Ian pushed open the wooden door of Hannibal's psychiatric clinic.
The hinges let out a faint creak, like the groan of some dying creature.
The scent that assaulted him was not the familiar incense, but the strong smell of blood. The metallic, rust-like stench was almost tangible, sticking to his nasal cavity and refusing to leave.
It was like a bucket of red paint spilled onto the carpet—acrid, sticky, and nauseating. Ian looked up. The scene at the most prominent spot in the lobby, the reception desk, was extremely inappropriate for minors.
The chandelier above swayed.
Its dim, yellow light scattered.
It illuminated the "artwork" suspended beneath the chandelier. It was Maria Sanchez, the clinic's receptionist, a Mexican woman who always greeted people with a gentle smile.
Now, her smile was permanently fixed in the most grotesque way. She had been crafted into a "Flesh Angel." Her head was bowed, her golden hair stuck to her cheeks with blood. Her eyes were gouged out, leaving only two black holes. Her mouth had been violently ripped open, then meticulously stitched with needle and thread into a bizarre smile.
Not only that.
The poor nurse's arms were also broken, extended at strange angles on either side of her body. The skin on her back had been completely peeled off, and the muscle tissue was carefully trimmed into wing shapes and hung from her arms.
The muscle and fascia were stretched into a pair of deformed "wings," resembling a work of art steeped in violence. Blood was still slowly dripping, accumulating in a dark red pool on the floor.
This pool of blood was the source of the bloody smell.
"Gentle Ms. Maria... Damn Dr. Hannibal, he finally couldn't resist attacking someone close to him." Ian's expression was grave as he looked at the "perverted artwork" before him.
He remembered Ms. Maria always offering him candy while he waited for his appointment. Although not expensive, nurses who genuinely liked children were rare.
A kind person was gone, and she had been placed in the center of the lobby, as if the perpetrator wanted the first person entering to be drawn to this "masterpiece."
Whose style could this be if not Dr. Hannibal's? Ian quickly walked over and felt Maria's carotid artery—but the body was already cold. Her time of death was at least an hour ago. Her blood was semi-coagulated, but there were still faint dripping sounds, like a macabre timer.
"Completely unsalvageable. Her soul must have been taken away by the gods of death." Ian sighed, withdrawing his hand, and looked around. The entire clinic lobby was deathly silent.
There were no signs of struggle, no signs of a fight, and even the blood was concentrated only beneath Maria's body, as if only the female nurse had ever existed in the entire clinic.
"The crime scene was cleaned very thoroughly." Ian only found some footprints and skin fragments near the elevator—traces of a patient with a scheduled appointment who had come and then left.
They hadn't called the police.
Perhaps most people were afraid of getting into trouble.
"I just hope those psychiatric patients weren't triggered and didn't worsen their condition because of this." Ian took a deep breath and walked towards Dr. Hannibal's office.
The door was unlocked.
He pushed it open. The room was empty.
The files on the desk were neatly arranged, and the fountain pen rested next to the ink bottle, as if the owner had only stepped out for a moment. But Ian knew that Hannibal probably wouldn't be coming back.
Committing a crime against a subordinate so brazenly in his own clinic suggested he was ready to abandon his base of operations. Ian pulled open a drawer and rummaged through the documents.
As expected.
All the patient files were gone. The safe had also been opened, and the valuables inside—including cash, encrypted hard drives, and even some psychotropic medications—had all been packed and taken away.
"Committed one last case, and then immediately left Metropolis?"
Ian hesitated briefly.
He considered his personal circumstances—a young boy with excellent grades, professional parents, and a prominent appearance—and concluded he likely wouldn't be treated as a suspect. Only then did he take out his half-broken cell phone.
"Beep beep beep~"
The 911 emergency line always required a long wait. Thankfully, this service always available, so after a long wait, he could still get a result.
"Hello, this is the Emergency Call Center, how can I help you?" The operator's voice was relatively serious. She might have been qualified if he ignored the "gugugu" sound of beer.
The sound of drinking water and drinking alcohol were vastly different, at least to someone with "Super Hearing." Ian could clearly tell that the person had obviously violated regulations.
Perhaps even the law.
"I want to report a crime." Ian spoke in the "terrified" tone of an ordinary citizen. "I found a body in Dr. Hannibal Lecter's psychiatric clinic."
"Who is Dr. Hannibal? Damn, you live in this country, don't you ever go to a shrink?"
"Fine, you're right. If you had the money to see a shrink, you wouldn't be drinking 'soda' to suppress your condition. No, I haven't illegally installed a camera in the police dispatch center."
"Seriously, I really don't have video of you and your colleague exercising over the phone. I don't like threatening people. Send the police quickly. It's the office building at 94 Fifth Avenue downtown."
...
Ian found communicating with the operator quite laborious.
He had tried his best to sound urgent, but the operator's attitude became somewhat perfunctory again after confirming he had no threatening video.
"Can you describe the scene?"
The operator's voice was very steady, as it wasn't her relative who died, after all.
"No 'biubiubiu,' just me and a poor woman. The deceased is the clinic's receptionist, female, Mexican-American, about 30 years old, around 165cm tall."
"Estimated weight is around 50 kilograms, slightly overweight, which is reasonable considering her fondness for Mexican burritos. There are no signs of struggle. The preliminary assessment suggests the perpetrator was familiar with the victim and possesses some medical and anatomical knowledge. Oh, and her time of death is roughly between one and two hours ago."
"Considering the clinic's air conditioning is set to a constant 19 degrees Celsius cold air mode, this estimation might be inaccurate. The specific situation requires forensic identification."
Ian spoke while crouching down to carefully examine the state of the corpse.
The nurse's skin was cold.
He turned over the corpse's wrist and found subtle needle marks on the skin. It was evident that before she was killed, she had been subjected to a surprise attack by a familiar person using anesthesia at close range.
This also explained why there were no signs of resistance at the scene—after Ian told the operator all of this, the female operator on the other end of the phone fell silent.
"Sir, are you... a forensic pathologist?"
"No."
"A criminal investigator?"
"No, either."
"Then why can you describe the scene so professionally?"
"Because I love watching *CSI*. What's the point of watching TV if you don't learn professional knowledge?" Ian was confused by the operator's strange attitude.
"Uh... okay."
The operator seemed choked.
After a few seconds, she spoke with some regret: "Due to the excessive number of supernatural incidents in Metropolis recently, police resources are limited, and your report is currently in a queue."
"The estimated waiting time... half an hour? Maybe an hour, I can't say for sure. It depends on the police department's resource allocation." Her words made Ian's eyes widen.
"Calling the police has a queue? Are you a restaurant? Should I top up for a VIP to speed up the dispatch?" Ian truly hadn't expected there to be people more abstract than Batman in this world.
"I'm just an employee, don't question me. If you know a precinct chief or police inspector, you can call them and ask them to prioritize your report."
The $3,000-a-month operator's voice was full of helplessness.
"It looks like topping up for VIP isn't enough; I need to be Svip..." Ian, who was usually quite eccentric, felt speechless. He had just been thoroughly schooled by an even more eccentric America.
The operator also sighed.
"In any case, have a pleasant day, please wait where you are, and don't disturb the crime scene." She repeated the standard formalized response, based on her seven-day training course.
"I'll stay here, and then when you can't find the killer, you'll pin it on me, right?" Ian angrily hung up the phone. He was merely venting his frustration and wasn't truly panicked.
After all, a police officer's small-caliber handgun posed no threat to him. He could leave whenever he wanted. If necessary, he could even use his mimicry to transform himself into a creature promised by God.
"I knew it. If calling the police worked, America wouldn't have so many superheroes! Nor would it have given rise to the superhero worship culture!"
Ian complained while rummaging through Hannibal's office. Drawers, filing cabinets, bookshelves—all had been cleaned out, leaving no valuable clues.
He hadn't even found his own case file.
"Inhumane Dr. Hannibal, not only killing someone and running away, but also taking the mental illness diagnosis my parents paid for!" Ian plopped down on the sofa he usually sat on. Every time he had a psychological consultation, he would curl up here, listening to Hannibal analyze his non-existent condition in an elegant tone.
Now.
The sofa retained a faint scent of cologne. He wondered who had sat there previously. After thinking a bit more, Ian took out his phone and dialed Hannibal's private number.
[The number you have dialed is currently switched off.]
As expected.
Dr. Hannibal's phone was also unreachable. Mature criminals eliminate all their identification information before fleeing. Ian couldn't even force the phone to turn on using the Black Box.
It had clearly been destroyed.
Seeing this, Ian immediately switched the Black Box interface and brought up the Wayne Enterprises Black Box tracking system—some components in Hannibal's phone were WayneTech products. In theory, as long as the device wasn't completely destroyed, the signal could be tracked. Three seconds later, the location result appeared.
The signal source was right here in this office.
Ian narrowed his eyes, looked around, and finally walked toward the bathroom in the corner of the office. The toilet tank lid was lifted, and a water-soaked phone floated on the surface.
Ian fished it out—the screen was shattered, the motherboard was burnt out, but the Wayne Enterprises chip was still stubbornly blinking a faint signal. Products made by Gotham freak were always trustworthy.
"Normally, I don't like to get involved, but Dr. Hannibal is going too far. Committing a crime right under the nose of the Son of Superman—this is a provocation to the authority of the Superman family!" It was hard to say whether Ian felt any guilt. He waited a long time for the police in Dr. Hannibal's office.
However.
The clock on the wall ticked. Three hours had passed, and there was still no sign of a police car. The sky outside the window gradually darkened, and the neon lights flickered on one by one.
The city's noise reached him through the glass, but it felt incredibly distant.
"If I wait any longer, Dr. Hannibal will be feeding penguins in Antarctica." Ian didn't plan on asking his father to find Hannibal, because in most cases, his father genuinely adheres to a "no-kill" rule. Just as Ian was about to call Batman, who also adheres to a "no-kill" rule, but only for himself.
"Whoosh!"
A blinding flash of light streaked past the window. Ian's pupils suddenly contracted. A sniper rifle bullet tore through the air, aimed straight at his forehead—a clearly precise shot!
Of course.
This wouldn't affect Ian.
"Snap."
Since being shot at would prevent him from leveling up, Ian simply raised his hand and accurately caught the high-velocity bullet. The metal was slightly hot between his fingers.
The markings on the casing were clearly visible.
"Good, good, good!"
Ian's gaze locked onto the direction the bullet came from. The next moment, his figure vanished from the spot. Teleporting to what his eyes could see was very useful in this situation.
On the rooftop of the opposite building.
The sniper was frantically adjusting his scope.
"Damn it! Missed! Where is he? He disappeared!" he cursed under his breath, rapidly pulling the bolt to prepare for a second shot, only to find the target had vanished from sight.
"Looking for me? I'm behind you."
An eerie voice rang out in his ear. The sniper froze, turning back abruptly—only to see that the target boy had somehow appeared behind him.
Not only that.
The boy was actually casually playing with the very bullet that should have pierced his skull.
"Damn it! A super-human! This contract is a huge loss!" The sniper reacted quickly, instinctively aiming his muzzle at Ian's chest and pulling the trigger!
"Bang!"
The gunshot erupted.
But the bullet failed to fly out of the barrel.
Because Ian had closed the distance and blocked the muzzle with his finger. The sniper rifle immediately backfired. The metal twisted and deformed, and fragments scattered, splashing the sniper's face.
"Aah!"
He fell to the ground, howling in pain.
"Dr. Hannibal sent you to kill me? I can't believe he said he liked me just last night!" Ian gritted his teeth, his expression showing great anger and annoyance.
"No!"
Seeing Ian place his foot on his head, ready to stomp it like a watermelon, the sniper ignored the pain of his disfigurement and cried out for mercy.
"Don't kill me! Don't kill me! I just work for money! I don't know anything about the employer's information!" The sniper swallowed hard, shouting with all his might.
"I just took a job from the Continental Hotel! The target info was just your photo and location. I don't know anything else!" The killer clearly had a strong will to live.
"The Continental Hotel?"
Ian frowned.
He was quite familiar with this hotel.
It was reportedly a global chain of assassin organization hubs controlled by the High Table, located in places like New York, Osaka, and Rome, providing neutral sanctuary and exchange points for the underworld. As a hub for the global crime network, the Continental Hotel provided arms replenishment, intelligence exchange, and temporary refuge.
It should have existed in another universe, but this was clearly another legal integration.
"They say all the assassins at the Continental Hotel follow rules. I'm just an ordinary citizen, but you people want to kill me for money? You all deserve to be locked up in my Hell!"
Ian didn't care if the hotel's integration was legal or not. Attacking him, an ordinary person, was illegal. Today was supposed to be a normal day for ordinary Ian!
"Huh?"
The sniper was terrified and trembling.
"Y-You mean locked up in jail, right?" He hoped this was just a mistake in wording, because the Continental Hotel occasionally accepted contracts to assassinate meta-humans.
However, the Continental Hotel generally avoided any missions involving the mystic side.
It was outside their scope of ability.
"Heh heh."
Ian ignored the killer. He took out his phone and made a call—Detective Kate Beckett was the female officer Ian had met during the previous convenience store robbery incident involving a thief.
Ian wouldn't have thought to contact this officer unless he was feeling incredibly wronged right now.
After all, she had recently started showing unusual interest in his life on social media, so Ian had reason to suspect that Detective Kate Beckett secretly had a crush on him.
"Detective Beckett, it's me, Ian."
The call connected, and his tone instantly lightened, as if the previous killing intent had never existed. "Yes, it's me again... This time I'm not asking for advice on how to kill someone without a trace—that was just for literary creation. I've actually encountered a murder case, and I was even attacked by the perpetrator's accomplice."
"Yes, the perpetrator's accomplice ran away. You know, I'm just a little boy who's about to turn fifteen. A fifteen-year-old's young legs definitely can't outrun forty-year-old hardened legs."
"The layers of muscle have a different mouthfeel..."
Ian was calling the police for the second time, utilizing his limited network. Detective Kate Beckett on the other end of the line sighed, seemingly accustomed to Ian's style of calling.
Ian was reporting the location.
The sniper, hearing "the accomplice ran away," wanted to scream, but Ian immediately stuffed his mouth with a mop he'd picked up off the floor. Sweat poured down his bloody face.
The sniper suspected he might not survive tonight.
...
It must be said.
It was truly difficult to find a responsible police officer.
Fortunately, Detective Kate Beckett was one of those rare specimens.
About ten minutes later.
The sound of police sirens grew closer. When Kate Beckett's police car screeched to a halt in front of the clinic, the sharp sound of tires grinding the pavement startled the pigeons under the eaves. Through the blood-stained window, Ian watched the blonde NYPD detective stride in, accompanied by her two subordinate officers.
Javier Esposito and Kevin Ryan.
The former was a retired military member from some assault team, and the latter was an ex-gang unit narcotics officer. They were both considered capable police officers. The group stormed upstairs.
"Oh! Thank goodness! Someone's finally here to save me!" Ian greeted them at the elevator, frantically recounting his experience to the officer he had met a few times.
A while later.
"Are you saying you walked in and saw the body, then called the police and they gave poor response, then you tried to solve the case yourself, and then were mysteriously attacked, but the bullet, unable to bear harming your unparalleled beauty, took a detour and shattered the nearby vase?" Kate Beckett's expression was incredibly strange after hearing Ian's account.
"Uh-huh!"
Ian looked at the sniper he had stripped naked and thrown onto a deserted island for "survival training" in his extra-dimension, then nodded emphatically.
He was now sitting seemingly docilely on the reception area sofa, holding a cup of long-cold coffee—Jamaica Blue Mountain he'd found in Hannibal's private cabinet.
"You're not kidding, are you? Bruh? I think this vase looks like it was smashed. How could a sniper rifle bullet be sitting among the fragments? It should have penetrated the vase and embedded itself in the wall."
The detective Javier Esposito was crouching in front of the broken vase. As a former professional soldier, he never doubted the power of a sniper rifle.
"If a bullet is so moved by my world-shaking beauty, it would naturally lose all its force and become limp." Ian launched into his nonsense mode without changing his expression.
He didn't want to expose the fact that he was a meta-human. He also knew his professional knowledge was definitely inferior to that of real detectives, so muddying the waters was the best way to handle it.
"Are you sure you didn't just snort some controlled substances from the clinic's inventory?" Detective Kevin Ryan approached suspiciously, noticing some granules stuck to Ian's teeth.
"Of course not!"
Ian quickly denied it.
"But your words sound like gibberish." Javier Esposito spoke without reservation. He was gathering information about the scene with his partner.
"Huh? Gibberish? Why do you think I'm here?" The young man scoffed, pointing righteously at the "Psychiatric Clinic" sign on the wall.
The "mental patient" card was truly useful.
"Ah!?"
The detectives immediately felt that everything made sense. No one questioned why the seemingly defenseless Ian wasn't injured, or why the sniper didn't shoot Ian a second time.
"Sorry."
They even apologized to Ian with a look of guilt.
"Mmm."
Ian accepted the apology graciously.
"Well, Kate, I think you should send this boy home first. Don't let today's events worsen his condition." The female forensic scientist even looked at Ian with pity.
"Mmm."
Detective Kate Beckett also nodded in agreement.
"I have my own legs! My legs know how to get home! I just want to find Dr. Hannibal now and ask him why he killed her—my psychologist is definitely the prime suspect." Ian's urge to solve the case was strong. He even had a secondary account on the Superhero Popularity Center named Demon Hunter Moriarty Holmes.
"You see, there are no signs of struggle, and there are needle marks here. It was clearly a surprise attack at close range. The victim was completely defenseless before that, so it must be a crime committed by an acquaintance."
"Everything in the office was taken, which means the killer was well-prepared." Ian attempted to touch the corpse again, but the female forensic scientist tapped his hand with a glove a few times.
It didn't hurt.
But Ian understood that meant rejection.
"Your deduction is good. I can tell you're really obsessed with perfect crime." Beckett nodded after listening, looking at Ian with her usual calm expression.
"I told you it was for literary creation."
Ian rolled his eyes.
"You really should go home. A crime scene is no place for a child—I believe you haven't started committing crimes yet." Beckett showed her trust in Ian.
"Don't leave Metropolis. I'll notify you if there's any news."
People with high emotional intelligence knew this was a dismissal.
"Fine."
Ian walked toward the elevator, looking back every step of the way. Even after he entered the elevator, he could still hear the discussion outside, the whispered conversations about him, the person who reported the crime.
"So is this kid a suspect?"
"Have you ever seen a serial killer call the police and wait for three hours after committing a murder? Not to mention arranging the body like a Renaissance sculpture... unless he's thoroughly twisted."
"A kid doesn't have that much strength."
...
"Why are they not discussing the case, but my literary work?" Even as he walked toward the parking lot, Ian could still prick up his ears and hear Beckett giving the other officers the "Ian brief."
In her description.
Ian was a high-IQ boy obsessed with perfect crime. Kate and the others would never guess that every word they discussed was clearly transmitted into the ears of this "mentally unstable" patient who was supposedly "defenseless."
"She called me high-IQ. She definitely has a huge crush on me." Ian sat in the Hellcat. Instead of going home, he continued to use his Super Hearing to eavesdrop for a long time. Only after the crime scene was sealed and the police took the body back to the precinct for autopsy did he pat the Hellcat, signaling it to drive onto the road.
All the way.
Ian was pondering why Dr. Hannibal had suddenly gone mad.
His phone suddenly vibrated frantically. Madison's name flashed on the screen. The moment Ian pressed the answer button, her loud voice immediately filled the car.
"Ian! Michael is throwing his Archangel tantrum on the assembly line again!" Madison's tone was full of exasperation. In the background, there were sounds of crashing metal and the commotion of angels swarming him.
"Ten angels couldn't hold him down! My street lamp kept hitting him on the head, but he acted like he didn't care!" Madison sounded utterly helpless.
"I'll be right there." Ian sighed, turning the steering wheel sharply. The Hellcat drifted into a U-turn, its tires leaving two scorch marks on the asphalt.
He temporarily dismissed the thoughts in his head and drove toward the new factory he had bought overnight.
The newly purchased factory was located on the edge of the Metropolis industrial district. It was originally a processing plant for some gang, but the gang was wiped out by superheroes, allowing Ian to pick up a significant bargain.
The former sweatshop was now converted by Ian into an "Angel Re-employment Training Center." The neon sign outside the gate flashed the words "Ian the Greatest Technology Manufacturing Group."
Below, the day's KPI was written in fluorescent chalk: 500,000 cans of Screaming Food. As soon as Ian pushed open the workshop door, he saw the assembly line in chaos. Ordinary angels were diligently applying labels to the canned dace fish with black beans that praised Ian. With every label applied, they chanted, "In the name of the Father, this is a quality product."
On another production line.
Michael was standing on one leg on the assembly line. He was holding a twisted and deformed microwave oven in his hand.
"Creating the universe was so easy! Incredibly simple!" The Archangel's roar shook dust from the ceiling. "Why can't I figure out this damn metal box!"
"A conspiracy! There must be a conspiracy in here!" The microwave in his hand gave a dying "ding," and the turntable flew out and hit an ordinary passing angel on the head.
The ordinary angel was angry but didn't dare speak out. He just silently made a note to himself that the next time the Emissary wanted to mess with Michael, he would be the first one to rush forward with a spiked club.
He would secretly make a spiked club when he got back tonight.
"It's okay, Michael. Good to see you. I don't think it's entirely your fault that you can't assemble a microwave. Maybe such simple work isn't suitable for the omnipotent you."
Ian walked over with his hands in his pockets.
His tone was gentle, like he was coaxing a ruffled cat.
He secretly tucked his *Parenting Manual* back into his extra-dimension.
"It's you, Ian Kent."
Michael turned around sharply upon hearing this, his golden pupils flickering with stellar light.
"It is I."
Ian offered a business smile and spoke a very obvious truth.
"Tell me what is going on." Michael was still resentful about being demoted to the mortal realm. He had noticed the increasingly rich glory on Ian's body.
This couldn't help but shake him internally even more.
"Want to know? Trade points for the answer." Ian chuckled lightly, magically pulling out a gilded *Employee Performance Redemption Manual* and handing it to Michael.
Michael's expression was like he had swallowed an unspeakable object. He looked around—those incredibly ordinary angels were managing much better than him in this place.
Even the youngest Cupid angel could operate the coffee machine independently.
This utterly frustrated the Archangel.
"I can't deal with this!"
The Archangel's chest heaved violently, and the microwave in his hand dented even further.
"Then I'll arrange live streaming for you." Ian snapped his fingers, his tone still light. "Don't worry, you don't have to sing and dance, just chat with ordinary people."
He began his manipulation.
Hearing this, all of Michael's wings flared out.
"I am the strongest angel! How can I fawn over those mortals? You can beat me to death! I will never do such a thing!" His words carried an air of absolute resolve.
Ian was prepared for this.
"God wants you to love the world. Don't even think about returning to Heaven until you learn to do so." Ian suddenly became serious, his tone grave. His figure shimmered with increasingly dazzling glory in Michael's eyes.
"..."
The air suddenly solidified.
Michael's expression went from outrage to shock to struggle, finally settling on a profoundly conflicted knot of emotion.
"Can you communicate with Him?"
This was something Michael had to suspect, as the glory around Ian couldn't be faked. Even so, the Archangel's voice was almost a whisper.
"God loves our family, and He even sent my eldest brother a gift."
Ian's answer didn't directly address the question.
Michael's cleverness ironically led him astray.
"That statement of yours is true." Michael was deeply shaken. He could tell it was the truth, but he completely misinterpreted the meaning, led down the wrong path by Ian's half-truths.
After much internal conflict.
"What do I need to do?"
The Archangel slowly straightened his body.
The shattered microwave clattered onto the floor.
"Follow me!"
Ian then led him to the adjacent live stream studio. The studio was Ian's proudest renovation. He had converted the former poison purification room into twenty pink-themed streaming rooms.
Each was equipped with beauty lighting and a teleprompter. As the Archangel's status symbol, Michael was led to the largest one, where the wallpaper was a Vatican-style cloud mural.
A plastic Holy Grail was placed in the corner.
"Your target audience is women aged 45-65."
Ian pulled up a compilation of senior female internet celebrities.
"You need to be both dominating and cheesy. For example—like this, smirk at the camera, say nothing, just adjust your clothes." Ian's understanding of the streaming industry was deeper than Madison's.
"You want me to imitate this damnable—he deserves to go to Hell."
Michael's face turned green.
"Think of Heaven~"
Ian shook the *Employee Handbook* in his hand.
"Think of the hymns~ Think of your empty throne~"
He had found his leverage. This sentence was like a heavy hammer, striking Michael's heart.
The Archangel froze.
A flash of pain and unwillingness crossed his eyes.
"Damn it! Why you!"
Michael's complexion changed repeatedly.
"I'll teach you some simple verbal techniques now. For example, start with this: 'Babies, your man is back.'" Seeing Michael's psychological defenses being breached repeatedly.
Ian began his instruction.
"And then?"
Michael looked disgusted but still listened intently.
"Remember to add some interaction," Ian added with a smile. "For example: 'Any sisters out there feel like their husband has been distant lately? Then you need to pay attention. Men are always looking for novelty. Remember one thing—the more aloof a man is, the more he loves you.'" These things were certainly not difficult for Ian, the writer.
Michael's expression was extremely complicated after hearing this.
Three hours later.
He was sitting in front of the camera, taking a deep breath, and starting his first-ever live stream.
"Hello... sisters." His tone was stiff. "I am the Angel Michael. Today, I'll chat with you about life and my formerly glorious but now disgraced story."
Although he wasn't proficient yet, Ian had high expectations for him and bought a lot of traffic. The screen lit up, and the number of viewers began to soar.
Ian looked at the data panel and nodded in satisfaction.
"Very good!" He patted Michael's shoulder. "Your talent in this industry is far greater than your talent for screwing in bolts!"
Michael's mouth twitched, but he forced himself to continue the live stream. His demeanor—full of repressed anger, inner disdain, yet having to force himself to flatter the audience—was surprisingly popular.
Just as Ian was about to add a few more manipulative sentences, his phone vibrated again.
It was Detective Kate Beckett.
He stepped out of the live stream room and answered the call.
Only Michael was left inside, parroting his lines for the broadcast.
His physical appearance was indeed appealing.
"...Thank you to 'God Bless You' for the rocket." Michael read the teleprompter with a straight face, wearing the Hawaiian shirt Ian had forced him into.
The comments section instantly exploded:
[Lord Michael is so cute! That name is so chuunibyou!]
[That awkwardness reminds me of my husband when he was young.]
[Lord Michael, please dance the Gokuraku Jodo! The Ian Kent revised version!]
The owner of that last comment spammed 1,000 Fantasy Castles. The special effects lagged the live stream into a PowerPoint presentation. A vein pulsed on Michael's forehead, but remembering Heaven and Ian's performance metrics, he forced out a twisted smile.
"Thank you, my friend. I'll learn it right away. Let me see how the video dance goes."
The employee points earned from those one thousand Fantasy Castles were equivalent to bolting for hundreds of days. Michael, of course, had to endure the humiliation. He felt his glory was also being restored—dancing was not difficult for an angel.
Michael's learning ability was indeed good.
Therefore.
To return to Heaven as soon as possible.
He gritted his teeth and started learning and dancing simultaneously.
The data panel showed Michael's live stream retention rate was as high as 85%.
The donation amount had already exceeded the canned food division's output for three days.
Indeed.
Live streaming was the way to make money.
The rich fan struck again.
After another 1,000 Fantasy Castles.
[Hahaha, Michael! I recorded everything!]
[Starting tomorrow, the mandatory viewing project for all of Hell begins! Don't ask who I am! Every corner of this live stream is filled with my alt accounts. You can't ban all my accounts! Look, I just used my divine power to create 100,000 more accounts to visit you!]
[Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot you don't have divine power anymore. Hahahaha~]
The comments section displayed several highly paid, site-wide visible comments.
***
TN :-
Poor Michael, it only gets worse for him from now on. The new King of Angels is ruthless.
***
Read 30 Chapters early on P-atreon.com/Redestro666