Awakening Kryptonian Bloodline In Marvel.

Another day dawned.

The rain had passed, the skies cleared, and the sun shone brightly across the world. Malrick was already en route to the battlefield.

This was his second time flying to Afghanistan—he knew the way by heart now.

It took only minutes to get there, easily outpacing a dozen Boeing jets midair.

Malrick hovered high above, gazing over the blue earth blanketed beneath clouds.

His vision shifted constantly, locking onto targets with precision that radar couldn't match.

Night had already fallen in Afghanistan. Most Ten Rings bases were under lockdown, preparing for rest. But there were always outliers—terrorists who prowled the dark to prey on civilians.

They were Malrick's first targets.

"You'll be the first to fall," he muttered.

He had spotted two armed men kicking in the door of a civilian home.

He descended.

His biological force field muffled the impact, letting him drop silently—like death itself.

When he touched down, he disabled the field. The ground beneath cracked in a spiderweb pattern as the dull thud of his landing echoed.

The sound startled the two gunmen just as they broke through the door. Spinning around with weapons drawn, they paused at the sight of a caped figure in strange armor.

"What are you, Iranian? Tajik?" Malrick asked in fluent Dari.

He'd been brushing up on most of Earth's official languages in recent days. He understood every curse they threw at him.

The men didn't respond—only raised their weapons.

Malrick shook his head.

"No interest in talking? Fine."

In a blink, he was upon them. His hands lashed out, seizing them both by the neck. He lifted them easily, and with a slight twist—two clean snaps.

They slumped, lifeless.

He dropped their bodies and turned to leave—but paused.

Inside, a family huddled together in the dark.

It was a Pashtun household. The father wore a thick beard, his sunken eyes full of fatigue and fear. The mother and two daughters clutched each other, dressed in traditional robes of earth-toned fabric.

All of them stared at Malrick in silent terror.

"You don't have to worry about them anymore," Malrick said calmly, this time in Pashto. "It's late. Get some rest. Tomorrow morning, there won't be any terrorists left."

As he turned and rose into the air, scanning for his next target—

"Please—wait!"

A small voice rang out behind him.

Malrick turned.

The youngest daughter, no older than seven or eight, had slipped free from her mother's arms. Despite her mother's desperate attempts to cover her mouth, she asked timidly:

"Are you Superman?"

Malrick blinked, momentarily caught off guard.

He wore a suit of his own design—deep blue, a red cape, and a gold-edged 'S' emblem on his chest. A stylized homage, not a copy—but clearly inspired by Superman.

He hadn't expected a child in a war zone to recognize it.

But of course—even here, Hollywood reached.

"No," Malrick said gently. "But it's okay if you call me that."

He smiled at the girl, then addressed her parents. "It's alright. I won't stay long. The Ten Rings won't either."

"So… you're here to help us?" she asked, a little braver now. "Like on TV?"

Malrick hesitated, then gave a nod. "I'm here to stop the bad guys. They won't hurt you anymore."

"Superman, you're amazing!" she shouted, and before her mother could react, the girl bolted toward Malrick, trying to hug his leg.

Malrick knelt, laughing softly as he placed a hand gently on her head. "What's your name?"

"Shafiqa. Shafiqa Mazari!"

"Alright, Shafiqa. Go back inside. Lie down and dream of something nice. When you wake up, they'll all be gone, okay?"

Her smile faded slightly. "You're leaving?"

"Shafiqa," Malrick said quietly, tapping her forehead with his finger, "don't talk to strangers so easily. And listen to your mom, alright?"

Then he stood, stepped back—and with a sharp gust of wind, rocketed back into the clouds.

The family rushed outside, looking up into the night sky.

The old father whispered a prayer.

"God protect him… he's a real Superman."

That night, for the first time in a long time, they felt hope for the morning.

---

Malrick didn't stop.

He cleared every Ten Rings patrol terrorizing civilians across the region—swiftly, efficiently.

Each engagement took a second.

Show up. One punch. Gone.

In under ten minutes, the skies were his again.

Now it was time to hit the source—the base.

A traditional military strategy would chip away at small outposts, erode supply lines, weaken the enemy step by step.

But Malrick wasn't interested in conventional warfare.

He went straight for the Ten Rings' largest stronghold.

Soaring above the clouds, his red cape whipped in the jet stream as he gazed down on the base. Seventy patrols moved in formation. Four thousand troops slept below.

And in the heart of the camp, under a tattered tent: the Jericho Missile.

Tony Stark's design.

A single volley could flatten a mountain.

Malrick narrowed his eyes.

"Stark… what have you done?" he muttered.

Tony had since changed, sure—but Malrick wasn't going to let him forget this.

He pulled out his phone.

"Jarvis," Malrick said.

"Yes, Master Malrick?"

"Activate camera. Record everything I see. And after this is done, send it all to Tony—especially the Stark weapons. Make sure every detail burns into his conscience."

"Understood."

Malrick tucked the phone away and began his descent.

No more stealth.

He plummeted like a meteor, body wreathed in heat from the friction of reentry.

BOOM. His landing rocked the base like an earthquake.

Sirens wailed. Lights flared. Shouts of alarm echoed across the camp.

Malrick stood alone in the crater, eyes glowing.

The heat beams shot out—one after another—precise, devastating.

Before the enemy could organize, half their men were gone.

Panic swept through the ranks. Some tried to flee, screaming about monsters. Others rallied, launching everything they had—grenades, rocket launchers, tank shells, even Jericho missiles.

They threw it all at him.

And he didn't flinch.

---

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