FOR MORE CHAPTERS
patreon.com/Johnybairstow
To avoid damaging anything or anyone, Henry had no choice but to experiment on himself.
After a long series of careful tests and numerous false starts, he finally uncovered some clues. Unsurprisingly, it all led back to that infamous Superman "cheat"—the mysterious bio-field—and the challenge of figuring out how to rationally control and use it.
He assumed the yellow sun's radiation altered his physiology and transformed his body, but clearly, not all the solar energy was immediately used up. A significant portion was being stored within him.
But unlike the martial arts novels he used to read, where internal energy is stored in a dantian or core, this was different. His senses were now so heightened that he had a crystal-clear awareness of his body, his organs, and his condition. He could easily distinguish where the energy was going.
Every time he basked in sunlight, aside from his cellular enhancement, he absorbed a kind of excess energy. This energy wasn't localized—it permeated his body. However, it was confined beneath the skin's surface, even spreading into secreted hair. That was likely part of the secret behind his so-called "body of steel." It wasn't just that his cells were tougher—it was that this energy was acting like a defensive membrane.
This energy, if applied correctly, could potentially do anything.
Almost anything, he had to clarify. Because in all of Henry's rudimentary tests, there wasn't anything he couldn't do with it. He could, for example, project his heat vision at a mirror, reflect it back at himself, and only singe the hairs on his face—not damaging the mirror, nor injuring the skin. This demonstrated not just precision, but control. However, he noticed that using the energy in this way slightly depleted his reserves.
Using the shaving test as a benchmark, he estimated that removing his stubble with this method consumed roughly one hundred-millionth of his current energy reserve. An absurdly tiny amount.
Still, with such an ability, Henry was tempted to call it "magic."
But in Superman's lore, this ability is referred to as a "bio-field," likely to maintain a scientific angle. After all, Superman hails from Krypton, a planet with technology far beyond Earth. Naturally, the writers wouldn't resort to using "magic," which tends to defy scientific explanation.
Henry also acknowledged that, growing up with a science-based education, Superman had no inclination to develop magical abilities. And once he discovered his extraterrestrial origins and Krypton's technological prowess, there was no need to pursue anything mystical.
To test his own theory further, Henry decided to try something simple—lighting a flame.
He pressed his index finger and thumb together and gave them a small rub. To his amazement, a flame flickered to life at the tip of his finger—just like a lighter.
This shocked him. For a brief moment, he even doubted whether he was a true Kryptonian. But then it hit him: Superman didn't use his power this way not because he couldn't—but because it was inefficient.
From a scientific perspective, all energy transformations produce entropy—waste. And this little "magic trick" was a prime example.
The heat vision used during his shaving experiment consumed one hundred-millionth of his energy. But generating that fingertip flame? That cost one ten-thousandth of his reserves instantly.
And the longer he maintained it, the faster the energy drained.
In short, fancy flame tricks that looked like magic came with a steep cost. Super-speed fire-starting through friction would cost him nothing—but this pseudo-magical stunt was a massive energy sink.
He even thought, if he wanted to imitate that famous WWII-era dark wizard next door and raze a city like Paris with fire, he'd probably need several Kryptonians hooked up like batteries to fuel the destruction.
Granted, this conclusion came from tests conducted at a very early stage in his transformation. He hadn't yet stored anywhere near his maximum energy. He was likely still far from his theoretical "full charge," and could still be operating in the metaphorical red zone.
There was also the possibility that more efficient methods of energy conversion existed—like drawing ritual circles or using special tools or artifacts.
If that turned out to be true, then the magic system might resemble Marvel's traditional setting, where all magical energy is borrowed from powerful beings in other dimensions. The differences would depend on who you borrowed from and how you repaid the debt.
For now, though, all signs indicated he was becoming more and more like a Kryptonian. At least when it came to his powers, he aligned closely with the Superman of his memories.
Only a few abilities remained unconfirmed—like flight, or freezing breath.
However, another possibility crept into his thoughts: what if he wasn't a Kryptonian, but a Daxamite?
Daxamites were descendants of ancient Kryptonian explorers, and their physiology was incredibly similar. They too absorbed energy from yellow sunlight, becoming vastly stronger. The difference? Daxamites weren't vulnerable to Kryptonite—but they were fatally allergic to lead.
That was a terrifying idea.
Lead was everywhere on Earth, especially in bullets. If he was a Daxamite, he could die from a common gunshot wound. Kryptonite? Rare and alien. Lead? Practically mundane.
He didn't yet know if he'd encountered anything lead-based recently, so he couldn't say for sure which race he belonged to.
And even though he figured all of this out while alone in the bathroom, it hadn't taken long. His supercharged brain processed thoughts at lightning speed. Still, the noise he made during experimentation had been loud.
He didn't break anything, but people outside had probably heard the commotion.
His right hand, the target of his experiments, had suffered the most—it was mangled, the flesh split open, and the bones exposed. Fortunately, his healing factor kicked in, though not as fast as Deadpool or Wolverine. It was visible, but slow.
To avoid alarming anyone, Henry tore a strip from an old shirt, cleaned it, and wrapped it around his injured hand.
Did it hurt?
Honestly, after everything he endured at the research facility—the late-stage tortures and medical experiments—even if someone nailed him to a cross like Jesus, he probably wouldn't feel much. Compared to that, this pain was nothing more than a drizzle.
Once he'd cleaned up, Henry exited the bathroom, walked through the shared living room, and stepped into Tom's office.
Tom was lounging behind his desk, legs crossed on top, an unhappy look plastered on his face.
He opened his mouth to say something but froze mid-thought when he noticed the bandaged hand. His expression changed instantly. He blinked, then offered Henry a sympathetic smile and said:
"Young man, I get it. You've got too much energy to burn. I've been there. If you ever need some relief, I can take you to the strip club downtown."
Henry was confused.
Tom continued, "Seriously—if you've got some cash and the right connections, you can find a pretty little sweetheart to spend the night with. No need to abuse yourself like this. You rubbed your hand raw."
Then, he added, "Look at your hand! You want me to take you to the pharmacy for some ointment? Or maybe get you some lubricant?"
Henry was stunned.
What the hell did this guy think he was doing in the bathroom?
Rather than explain the real reason for the injury, Henry had a more compelling thought: how would someone's brain respond to a full-powered heat ray blast?
Would it pierce straight through like a laser, or boil the brain and make it explode?
There was a conveniently placed head in front of him, perfect for testing.
FOR MORE CHAPTERS
patreon.com/Johnybairstow