While Constantine was feeling thoroughly creeped out by the pronoun the Angel had used, Ian, the subject of his deep fear, finally arrived at the gym he had been thinking about for the past two days.
The twilight glow shone on the neon sign of "Big Muscle Gym," and the pink and purple lights looked especially suggestive in the evening mist. Perhaps it should have opened in England instead of Metropolis.
His old home before he transmigrated.
Even the Land of the Sinner Saints (England) lacked such a gym.
"A color scheme full of 'bromance.' Jonathan actually likes to come to a place like this. It's too easy to misunderstand." Ian stood at the entrance, hands in his pockets, looking up at the gym sign.
He wasn't going to go inside and show off his physical strength, which was ten times that of a normal person. Some boasts weren't strictly necessary. Mature braggarts only boast about achievements that bring satisfaction.
"Where are the drug dealers hiding?"
Although Ian already had his *Breaking Bad* chemistry teacher, he still wanted to meet the legendary *dragons* soon. After all, even if his chemistry teacher could synthesize *dragons*, Ian would need to procure the raw materials.
A law-abiding, model student of Metropolis did not have access to such channels. Ian was pondering whether he should ask around when a man in a hoodie and sweatshirt walked toward him.
"Hey, man, I can tell you need help. Interested in a quick fitness secret guide?" The young man flashed a set of white teeth that could endorse a famous toothpaste brand.
"Swimming or gym personal training classes? Sorry, I don't need them." Ian thought he had encountered a sales pitch for personal training. NPCs like this loved to spawn outside gyms.
"Nah, man, I'm not a trainer. I'm a chemist." The young man glanced left and right, lowering his voice. "Newest formula, works in three weeks. Technology can give you a powerful physique."
"Trust me, with a set of toned muscles, girls won't be able to walk straight when they see you." The young man's tone was tempting. He clearly understood what teenagers were chasing.
However, Ian didn't fall for it.
"Are you talking about muscles like these?" He lifted his shirt under his school uniform, revealing perfect abs, then pointed to his still somewhat boyish face.
"I don't need girls to be unable to walk straight when they see me. I need to be able to protect myself when facing girls." His words were utterly serious, and even the young man found some merit in them.
"Okay, I admit, you've got that killer Hollywood look." The young Black man spoke the truth, then casually showed Ian his Nike backpack.
"Maybe I misjudged you. You're not a gym novice, but, bro, you definitely haven't used my product here. It's very effective with no side effects."
"You can get even bigger. Believe in yourself. Believe in the power of technology." He desperately leveraged the greed of gym-goers to pitch his specialized *tech juice*.
"Have you used it yourself?"
Ian asked a question most novices would ask.
The young man immediately answered in a flash.
"I don't need to use technology. Pure natural muscle talent... I only use a little technology occasionally." His answer was decisive, carrying an unthinking certainty.
"Mm, I can see that. Metropolis Arnie."
Ian nodded.
"Are you saying I look like Arnold Schwarzenegger? You really have an eye!" The young man immediately brightened up. "Just for your sharp judgment, I'll give you a ten percent discount today."
"Three hundred US dollars a bottle. I recommend starting with ten bottles to test the effect. Ten percent off is 2,600 US dollars." He tried hard to calculate, so the result he came up with was, well, a result.
The accuracy was secondary.
"I'm still a minor. Is this really okay?" Ian pulled out his student ID, which had reappeared in his drawer, likely due to his father's intervention, after being lost and found.
The young man didn't look at it.
"Precisely why you need to not lose at the starting line, isn't it? You know Superman, right? I don't think anyone doesn't know Superman. He used our family's ancestral technology since he was a kid."
Bluffing without batting an eye.
"Is that so."
Ian pretended to believe it.
"Then give me one case. No, make it two cases."
He pondered for a moment, estimating the inventory the other party might possess, and spoke. The young man flinched instinctively.
"Are you sure?"
The Black brother scrutinized Ian's clothing up and down.
"If you have enough money, of course there's no problem—I'm just a businessman." His implication was clear: he wanted to absolve himself of any relationship with whether Ian would ascend to the pleasure planet.
"Mm."
Ian nodded.
So, The guy led him to a deserted alley common in Metropolis. A beat-up Ford was parked there. He used the original key to open his trunk, which was secured with iron chains.
A total of more than ten chains.
More than ten keys.
No surveillance.
The guy knew very well what he should trust, and it certainly wasn't his other brothers on this street.
"One case is eight thousand. Ten percent off for you, so that's six thousand nine." His math skills were still consistently applied. Perhaps he thought the number "69" looked similar to the discount of ten percent.
Ian, on the other hand, didn't care.
He was a superhero, and it was time to intermittently fulfill his duties.
"Look up! Wonder Woman! She's naked!"
This trick worked exceptionally well on the young man.
While the young man instinctively turned to look at the sky.
"Don't sell illegal substances to minors, you bastard! You have failed this city!" Ian put on a low voice, and before the young man could react, he slammed a punch into him.
Directly hitting the big head.
Although it wasn't a deliberate Furious Punch, Ian's strength was probably enough to knock out ten Ip Man clones without much issue. So, the robust young man immediately rolled his eyes and collapsed unconscious onto the ground.
"Another day saved for the innocent minors of Metropolis." Ian pulled out the Coke he hadn't finished and poured all the flat soda into the trash can.
"Human! You go too far!"
The trash can's complaint was brief.
Ian took the empty bottle and poured bottle after bottle of the small *tech juice* vials into it. Bacterial contamination wasn't important; it could only be considered a buff enhancement.
Three cases of the *tech juice*.
Perfectly filled a Coke bottle. He took a small sip. The taste was pretty good. He decided to use the trash can as a test subject later to test the effect of muscle injection.
Demons have muscles too.
"Where's the phone?"
Ian used the young man's iron chains to tie him to a lamppost, then instinctively, with innate proficiency, searched the man's pocket for his phone.
"Hello, is this Detective Kate Beckett?"
He called the female officer who had driven him home during the convenience store incident. "I'm Ian Kent, the innocent bystander—the Ian you gave your private number to, saying I was asking for a punch and would likely meet an untimely end outside."
"No, I wasn't stabbed, and I wasn't killed. My corpse hasn't learned how to call the police yet."
"I just encountered another lawbreaker. Luckily, I was rescued by Silk-Stocking Superman, who wished to remain anonymous, detests illegal substances, and will take them away for harmless disposal."
Ian sometimes had to maintain his presence.
Independent NPCs feared a lack of popularity the most.
They also feared too much popularity.
The balance between the two was a matter of degree.
"No, not a Superwoman wearing silk stockings. It's a new member of the Superman family. He said he has only been practicing for two and a half days—his appearance? I don't know why I couldn't clearly see his face at all."
"I'm telling the truth. I don't like lying, just the occasional white lie—oops, it seems to work fast. It's nothing, I'm just drinking a new version of Coca-Cola."
After reporting the crime, Ian turned and looked at the young man under the lamppost.
"One hundred, two hundred, three hundred." Ian counted out three hundred US dollars, then checked the call time on the phone and counted out three cents in coins, stuffing them all into the unconscious man's pocket.
Honest transaction, after all.
He had agreed to pay three hundred US dollars per bottle.
Ian would, of course, respect the market price—he was, after all, a law-abiding citizen of America, who didn't even like to take advantage of small things like discounts.
Such noble character.
Metropolis probably couldn't find many like him.
***
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