, was a savior or... a more efficient destroyer.
He must do everything in his power to find Dr. Manhattan!

(End of this chapter)