Awakening Kryptonian Bloodline In Marvel.

After Malrick got rid of a cluster of tracking satellites, it was nearly 1 p.m. Los Angeles time when he returned home.

For lunch, he quickly fried a few eggs and made some pasta.

As for Tony, just like he promised, he hadn't returned—not even by dinner. He was still out engaging the remnants of the Ten Rings.

So, Malrick used the time to run another thrust test in the basement, then launched into orbit to soak in some sunlight.

He and Tony had devised a simple experiment to estimate the upper limit of a Kryptonian's power growth under Earth's yellow sun. The plan was straightforward: test thrust before sunbathing, spend a fixed amount of time in the sun, then test again afterward. Repeat daily for a month. Jarvis would model the results and help them predict Malrick's potential physical peak.

Malrick agreed easily. After all, basking in the sun was his favorite part of the day.

Floating in space under direct solar radiation felt like being immersed in a cosmic hot spring. He could hear the blood coursing through his veins like a flowing river. At those moments, he felt his strength grow—rapid, relentless—like spring runoff flooding into mountain streams.

And it was accelerating. Day by day, the enhancement sped up.

Malrick understood the metaphor clearly: if a normal human's physical development followed a bell curve, he was still on the steep incline of the Kryptonian growth arc—his so-called "weakened stage" was anything but.

Numerically speaking, his thrust had just crossed 400,000 tons.

Each second spent sunbathing delivered a surge of power, like pure dopamine flooding his brain. The euphoria was relentless—like riding a wave of strength that never crested.

Then—

Beep.

Jarvis sounded the timer. Malrick opened his eyes reluctantly, exited the spacecraft, and began his descent.

The manned pod—initially built to safely shield him during solar exposure—had become his private sunroom, parked in orbit just for that purpose. Basking in the vacuum left him too exposed to international satellites, and he didn't enjoy being gawked at like some zoo animal by surveillance systems.

Back on Earth, Malrick completed another thrust test—until Jarvis interrupted.

"Master Malrick, Mr. Stark is under attack by an Eagle flight unit on his way back. Would you like to assist?"

Malrick froze. "Tony's under attack? Where?"

"The West Coast mountains, sir."

"Huh? That's the same airspace I got buzzed by recon jets last week… Oh. I get it."

He grinned.

So, this was it—the scene from the movie. Tony must have flown in from the eastern Pacific, tripped military satellites, and now the Air Force was making its move.

"Mr. Stark's situation is deteriorating," Jarvis added, bringing up a holographic feed.

It was Tony's helmet cam. Fighter jets streaked down through thick clouds—more than a dozen of them. Malrick heard Tony mutter, "Shit," as his point of view spun 180 degrees and tried to escape.

Missiles and gunfire zipped past. The feed shook violently.

"Looks like the Air Force is serious today," Malrick said, but he didn't sound worried.

"The Mark III's max speed is Mach 8. He should be able to outrun them."

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Unless he's too exhausted after fighting the Ten Rings…"

"That is precisely the case, Master Malrick," Jarvis replied.

"Mr. Stark's body can only sustain maximum armor output for brief periods. Prolonged high-speed flight risks cardiac failure. Normally, the suit cruises around Mach 2—but that still burns through stamina quickly."

Malrick chuckled. "So the great Iron Man wiped out a terrorist cell, ran out of gas, and now he's stuck playing tag with the Air Force."

"Correct."

"And he didn't call me for help?"

"He only asked me to send you the video, sir."

Malrick smiled and shook his head. "Stubborn idiot. Even when he's in over his head."

He cracked his neck. "Alright then. Let's go teach Mr. Stark a lesson."

"Shall I prepare the Superman suit?"

"Nope. Get the Mark II ready. I think today calls for a little class demonstration."

Wearing the armor might limit his power—but it would also make his arrival much more dramatic. He'd been waiting for the perfect moment to upstage Tony.

His vision pierced the West Coast mountains.

Tony was dancing through a storm of missiles like a seabird in a hurricane. His once-golden suit was charred black, riddled with bullet holes and scorch marks. He looked like a metal kebab fresh off the grill.

"Poor Uncle Tony," Malrick muttered as he walked toward the garage. "No time to cry for him. Time for the hero to save the day."

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Meanwhile, inside a U.S. military command center, high-ranking officers had gathered again.

Just hours ago, they'd been discussing the mysterious "Afghan Superman."

Now, they were staring at live satellite footage.

On the projection screen: a battered red-and-gold suit dodging missile fire, and a sleek red-and-blue armor diving to cover it.

"These aren't Kryptonians," Colonel James Rhodes observed calmly. "They're advanced humanoid exo-suits. If either one were really Superman, that entire squadron would be ash by now."

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