The morning sun slipped through the curtains of the Kent farmhouse, casting a warm golden glow across the small bedroom. Outside, leaves rustled in the breeze, mixing with the cheerful chirps of birds, like a village waking up for a festival. The air carried the fresh scent of dew and tilled earth, drifting through the open window and filling the room with a quiet peace.
In a handmade wooden crib, Clark lay nestled in a soft woolen blanket, his tiny chest rising and falling. To anyone else, he was just a baby—fragile, innocent, barely aware. But his mind was a whirlwind, sharp and alive, racing with thoughts no infant should have. Every day, he soaked up more of this world, his superhuman senses slowly tuning in, like a radio finding its signal.
As he shifted, his tiny fingers brushed something cold and metallic. His blue eyes flicked downward.
A ring.
The ring sat snug on his small finger, its dark surface etched with strange, glowing symbols that pulsed faintly in the morning light. It wasn't just jewelry—it was power, a gift from the old man who'd sent him to this life.
Clark's eyes narrowed, his mind sharpening. He'd been so busy adjusting—taking in the Kents, the farm, the whispers of Krypton's will—that he hadn't truly noticed the ring until now. But he remembered: it was his artifact, the key to a universe all his own.
He focused, his thoughts like a spark. What could it do? Could he use it now?
The moment he wondered, the world twisted. Space bent, pulling him like a current. His crib, the room, the farmhouse—they vanished.
Clark stood in a jungle, vast and alive, under a sky of gold and violet that swirled like a painter's dream. Wisps of clouds glowed, their edges shimmering as if woven from starlight. The air was crisp, rich with the scent of unknown flowers and damp earth, like a forest after a monsoon.
Towering trees stretched toward the heavens, their trunks pulsing with veins of energy, like the heartbeat of the world itself. Leaves, wide as temple roofs, glowed in shifting colors—blue, green, gold—casting a soft light through the thick canopy. Above, the sky should've been hidden, but the air itself radiated a gentle twilight, bathing everything in an endless, magical glow.
Crystal rivers wound through the jungle, their surfaces mirroring the cosmic sky. In their depths, strange fish darted, their scales flashing like jewels. The sounds of life hummed around him—birds with songs like flutes, insects buzzing in harmony, beasts moving unseen but peaceful. It was a symphony of existence, familiar yet alien, wild yet balanced.
There were no cities, no roads, no traces of anyone before him. This was a world untouched, a blank canvas of pure potential.
Clark inhaled, his senses drinking in every detail. This was his universe, the one the old man had promised. His personal domain, a planet for now, but he felt its potential deep in his bones. As he grew stronger, it would expand—more worlds, more life, a kingdom to call his own.
His lips twitched into a faint smile. One day, this place would be his empire.
Clark clenched his tiny fist, willing his power to surge. He wanted to shape this world, to test its limits. Nothing happened.
He tried again, reaching inside, searching for the spark of power locked within him. Still nothing.
He let out a sharp breath, frustration flickering in his mind. He'd known this was coming—his greatest abilities, the ones that could bend reality and build worlds, were sealed until he was 18. It was a limit he couldn't break, not yet.
But there was something else. The old man had given him another gift: the ability to travel the multiverse. Was that sealed too?
Clark closed his eyes, focusing inward, like searching for a faint star in a daylight sky. He felt it—a weak, distant thread, a connection to the infinite worlds beyond. It wasn't strong, not yet, but it was there, like a coal waiting to catch fire.
His smile returned, sharper now. The multiverse wasn't fully open to him, but it wasn't locked either. If he pushed, trained, tested himself, he might unlock it sooner—maybe by 15. That gave him time to plan, to grow, to prepare for the worlds he'd one day walk.
For now, he was content. This universe, this ring, this life—it was a start.
A voice broke through his thoughts, soft and warm, like a familiar song. "Clark?"
The jungle, the sky, the rivers—they faded in a blink. Space shifted, and he was back in his crib, staring at the wooden ceiling of the Kent farmhouse. The scent of fresh linen and a faint hint of lavender—Martha's perfume—filled the air, grounding him in this quiet world.
Soft footsteps approached. Martha entered, her golden-brown hair catching the morning light, her green eyes radiating warmth. She leaned over the crib, her smile gentle, like a mother checking on her own child. "Good morning, little one," she whispered, brushing a finger across his cheek.
Clark let out a small breath, his infant body still but his mind alive. Martha's presence was a comfort, a reminder of the life he was building. She wasn't just kind—she was a piece of his new world, a spark of the legacy he'd create.
This life was just beginning. The farm, the ring, the universe waiting within him—it was all his to shape. Soon, the multiverse would know Clark Kent, not as a hero, but as something more.
He curled his tiny fingers around the ring, its faint glow warm against his skin. For now, he'd rest, watch, and plan. The future was his to take.