Clark learned a third important fact that week: humans could become morally upright or morally corrupt, but tractors were universally evil.

  It started with the shoes.

  After Chapter 3’s “I’ll buy shoes” declaration (which Koji had treated like an omen of apocalypse), Mrs. Shibata insisted on escorting Clark to the local workwear shop as if he were a celebrity at risk of paparazzi and not a slightly injured farmer with a suspiciously improved attitude. Koji tagged along, partly to “help,” mostly to ensure Clark didn’t accidentally bow the cashier into a different dimension.

  The shop was small, brightly lit, and smelled like rubber, dust, and ambition. Work boots lined the walls like an army. Clark stared at them with the solemn focus of a man choosing battle armor. Koji leaned in and whispered, “Don’t overthink it.” Clark looked at him. “These will determine whether my toes survive harvest,” Clark said. Koji blinked. “Okay,” Koji admitted, “maybe think a little.”

  Clark tried on three pairs. The first pair pinched. The second pair felt like he was wearing two very angry bricks. The third pair fit. Clark exhaled with victory. Koji clapped him on the shoulder—directly on the injured one—and Clark made a noise that could only be described as “a radio signal from pain dimension.” Koji froze. Mrs. Shibata’s gaze slowly rotated toward him like a turret. Koji smiled weakly. “He’s… alive,” Koji said. “That’s a good sign.”

  By the time they returned home, Clark’s new boots felt like a promise: sturdier footing, fewer humiliations, slightly less chance of dying in a canal because his sandals decided to betray him again. He was still on “light duty,” which meant he was allowed to do chores that did not involve lifting anything heavy, bending too much, or sprinting like a man trying to audition for a sports anime.

  Clark lasted exactly two hours before the universe presented him with a problem that required bending, lifting, and sprinting.

  A neighbor burst through the gate yelling something about the co-op’s shared tractor.

  Koji was halfway up from the porch before the sentence ended. “What happened?” Koji demanded. The neighbor was out of breath, frantic. “It won’t start,” he said. “We need it for the lower plots. If we miss the timing—” He didn’t need to finish. Everyone in the village understood what “miss the timing” meant. It meant lost yield. Lost money. More debt. A season’s work gone sour because a machine decided to throw a tantrum.

  Clark’s instincts snapped awake. A crisis. A solvable crisis. A mechanical problem. This, at least, didn’t require super strength. It required logic, patience, and hands.

  Koji glanced at Clark automatically, as if deciding whether Clark would be helpful or dangerously enthusiastic. “You,” Koji pointed, “stay—” Clark was already standing. Mrs. Shibata’s voice sharpened. “Takumi!” Clark turned. His stomach twisted. He hated lying to her. He also hated being useless. “I’m not lifting anything,” Clark promised, which was the kind of promise that was technically specific enough to be true even if he broke it. Mrs. Shibata narrowed her eyes like she could hear the loophole. Koji grabbed Clark’s sleeve. “If you faint,” Koji hissed, “I’m leaving you in the rice field as a scarecrow.” Clark nodded gravely. “Understood.”

  They rushed to the co-op shed. The shared tractor sat inside like a stubborn animal refusing to cooperate. Several farmers stood around it, arms crossed, radiating collective stress. One man was crouched by the engine, muttering. Another held a tool box. Everyone looked up as Koji and Clark arrived.

  “Takumi!” someone called. “You’re supposed to be resting!” Clark lifted both hands. “Light duty,” he said, trying to sound reasonable. Koji muttered, “He’s here to watch.” Clark muttered back, “I can watch with tools.”

  The man by the engine wiped his hands. “It won’t crank,” he said. “Battery’s fine. Fuel’s fine. Starter’s acting up.” He sounded like he wanted to fight the tractor personally. Clark stepped closer, forcing his body to move carefully, shoulder tucked. He crouched slowly, studying the machine like it was a puzzle rather than a threat.

  In Metropolis, Clark had repaired printers, radios, and the occasional broken elevator panel. He’d done investigative work that required understanding systems—how things connected, where failure points lived. A tractor wasn’t a spaceship, but it was still a system. And systems, Clark could do.

  He listened to the farmers explain, asked questions, watched their answers. “When did it last run?” “Did it sputter?” “Any strange smell?” He was careful to let them answer fully before offering anything—Koji’s lecture about “elders finishing complaining” had apparently installed itself into his brain like a firmware update.

  Finally, Clark leaned in and said, “Can you try starting it again?” The man in the clean cap nodded and turned the key. The engine clicked, coughed, then died with offended silence.

  Clark frowned. “Okay,” he said, and his reporter brain kicked into gear. “We’re going to treat it like a story,” he murmured. Koji blinked. “A story?” Clark pointed. “The tractor is the protagonist,” he said. “It has motivations. It has trauma. It has secrets.” Koji stared. “Takumi,” Koji whispered, “don’t start anthropomorphizing equipment. That’s how people end up naming their shovels.” Clark didn’t look away from the engine. “Too late,” he said. “This tractor is named ‘Betrayal.’”

  A farmer snorted despite himself. The tension eased a fraction.

  Clark checked the battery connections, then traced the starter wiring with his eyes. Something looked slightly off—an old splice, a worn bit of insulation. He reached in carefully and touched the wire. It shifted. Loose. That would explain inconsistent behavior. “This,” Clark said. “This connection is slipping.” The older farmer leaned in. “We tightened it last week,” he said. Clark nodded. “Then it’s stripping,” Clark said. “We need a proper clamp. Not a quick twist.”

  Koji whistled. “Listen to him,” Koji said loudly. “Takumi hit his head and became useful.” Someone laughed. Clark shot him a glare. “I was always useful,” Clark said. Koji grinned. “Sure.”

  They fetched new clamps. Clark supervised, hands steady, guiding without dominating. Someone tightened. Someone tested. They tried the ignition again. The tractor rumbled, then caught, engine shaking the shed with the low growl of reluctant cooperation.

  A cheer went up.

  Clark felt a small, bright satisfaction bloom in his chest. He had fixed something. No powers required. No capes. No cosmic stakes. Just a loose connection and people willing to work together.

  Then the tractor, because it was evil, chose that exact moment to lurch.

  The engine surged. The machine rolled forward a foot like it was trying to bite.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Someone shouted. A farmer stumbled backward. A toolbox tipped.

  Clark’s body reacted faster than his mind. He reached out, instinct screaming to stabilize, to stop it, to hold it in place. His hand slammed onto the tractor’s frame.

  And his shoulder exploded with pain.

  Clark’s vision flashed white. His muscles seized. He stumbled, grimacing, trying to keep his face neutral like he could bully pain into behaving.

  Koji saw it immediately. “Stop,” Koji snapped, stepping between Clark and the machine. “You don’t get to be heroic with a tractor.” Clark clenched his teeth. “It was going to roll,” Clark said, voice strained. Koji jabbed a finger at him. “It rolled one foot,” Koji hissed. “One. Foot. And you acted like it was a meteor.” Clark swallowed hard. “It could have pinned someone,” he said. Koji stared. “So could a door,” Koji shot back. “So could a chair. So could your own face when you faint.”

  Clark’s jaw tightened. Because Koji wasn’t wrong.

  The farmers settled the tractor properly. The crisis ended. The problem moved on. People clapped Clark on the back (carefully this time), thanked him, and returned to work. The world didn’t pause to let him recalibrate.

  Clark, however, did not have that luxury.

  Because his shoulder wasn’t just sore anymore. It was wrong.

  Mrs. Shibata took one look at him when he returned and immediately made the sound of a woman about to begin a sermon. “Takumi,” she said. Clark opened his mouth to explain. She held up a hand. “No,” she said. “Sit.” Clark sat. “Now,” she continued, “lift your arm.”

  Clark tried. The arm lifted an inch and then stopped, trembling.

  Mrs. Shibata’s face tightened with something that looked like anger but smelled like fear. “Clinic,” she said, already reaching for her bag.

  Koji leaned in, smug. “I told you,” Koji whispered. Clark glared at him. “You did not tell me not to fight tractors,” Clark whispered back. Koji’s eyes widened, offended. “That’s implied,” Koji said.

  ◆

  The clinic nurse did not look impressed.

  She looked at Clark’s shoulder, pressed carefully, and Clark’s soul left his body for a moment to go file a complaint with the universe. The nurse sighed. “You strained it further,” she said. Clark stared at the ceiling, which did not have a crab stain here and therefore felt less judgmental but more sterile. “I was careful,” Clark said weakly. The nurse gave him a look that suggested she had heard “I was careful” from every patient who had ever done something spectacularly uncareful. “Takumi-san,” she said, “careful people do not test the limits of their injuries in co-op sheds.”

  Koji coughed like he was trying not to laugh. The nurse’s eyes flicked to him. Koji immediately adopted the posture of a man who had never laughed in his life.

  The nurse wrapped Clark’s shoulder, gave him pain medication, and—most importantly—gave him a lecture. “You’re not Superman,” she said, and Clark’s heart stopped for half a beat.

  Then she continued. “You don’t have a super body,” she said. “You have a normal body. That means you heal slowly. That means you rest. That means you ask for help.” Clark stared. For a moment, he could only hear his own pulse. The nurse tapped his chart. “If you keep pushing like this,” she said, voice gentler now, “you’ll make it worse. And then you’ll be useless for longer.” Clark swallowed hard. Useless. He hated that word.

  Koji, surprisingly, didn’t gloat. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and said quietly, “Told you,” but it was less smug and more worried.

  Clark exhaled. “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. The nurse nodded, as if apology was step one of recovery.

  On the walk home, the village felt smaller than it had yesterday, not because the landscape changed, but because Clark’s perspective did. Every fence post, every ditch, every machine had the potential to injure, to trap, to kill. When he’d been Superman, danger was a thing he dominated. Now danger was… normal. Everyday. Built into the world.

  Koji walked beside him in silence until they reached the canal bridge. Then Koji spoke, voice low. “You keep doing that,” Koji said. Clark glanced at him. “Doing what?” Koji gestured vaguely with his chin, as if the concept annoyed him. “You keep acting like you have infinite strength,” Koji said. “Like you can just… decide and it happens.” Clark’s throat tightened. “That’s how I lived,” Clark admitted before he could stop himself. Koji blinked. “What?” Clark froze.

  He had said too much.

  Clark’s mind raced for a patch. “I mean—” he started, then carefully redirected. “I mean I’ve been… pushing myself for a long time,” he said. “And I don’t know how to stop.” It was close enough to truth to hold.

  Koji studied him for a moment, then snorted softly. “Yeah,” Koji said, “that sounds like you.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Listen,” he added, more serious, “there’s a difference between helping and… throwing yourself at every problem until you break.” Clark looked away. The canal water glittered. “If I don’t throw myself at problems,” Clark said quietly, “people get hurt.” Koji’s expression tightened. “People get hurt anyway,” Koji said.

  The words landed like a stone.

  Clark didn’t have an answer. Not a good one.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence.

  ◆

  That night, Clark sat alone in Takumi’s room, shoulder wrapped, phone in hand. The house was quiet—Mrs. Shibata asleep, the television off, the village outside settling into night. Clark opened Takumi’s notes app and scrolled. There were reminders: fertilizer order, gate repair, co-op dues, clinic appointment, harvest schedule. There were also things that made Clark’s chest ache: “Mom’s meds,” “call Koji back,” “Yui’s birthday gift?” Small, ordinary obligations that formed a life.

  Clark’s eyes drifted to the FINAL NOTICE again, propped beside the phone like a threat pretending to be paper. He stared at the numbers. He stared at the date.

  A soft knock came at the door.

  “Takumi?” Mrs. Shibata’s voice.

  Clark cleared his throat. “Yes?” The door slid open slightly. She peeked in like she wasn’t sure she had the right to worry, which was ridiculous because mothers always had that right. She held out a small envelope. “This came,” she said, voice careful.

  Clark took it, frowned. The return address was printed neatly.

  KAWASAKI OFFICE.

  Koji’s voice echoed in his head: Alone is how people get trapped.

  Clark opened the envelope slowly. Inside was a single sheet of paper.

  A meeting invitation. Polite language. A suggested time. A suggested location. The words “final opportunity” dressed up in formal kindness.

  At the bottom, one handwritten line in darker ink:

  I know you’re not feeling like yourself. Let’s talk.

  Clark’s blood went cold.

  He reread it once, then twice, as if the meaning might become less terrifying through repetition. It didn’t.

  Mrs. Shibata watched his face. “Is it… about the loan?” she asked quietly.

  Clark looked up at her. In the dim light, she looked older than she probably was. Worn by worry. Held together by routine.

  Clark’s instincts rose again—protect, protect, protect.

  He forced his expression to soften. “It’s okay,” he lied gently. “It’s just… paperwork.” Mrs. Shibata’s eyes didn’t believe him, but she nodded anyway, because sometimes mothers accepted lies the way you accepted weather: with resignation and prayer. “Don’t push yourself,” she whispered. “Not tonight.” Clark nodded. “I won’t,” he promised.

  After she left, Clark stared at the invitation until the words blurred.

  Someone out there had noticed. Someone out there had sensed the change.

  Either the broker was very good at reading people… or the original Takumi had been cracking long before Clark arrived.

  Clark set the paper down and pressed his good hand against his forehead, thinking. He needed information. He needed leverage. He needed to understand the rules of this world before it swallowed him.

  He also needed, very desperately, to stop acting like he could lift tractors with human shoulders.

  Clark exhaled slowly, then opened his phone and typed a message to Koji.

  Need to talk. Tomorrow. Early.

  Koji responded almost immediately.

  If this is about you trying to fight machinery again I swear—

  Clark’s mouth twitched despite himself. He typed back.

  It’s about the broker.

  The typing bubble appeared, vanished, appeared again.

  Then Koji replied with a single word.

  …Where?

  Clark looked at the invitation, then typed the location pin.

  Koji’s reply came fast.

  No. You’re not going alone.

  Clark stared at the screen for a long moment. The serious weight in his chest didn’t lift, but it steadied, like someone had placed a hand on the shaking bridge.

  Clark typed back.

  Okay.

  He set the phone down, leaned back against the wall, and looked up at the ceiling. No crab stain. No judgment. Just quiet.

  In the dark, Clark whispered to himself, voice barely audible.

  “I can’t save everyone,” he admitted.

  The words tasted bitter.

  Then, softer, as if planting a seed:

  “But I can learn how to save here.”