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

"Do you not like Star-Lord?"

On their way to school, Clark asked John.

"Yes, I don't like him. He looks like an insufferable idiot. I think Dad should send him back to the Kawachi tribe to live with Miss Kelly."

John stated firmly that the tribe was where Star-Lord belonged, not the farm where he was an eyesore.

"Why should he live with Miss Kelly?"

Clark asked in confusion.

"Because he's Miss Kelly's child," John replied, reiterating his earlier argument. "Kelly can transform into a white wolf, and Star-Lord turned into a pig before he was three years old. Doesn't that prove he inherited Kelly's abilities?"

Clark scratched his head. "I don't think Star-Lord is that fat. At most, he's just stocky."

"Are you serious?"

John stared at him in amazement. "He's as big as Dalh now. How is that not fat?"

As the two debated whether Star-Lord was fat or just muscular, a scavenger passed by.

The scavenger looked like a filthy "wolf-man," sniffing the air incessantly. His thin frame, lanky limbs, and awkward "dance steps" suggested he was lost in some music only he could hear. His long brown hair was tied up with a rubber band atop his head.

A pungent stench assaulted their noses.

John noticed the scavenger picking at scabs on his arm and observed his strange teeth.

"Hey, how are you two?"

The scavenger greeted them with forced friendliness as he approached.

"Get lost! Or I'll fry you with my laser vision! Get out of here, you filthy—!"

John shouted harshly, his tone cutting.

The scavenger froze, shocked by John's outburst. After a moment, he glanced nervously at Clark, who was equally stunned, and slunk away.

"John, why did you act that way?" Clark asked, puzzled.

Normally, while John disliked vagrants, he wouldn't outright insult them. Was it because he was in a bad mood lately?

"Because he's an addict," John shrugged, glancing at the scavenger. "Dad says we should stay away from people like that."

"How do you know he's an addict?" Clark asked, surprised.

"I saw his teeth. Based on their color and condition, it won't be long before they break off like icicles," John replied, emphasizing the precision of his super vision.

"Such people die either in prison or while injecting their 'sweet Mexican brown,' or they end up robbing banks or shoplifting for their next hit, only to get themselves killed. That's their fate."

John exhaled and continued, "And they can't quit. Drugs aren't like milk—you can't just stop when you want to. That's why Dad insists we stay far away from such things."

Clark swallowed nervously. "I'll stay away from those terrifying things too."

"Addiction isn't limited to drugs, Clark. Overeating is an addiction too—just look at Star-Lord. I wouldn't be surprised if he ends up like that scavenger someday."

As they spoke, they arrived at school, just in time to see football practice in session.

Clark spotted Lana sitting in the stands, chatting and laughing with her friends.

He glanced at her wistfully, then turned his eyes to the players on the field.

Clark had loved football since he was a child, but his unique physique meant he could never join the team.

"Stop staring, Clark. She'll never look at you that way," John teased. "Unless you convince your dad to let you join the team."

Clark cast one last longing glance at Lana before catching up to John.

"Maybe Godfather can convince my dad," he suggested.

Clark's father, Jonathan, had always been against him playing football.

"Not a chance. Mr. Kent is the most stubborn man alive—not even Dad can sway him."

"Fine," Clark muttered, lowering his head in frustration. He knew John was right.

"Why don't you play football, John?" Clark asked curiously. "Your godfather wouldn't stop you, right?"

"Because I don't want to be some TV sports star," John replied, glancing at the players. "I don't like people scrutinizing me."

As they walked past the field, Whitney, a player on the football team, noticed Clark trailing behind John.

Seizing the chance to humiliate Clark, Whitney picked up a football and shouted, "Hey, Clark!"

Clark turned around, only to see a football hurtling toward him.

Thud!

Clark caught it effortlessly.

"Nice catch!"

The other players shouted in admiration.

Clark smiled, gripping the ball tightly before throwing it back at Whitney.

Adding a little extra force, the ball flew like lightning toward Whitney, who barely caught it before it slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

The coach, observing everything, narrowed his eyes at Clark's retreating figure.

That afternoon, as Clark was packing up to leave, Coach Watt stopped him.

"Clark?"

Clark was surprised the coach spoke to him and froze for a moment.

"Hello, Coach."

"I saw that throw this morning. Your technique needs work, but your strength is impressive," Coach Watt complimented him. "Why aren't you on the team?"

"I have chores at home," Clark replied.

Coach Watt shook his head in regret. "You should be on the field. There's a game coming up, and we're short on players. If you want to join, just let me know."

Clark hesitated, tempted but aware of his father's disapproval. "My dad won't allow it."

"Jonathan Kent, right?" Coach Watt said thoughtfully. "He was the most talented player I ever coached. I've seen you staring at the trophy case with his picture in it. You must want to play too, don't you?"

"I..." Clark hesitated again.

Coach Watt patted his shoulder. "I know you're worried about your father, but we all grow up someday. One day, you'll step out of his shadow and be your own man. Am I right?"

Seeing Lana nearby, Clark took a deep breath and made up his mind. "Yes, Coach. I'll join."

"Great! Be here at 3 PM tomorrow in uniform."

That evening, back at the Kent farm, Jonathan was repairing the tractor when Clark approached.

"You said yes, didn't you?" Jonathan asked, wiping his hands.

"Coach Watt didn't give me much of a choice," Clark admitted.

"Let me guess—he used the 'be a real man' line, didn't he?" Jonathan chuckled humorlessly. "I've heard it a thousand times over the last twenty years."

Jonathan's tone turned stern. "You need to tell the coach tomorrow that you can't play."

Clark's smile faded. "Dad, please don't do this."

"I'm sorry, Clark, but we've discussed this before," Jonathan replied firmly.

"No, we haven't!" Clark protested. "I'm old enough to make my own decisions!"

Jonathan shook his head. "You're not ready. On the field, emotions can cloud your judgment. One mistake, and someone could get seriously hurt."

"I can control myself!" Clark shouted. "Godfather and Mr. Jones taught me how to meditate and manage my emotions. I won't hurt anyone!"

"You're not mature enough yet, Clark."

Clark's frustration boiled over. "I'm tired of being punished for my gifts! Most parents would be proud their son wants to play football. Why do you always hold me back?"

Jonathan's face darkened. "Because I don't live vicariously through your achievements."

Clark clenched his fists. "I'll get Godfather to sign the consent form. You can't stop me."

As he stormed off, Jonathan called after him, "Where are you going?"

"I'm staying with Godfather tonight," Clark replied coldly. "At least he trusts me—unlike you."

Jonathan watched his son disappear into the night, his expression heavy with sorrow.