What's wrong with Superman's son wanting to be Superman?

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"You're being so helpful out of the blue; it's nothing but treachery." Miss Death picked up her knife and elegantly cut off a small piece of steak. "You want to save your therapist?"

Miss Death demonstrated her omniscience regarding Ian's objectives.

Ian's expression suddenly became extremely serious, and he sincerely admitted, "I can't lose my doctor, just like the Teletubbies can't lose the Night Garden."

Other psychologists did not meet Ian's expectations.

Or.

He has always been a sentimental person.

"Quite obedient." Miss Death chewed her steak slowly, a slight smile playing on her bright red lips. "You know your doctor is a 'benign intruder,' right?"

Ian neither denied nor pretended to be ignorant about this.

"So, is he in hell or not? I've thought about asking Lucifer, but I prefer to connect with you." Ian's clumsy attempts at being a manipulative woman were amusing.

However, Miss Death took a sip of her coffee and seemed to be in a good mood: "Indeed, they are in hell. Our current decision is that all souls like them will be guided by the Angels of Death."

This is clearly the result of discussions between the Endless Family and the God Family.

It is considered secret.

However, it was still casually leaked by Miss Death—mainly because Ian was growing faster and faster in her eyes, and perhaps soon an "abstract" physical god would really appear in the universe.

"Do you want me to help you resurrect him?" Miss Death didn't talk about Ian's situation; she just asked casually, as if it were a trivial matter like asking if she wanted sugar in her coffee.

"Shh!"

Ian quickly raised his index finger and put it to his lips.

He gazed at the sky outside, "Don't let my dad hear this. I've already treated you to steak, how can you still deprive me of my legitimate reason for venturing into hell?"

The boy thought Miss Death was a bit ungrateful.

However, his high emotional intelligence prevented him from complaining.

Miss Death put down her knife and fork, her sharp gaze fixed on Ian.

"So, you couldn't find the entrance to hell, so you came to me?"

Her tone was firm.

Ian shook his head very honestly.

"I just want to give you a chance to talk to me."

His expression was genuinely sincere, which froze Miss Death's expression on her face, and even the steak she had just eaten seemed to get stuck in her throat.

"..."

She put down her cutlery.

There was silence for a long time.

“The compass I gave you before will lead you to hell.” With that, she stood up, picked up the half-eaten steak and coffee, and walked toward the door without looking back.

She left the bunch of plastic flowers, now reduced to ashes, on the table.

"Next time..."

The goddess's figure stopped before the gate, her voice seemingly drifting from afar, "If you want me to endure your mental attacks, you'll have to give me flowers that truly never wither."

The words fell.

Her figure vanished like mist in the restaurant's lights. The surrounding customers seemed completely oblivious to what had happened, continuing to enjoy their dinners.

“It must be shy, it must be shy.” Ian took out the compass he had used to find the Dream God. The pointer spun wildly and finally pointed firmly to the southeast.

"The Hellish Adventures of Lord Ian! Filming officially begins!"

Eager to eat, Ian ordered himself a $600 steak, determined not to skimp on himself. He ate it all before heading back to his Hellcat.

Bravely venture into hell in a Hellcat.

Very reasonable.

Chapter 157 Hell Admission Ticket! Lucifer, Don't Love Me!

Perhaps for most people, hell is a place that makes them turn pale at the mere mention of it, but in Ian's eyes, there isn't much difference between hell and heaven.

Hell is a reflection of Heaven.

Therefore, having been to heaven, one should naturally go to hell as well. This is the kind of experience a mature human being should gain. Treating it as a trip abroad wouldn't feel strange at all.

"MacArthur once said that going to hell is like going home, and even Dumbledore once said that going to hell is just a greater adventure."

Ian still loves quoting famous sayings, and he can't wait to travel abroad.

“Since I’m going abroad for tourism, I should definitely bring back some local specialties.” Ian held Miss Death’s compass, but he didn’t immediately choose to activate Hellcat.

There are still some pre-trip preparations to be made.

Where can I find local specialties?

Ian sat in the driver's seat of the Hellcat sports car, his fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel. The dim interior lights illuminated the unassuming little black box in his hand—a black box that looked like an old-fashioned MP3 player, but was actually a top-tier hacking tool capable of hacking into the US military's satellite systems.

An unsolved mystery from the Marvel Universe. Ian simply entered his request, and a complex stream of code immediately appeared on the black box screen. Three seconds later, a holographic map of New York City unfolded on the windshield, with a dozen flashing red dots marking the locations of Officer Beckett and her team.

"I think I could create a new account called 'Tech Emperor' too! The kind where someone was bullied by thugs since childhood and then becomes cynical!" Ian made a phone call while weaving a backstory for his new account.

He dialed Beckett's number. The background noise on the other end was chaotic—sirens, static from the walkie-talkie, and the hurried footsteps of officers.

"Has the murderer been caught?"

Ian got straight to the point.

“Are you always hiding somewhere spying on me?” Beckett’s voice was weary. “You timed it perfectly. We just found someone who looks exactly like Will Graham.”

"Someone who looks exactly like Will Graham?"

Ian blinked. He knew Officer Beckett couldn't see, but that didn't mean he didn't need to blink. Good habits aren't only shown when others are watching.

"Yes, he looks and is as tall as Will Graham, but he shot himself when we came in. The prosecutor wants to close the case by saying the suspect committed suicide out of guilt, but my gut feeling tells me that this guy is definitely not the real Will Graham. He's just a scapegoat."

Officer Beckett didn't know why she was telling Ian all this; perhaps it was because, besides crime novels, Ian was also curious about superhumans.

The boy on the other end of the phone was strange; he wasn't a normal person, nor was he an ordinary one. Officer Beckett was quite certain of this, and she knew perfectly well that she had seen him take the bomb out of the microwave.

“As expected, you have to trust your intuition. The scapegoat you caught must have undergone plastic surgery, and perhaps their identity information in the police DNA database has also been switched.” Ian nodded in agreement with Officer Beckett’s intuition. It seemed that Miss Misha’s guess was wrong, but not entirely wrong either.

Will had already prepared a scapegoat.

“Could you come to the police station to help identify him? You mentioned before that you had spoken with Will.” Beckett sighed; she couldn’t understand why the prosecutor in America was acting like a child.

"Sorry, I have other things to attend to today." After thinking for a moment, Ian declined. He still needed to pack up local specialties to take to hell to be a superhero.

"You're so busy, how do you have time to call me and chat?" Beckett's tone immediately became suspicious, and her intuition once again made her feel uneasy.

Upon hearing this, Ian grinned and said, "I just wanted to confirm with Officer Beckett before I went abroad for my trip. I'm going to get busy catching lab rats now."

His tone was eager to try.

"?????"

Beckett clearly didn't understand the brilliant analogy.

But Ian had already hung up the phone.

He turned to the black box.

His fingers flew across the virtual keyboard, bringing up several encrypted databases. A few minutes later, he used his mimicry ability to create a mask over his handsome face.

Osama bin Laden's iconic look.

It will never go out of style.

"Hellcat, autopilot mode, destination: St. Mary's Cemetery," Ian commanded the vehicle-mounted demon, his controversial mask looking quite menacing.

The self-propelled Bubble Cart glided silently through the night, eventually coming to a stop at the entrance of a desolate cemetery. A dim light shone from the gravedigger's hut.

“Visitor registration!” Ian swaggered toward the gravedigger’s hut and knocked on the window. An old man with a wrinkled face opened the door and eyed him warily.

"Sir, it's so late, whose grave are you visiting to pay your respects to?" the gravedigger asked, his gaze lingering on Ian's Osama bin Laden mask for several seconds.

Ian did not give a direct answer.

He countered with a question.

"You've been guarding this grave for so many years, have you ever seen terrorists?" Ian's voice used Batman's bubble voice, his tone could be adjusted at any time according to the environment.

That's the power of the evil god.

"Of course not, what would terrorists be doing here?" The gravedigger was clearly taken aback. He looked at Ian with a strange expression, and the mask seemed even more conspicuous to him.

“Alright.” Ian shrugged, his tone carrying a hint of blessing. “Then you’re going to learn something today. Don’t let my mask fool you; I’m actually a very socially awkward terrorist.”

The voice just fell.

He pulled two miniature bombs out of his pocket.

It was thrown precisely at two adjacent tombstones deep within the cemetery.

"boom!"

The shockwave from the explosion shattered the windows of the gravedigger's hut. When the smoke cleared, the two tombstones had been reduced to dust, leaving two charred craters in the ground.

"No!!! Damn it! What are you doing!" The gravedigger's expression twisted instantly. He pulled out an old-fashioned revolver and fired six shots at Ian.

"Bang bang bang!"

The bullet struck Ian's cheek, but it was as if it had hit rubber, only creating strange ripples on the surface of his skin before falling limply to the ground.

"How can this be!"

The gravedigger stared wide-eyed at the scene in disbelief.

Ian touched the spot where he had been hit.

“I have a super brain inside my head,” he explained, at least in his opinion, as he was patiently explaining science. “So of course the body would evolve super defenses to protect it.”

This was clearly an explanation only a highly intelligent person could understand. Surprisingly, the gravedigger suddenly calmed down. He slowly lowered his gun and stared at Ian outside the house.

The anger in the "old man's" eyes was gradually replaced by an eerie calm.

"How did you find out?" he asked in a low voice, his voice completely changed—no longer that of the old gravedigger, but a much younger male voice.