Drex Valen sampled an authentic American farm breakfast the next morning.
It was... acceptable.
Nothing offensive, but nothing worth writing poetry about either.
Shelley King Jadriel, for his part, had little choice but to tolerate his overwhelmingly powerful houseguest. Out here near the U.S.-Mexico border, law enforcement was more myth than reality. Unless someone important got hurt, the only officers likely to show up were the kind already taking cartel money, and those men had no interest in domestic disputes involving wandering armored giants.
Fortunately, Drex wasn't causing much trouble.
Most days, he simply stretched out on the roof and soaked in the Texas sun.
And Texas delivered.
The brutal southern heat, amplified by desert proximity, baked the land with relentless solar fury. For ordinary humans like Shelley, it was oppressive.
For Drex?
It was intoxicating.
The sunlight flooding his cells felt better than any drug humanity could manufacture, though he only had secondhand knowledge to compare.
More importantly, the Codex embedded within him seemed to be changing things.
A normal Kryptonian, even under Earth's yellow sun, wouldn't necessarily become the absurd powerhouse Clark Kent eventually did. Clark's overwhelming potential came in large part from carrying the genetic legacy of billions of Kryptonians through the Codex.
But Drex now possessed that same advantage.
Which meant his ceiling might be far beyond standard Kryptonian limits.
By the end of just one day of solar absorption, Drex casually lifted Shelley's truck with one hand.
And it felt easy.
His growth rate didn't seem as explosively immediate as General Zod or Faora's had been, but Drex recognized the tradeoff. He was developing comprehensively, without obvious weaknesses. Slower, perhaps, but broader. More refined.
Clark had needed nearly thirty years under Earth's sun to match Kryptonian military elites.
Drex had patience.
Especially since Tony Stark wasn't even Iron Man yet.
At this stage of history, Drex, armed with advanced Kryptonian armor and superior long-term potential, was functionally untouchable in most of Marvel's visible world.
Barring hidden monsters like the Ancient One, of course.
But unless he started exterminating humanity or tearing apart the timeline, she likely had bigger problems, such as suppressing dangerous mystical energies and keeping cosmic horrors like Dormammu from collecting overdue debts.
So for now?
Life was good.
Eventually, boredom crept in.
"Are there any good barbecue places nearby?" Drex asked Shelley.
Texas barbecue had a reputation that crossed worlds.
Shelley hesitated.
"There are places," he admitted. "But some of them are controlled by dangerous people. Cartels, gangs, smugglers. You walk into the wrong place, things can go bad fast."
Shelley was a decent man. His muscular frame suggested someone who worked hard, but his lack of combat instincts made it obvious he was built more for intimidation than violence.
Even after Drex had forcibly taken up residence, he hadn't actually caused serious problems. He ate modestly, kept to himself, and had even promised to repay Shelley eventually.
Not that money was truly an issue.
Drex technically had access to Kryptonian wealth, but interstellar electronic currency was somewhat difficult to cash in on Earth. If Shelley could somehow accept Kryptonian funds, Drex could have casually handed him billions. By Kryptonian standards, that amount could probably buy half of America.
Still, practical limitations existed.
"Relax," Drex said with an easy smile. "I'm not looking for trouble."
Shelley stared at him for a long moment.
Then he handed over the truck keys... along with a handgun.
"Try not to use this," Shelley said.
The statement carried multiple meanings.
Drex accepted the keys.
He left the gun behind.
Following Shelley's directions, Drex drove down the interstate, wind rolling through the open windows, carrying dust, heat, and the wild, lawless pulse of Texas itself.
After a long stretch of road, he finally reached a rough-looking border town.
The place radiated danger.
When Drex stepped out of the truck, he immediately drew attention.
People noticed him.
His appearance alone made him stand out. Tall, impossibly handsome, carrying himself with calm authority, Drex looked less like someone who belonged in a cartel-ridden dust bowl and more like a man stepping out of a billion-dollar boardroom... or descending from the stars.
Years of Kryptonian culture and status had erased any trace of mediocrity from him.
He simply did not fit.
Then he caught it.
Barbecue.
The smell of smoked meat drifted through the air like a holy summons.
Following it, Drex found a barbecue joint.
Unfortunately, it was packed with heavily tattooed gang members, criminals, and assorted human debris who had effectively claimed the place as their own.
Air conditioning.
Beer.
Meat.
Territorial stupidity.
Classic.
Drex stepped inside.
Instantly, every eye turned toward him.
A thug lounging in his path made no effort to move his legs.
Drex smiled politely.
"Excuse me."
The room exploded with laughter.
"Did this pretty boy just say 'excuse me'?"
"What, you think this is some big city?"
One particularly large Hispanic gangster stood up directly in Drex's way.
"This isn't a place for someone like you."
Drex gave a small shrug.
He had offered courtesy.
That had been the elegant option.
Now came the practical one.
BOOM.
The punch landed with horrifying force.
The gangster flew backward like he'd been hit by industrial machinery, crashing through multiple people and tables.
No warning.
No speech.
Just physics.
Another attacker immediately swung from behind.
Drex sidestepped effortlessly.
Even without his armor, his physical capabilities already far surpassed Captain America's. His senses operated with near-total battlefield awareness, and Krypton's naturally harsher gravity had made his baseline physiology monstrously dense compared to humans.
He swept the man's legs.
The thug crashed down hard.
Then Drex brought his foot down.
The man's skull ruptured against the floor in a spray of blood.
"Fuck!"
The gang erupted.
Perfect.
Drex had no intention of using grappling techniques. Frankly, they were all too greasy for that.
He drove a kick into one bald man's face, shattering teeth.
An elbow backward crushed another attacker.
Someone reached for a handgun.
America truly was charming.
Drex moved instantly.
His kick caved the gunman's chest inward with catastrophic force, snapping ribs like brittle twigs. The man collapsed, choking on blood, his nervous system spasming as death slowly closed in.
Others barely noticed.
They still believed numbers would save them.
They were wrong.
Every thug who reached for a gun became Drex's priority target.
And Drex was not merciful.
Each strike aimed for lethal efficiency.
Vital points.
Broken bones.
Crushed throats.
Ruptured organs.
What followed was not a fight.
It was extermination.