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

Peter looked at the nervous John and initially wanted to give the kid a proper spanking.

However, realizing this wasn't the place for such actions, he forcibly suppressed his anger, glaring at the two boys.

"Go home!"

At the Podrick Farm.

"Mr. Podrick ?"

"Yes?"

"I'm from the National Transportation Safety Board. My name is Terry George."

The white man in a suit extended his hand to Peter. "I'm sorry about the unfortunate incident."

Terry George glanced at the chaotic scene and said, "Could we speak privately?"

Peter spread his hands and, in a politely dismissive tone, replied, "Mr. George, if you're here to ask about the details of the crash, I'm sorry. I wasn't on the scene, so I can't provide you with the information you're seeking."

As he spoke, his gaze drifted through the large hole in the house to the mess in the living room.

The destruction of the living room was undoubtedly the work of John and Clark.

The barn walls hadn't escaped either, with several parts damaged. The floor inside now had several deep craters, courtesy of the three little troublemakers.

Peter's eyelid twitched as he suppressed his simmering anger. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Terry George.

"Mr. George, rather than discussing the details of the crash, I'm more concerned about compensation. Look at my living room—it's as if a bomb went off in there. The crops on the farm are all destroyed too. Are there any Boeing representatives on-site? I'd much rather discuss the specifics of compensation with them."

Terry George froze for a moment at Peter's stern expression before nodding awkwardly. "Of course, Mr. Podrick . That's your right."

Beside them, Star-Lord and John were stunned to see Peter blaming all the damage on the plane crash and demanding compensation.

You can do that?!

Evening.

After a long day, the plane was finally towed away, and the camera-toting reporters left. The once bustling farm had fallen quiet.

Peter tidied the now-ruined living room before sitting on the battle-scarred sofa and facing John and Star-Lord.

"John, you nearly crashed a plane into the farm."

Peter fixed John with a sharp look. "Don't you have anything to say to me?"

John glanced nervously at Star-Lord before stammering, "Dad, I'm sorry. I—I acted impulsively because Clark provoked me. I didn't think about the consequences."

"You, of all people, are usually so quick-witted, John. How could you let Clark provoke you? Even if his personality was influenced by someone else, you shouldn't have let his words rile you up. That's not like you."

"Because…he said I was a child who would never grow up."

John raised his eyes, looking at Peter in dejection.

"Dad, am I a child who will never grow up?"

Peter's gaze softened as he looked into John's eyes, feeling a sudden pang of emotion.

After a brief hesitation, he walked over, ruffling John's hair.

"No, of course not. You'll grow up. We all do—growing from immaturity into maturity."

"Did you know there are three stages in life: the camel, the lion, and the child?"

John looked puzzled. "Father, what's the difference?"

"The camel represents a state of burden, a passive existence where one follows orders without questioning, much like drifting aimlessly through life, unable to find one's true self."

Peter continued, "The lion is someone who seeks to take control of their own life. It symbolizes strength, ambition, and the desire for freedom, to break free from constraints."

"Clark said you wouldn't grow up because he believes you haven't yet found your true self. He thinks he's already become a lion, so he mocks you for being a camel."

Peter paused before adding, "But in reality, Clark is also a camel. Both of you have extraordinary gifts, setting you far apart from ordinary people."

"As children, you both seek your purpose and identity—a necessary phase in finding your true selves. There's no need for ridicule or fear in this process."

John seemed to understand a little and nodded.

"I understand, Dad. I'll become a lion."

"Of course. I believe you'll grow into a lion and carve out your unique path."

Star-Lord, noticing that Peter seemed less angry, mustered his courage to plead for John.

"Dad, John didn't mean to. He was trying to protect me. If he hadn't stopped Clark, Clark might have burned down the farm—and maxed out your credit card."

Peter's previously calm expression twisted at the mention of his credit card.

"He maxed out my credit card?!"

"Y-yes."

Star-Lord nodded cautiously.

Peter's blood pressure soared as regret consumed him.

I should have punished that kid harder earlier!

Meanwhile, John was stunned by Star-Lord's defense.

He couldn't believe it.

This kid? Pleading for me?

Complex emotions swirled within John as he puffed his cheeks and exhaled deeply. For a fleeting moment, he thought his younger brother wasn't so bad after all.

Peter, now grappling with credit card-induced distress, sighed as he looked at the two anxious troublemakers.

"Fine. I won't be too harsh this time, but you both need to make amends."

Star-Lord hesitated. "What do we have to do, Dad?"

"You'll find out tomorrow."

As soon as Peter finished speaking, a loose piece of window board fell, shattering on the glass shards below.

John and Star-Lord exchanged nervous glances and lowered their heads further.

Peter: "…"

The Next Morning.

Star-Lord sat on the bus, headphones in, glancing at the edgy kid in the front row.

The boy's face was expressionless, like metal.

Behind him, a man in a trucker hat with one side tilted up was bobbing his head violently to unheard music.

Across from him, an elderly man with wild hair stuffed under a shower cap talked loudly on his phone, his voice echoing in the cramped bus.

Star-Lord turned to John, seated beside him, breaking the awkward silence.

"Cough, cough. So, Dad's punishment is to have us volunteer at a welfare home?"

John, who didn't find Star-Lord as insufferable as before, replied, "Yes. Clark is helping Dad repair the farm, and we're doing this as a form of 'community service.'"

"I don't like these places," John remarked, gazing out the window. "The faint smell of urine, the musty odors, and the cheap air fresheners to mask it. Nursing homes reek of death."

"Death?"

Star-Lord looked puzzled.

"Yes, the scent of decay, like at Little Terry's funeral. It feels as if everyone there has already punched their tickets, waiting for their alarm clocks to go off as Death marks their foreheads with ash. Not even lamb's blood on the door could spare them."

Star-Lord barely understood John's metaphor.

As the bus stopped with a hiss, they arrived at the welfare home.

After a quick orientation, the boys were assigned tasks—Star-Lord cleaned indoors while John worked in the garden.

During a short break, Star-Lord approached John.

"John, is Aunt Kelly really my mom?"

John was startled.

"Yes, Star-Lord. Ms. Kelly is your mother. Dad found both of you together."

John paused before adding, "You share the same gifts—that's proof enough."

"But Aunt Kelly says she never married."

"Who knows? Haven't you heard? You can't believe everything a woman says."

Star-Lord's mood darkened. "But you think I don't resemble Dad?"

John smirked. "You don't. Isn't that proof enough?"

Star-Lord tightened his grip on the mop, preparing to retaliate—but a sharp scream from the welfare home stopped him.

Both boys turned toward the source of the noise.

Inside the room, the staff and residents stood frozen, staring at a corpse on the bed.

Some, unable to handle the sight, began to vomit.

...

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