Chapter 7: The Lightning Lad and the Man of Steel
A flash of purple split the sky.
The air cracked, trembling from the lightning bolt that lanced across the rooftop battlefield. Clark saw it—he even heard the shift in Boruto's chakra—but his body didn't move fast enough.
Not because it couldn't.
But because he didn't let it.
The lightning struck true, and Clark Kent—Superman—flinched.
Only for a moment.
He stood still in the air, his chest smoking faintly where the bolt had struck. His cape flapped behind him in the wind like nothing had happened.
"Are you done?" he asked, voice calm. Steady. The kind of voice used by men who carried worlds on their shoulders.
To Boruto, it felt like being looked down on—and not just in the literal sense. His eye twitched.
'Tch. He didn't even budge.'
He clenched his fists as purple static danced between his knuckles.
'I hit him. I hit him full-force. What the hell is this guy made of?'
Clark tilted his head slightly, taking in Boruto's posture, the swirling chakra, the storm in his eyes.
'He's strong. Not just in power. He's been trained… driven.' Clark recognized that fire. He'd seen it in mirrors. In Lex. In Batman. In himself—when he was younger and trying to prove something.
But what Clark didn't know—what even Boruto sometimes refused to acknowledge—was the shadow that clung to his back. The one shaped like his father.
Naruto Uzumaki.
Boruto had grown up under that mountain. The legend. The hero. The impossible man who tamed demons, gods, and nations alike. The man with a hundred names—and not a single one left room for a son trying to make a name of his own.
And then there was her.
Himawari.
His adorable little sister—who turned out to be a once-in-a-millennium prodigy with the Byakugan flaring like sunfire at age three. At eleven, she was already more graceful, more precise, more Hyuga than he'd ever been. She had taken to the Gentle Fist like it was second nature.
Boruto had laughed once when she asked to spar.
She knocked him flat in three strikes.
'Dad always said talent means nothing without effort… but come on!' he thought bitterly. 'She was born for this. I just—had to catch up.'
That frustration had driven him to Kakashi.
To Sasuke.
To those long nights where his muscles screamed and his pride bled and every part of him ached to not be just "the Hokage's son."
And now this flying alien with the golden-boy smile stood there as if Boruto's best shot was a mild breeze on a sunny day.
"You're holding back," Boruto muttered, eyes narrowing.
Clark raised an eyebrow. "And you're surprised?"
"Tch. Fight me for real."
Clark's face hardened. "No."
That single word felt like a slap. Not because of what it meant, but because of how it was said.
Without anger. Without threat.
Just refusal.
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If you asked Clark Kent what his day had looked like when he woke up that morning, he might have said something rather sensible like "coffee, report filing, mild threat from Lex Luthor," and possibly "Lois calling me slow for the fifth time." What he certainly wouldn't have expected was being zapped in the leg by a blond teenager dressed like an electric shuriken with something to prove.
Floating above the rooftops, Clark looked calm as a man on a quiet fishing trip. His cape swayed in the wind like a flag of boredom. His eyes, glowing faintly, regarded the youth before him with polite curiosity.
"Are you done?" he asked, as if Boruto had merely sneezed too loudly at dinner.
And that, of course, was the last straw.
Boruto's eye twitched. His hair sparked. Somewhere in the background, thunder dramatically grumbled like a hungry dragon woken early from its nap.
"Oh, I was just getting started," he muttered, voice dripping with the kind of self-importance found in boys trying very hard not to sound twelve.
Without another word, Boruto powered up in the most dramatic way possible.
Lightning—actual, honest-to-Raijin lightning—raced along his limbs, curling around his body like affectionate snakes. His pupils sharpened, his Byakugan flaring to life like twin moons, and his Jougan pulsing ominously, just to let everyone know that yes, he meant business.
From a rooftop several blocks away, an unlucky pigeon exploded.
He activated Lightning Armor: Level One, which in shinobi terms was something like slapping on a magical race car suit and saying, "Catch me if you can." Sasuke had refined this technique from the Raikage's original model, and now Boruto—his very best, least punctual student—was about to put it to the test.
'Ten minutes,' Boruto reminded himself. 'After that, my muscles might turn to pudding. But it'll be worth it.'
Clark raised a brow. Not in fear. Not even in alarm. Just—curious, like a man watching someone try to juggle swords and wondering if they'd done it before.
Boruto vanished in a pop, reappearing a fraction of a second later with a sonic boom that startled every cat in a three-block radius. His sword, crackling with chakra, was gripped tightly in one hand, tracing a silver-blue arc of destruction straight for Superman's leg.
The technique?
Hell Thrust Formula.
A move so aggressive it had only ever been taught to people who wanted to stab mountains for fun. Boruto had refined it down to a one-finger concentrated channel through the blade—like trying to punch through reality with a lightning-coated pencil.
The slash connected.
A spark.
A hiss.
A sudden clang like someone dropped a magical anvil in the sky.
And then—
"AAAH!" Boruto cried, recoiling.
The blade—his prized blade—shivered in his hand, clearly offended by what it had just hit. It hadn't broken… but it had dented. And in Boruto's book, that was basically the same as getting spit on by fate.
Not willing to let the embarrassment sink in, Boruto tossed a Lightning Bomb at Clark's face—a spinning orb of doom that looked like someone had squeezed a thundercloud into a tennis ball.
It hit.
Clark wobbled. Ever so slightly.
Which, in Superman terms, was the equivalent of a mortal man doing backflips while bleeding from the ears.
Boruto landed a safe distance away, panting slightly, his pride bruised more than his sword arm.
Clark, on the other hand?
He was smiling.
And not a smug smile, either. Not the "I'm bulletproof and this is adorable" smirk. No—this was something softer. Nostalgic. Almost grateful.
There was blood on his leg.
Superman—Clark Kent, the Man of Steel, the bulletproof alien who once headbutted a comet—was bleeding.
"You're really strong," he said, voice warm and without a trace of sarcasm. "But you need to be careful."
Boruto blinked.
"...Huh?"
"If you always swing with your whole heart, it'll break when the world doesn't swing back," Clark said kindly, as if he were quoting something Ma Kent once told him after he'd melted a tractor.
Boruto wasn't sure whether he wanted to punch the guy again or ask him for life coaching. He frowned, arms crossed.
"I'm not fragile."
Clark smiled again, that frustratingly wise smile that parents use when their kids claim they definitely didn't touch the cookie jar.
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Boruto Uzumaki had been insulted before—mocked for his name, for his flashy chakra color, even once for his hair ("lemon puff," Konohamaru had muttered half-asleep). But nothing—nothing—had stung quite like that smile.
That calm, friendly, "you did your best, sport" smile from the last son of Krypton.
It was the kind of smile adults gave when they thought you were cute but wrong, like a toddler trying to use chopsticks. It said, "Nice try."
Boruto's eye twitched. His hair flared again.
"Scram, costume freak!" he snapped, the insult punctuated with a crack of lightning around his fists. "I'm not here to hold hands with you."
Clark floated a little higher, confused and blinking. He'd seen anger before—rage, even. But this? This was teenage pride, concentrated and condensed into a chakra-enhanced lightning ball of hormones and hurt feelings.
'Oh boy,' Clark thought. It's the Smallville tractor incident all over again.
Boruto's Jougan activated mid-glare, warping the space around him like a heatwave on pavement. This time, he wasn't holding back—not one bit. His fists glowed as he formed not one, but two Rasengan—spheres of spiraling chakra the size of baby bears—twirling with reckless energy on either side.
"Let's see you smile at this," Boruto growled.
Clark raised an eyebrow.
Then Boruto threw them—not at him, oh no—but to his left and right. Clark frowned.
'What in—'
BOOM.
Two identical Rasengan suddenly rocketed from above and below like divine bowling balls from opposing heavens, honed in on the unshakable target that was the Man of Steel.
"No fair," Clark muttered, trying to pivot in midair—but the pressure closed in faster than a Daily Planet deadline.
The twin Rasengan grinded. That was the only word for it. Clark was caught between them like a marble in a vice, and even he—the indestructible, unshakable Clark Kent—gritted his teeth as the spiraling vortexes scraped across his body.
"Right," Clark muttered. "No more playing."
With a breath so deep it might have shaken the ozone layer, he focused for the first time—not to dodge, but to attack.
Boruto's lightning flickered. His chakra dipped dangerously low. His eyes dimmed, and his bones groaned under the weight of his techniques.
He didn't even see the heat beam.
It wasn't rage or hatred, just... force. A searing line of heat larger than any Clark had ever dared use on a living being, born out of necessity—and maybe, just maybe, concern. If the kid didn't stop, he'd hurt himself.
Boruto didn't scream. He didn't gasp.
He just vanished into the sky like a shooting star launched in the wrong direction—his figure trailing smoke and dignity like loose baggage.
Clark stood there for a moment, clothes shredded, cape singed, the faint smell of lightning-charged cotton in the air.
He was bleeding.
Actually bleeding.
"Well," he muttered to himself, floating there in the silence of his own bruised muscles. "That was new."
His body ached, his nerves still buzzing from the Rasengan pressure-cooker experience, and his skin glowed like he'd just rolled across the surface of the sun. But somewhere deep within, beneath the pain and confusion, he felt... stronger.
"Huh."
He didn't like it. It felt unnatural, like skipping ten gym levels just by drinking a funny smoothie.
Still, his thoughts drifted to the blond boy he'd just torpedoed into next week.
'What if I broke his spirit?'
Because that was the thing about power—it could punch harder than you meant to. Especially pride.
Especially a shinobi's pride.
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The crater wasn't particularly deep, but it looked like it should have been. It was the kind of pit that told stories—of flashy power, prideful recklessness, and one very dramatic tumble into the dirt. At the very bottom, there lay one slightly fried ninja—Boruto Uzumaki, heir to the storm, current owner of zero chakra and just enough modesty to wish he had a shirt.
His pants, mercifully, had survived. Somehow.
Clark hovered over the wreckage, cape fluttering in the breeze like a disappointed parent's sigh. X-ray vision made locating Boruto easy. What came next, however, was the tricky part: talking to a kid who'd just been laser-blasted into next week.
'He's alive,' Clark confirmed mentally, landing with a gentle crunch of scorched grass. Barely, but alive.
Boruto was twitching, whether from pain, shock, or sheer humiliation, Clark couldn't tell. His once-pristine hair was now caked with dirt, and the faint golden crackle that had danced around his body was gone, replaced by charred skin and labored breaths. The burn across his abdomen was raw and angry, a grim reminder of what heat vision could really do when not properly restrained.
"Boruto," Clark said, crouching down. "Breathe. Slowly. You're safe now."
The boy's reaction was immediate—he tried to crawl away, eyes wide and panicked—but his arms wobbled like overcooked noodles and gave out with a soft thud. He hissed in pain and froze, face down in the dirt.
Clark winced.
"Hey, hey—it's alright. I'm not going to hurt you." His voice was calm, even, like talking to a wild animal that had just been hit by a car.
Boruto blinked, his vision swimming. For a terrifying moment, he looked so small—not the boy who had blitzed Superman with lightning blades and dimension-crushing Rasengan, but a frightened child caught in a storm of his own making.
'What was I thinking?' Clark wondered. He's not a villain. He's just… a kid.
Gently, Clark pulled the boy upright and tore what was left of his cape to wrap around the gash. It was crude, but it would help until Boruto's ridiculous healing factor kicked in—assuming he had one. Clark wasn't entirely sure. This was far outside his league.
"You alright?" he asked.
Boruto didn't answer at first. He stared at the ground, then at his trembling hands. Finally, his voice emerged, quiet and frayed at the edges.
"It hurts."
Clark nodded. "Yeah. It usually does the first time."
Boruto didn't ask what he meant. He understood. That burning sensation in his gut—both literal and emotional—wasn't just from the beam. It was the reality of it all. He wasn't untouchable. He wasn't some chosen prodigy riding the coattails of his father's legend. He was just… a boy who bit off more than he could chew.
And for the first time, he was scared.
But Boruto was Uzumaki through and through, and Uzumakis didn't cry. At least not when the enemy could see.
"Thanks for the offer…" he muttered eventually, voice scratchy as he avoided Clark's gaze. "But I'll go home on my own. I just need a little time to heal."
Clark didn't argue. He simply sat beside him for a moment, cape fluttering gently in the wind.
"You're strong," Clark said softly. "Reckless. But strong."
Boruto's head dipped, a flicker of annoyance flashing across his expression.
"Tch. Didn't feel strong."
"It never does, the first time you lose," Clark replied. "But trust me—if you learn from it, you'll come back even stronger."
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Clark Kent was used to many things—rogue robots, giant apes with laser eyes, even his boss Perry White yelling at him for bringing the wrong kind of coffee. But sitting in a half-smoked crater, shaking hands with a teen ninja who had very nearly sliced him in two with a Rasengan hurricane? That was a first.
"I wasn't at my strongest," Boruto admitted, brushing some soot from his arms, which didn't help much. "Didn't use my tech. Would've been scrap metal anyway, seeing how unharmed you are."
There was a touch of sulk in his tone, as if he were simultaneously annoyed and just a little impressed. Which, to be fair, was better than being unconscious and angry.
Clark, ever the optimist, gave him a faint smile. "So... not your final form?"
Boruto gave a proud huff, arms crossed. "Not even close."
But then he looked away, his eyes distant.
"You won, so… what are your conditions?" he asked solemnly.
It was the kind of question that made Clark blink. Not because of the words themselves, but because of how Boruto said them. There was no bitterness, no gritted teeth or flaring pride. Just a calm willingness to accept defeat—and honor a promise. Even with cracked ribs.
'He really is a warrior,' Clark thought. Loyal to the core. Bit impulsive. Definitely stubborn.
Clark shook his head. "Nothing much," he said. "Just don't cause collateral damage. Don't play god. Don't kill. And please—please—don't bring buildings down just to prove a point."
Boruto relaxed. Just a little. "We already follow those rules."
Clark raised an eyebrow. "Even the last one?"
Boruto coughed. "Mostly. Unless my parents are really, really angry."
'Right. Parents who trained him to be a walking lightning bolt. Should've guessed.'
"Thanks for the advice earlier," Clark said. "About my disguise. I didn't think anyone could see through it."
Boruto smirked. "You're too obvious, man. Energy signature, life force, facial structure, the glasses—it's all there. Might as well wear a name tag."
Clark chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, if you wouldn't mind… let's be friends. Not just coworkers."
The offer came with an outstretched hand, dusty and slightly singed. For a brief second, Boruto just stared at it.
"Friends…?" he repeated softly, like it was a word he hadn't heard in a long time.
Then, finally, he took it.
Something clicked—a simple handshake that bridged two worlds, one alien, one shinobi, both carrying the weight of enormous expectations.
With the moment sealed, Boruto pulled a small scroll from his pouch. Then another. Then another. Clark began to wonder if this kid had a pocket dimension tucked in there somewhere.
"Here. Healing scrolls. Crush 'em like candy and your wounds go bye-bye. My gift, since I started the fight."
Clark took one gingerly, examining the pinky-sized scroll. "Is it… safe?"
Boruto rolled his eyes. "It's not cursed, if that's what you're worried about."
Clark smiled again. "Thank you. I mean it."
"Yeah, yeah," Boruto muttered, rubbing his stomach. "Just don't expect more. These are expensive."
Clark pocketed the scrolls carefully. "I'll return the favor. Maybe not with magic, but I do make a mean apple pie."
Boruto blinked. "Apple pie…?"
"You'll see," Clark said with a wink.
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The last thing Clark Kent expected on a perfectly ordinary afternoon was to get slapped by a dad.
Not just any dad.
The dad.
And certainly not one with a golden hand that could flatten cities with a breeze.
But let's rewind a bit.
It started innocently enough, with Boruto sitting in a crater, looking like he'd been through three tornadoes and a small war. Despite the scrapes, dust, and smouldering shirtless state, he was smiling—smiling because of one voice.
"Clap clap," came the slow, calm sound of someone approaching through the dust, followed by a voice warm with affection.
"Well done, son. I am impressed."
Boruto didn't roll his eyes. He didn't mutter a retort. No, for once, his response to his father's praise was a full-faced, goofy grin that could've powered the national grid.
Clark turned instinctively, his heightened senses on full alert—and still he hadn't heard the man approach. That terrified him more than he cared to admit.
There stood Naruto Uzumaki—sunlight catching on his golden cloak, his presence calm but immense, like the eye of a storm. And then, with a smile as casual as if he were offering lemonade…
"Thank you for the precious lesson to my son," Naruto said politely. "So I shall reciprocate."
Clark blinked. "It was nothing—"
And then it happened.
Naruto raised a glowing golden hand and moved so slowly Clark should've been able to dodge it.
He didn't.
THWACK.
That was the sound Clark didn't hear. Because instead, he heard his brain turning into a weather satellite.
His body spun.
The air cracked.
The very sky split down the middle like someone had torn the atmosphere in half.
Skyscrapers crumbled into dust across several square miles. The rivers reversed. Cows somewhere in Kansas mooed nervously.
And yet… the hand never touched him.
It stopped right by his cheek, no closer than a butterfly kiss.
Clark dropped to his knees, trembling, staring at that golden palm like it was a live grenade. Every instinct in his Kryptonian biology screamed one thing:
"You're about to die."
But death didn't come.
Instead, Naruto simply let his hand fall and spoke calmly:
"Let's go."
And just like that, father and son vanished into thin air.
Clark sat there in the smoking crater of what used to be land and tried to process what had just occurred.
He, the Man of Steel, the so-called invincible alien, had just been father-slapped into an existential crisis.
It wasn't even a slap. It was the threat of one.
He wasn't angry. No, oddly enough, he was… inspired.
'That's what it feels like to meet someone leagues above me…'
He looked up at the clear blue sky, still split faintly like a paper crease where Naruto's aura had parted it.
'So this is the new world I live in.'
And he smiled.
It wasn't the grin of a man who had lost.
It was the grin of a man who had finally found the mountain he needed to climb.
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Meanwhile, in a cozy gym tucked beneath the Uzumaki household—a space filled with reinforced steel, chakra-infused wood, and a punching bag that occasionally groaned when hit—Boruto paced back and forth like an anxious cat who'd just lost a fight with a lawn sprinkler.
His feet made soft thump-thump-thump sounds on the polished floor, but his mind was screaming.
"Dad… that was kinda unnecessary, wasn't it?" Boruto finally muttered, rubbing the dull ache in his arms where the healing scroll hadn't quite finished knitting his nerves back together.
Naruto was upside-down on a bar, calmly doing one-handed sit-ups like gravity owed him a favor.
"Unnecessary?" Naruto repeated with a little grin, "Nah. Clark needed that."
Boruto stopped pacing. "You slapped Superman so hard the city trembled. He almost cried, Dad."
Naruto dropped down from the bar, landing gracefully like a cat. His chakra shimmered faintly around his shoulders as he walked over and handed Boruto a cold bottle of spiced honey water.
"He'll be fine. That slap was a gift," Naruto said, his voice suddenly low and serious.
Boruto raised a brow. "A… gift?"
Naruto sat on a mat and looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Clark's afraid of himself. He holds back so much, he forgets what he's capable of. That kind of power, if locked up for too long, becomes a prison. And when it breaks out—well, you know how messy that can get."
Boruto frowned. "But he's Superman. People already see him as the strongest man in the world."
Naruto chuckled. "That's the problem. He thinks that's enough. But strength isn't about reputation. It's about responsibility. Legacy. Control. And if he doesn't start growing with his powers, one day someone will come along who doesn't hold back—and that fear will destroy him."
Boruto sat beside him, taking it in.
"So you slapped him to make him stronger?"
"Exactly," Naruto said cheerfully, popping a rice cracker into his mouth.
Boruto sighed. "You know… most dads would just send a motivational text."
Naruto winked. "I'm not most dads."