Chapter 137: A Textbook Example of a One-Sided Beating
When General Zod pulled himself from the crater, his right knee had already begun recovering.
The regenerative effects of yellow-sun exposure were becoming increasingly obvious.
The fractures around his kneecap reassembled within seconds. The joint remained stiff, but it had regained enough structural integrity to continue fighting.
He spat a mixture of blood and dust onto the ground.
Then fixed his gaze on Lynn.
For the first time since arriving on Earth, Zod fully acknowledged a terrifying reality.
This opponent was stronger than Kal-El.
Far stronger.
Not merely in raw power.
Not merely in durability.
Even his combat skill exceeded anything Zod had anticipated.
Every attack.
Every feint.
Every adjustment.
All had been anticipated and dismantled.
Zod was not a berserker.
He was a professional soldier.
And soldiers understood battlefield realities better than anyone.
A direct confrontation offered no path to victory.
So he changed tactics.
Instantly.
Zod launched backward.
His boots tore through the earth, carving deep trenches across the ruined battlefield.
After creating sufficient distance, he crouched.
Then exploded skyward.
This time he wasn't targeting Lynn.
He was heading toward the city.
Toward civilians.
Toward leverage.
Toward hostages.
The moment Zod left the ground, the All-Seeing Eye completed its calculations.
Trajectory.
Velocity.
Destination.
Probability estimates.
Everything appeared instantly.
Lynn didn't move.
Didn't chase.
Didn't even look concerned.
Instead, he activated electromagnetic manipulation.
Halfway through his ascent, Zod suddenly felt something pull him sideways.
Violently.
His flight path deviated.
The smooth arc toward the city collapsed instantly.
His body twisted through the air as an invisible force dragged him away from his intended route.
"What—?!"
For the first time, genuine confusion appeared.
Zod's blood contained iron.
Not much.
Far less than an ordinary human.
But enough.
And Lynn didn't require large quantities.
His electromagnetic manipulation operated at molecular precision.
He wasn't controlling Zod directly.
He was continuously disrupting the microscopic movement of iron within his circulatory system.
Tiny disturbances.
Tiny adjustments.
Yet when applied continuously at extreme precision, they became sufficient to alter flight dynamics.
Every time Zod corrected course—
Lynn corrected him right back.
Zod attempted to regain control.
Failed.
Tried again.
Failed again.
No matter which direction he chose, an invisible force redirected him elsewhere.
Like a warship trapped by an unseen current.
Like a fighter jet attached to an invisible cable.
"You have iron in your blood."
Lynn's voice drifted upward.
Calm.
Matter-of-fact.
"Not much."
A brief pause.
"But enough."
Zod's expression changed.
The realization finally settled in.
The terrifying aspect of this opponent wasn't merely overwhelming strength.
It was versatility.
Heat Vision.
Physical supremacy.
Flight.
Regeneration.
Advanced combat skill.
And now long-range electromagnetic interference.
How many abilities did this creature possess?
The answer remained unknown.
And that uncertainty was becoming increasingly dangerous.
Zod abandoned aerial combat immediately.
His feet touched the ground once more.
The instant he landed, he charged.
This time he discarded Kryptonian military doctrine entirely.
No refined techniques.
No tactical combinations.
No structured combat forms.
Only speed.
Only power.
Only violence.
His fists descended like a storm.
Every strike carried enough force to demolish armored vehicles.
Every missed punch generated shockwaves powerful enough to pulverize nearby ruins.
If technique couldn't win—
Quantity would.
Eventually, one punch had to connect.
Lynn moved.
The difference was astonishing.
He didn't retreat.
Didn't create distance.
Didn't evade dramatically.
Instead, he slipped through the attacks with microscopic precision.
One centimeter.
Two centimeters.
Sometimes less.
Zod's fists repeatedly passed beside his mask.
Beside his shoulders.
Beside his chest.
Close enough to disturb fabric.
Close enough to generate pressure waves.
Never close enough to touch him.
This wasn't ordinary dodging.
It was humiliation.
Deliberate humiliation.
High above the battlefield, Superman watched everything unfold.
Clark's eyes narrowed.
The precision was impossible to ignore.
The masked figure wasn't simply avoiding attacks.
He was sending a message.
A very clear message.
You cannot hit me.
"He's playing with him."
Clark's voice remained low.
Beside him, Bruce Wayne remained silent.
A compact battlefield computer attached to his wrist continuously recorded combat data.
Movement patterns.
Weight distribution.
Reaction timing.
Counterattack angles.
Everything.
Bruce analyzed the information.
Then felt a chill run through him.
The fighting style was inconsistent.
That shouldn't have been possible.
Some movements resembled modern military close-quarters combat.
Efficient.
Minimal.
Lethal.
Other techniques reflected Eastern European martial traditions.
Joint manipulation.
Off-balancing mechanics.
Control-oriented counters.
Then came something even stranger.
Certain defensive transitions looked familiar.
Uncomfortably familiar.
Bruce replayed the footage.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
His eyes narrowed.
Because several movement sequences strongly resembled his own combat system.
Not similar.
Not inspired by.
Identical.
Impossible.
Bruce had spent decades building that style.
Training across the world.
Integrating countless martial disciplines.
Refining every movement personally.
No one should have replicated it.
No one.
Yet the evidence remained.
The masked man's combat patterns contained fragments of Bruce Wayne's own fighting system.
Bruce stared at the screen.
His mind raced.
But before he could reach a conclusion—
The battle changed.
Lynn decided he had seen enough.
This wasn't a performance.
It wasn't entertainment.
It was resource acquisition.
And Zod's usefulness was rapidly approaching its limit.
The forty-seventh punch missed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Zod's center of gravity shifted forward by a fraction of a degree.
A tiny error.
An opening.
Lynn moved.
His hand opened.
Five fingers extended.
Then he grabbed Zod's face.
Not a slap.
Not a strike.
A grab.
Thumb and little finger locked against opposite sides of Zod's skull.
The remaining fingers covered his eyes and nose.
Zod reacted instantly.
Both hands seized Lynn's wrist.
Every muscle contracted.
He pulled.
Twisted.
Forced.
Nothing happened.
The grip didn't move.
Not even slightly.
Then Lynn swung his arm.
Zod flew.
His entire body left the ground.
After tumbling repeatedly through the air, he slammed into the earth and carved two trenches more than ten meters long before finally stopping.
Before he could recover—
Lynn was already there.
A knee struck his abdomen.
The impact folded Zod in half.
Blood erupted from his mouth.
A hand seized the back of his head.
Another knee.
CRACK.
His nose shattered.
Blood and bone fragments burst outward.
Then came a punch.
Directly into the chest.
The force launched him through multiple layers of stone.
One wall.
Then another.
Then another.
Only the fourth finally stopped him.
When the dust settled, Zod hung partially embedded within solid rock.
His body resembled a crushed piece of metal.
Twisted.
Damaged.
Broken.
The entire sequence lasted less than four seconds.
Six attacks.
Grab.
Knee.
Control.
Knee.
Punch.
Punch.
Every strike landed perfectly.
Every strike targeted a vital point.
Every strike used exactly enough force to incapacitate.
Never enough to kill.
A perfect demonstration of dominance.
A textbook example of a one-sided beating.
From the distant ruins, Captain America watched silently.
His throat tightened.
The scene reminded him of something.
The Battle of New York.
Standing against Chitauri heavy weapons.
Knowing their firepower vastly exceeded anything he could withstand.
Knowing resistance was almost meaningless.
Yet continuing anyway.
That feeling of helplessness.
That certainty of defeat.
Zod was experiencing that now.
Perhaps even worse.
Because he wasn't fighting an impersonal weapon.
He wasn't facing artillery.
Or alien technology.
Or a machine.
He was fighting a living being deliberately controlling its strength.
A being capable of ending the battle instantly.
Yet choosing not to.
Steve didn't know why.
He didn't understand the masked man's motives.
Few people did.
But one fact had become undeniable.
The white-masked figure standing amidst the ruins of Metropolis, overpowering Krypton's greatest military commander without taking a single step backward—
Was the strongest being Steve Rogers had ever seen.
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