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Malrick saw every move the terrorists made—clear as day.

But he didn't strike immediately.

He stood still, watching.

Moments later, an arsenal of explosive weapons—grenades, rockets—was unleashed at him.

Malrick didn't budge. He simply swept a single beam of heat vision through the barrage, cutting down the attack in seconds.

It wasn't until the vehicle-mounted missile began to ignite that he moved.

"Jarvis, any satellites overhead right now?"

"Yes, Master Malrick. A U.S. military satellite is currently orbiting above Afghanistan," Jarvis responded, already analyzing the situation. "If even a small or medium-sized conflict breaks out, it will detect and begin recording immediately."

Jarvis paused. "Also… seven hundred meters away, there's a local reporter filming covertly."

"A reporter? A war correspondent?" Malrick nodded, pressing a hand to the golden 'S' on his chest. "Then the audience is in place. Wouldn't want Superman's first battle to go unnoticed."

He glanced around—and spotted the reporter quickly.

The Ten Rings base sat nestled between several low hills, naturally fortified. A man lay hidden in the brush on one of them.

His garb blended well into the terrain, traditional to the region. A salt-and-pepper beard peeked from under a loosely wrapped scarf—clearly an older man. A seasoned war reporter.

Such people had lived through Afghanistan's fleeting periods of peace, its brutal wars, and its countless losses. Many of them harbored deep hatred toward the Ten Rings. Sacrifice didn't scare them. Exposing the truth did.

They used their lives as weapons—hoping to trade them for peace.

"Is that really… Superman?" the reporter muttered, staring wide-eyed at the flying figure in the distance.

The man wore a bright red cape, stood tall with striking features—handsome and commanding. He looked exactly like the Superman of film. Unforgettable, yet strangely unfamiliar.

Could it be?

A real Superman?

Was he here to fight the Ten Rings?

The thought felt absurd—but the footage in the reporter's camera said otherwise: a lone man going head-to-head against an entire army.

"It doesn't matter if it's real or not!" he said aloud, fists clenched. "If Superman can save this country, I'll spend the rest of my life buying every DC comic and Warner Bros. film!"

Suddenly, a roar came from the base—a flash of fire, followed by the launch of six vehicle-mounted missiles screaming into the sky.

"Missiles! No! Get out of the way!" the reporter shouted toward the figure in the air. "Superman, move!"

But Malrick didn't retreat.

He flew forward.

Accelerating, one arm holding a phone, the other drawn back in a fist—he collided with the lead missile head-on.

BOOM.

One exploded, then another, until all six ignited in rapid succession.

The thunder of the blast echoed across the hills. Flames surged high, and the shockwave bent the trees like grass in a storm.

The reporter's headscarf was blown away. His dry, yellowing hair flew upward in the blast. His pale blue eyes, now tinged with red from the firelight, stared at the smoke in stunned silence.

Nobody could survive that. Not from six direct missile hits.

Even leaving behind a body would be a miracle.

But that was Superman.

And he hadn't flinched from bullets either.

Maybe...

Suddenly, a wind rose—fierce and defiant.

It blew through the smoke like a blade, scattering it.

And there he was.

Superman.

Malrick stood, unscathed, cape fluttering in the heat. Not even a trace of soot clung to him.

The missiles hadn't burned him. They hadn't even marked him.

"Allahu Akbar!" the reporter gasped. "I knew it… I knew he could do it!"

He jumped up, flushed with adrenaline, fists pumping. He shouted and danced on the hillside, completely forgetting to stay hidden.

In Malrick, he saw something he hadn't dared hope for in years.

Not NATO. Not the UN.

A miracle.

And in the camp below—terror took hold.

The terrorists were just as shaken—but their shouts were different.

"Monster! He's a monster!"

Gunfire cracked suddenly as panicked deserters tried to flee. Officers shot them down to maintain order.

High above, Malrick hovered, watching.

He smirked.

"Oh? So they brought out the Jericho missiles. Going out with a bang, are we?"

The Jericho missile was designed for area saturation—two kilometers of destruction in every direction.

They were aiming to take him with them in a final act of vengeance.

"Perfect," Malrick said softly. "I've been meaning to see Tony's masterpiece up close."

He tapped the communicator. "Jarvis. Keep recording. When this is over, send it to Tony. Add a message: 'How do you sleep at night?'"

"Already recording, sir," Jarvis replied smoothly.

Minutes passed.

The terrorists dragged out three Jericho missiles, mounted them in the open, and launched them together.

They emptied their stockpile in one final gamble.

The missiles screamed into the air—then split apart. Dozens of smaller warheads fanned out, surrounding Malrick completely.

A blanket of destruction with no escape route.

A masterpiece of war.

"It really is Tony's finest work," Malrick muttered—then paused, eyes flicking to the reporter still on the hillside.

"I should step out for a moment."

In an instant, Malrick vanished.

He appeared beside the stunned reporter, grabbed him gently, and soared three kilometers away to another hill.

There, he set the man down and returned instantly to his original position.

"Don't worry," he said to himself, watching the missiles converge. "I'm back. Hopefully not too late."

The Jericho system had been designed for speed—strike first, no counterplay.

And it was close.

As the warheads approached, Malrick acted.

He didn't want his uniform scorched.

His fists blurred, striking faster than sight.

From every angle, every direction, fists lashed out. It was as though he had grown hundreds of arms. Each missile met a fist.

Each one exploded.

BOOM.

A second explosion dwarfed the first. The sky tore open.

Flames billowed high, smoke blacked out the moon, and the shockwave swept the landscape like a tidal wave.

Mountains and forests bowed before the blast—crushed and consumed.

On the far hill, the reporter was knocked to the ground again. He rolled, dazed, before staggering to his feet.

His clothes were singed. His face covered in dust.

He stared at the distant mushroom cloud that rose like a god's pillar into the heavens.

Even from this distance, he could feel the heat.

"What… what kind of missile is that?" he muttered, numb. "How could something like that even exist?"

He remembered the way it broke into smaller warheads. There was no counter for that.

If that had been used on regular troops, the result would've been catastrophic.

"And where's Superman?" he whispered. "He saved me…"

He leaned against a tree for support.

"He knew I was there. That's why he took me out. What kind of man…? Wait—did he go back?"

A sudden gust of wind.

The mushroom cloud dissipated.

And there—at the center of it all—stood Superman.

Untouched. Still floating. Still calm.

"My God," the reporter whispered, tears forming in his eyes.

"He's not a man… He's a god."

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