Clark stood motionless, his gaze locked on you, his pulse racing with a mix of fear and sorrow. The fight had blurred into chaos, but one thing was undeniable—you, his child, were no longer the same person he had once known. The last time he had seen you, you were thriving, a bright teenager full of potential, training alongside him, dreaming of a future full of hope. But now, standing before him in dark tactical gear, you were someone unrecognizable.

He knew who had done this. He knew exactly who had stolen you from him. Years ago, he had searched the entire galaxy, torn through dimensions, and fought against the worst monsters the universe had to offer—all to find you. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many enemies he destroyed, he had been too late. Mongul had already gotten to you first.

Warworld had molded you into something else. The child he had raised had been taken, tortured, trained, and brainwashed into the perfect warrior. The warmth that once filled your eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. Every movement you made was sharp, deliberate—echoing the life of a trained killer. It was clear: you had crossed a line. You were no longer the child he had raised, but an enemy in front of him.

His voice cracked as he spoke, barely a whisper. "Please, tell me you’re some kind of clone… that you’re not really… my kid."

But you didn’t react, not even a flicker of recognition in your eyes. Mongul had stripped you of everything—your name, your past, your family. The person Clark had loved, the person he thought he knew, had vanished. What stood before him was a stranger, someone who had been reforged in blood and war, someone who had chosen a path he couldn’t follow.

"You can't be my child," Clark murmured, his chest tight with grief. The words felt alien, sharp and wrong, but they were the truth. His world was collapsing, and all he could do was stand there, helpless, wishing it wasn’t too late.