Zod lazily enjoyed a typical American farm breakfast. It was... average.
There wasn't much Judley could do to resist Zod's presence. After all, the only police who ever came near the U.S.-Mexico border were either corrupt or too scared to show up. Even if you made a hundred calls, they wouldn't come.
And the local gangs certainly weren't worth worrying about.
Zod's daily routine mainly consisted of lounging on the roof, basking in the sun. Fortunately for him, Texas was one of the sunniest places in America, and even more so on the U.S.-Mexico border, with its vast deserts.
The scorching sun would be unbearable for someone like Judley, but for Zod, it was pure ecstasy—like an exhilarating high, though he had never tried drugs.
The Codex, which Zod had merged with, was starting to affect him.
Ordinary Kryptonians couldn't hope to match Clark Kent's power, but Clark was different. He had absorbed the Codex into his cells, granting him the combined potential of billions of Kryptonian genetic templates. That's why he grew to be so powerful.
Now, Zod had the same Codex, but unlike Clark, he had no moral qualms holding him back. He knew he'd eventually surpass Clark in both power and combat prowess.
After soaking in the sun for a day, Zod discovered that he could easily crush wood and rock with his bare hands. Though his growth wasn't as rapid as General Zod's or Faora's, Zod understood that it had taken Clark nearly 30 years to absorb Earth's sunlight and become strong enough to fight General Zod on equal footing. His progress might not be quick, but it would be steady, and soon, he would unlock even more powers.
Time was on his side.
With Tony Stark yet to become Iron Man, Zod wasn't too concerned. Besides, he still had his battle armor as a backup. If anything went wrong, he could always don the suit and leave his enemies wondering how they'd lost.
One day, Zod, feeling restless, asked Judley if there was a good barbecue spot nearby.
"Yeah, there's a place," Judley replied. "But it's run by some rough people. You might find trouble if you're not careful."
Judley clearly meant well. His physique suggested he'd seen some action, but Zod could tell he wasn't much of a fighter—more of a scare tactic guy than a real threat.
Zod had no intention of causing problems, but he didn't see the harm in checking it out. He even promised Judley that he'd repay him someday.
Money wasn't an issue—if Judley could somehow accept Kryptonian credits, Zod could transfer him ten billion and let him buy half of the United States if he wanted.
When Judley handed Zod the car keys and a pistol, he said with a faint smirk, "Don't shoot."
Zod pocketed the keys but declined the gun. He didn't need it.
Following Judley's directions, Zod drove along the interstate. The wind from the open window carried with it the raw, untamed essence of Texas.
After a while, he reached a small town. Parking the car, Zod walked into the town center.
Almost immediately, he drew attention. People in the town gave him curious glances—he definitely didn't belong in a place like this. His aura, refined from years of ruling on Krypton, was hard to miss, and it made him stand out like a sore thumb.
Ignoring the stares, Zod followed the smell of barbecue to a local joint. Inside, he found the place packed with rough-looking men, many covered in tattoos, hogging all the best spots while enjoying the cool air conditioning and cold beers.
Zod stepped in and instantly drew the gang's attention.
"Excuse me," Zod said calmly, addressing one of the thugs with his feet propped up in the walkway. "Could you move?"
The man burst into laughter. "This guy's asking me to move! You think this is some fancy city, huh?"
The others joined in, roaring with laughter.
A large man—muscular, with a gold tooth—stood up and grinned at Zod. "You don't belong here."
Zod raised an eyebrow, unfazed. He had tried to be polite, but habits from Krypton die hard. When politeness failed, force came next.
Without a word, Zod slammed his fist into the man's chest, sending him flying through the air and crashing into a table, knocking over several others in the process. The man didn't even have time to cry out.
Another thug lunged at Zod, but with his superhuman senses, Zod easily anticipated the move. He grabbed the man's greasy arm and flipped him over his shoulder, slamming him hard onto the floor. The ground cracked under the impact, and blood pooled beneath the fallen thug.
"F***!"
The rest of the gang jumped to their feet, enraged. They were all part of the same criminal crew.
"Come on," Zod said, smiling. He didn't need fancy techniques—these guys were filthy, and grappling with them was disgusting. He preferred a more straightforward approach.
Zod threw a powerful punch at a bald thug, knocking out several teeth, then delivered an elbow to another guy sneaking up behind him.
Out of the corner of his eye, Zod spotted someone pulling out a gun. Of course—this was America. What's a fight without firearms?
Before the man could fire, Zod launched a precise kick, crushing his ribs and sending him to the floor in a heap. The man twitched and convulsed, his body broken beyond repair, his breathing ragged. He had mere moments left to live, Zod realized—probably less than a minute before the suffocation set in.
The rest of the gang hadn't fully processed what had just happened. They still thought their numbers and firepower would give them the upper hand.
But Zod was ready for anyone who dared to pull a trigger.
And none of them stood a chance.