Invincible: Kryptonian

Stephen didn't announce anything. He didn't say a word to Mark, to Nolan, or even Debbie.

But the domain was always there now.

A quiet field, humming beneath his skin, radiating ten meters in every direction—through walls, through air, through people. Nothing entered it without him knowing. Nothing escaped it without permission.

It was like walking around with an invisible web, every strand an extension of his will. And the more time he spent with it, the more natural it became. Every moment was an experiment now. Not just for fights. Just everyday use.

He didn't waste time. Day one of week two started before the sun was even up.

The yard was quiet. Just cold grass and damp morning air. Stephen stood barefoot in the centre of it again, but this time… he didn't prep anything. No rocks. No weights. No tools.

Just presence.

He closed his eyes and opened the domain.

It breathed.

He felt the ants beneath the soil. The humidity drifting over blades of grass. The subtle rise and fall of his house's outer wall as heat expanded the siding. All of it, just impressions—but real. He couldn't "see" it, not like radar. It was better. He knew it.

He held out his hand—and the air shimmered slightly.

Then he walked.

Each step was deliberate, not because he needed caution, but because he was feeling. Mapping. Living inside the domain. Not commanding it… living through it.

When a leaf detached from a tree twenty feet away and drifted into his field, he stopped. It crossed the threshold gently.

Stephen didn't look.

He twisted one finger, barely a twitch—and the leaf froze mid-air. Suspended like time had hiccupped. He exhaled, and with a simple intention, it floated to his hand. Soft. Silent.

No strain. No effort. Just a command.

He held it between two fingers, crushed it gently, and scattered it with a thought.

Then he jumped—and stopped mid-air.

Not by flying. Not by effort.

He simply willed his body to remain in place. The domain caught him.

He wasn't flying anymore. He was suspending himself inside a field he controlled completely.

"I've been calling this flying the whole time…" he thought, "…but it's not. It never was."

What he had called "flight" was just him lifting and guiding himself through a gravitational field he didn't understand. But now? Now he felt every molecule of pressure around his body.

He didn't fight gravity anymore. He bent it.

Manipulating his own weight within the domain felt like walking through shallow water. The deeper he focused, the more resistance he encountered—but the water obeyed.

He rose, spun once, and let himself fall.

But he didn't crash.

He stopped, one foot from the ground, body level.

He hovered forward, arms to his side, slow and silent.

He didn't fly.

He glided through space like it was a part of him. Because it was.

 _ _ ♛ _ _ 

Later that afternoon, he tested movement with obstacles.

Not combat drills—just control.

He set up six objects: two bricks, a plastic bag, a soccer ball, a crowbar, and an egg.

All within range.

Then, with eyes closed, he initiated simultaneous movement.

The bricks rotated in opposite directions at different speeds.

The soccer ball hovered, pulsing in and out like a heartbeat.

The crowbar spun end-over-end like a baton.

The plastic bag danced, weightless.

The egg hovered perfectly still—no shaking, no drifting.

And he, in the centre, just breathed.

He wasn't thinking anymore. Just directing. The domain handled the weight, the coordination, the momentum. He only had to will the idea—and the space around him executed.

He didn't look at his hands once.

This was his version of combat meditation.

His version of peace.

 _ _ ♛ _ _ 

But the real test came that evening.

Stephen didn't intend to spar. He just wanted to move. Feel the city again.

He took off toward the outskirts, flying high above streetlights and rooftops. The cold wind battered his skin, but he barely noticed it.

The domain was open the whole way—constantly feeding him subtle feedback. Traffic lights blinking. Birds shifting in trees. Someone sneezing five stories below.

He wasn't "listening."

He was feeling everything.

Then—just outside the industrial district—he saw movement.

Three figures. One pinned to the wall. The other two moving fast.

He dove before thinking.

It was a mugging. Or worse. Someone had powers—something green crackled through the air like poison lightning.

Stephen didn't land.

He didn't shout.

He just entered range.

And the moment he did—

—he stopped time.

Not literally.

But that's how it felt.

The domain snapped open at full intensity. All three figures froze—not because they couldn't move, but because he controlled the space. Their clothes shifted with sudden pressure. Their hair tugged slightly. One of them dropped the glowing blade he was holding, confused.

Stephen didn't raise a hand.

He didn't need to.

He simply willed it.

The knife launched into the wall like a missile.

The mugger flew backward, legs swept out from under him. The second one was pinned down, gently but firmly, unable to rise.

The victim just stood there, mouth open.

And Stephen… floated down, arms folded, never touching the ground.

He let them up eventually. Told them to run. The victim escaped without a word. The attackers were too afraid to speak.

He didn't punch anyone.

Didn't throw a single blow.

He'd weaponized space.

And it worked.

He returned home in silence. The house was dim. Mark was still asleep on the couch. Nolan wasn't home. Debbie was in the kitchen, cleaning something that didn't need cleaning.

Stephen walked past them both, up the stairs, back to his room.

He sat at the desk, pulled out a notebook.

And with a sharp breath, wrote:

"Tactile Domain = Combat Ready.

Motionless Control.

Passive Response Time = Instant.

Don't need to hit.

Don't need to touch.

I just need them to be in range."

Then he underlined the last part:

"This is what it means to be untouchable."

He closed the book.

The room was silent again.

But his mind wasn't.

Because this wasn't the end of discovery.

This was the start of application.

The house stayed quiet.

No one checked on him, and Stephen didn't go out of his way to be seen. They could all tell he was working. Focused. Nolan didn't ask questions. Debbie didn't knock. Even Mark left him alone.

And Stephen appreciated that.

He needed the time. The solitude.

The domain had become muscle memory—present the moment he woke up, humming beneath the skin. It didn't get in the way. It didn't distract. It just was. A ten-meter radius of unbroken, constant awareness. Anything that moved within it sent a signal—not a noise or image, but a feeling—a ripple on calm water.

But now that it worked, he needed more.

Not wider. He'd tried. Reaching beyond ten meters was possible, sure, but imprecise. Clumsy. The feedback lagged. The control slipped. He could push it—force his reach further—but it felt like stretching a net too thin. You caught more, but held nothing.

So he stopped forcing it.

The range would stay at ten. For now.

Instead, he turned inward.

 _ _ ♛ _ _ 

It started with a flicker—barely noticeable, a pressure trailing under his arm while he hovered above the yard. His domain brushed against him as he adjusted elevation, and for a split second, the field pushed back—not from range, but from touch.

That's when he knew.

"If the domain covers everything outside…" he thought, "…why haven't I built something that covers just me?"

Not as armour. Not as a shield.

As contact.

The thought bloomed fast. His domain worked because it sensed and touched what entered it. So what if he layered that same tactile field against his skin—directly, constantly?

No space between. No delay.

A second layer.

 _ _ ♛ _ _ 

It came easier than expected.

Stephen hovered just a few inches off the ground, legs folded, eyes closed. His breathing was steady. His domain was open. But this time, his attention turned inward—not into his thoughts, but into the space his body occupied.

His skin was already in constant contact with his surroundings—the air, the light, the temperature.

He didn't force the tactile energy outward. He let it sink inward. Wrapped it around himself like a thermal layer, thin and invisible, but absolutely present. Unlike the domain, which drifted and pulsed in an outward net, this layer hugged him. Followed every twitch. Every breath.

And unlike the outer domain, this one was easier to control.

Natural.

He stretched an arm forward and watched a single drop of rain roll down it—then stop. Mid-slide.

His skin hadn't tensed. He hadn't moved.

But the drop hung there, trapped on a thin line of will. The second layer held it without effort.

Stephen tilted his head slightly and let the drop fall upward instead.

The smile that flickered across his face wasn't smug. Just real.

This layer wasn't meant to react. It was meant to obey—and only him.

 _ _ ♛ _ _ 

The rest of that day passed without much movement. He didn't lift weights or juggle cans mid-air. He didn't chase muggers through alleys.

He sat in the backyard under light rain, slowly wrapping and adjusting the second layer across his body, refining its grip and its feedback. The goal wasn't perfection.

It was responsiveness.

He tossed a rock into the air—small, jagged. Let it fall toward his head.

It stopped an inch above him. The air didn't shimmer. There was no glow. The layer caught it, redirected it gently to the side.

The second layer was always touching him. It didn't need to reach for anything. Anything that reached him was already accounted for.

It made everything cleaner.

If the domain was the net, this was the skin.

 _ _ ♛ _ _ 

By the end of the day, he could feel both fields clearly. He didn't even need to activate them anymore. They were just on. The domain stretched around him like a quiet lake. The layer hugged him like pressure under a weighted blanket. Together, they worked in harmony.

He jumped from the rooftop, a straight drop.

No stumble. No harsh landing.

The moment his foot neared the ground, the outer domain read the earth's contour, while the second layer softened the descent. Pressure rippled through his calves as he landed—no bounce, no impact. Just control.

 _ _ ♛ _ _ 

The next day, he tested the fall.

Full drop. No glide. No pause.

He leapt from sixty meters up.

Didn't slow. Didn't adjust. Just let himself fall.

The wind screamed around him.

And then, as the pavement neared—

The domain shifted beneath him, read the pressure changes, the air resistance, the gravel density.

The second layer compressed tightly against his limbs.

He landed on two feet, upright.

Not even a sound.

 _ _ ♛ _ _ 

Back inside, the quiet settled again. Mark was watching some replay on the TV. Debbie was in the kitchen. Nolan still hadn't returned from his last satellite check-in. Stephen passed through the living room unnoticed.

He didn't feel invincible.

He felt ready.

The last days of the two-week break melted together. He didn't keep track. The only reminder of time was the subtle movement of the sun. That, and the way his body moved.

He no longer tested objects one by one.

Now he moved through the world, and let it test him.

He'd walk through a crowded street and feel everything moving around him—people, bikes, loose change in a pocket, wind fluttering a sign. The domain filtered it all, and the second layer tracked how his body moved through it.

Once, someone bumped into him from behind—hard.

They staggered back, confused, as if they'd hit a wall.

Stephen didn't even turn around.

The second layer had shifted slightly at the moment of contact. Just enough to keep him standing and keep the other from breaking.

Another time, a tree branch snapped and fell while he was walking underneath.

He caught it without looking. Or rather—the domain did.

The pressure caught it. Tilted it aside. It landed a few inches away.

He kept walking.

 _ _ ♛ _ _ 

In the final evening of the break, Stephen returned to the rooftop.

Not to test.

Just to sit.

The stars were bright. The air was calm.

The world felt… quiet.

He let the domain open wide. Not to control, but to listen.

He felt the usual: the subtle ticks of plumbing in the neighbour's house, the flapping wings of a moth, the vibration of Mark's snoring through the floorboards.

He lay back, arms behind his head.

Ten meters in every direction, space was his.

A shield. A sense. A signal.

Wrapped around that, tightly woven against his body, the second layer moved with his breath.

He had what he needed.

For now.

He wasn't done learning. Not even close. He'd only scratched the surface. There were deeper forms of tactile telekinesis—levels of precision that manipulated molecular patterns, manipulated mass, reality, even existence itself.

He wasn't ready for that.

Yet.

But this—this control, this constant awareness—was real. It was reliable.

And it was his.

He looked up at the sky, and for once, he didn't feel anticipation.

He felt prepared.

Because the next time someone tried to knock him down—

They wouldn't even touch him.

End of Chapter 38