Silence fell across the two men, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Clark motioned to Jor-Il. “You promised me answers, Jor-Il, if I sent you the data. I’d like them now.”

            The elder Kryptonian nodded. “And I have some, now. The first thing you must do, son, is redefine what you think is powering your abilities,” Jor-Il explained. “It’s not just the anti-kryptonite radiation that gives you your powers. Admittedly yes, the anti-kryptonite radiation does indeed FUEL your powers, but it alone is not responsible for you being able to do what you can do. It’s also the solar radiation from the yellow sun. Your Kryptonian cells absorb the solar radiation, altering and energizing them, allowing them to then absorb and utilize the anti-kryptonite radiation.”

            Clark tapped a finger against his chin. “So if you take away the yellow solar radiation--?”

            “—all the anti-kryptonite radiation in the universe won’t help you… as is evident here, on Krypton. The radiation permeates everything here, yet none of us have powers like you do,” Jor-Il finished, motioning around himself. He raised a finger. “Which also brings up another point: you MUST be careful, son, on interstellar travel,” Jor-Il cautioned. “Specifically, the suns of whatever system you visit. The closer that sun is to the red end of the spectrum—such as here, on Krypton—the weaker your powers will be. Concurrently, the further it is from the red end of the spectrum, the more powerful you’ll become.” He spread his hands, motioning with the left. “A red giant, like Krypton’s own sun, and you’re powerless…” He motioned with his right hand. “…a blue sun, and they’ll be nearly incalculable.”

            “All because of how my cells use the solar radiation to process the anti-kryptonite radiation,” Clark concluded.

            Jor-Il nodded.

            Pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, Clark heaved a sigh. “All of which would have been good to have known when I first came to this planet all those years ago, Jor-Il.”

            Slowly, the scientist nodded. “I admit my shortcomings, son. There are MANY things I should have shared with you when I first sent you to Earth--”

            A jolt shook the camera on Jor-Il’s end, accompanied by a thunderous cracking sound that echoed through the speakers in the Panopticon’s control room.

            Jor-Il’s face paled. “It’s begun,” he whispered.

            The tremors shaking the image became more pronounced. Behind Jor-Il, shelves full of beakers and assorted laboratory equipment collapsed, the shattering glass lending an almost musical tone to the deep bass rumble. Free-standing computer towers likewise toppled to the floor, filling the air with acrid smoke. Behind him, out the nearest window, multiple plumes of lava and fire punched through the crust, shooting high into the air with a colossal roar.

            Jor-Il’s eyes never left Clark’s.

            “There’s so much more I want to tell you, son… but Krypton is near death I fear,” he sighed morosely, raising his voice to be heard over the noise. As the image of the scientist shook even more violently, Jor-Il managed a smile. “I have two final gifts for you, son.”

            Reaching over, Jor-Il pressed a button on a nearby computer.

            “INCOMING TRANSMISSION,” Brainiac intoned, turning to face Ultraman. “RECEIVING DATA STREAM.”

            “I’ve just sent you the entirety of my data files, son,” Jor-Il stated. “The complete repository of my entire scientific knowledge, for you to use as you see fit.”

            Clark’s eyes widened in shock.

            Jor-Il nodded, his smile widening. “My second gift to you, though in a roundabout fashion, is what will remain behind once Krypton is no more,” he said.

            Clark’s mind raced, grasping at what the scientist’s meaning was. “The anti-kryptonite?”

            Jor-Il nodded. “By my calculations, nearly ten metric tons of it will survive the explosion. Send your Ultrabots to recover it.”

            Clark frowned, motioning over his shoulder. “But… my artificial version…?”

            “Is a pale mockery of the true strain,” Jor-Il corrected, his voice nearly at a yell to be heard over the tumult. “How often must you create more of your artificial version, due to its limited radioactive half-life? Every two or three years?” Jor-Il shook his head. “Your artificial version is made from Terran materials, and is thus sub-par. It is akin to comparing a lump of coal to the diamond that it could become: both are essentially the same thing, yet one is far superior. The anti-kryptonite created here, on Krypton, has a radioactive half-life of over two-hundred thousand years.”

            Clark’s eyes widened at the implications.

            “Our two Kryptons also have one other commonality,” Jor-Il stated warmly, leaning in closer to the screen. “Each of our worlds has given birth to the last true sons of Krypton.” He placed a hand on the screen.

            Surprisingly, with barely a moment of hesitation, Clark placed his own hand on the screen as well, over Jor-Il’s.

            “You are the singularly most powerful being on that planet, Kal-Il. You bear the crest of and colors of our House. That world is yours by right.” Jor-Il smiled. “You have ALWAYS made me proud, my son.”

            As the eruptions from the planet consumed Jor-Il’s laboratory and the scientist, himself, Clark found himself cursing the powers he’d been given, as they allowed him to watch the event in near slow-motion: the flames consuming all before it as it crept across the room. The heat of the blast wave reducing Jor-Il to a charred skeleton before the impact shattered the bones into dust.

            The screen dissolved into static as the connection was lost.

            Clark’s heart hammered in his chest, his mind stunned by what he’d witnessed.

            By what he’d learned.

            By the father he’d just lost.

            The scuff of a boot heel against the marble floor of the trophy room three levels above him burned through his grief, drawing his attention back to the here-and-now.

And it wasn’t one he recognized.

Long ago, Clark had made it a point to learn to recognize the sound of all of his teammates’ footfalls. Power Ring’s tread was heavy, almost militaristic in its exacting measure. Johnny’s tread was spastic, rapid-fire. Owlman’s was almost (but not quite) silent, thanks to his specially designed treads and extensive training. Lois moved like a dancer, each step delicate and precise.

            Whomever it was, they were walking through each and every security barrier as if they weren’t there.

            And whomever it was, they were about to face an angry Ultraman.