Soren stared into Clark's eyes for a long, long time without speaking.
In this world, billions looked up to this god.
But only he who called this god by name.
Finally, Soren lowered his head, as if surrendering to the grace of the deity, and in the softest, quietest voice, he murmured, "...You're right, Clark."
At the end of that day, Clark took Soren back to Smallville, to visit Jonathan and Martha's graves.
Soren had brought a bouquet from Tokyo—a mix of white carnations and calla lilies, which he gently laid in front of the tombstone.
The gravestone bore photos of Jonathan and Martha.
Jonathan wore a light blue checkered shirt, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, one arm around Martha.
His resolute gaze seemed to look beyond the photo, toward them.
Martha leaned slightly into Jonathan, her eyes soft and bright.
Soren hadn't made it in time to say his final goodbyes, and he never imagined that meeting them again would happen under such circumstances.
He stood silently before the gravestone, with Clark by his side, both bowing their heads in quiet reflection.
Soren didn't want to reopen Clark's old wounds by asking about the past.
Instead, he simply took Clark's hand, offering sincere and solemn comfort: "They were great parents, Clark."
Clark kept his head bowed, shadows cast by his brow bones deepening his gaze, while soft strands of hair brushed gently against his cheek.
He stood beside Soren, but Soren had a sinking feeling that he might drift away at any moment.
"I won't let…" Clark murmured, his hand clenched tightly in his pocket.
He lifted his head and met Soren's eyes, as if making a vow. "I won't let those tragedies happen again. Every person who does wrong will face judgment and punishment."
Soren silently embraced him.
In the sunlight, they stood like a perfectly sculpted pair of statues, their black shadows cast on the ground, but the silhouette depicted a painful scene: their shadows intertwined, with Clark's bent elbow appearing as though it pierced through Soren's chest.
They returned to the now-abandoned Kent farm.
After Jonathan and Martha passed away, the crops and livestock perished as well, having been left untended.
Now, the farm was nothing more than an empty old house and a large, barren barn.
Only Clark would occasionally come back here.
In his most painful moments, when he could no longer bear the weight of everything, he would sit quietly on that old fabric sofa for an hour or two, immersing himself in the dream of a time when nothing had yet changed.
But fate had long been sealed.
A massive explosion had taken everything he once held dear.
No matter how much he longed for this house, it was now only an empty shell, a relic of memories.
They rested in Clark's old room.
Clark changed the bedding with fresh sheets, while Soren leaned his head against the windowsill, gazing off into the distance at a hill near the farm.
In the twilight, the hill resembled the arched back of some great creature, and a sliver of moonlight spilled across its crest.
Soren knew that a small cat was buried there.
Clark, having changed into his sleepwear, quietly climbed into bed behind him.
Soren felt the mattress sink slightly under Clark's weight, causing him to dip a few inches.
Clark wrapped his arms around him from behind and asked softly, "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing." Soren snapped out of his thoughts and turned around to face Clark, smiling, "Didn't you say you can survive just on sunlight? That you don't need to sleep?"
Clark smiled slightly, "But sometimes… I need a brief moment to stop thinking about certain things."
Soren understood.
In the soft, dim light, he studied Clark's god-like, handsome face.
...You still feel pain, don't you, Clark?
Soren sighed and leaned in to embrace him, placing his hand on Clark's chest, only to suddenly notice something strange beneath his palm—
Clark instinctively flinched back, but Soren had already lifted his head, surprised, "What is that, Clark?"
Under the thin fabric of the sleepwear, Soren's hand had brushed against some raised scars.
The scars felt completely different from the skin, and just the slight touch allowed him to imagine how deep the wounds must have been before they healed into such hard, protruding marks—wounds that must have torn deep into flesh, nearly to the bone, to leave scars like these.
Clark lowered his head, furrowing his brow, as if trying to come up with an excuse that Soren might believe.
But before Clark could answer, Soren crawled closer, his expression filled with concern and sorrow.
He tugged at Clark's collar with his fingers, almost pleading, "Let me see... let me see, Clark, let me see it…"
Clark grasped his hand, intending to refuse, but the look in Soren's blue eyes made his heart pound.
After a moment's hesitation, Clark relented and released Soren's hand.
He unbuttoned his sleepwear slowly, revealing the horrifying scar on his chest.
It was a twisted, jagged "S"-shaped scar, coiled like a serpent over Clark's heart, dominating his entire chest.
Whoever had left that scar seemed intent on consuming his very life.
"What is this?" Soren's voice trembled.
There was a quiver in his tone, his fingertips shaking as he carefully traced the scar, "Clark, tell me, why do you have a wound like this?"
"Who hurt you?"
Clark gave a bitter smile.
"It was me."
His gaze locked onto Soren's face, eyes delving deep into Soren's own, "After you all left me... I begged Bruce to kill me with that Kryptonite spear. He refused. So, I found the last remnants of Kryptonite scattered across the world… I missed you so much then. I was desperate to see you again, wondering where I'd have to go to find you—"
"And then, I used the Kryptonite to open up my chest.
"But I didn't die."
The deeper meaning in his words sent a chill through Soren, making his entire body shake.
He held Clark tightly, overwhelmed with pain, "Don't say it anymore, Clark."