Damn it, I’m surrounded by those who kill their fathers!

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...

After what seemed like an eternity, Martha McDonald finally managed to suppress the fear in her heart. She cautiously opened the door just a crack and peeked outside.

In the faint moonlight, she saw several corpses lying in disarray on the ground.

The man who had previously tried to assault her was face-down on the floor, blood gushing from his body.

The pungent smell of blood filled her nostrils, making her want to vomit.

Glancing over at her two unconscious friends on the couch, Martha felt a sense of relief after confirming that they were unharmed.

With trembling hands, she fumbled in her friend's pocket for a phone and dialed the police.

Ten minutes later, the police from Metropolis finally arrived.

"What's your name?"

"I'm Martha McDonald, 22 years old, and I'm a teacher."

Martha, her body shaking slightly, wrapped her arms around herself as she spoke to the female officer, "My friends and I were drinking at a bar. I don't know how we ended up here after I woke up."

The officer nodded and continued taking notes, "Did you see the suspect's face?"

Every bullet had precisely hit the key points of the gang members, making the officer certain that the perpetrator was no ordinary person.

"No, he—"

Martha swallowed hard. "He was wearing black-framed glasses. It was too dark to see his face clearly."

"Are you sure?"

The officer looked at her skeptically, "Just because he was wearing glasses, you couldn't recognize his face?"

"Yes, yes," Martha stammered with a guilty nod.

...

"Really? Godfather?"

At Podrick Farm, Clark wore the black-framed glasses Peter had given him, uncertain as he asked, "Will people really not recognize me when I wear these?"

"Of course," Peter adjusted the glasses on his face and said, "The glasses help conceal your identity."

One of the longest-standing mysteries about Superman was that no one recognized him when he wore glasses.

Some believed that Superman's greatest power was actually his glasses.

Peter, of course, didn't believe in the idea that "his greatest power is the glasses."

He was more convinced that most people suffered from "glasses-induced face blindness."

"Godfather, why do glasses hide my identity?" Clark asked Peter while wearing the black-framed glasses.

"Because glasses reduce people's ability to recognize unfamiliar faces."

Peter was determined to teach him, helping Clark prepare for his future life as a superhero.

"You and Azu can use this tool, combined with subtle gestures to convey different messages. Like this." Peter put on the glasses and hunched his body forward slightly.

After demonstrating the posture with glasses, he straightened his back, relaxed his shoulders, and adopted a more stable stance without the glasses.

"Body language sends different signals, and with the glasses, the effect is even better. Got it?"

Watching Peter skillfully switch between two different personas, Clark's eyes widened, feeling that his godfather was like a magician with strange and extraordinary abilities.

He took the black-framed glasses from Peter's hand, determined to learn this mysterious skill from him.

At the very least, he could use this to avoid trouble in the future.

As Clark excitedly left the room with his new glasses, Peter turned around and pulled out a bag of cash from under the bed, dropping it on the table with a thud.

The money, about a million dollars, was from the black market dealings he had taken from Frank's gang. It would last him for a while.

After shooting and killing Frank's gang members, he had raided their safe.

Besides cash, there was also a ledger detailing Frank's dealings with several political figures.

Peter casually flipped through the ledger, revealing dirty transactions one after another.

"Lolis, senators, mayors, even the church..."

Shaking his head, he tossed the ledger onto the table.

He never expected these people to be so depraved.

If they were all dragged out and executed, none of them would be wronged.

Still, for now, this information wasn't of much value to him.

Unless, of course, he planned to run for governor someday, in which case it could be used as leverage.

After locking the cash and ledger in a drawer, Peter gazed out towards the swamp in the dark night.

By tomorrow, he should officially own that swamp.

The next morning, Jonathan accompanied Peter to the town government office.

"Honestly, I don't understand why you're buying that dried-up swamp," Jonathan said in confusion. "What are you planning to grow there? If that's your plan, Peter, it's not a good idea."

He sighed, "Farm product prices are dropping. Our income is barely enough to cover expenses. Martha and I are considering taking out a loan from the bank."

"Those bankers are sharks," Peter frowned while driving. "Jonathan, I have some money. You can use it to tide things over."

"No, your farm isn't doing well either. I can't trouble you any further."

Jonathan had no idea that Peter often did "cleaning work" in Metropolis. He thought Peter's income, like his own, relied entirely on the farm.

"I've made some money from other businesses, so I still have some savings, Jonathan."

"No, Peter, I know you want to help, but I can't take your money. You still need it to buy the swamp."

Jonathan appreciated Peter's offer, but he refused nonetheless.

"I can't take your money."

"You're always so stubborn, Jonathan."

Peter was not surprised by his response, knowing Jonathan's personality well.

Jonathan's father-in-law was quite wealthy. If Jonathan ever asked him, he could easily provide Clark with a better quality of life.

Solving the farm's financial troubles wouldn't be a big issue if his father-in-law helped.

But Jonathan, ever stubborn, had never reached out to him.

"Do you know why Clark likes coming over to my place? Because you set strict standards for him that never change. Like not allowing him to watch TV for more than two hours, or never allowing him to be picky with food. Jonathan, sometimes being too rigid isn't always good."

As Peter continued driving, he said, "People should be like fountains, not drainpipes; like leaves drifting in a stream, not dams that restrict their freedom. Am I right?"

Jonathan pondered for a moment and nodded. "Sometimes I do overlook what Clark feels inside. But, Peter, I still can't take your money."

Peter: "So I said all that for nothing?"

Just as he was feeling frustrated with Jonathan's stubbornness, Peter noticed a crowd gathered on the street ahead, with several police cars flashing red lights on the roadside.

He hit the brakes and frowned as he looked ahead.

What was going on?