Reborn As an Invincible Young Hero, I Conquer All Realms
Novel SummaryTragic start: He tried to help someone, but was taken away by a truck.
A surprising twist: good deeds are rewarded, and he is successfully reborn.
A major disaster: The Invincible Young Hero's Reincarnation on the Planet of Witrum.
Hell difficulty bonus: Today is my coming-of-age ceremony!
I thought doing good deeds would bring me a new life, but I never expected to be parachuted into a high-risk world.
I'm on the planet Witrum, a planet teeming with top-tier combat power, and I'm about to undergo a fate-defining coming-of-age ceremony.
Chapter 1: Coming-of-Age Trial, My Opponents Are My Biological Parents
There were no bells, no ceremonies.
On his eighteenth birthday, Marcus was taken directly into the trial arena. The metal doors closed behind him, and the light of the star overhead filtered through the dome in a cold white layer.
His father, Tairus, and mother, Raisa, were already standing in the center of the arena.
There was no conversation. Tairus only said three words: "Survive."
The moment the words landed, Raisa had already vanished from where she stood.
Marcus didn't even have time to blink. Relying purely on the instincts honed from living on Viltrum for eighteen years, he shifted his body to the side—a finger-strike grazed his neck, tearing the air and slicing a bloody line into his skin with its air pressure.
Before he could steady himself, Tairus's fist already filled his entire field of vision.
There was no room to dodge. Marcus crossed his arms and took the hit head-on.
Boom—
His body flew backward like a cannonball, smashing into the alloy wall of the arena and creating a human-shaped crater three meters in diameter. A sharp pain from his arm bones signaled a fracture.
Tairus didn't give him a moment to catch his breath.
His figure followed closely, raining down blow after blow. The wall collapsed, and metal fragments scattered everywhere.
Marcus was embedded in the wall, each punch feeling like a mountain pressing down on him. The hairline fractures in his arms spread into a web, and he could hear the sound of bones shattering inside.
He gritted his teeth and held on.
His gaze crossed over Tairus's shoulder, and he saw Raisa.
His mother was cutting in from his father's right, her figure skimming the ground like a shadow. Her target was his exposed left ribcage—three bones had already been fractured there by Tairus's heavy blows.
Standard parental coordination. Frontal suppression, flank assassination. He had seen this tactic countless times over eighteen years, but he had never experienced it firsthand.
Too fast.
Raisa's finger-strike broke through the air, piercing into the area below his left ribs. Her fingertips penetrated skin and muscle, driving into his abdominal cavity.
Fresh blood gushed out along her wrist, scalding hot.
This was exactly what Marcus had been waiting for.
He didn't scream, nor did he instinctively dodge. His left arm clamped down hard, locking his mother's arm tightly within his own body.
Raisa's pupils contracted slightly. She tried to pull her hand back, but she couldn't.
At the very same moment she attempted to break free, Tairus's right fist smashed down again, aiming straight for Marcus's skull.
Marcus didn't try to block his father's strike. His right hand reached over his mother's pinned shoulder, meeting his father's fist head-on.
Fist against fist.
Boom—
The sound of bone fractures exploded from both their knuckles simultaneously. Three of Tairus's fingers on his right hand were dislocated, and the momentum of his punch was forcibly deflected by half a beat.
Just that half beat.
Marcus released his left arm, kicked Raisa in the chest, sending her flying, and immediately lunged at Tairus.
He grabbed the knuckles that had split during their collision with his left hand and twisted hard. Accompanied by the crisp sound of dislocating bones, three of Tairus's fingers were dislocated on the spot, and his right hand temporarily lost its combat effectiveness.
Tairus didn't retreat. His left fist swung in from the side, aiming straight for Marcus's temple.
Marcus didn't block.
The fist struck his left skull, and the sound of cracking bone exploded inside his head. His vision went black for a moment, and a sharp ringing filled his ears.
But he didn't fall.
Leveraging that lateral impact, he ducked his body, slipped under Tairus's arm, and crashed directly into his father's chest. He was close enough to smell the scent of blood on him.
His right hand's fingers hooked into Tairus's shattered eye socket, his nails digging into the bone fissures, and he pressed hard.
Tairus finally let out a muffled grunt, his body instinctively arching backward.
Marcus didn't give him a chance to pull away. He hooked his right leg around his father's knee, exerted force, and flipped Tairus to the ground. He turned his body, mounted his chest, raised his right fist, and smashed it down into that already collapsed eye socket.
One punch. Two punches. Three punches.
Each punch landed in the exact same spot. The eye socket collapsed completely, the eyeball was crushed and deformed by bone fragments, and blood splattered all over his face.
A sound of wind breaking came from behind him.
It was Raisa returning.
She didn't choose a frontal assault. Marcus felt her fingers lock onto his left shoulder from behind, her fingertips digging into the hollow above his collarbone, pulling back violently—she wanted to drag him off Tairus.
Marcus didn't resist the pull.
He released Tairus, used the momentum of the pull to spin around violently, and swept his right elbow out with the centrifugal force of the turn.
The tip of his elbow struck Raisa's temple.
A dull thud. Raisa's head was knocked to the side, her pupils contracting for an instant. Her fingers loosened from his shoulder.
Marcus didn't give her a chance to recover. He lunged forward, opening his mouth to bite down on her right wrist as she thrust it out again. His teeth pierced through skin, through fascia, and bit into the bone.
Raisa let out a muffled grunt.
Her left-hand finger-strike aimed for his exposed neck, her fingertips breaking the air, heading straight for his carotid artery.
Marcus tilted his head.
The finger-strike grazed the side of his neck, tearing open a wound deep enough to see bone. He didn't let go.
He bit down hard on her right wrist, locked his hands onto her forearm, and exerted force in the opposite direction. His teeth pressed down, his hands twisted upward. The bones creaked under the dual force, the sound becoming sharper and more intense.
Snap.
The wrist broke.
Raisa's right wrist hung at an impossible angle. She finally let out a very low grunt and took two steps back.
Marcus released his bite and spat out the blood in his mouth. Some was hers, and some was his own, dripping from the side of his neck.
He didn't pursue.
A heavy sound came from behind him.
Tairus stood up.
His face was covered in blood. His right hand, with its three broken fingers and crushed eye socket, hung at his side, and his one good left eye stared at Marcus.
Raisa cradled her ruined right wrist, standing a few steps away. Her nasal bridge was collapsed, and blood flowed from her nostrils over her lips, dripping onto the ground.
No one spoke.
Marcus locked eyes with his father. Blood flowed from his brow bone over the corner of his eye, blurring half his vision. The wound in his abdomen was still oozing blood, and the broken bones in his left ribcage stabbed into his muscles with every breath. His knuckles were completely shattered, and his left hand couldn't be raised above his shoulder after taking dozens of punches head-on.
But he stood very steadily.
Tairus looked at him for a long time.
Then he said: "Enough."
Raisa turned around first, cradling her wrist, and walked toward the exit. Tairus followed behind her.
There were no congratulations, no acknowledgment. The metal doors opened and then closed.
Only Marcus remained in the arena.
He looked down at his hands. His knuckles were shattered, and his fingertips were still dripping blood—some splashed from his father's eye socket, some stained from his mother's wrist.
He clenched that shattered fist. Bone fragments grated against each other, the pain sharp as a knife. He didn't frown once.
In his past life, he died saving others.
In this life, he would survive.
Just then, a semi-transparent virtual panel appeared out of thin air, visible only to him. This was his exclusive cheat that had come with his rebirth; not only could it record his potential progress, but it also possessed a special enhancement effect: during high-intensity combat and training, it accelerated the excavation of his body's potential, boosting his attribute growth rapidly. Because of this, his cultivation and breakthrough speed far outpaced that of ordinary Viltrumites of the same age.
[Super Strength: Level 3 → Level 4 (3%)]
[Super Durability: Level 3 → Level 4 (15%)]
[Super Mind: Level 3 → Level 4 (48%)]
[Super Speed: Level 3 → Level 4 (5%)]
---
Three days later, Marcus walked out of the medical pod. Regenerative treatment had repaired his body, but the memories of the battle were etched into every fiber of his being.
He received the white uniform of an Imperial Conqueror.
From this moment on, he officially became an Imperial warrior.
Chapter 2: Breaking Through the Starry Sky, Falling into Another World
Seven days after receiving his Imperial uniform, the military department's transfer order arrived on Marcus's personal terminal.
Mission number KF-327, target is a fringe planet. The native civilization is in the early stages of atomic energy, lacking interstellar travel capabilities and orbital defense systems. The assessment report simply read: "No threat, conquer the planet."
Mission: Solo operation.
The rest of the briefing scrolled across the terminal—atmospheric composition, gravity coefficients, and known coordinates of civilization settlements. Marcus took a glance, memorized everything, and then turned off the screen.
There was nothing to pack in his dormitory. He put on his white Imperial uniform, fastened the airtight locking rings at his glove cuffs, and walked out the door.
The military corridor was as quiet as ever. Occasionally, an officer would pass by, but no one looked at him. Viltrumites do not make small talk.
The single-pilot ship was docked at the flank berth of the third launch port. It was a small ship, narrow and long, with a hull of the standard dark gray used for Viltrumite warships. The interior of the cabin was just enough for one person—a folding bed fixed to the bulkhead, a life support panel, and a projection screen. There was no superfluous furniture.
Marcus sat in the pilot's seat. The ship's AI began to broadcast the flight path parameters. He listened while manually checking the energy distribution table on the navigation panel.
The launch port's guide lights turned from white to green, and the airtight door slowly opened. Blinding starlight flooded into the cabin, immediately filtered by the bulkheads into a soft, pale light.
The single-pilot ship detached from the berth and slid into the flight path.
Before the faster-than-light jump, the target planet was just a speck of light the size of a needle point. Marcusleaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
The jump lasted for three full days.
The ship's AI woke him up on time. The outline of the target planet appeared on the projection screen, exactly as described in the briefing: azure oceans, brownish lands, and wisps of thin clouds floating above. This frontier planet orbited in solitude, and its orbit was so clean that almost no debris could be seen.
Marcus maneuvered the warship into low orbit and engaged the autopilot. He walked toward the airtight door at the stern of the ship and entered the opening command.
The hatch opened in response, and the cabin air vented directly into the icy vacuum. The life support system sounded a short alarm, which he shut off with a single key press.
He stood at the edge of the hatch, with the winding horizon ahead and only the faint light of the cabin behind him. With a push, he detached from the warship and plummeted toward the planet.
The edge of the atmosphere unfolded beneath him. He adjusted his posture, head down, arms tucked at his sides, cutting into the atmosphere like a precision-guided shell. Relying solely on his physical body to withstand the frictional heat, the air in front of him was violently compressed, forming a snow-white shock cone. He passed through the ionosphere, mesosphere, and stratosphere, with clouds tearing and churning beside him.
When he descended to three thousand meters, he saw smoke.
It wasn't the uniform gray of industrial exhaust. It was thick, black pillars of smoke rising from the direction of the coastline, spreading into dirty gray clouds high in the sky. Below the clouds, a city-sized complex of buildings was burning.
He pierced through the last layer of clouds and landed on the edge of the burning city.
Low-rise concrete buildings and nuclear power plant cooling towers came into view one after another, with the wreckage of primitive aircraft discarded everywhere along the streets. The civilization here remained at the atomic energy stage, and nuclear fusion was far out of reach.
But the signs of destruction seemed eerie.
The destruction from a nuclear explosion would be radial, but the buildings here looked as if they had been torn apart by immense force. Concrete walls cracked easily, internal steel bars were twisted and tangled, all snapped. What caused all this was not an explosion, but absolute brute force.
There were huge blade marks left on the ground.
The marks were several meters deep, spanning three city blocks. The asphalt road surface at the edges of the blade marks had been melted by high heat, cooling into a pitch-black, glassy layer. A biological scent he had never encountered drifted in the air—acrid and pungent, like the body odor of a reptilian creature magnified a thousand times.
Marcus stood beside the blade mark; his boot was not even one-tenth the width of the mark.
He walked along the marks toward the city center.
The closer he got to the core area, the denser the destruction. Entire buildings were overturned by the roots, their foundations pointing skyward. A streetcar had been crushed into an iron pancake and deeply embedded in the road surface. There were very few corpses along the way; most residents had clearly fled before the disaster struck. The occasional remains found were all killed by collapsing buildings, not by direct attacks.
This monster did not feed on life; it simply completely ignored everything beneath its feet.
Marcus finally saw the target in the city's central square.
It was comparable in size to a small Viltrumite cruiser, with six legs, each ending in three bony, sharp blades. Dark purple exoskeleton covered its entire body, and a faint blue light pulsed slowly through the gaps in its carapace, like flowing blood.
At this moment, it was using its two forelimbs to dismantle the protective shell of a nuclear reactor, its movements as skillful as prying open a tin can.
A crimson glow shone from the exposed core, and it lowered its head to swallow the entire core into its belly.
The moment it swallowed, the blue light in the gaps of its carapace surged suddenly, then returned to a steady pulse.
It was eating nuclear fission fuel.
Military intelligence had never mentioned this creature. This civilization was backward and could not have naturally given birth to such a monster. It was an outsider, just like him.
Marcus did not move. He was assessing. The size disparity was significant, the hardness of the carapace was unknown, and the energy reaction was abnormal. The six-legged form allowed it to move freely in the urban terrain; this location was extremely advantageous for it.
Just as he made his judgment, the twelve compound eyes densely packed on the monster's head turned simultaneously.
Target locked.
There was no roar, no threatening movement. The forelimb smashed down directly, its speed far exceeding the limits expected for its size. The air was compressed into a visible white shockwave.
Marcus dodged sideways. The ground behind him collapsed with a boom, smashed into a crater twenty meters in diameter. Gravel and asphalt fragments splattered everywhere like bullets.
He climbed rapidly along the outer side of the monster's forelimb, aiming directly for the joint.
The first punch landed, only causing fine cracks on the surface of the carapace. The hardness of this outer shell far exceeded his estimation; the sensation was like striking the armor of a Viltrumite warship. He threw the second punch, and the cracks spread further, with blue-black bodily fluid seeping out along the gaps, evaporating into an acrid mist upon contact with the air. He put force into the third punch, and the carapace at the joint shattered completely, with fluid gushing out violently.
The monster let out a low hiss, not out of pain, but out of pure rage.
The injured giant limb swung horizontally, and half the street collapsed on the spot. Marcus was struck in the chest and abdomen by another limb, crashing through three buildings before he could barely stop his momentum.
He stood up from the ruins. His ribs were intact, but his chest felt numb from the impact. The attribute panel deep in his consciousness flickered quietly, but he ignored it.
This urban area was extremely advantageous for the monster. Its six-legged configuration combined with its heavy carapace made it like a mobile fortress among the buildings, and its multiple limbs could attack from various angles. He had to change the battlefield.
Marcus suddenly leaped into the air from the ruins, concentrating all his strength into his right shoulder, and slammed fiercely into the thickest area of the monster's side carapace. He didn't seek to penetrate its defense, only to push it off the ground.
The shoulder strike hit accurately.
A powerful shockwave exploded from the point of impact, and the surrounding building debris was blown away by the air blast. The giant beast's six legs dug firmly into the ground, plowing out six deep trenches, yet its massive body was still pushed sliding backward. It waved its forelimbs, wanting to counterattack, but Marcus was pressed firmly against its chest and abdomen, an angle that prevented the bone blades from gaining leverage.
Relying on his physical strength, he continued to push forward, forcing the giant beast to rise higher and higher, passing through several layers of clouds in succession.
The surrounding atmosphere became increasingly thin, the sky gradually changing from azure to gray-white, and finally turning into the pitch black of deep space.
The monster's six legs flailed wildly in the air, and its two forelimbs finally found an angle, suddenly hooking back to grab his back. The sharp spikes on the edge of the carapace pierced through his uniform and dug deep into his scapular muscles, a sharp pain spreading along his spine to the back of his neck.
He did not slacken in the slightest.
Pushing the monster, he continued to climb. The outline of the target planet behind him kept shrinking, from an arc-shaped surface to a complete sphere, and finally into a small blue-and-brown marble. As the last layer of atmospheric airflow brushed past his side, the two of them stepped completely into the vacuum.
A pitch-black void opened silently in front of him.
The monster's mountain-like body blocked his entire view, and Marcus did not notice anything unusual. Its six legs flailed wildly in the void, and its dark purple carapace was like a giant wall. Relying on his physical strength, he continued to push, driving the giant beast straight into the void.
The moment they passed through, sight, hearing, and the sense of gravity were all cut off, and all senses returned completely to nothingness.
The next second, blinding light swept over them.
Gravity reappeared, the surrounding airflow rushed toward his face, and the nitrogen-oxygen ratio was normal. Marcuswas still firmly pressing against the monster, and the two were plummeting rapidly from high altitude toward the ground.
Below was a city with an unfamiliar style: high-rise buildings with glass curtain walls standing in great numbers, a crisscrossing road network, and an endless stream of vehicles. And directly below the landing point stood a giant oval stadium.
Beside the stadium was a wide road connecting to the open space on the outskirts of the city. Vehicles on the road swerved to avoid them, and the crowd screamed and fled in all directions—a large gathering had originally been held inside the stadium, and now the crowd was evacuating frantically like a frightened ant colony.
Marcus had no time to delve into the origin of this place; he immediately adjusted his posture, guiding the monster toward the road outside the stadium.
With a deafening boom, the two slammed heavily onto the ground.
The monster's massive body slammed into the six-lane asphalt road, and the ground collapsed into a huge crater as if struck by a meteorite. Rows of streetlights snapped, roadside billboards were blown away by the air blast, and parked vehicles rolled over one after another.
Underground water pipes burst under the pressure, and jets of water shot straight into the sky. The shockwave swept to the open stands on the perimeter of the stadium; several steps on the bottom level collapsed, and two adjacent logistics rooms were buried by rubble. The scattered passersby who couldn't evacuate in time were blown away by the air blast, suffering only abrasions and concussions, with no one being directly crushed by the monster.
The monster lay on its back at the bottom of the crater, its six legs kicking wildly, letting out a muffled low growl as it struggled to turn over.
Marcus used the force to leap into the air from its body, hovering in mid-air and looking around. This city was densely populated, with high-rise buildings and bustling streets. In the distance, inside the stadium, tens of thousands of people were still evacuating in an emergency. If they were to fight with full force here, the consequences would be unimaginable.
Just then, a figure came into view.
A man wearing a dark blue tight-fitting uniform was hovering above the stadium, his back to the sunset. The uniform was embroidered with a Stars and Stripes pattern, a white cape fluttered behind him, and a five-pointed star emblem was embedded on his chest. He stood with his arms crossed, overlooking the chaos below, a smirk playing on the corners of his mouth.
As Marcus looked at the star emblem, the cape, and that face, a dusty memory from his past life flooded his mind.
Homelander.
In his past life on Earth, he had seen this name and appearance on a screen. This was a being who possessed immense power but was only obsessed with his public image and self-worship—a monster wearing the skin of a hero.
The thought flashed through his mind, and he quickly withdrew his gaze.
Regardless of what world this was or why the other party appeared, the primary goal right now was to deal with the alien beast in the crater.
The monster had already turned over and stood up, its six legs supporting its body, its twelve compound eyes locked firmly onto Marcus in mid-air. The faint blue light in the gaps of its carapace pulsed violently, its brightness far exceeding any moment before.
Marcus's gaze darkened, and he dove downward.
Chapter 3: Slaying the Hexapedal Beast, An Uninvited Guest Arrives
Marcus's gaze was intense as he leaned forward and dove down.
The beast's forelimb swept toward him. The instant the bone blade was about to make contact, he flipped sideways, brushing past the back of the blade—there was no sharp edge there, only the flat surface of the carapace.
His left hand hooked onto the edge of the forelimb's carapace, using the force of the beast's swing to propel himself beneath its torso.
His target was the joint of the middle leg.
He landed at the base of the second middle leg. To maintain flexibility, the carapace here had a natural gap at the joint. He thrust his hands into the gap, hooked his ten fingers onto the edges of the two carapace plates, and tore outward with all his might.
The carapace at the joint was forced open, revealing the blue-black soft tissue inside. Under his pull, the tendons stretched to their limit before snapping one by one with dull, popping sounds.
A middle leg detached from the torso and slammed onto the ground. Blue-black bodily fluid gushed from the stump, splattering across half his body.
The beast let out a deafening roar. Its remaining five limbs thrashed wildly, its bone blades gouging deep furrows into the ground.
Marcus didn't stop. He had found his rhythm.
He ran up the beast's torso carapace, dodging the successive attacks of the remaining limbs, and flipped onto the joint of another hind leg. The same method—hook the carapace gap, tear it open, sever the tendons. A second limb hit the ground. Then the third. Then the fourth.
The beast's movements grew slower and slower, its roars turning into wails. When the sixth limb was ripped from its torso, its massive body collapsed with a thunderous crash, slamming into the ruined highway. The ground trembled violently, sending stagnant water splashing several meters into the air.
Marcus landed on the beast's head.
Its twelve compound eyes were still moving but had lost their focus. The blue light in the carapace gaps began to flicker, dimming and brightening. Right in the center of the compound eyes, at the top of its head, there was an area not covered by the carapace.
He clenched his fist, aimed at that spot, and punched through.
His arm pierced through the soft tissue beneath the carapace, passing through layer after layer of fascia and mucus, sinking in up to his shoulder. He felt something—hard, and pulsing. He closed his fingers and crushed it.
The beast's roar came to an abrupt halt.
The twelve compound eyes went dark simultaneously. The blue light in the carapace gaps flickered twice and then went out completely. The massive body spasmed one last time before falling still.
Marcus pulled his right arm out of the corpse. The entire arm was coated in viscous, blue-black bodily fluid and bits of flesh, which dripped from his fingertips. He wiped the thickest layer of fluid off against the edge of the beast's carapace.
Then, he felt that gaze.
Marcus looked up.
Above the stadium, Homelander was still hovering in the same spot. He had long since uncrossed his arms; the playful, half-smile on his face had completely faded, his lips were pressed into a cold, hard line, and the corners of his eyes were slightly tightened.
He was assessing Marcus.
The two locked eyes for a moment across a distance of several dozen meters. Marcus was the first to look away, jumping down from the beast's corpse. The asphalt beneath his feet was soaked in the alien creature's fluids, creating a thick, muffled sound with every step. He scanned the area, confirmed there were no other threats, and intended to take off and leave.
"Hey."
A shout came from above; the volume wasn't high, but it fell clearly into Marcus's ears.
Marcus looked up again.
Homelander slowed his descent, hovering ten meters away without coming any closer. To a top-tier superhuman, this distance was meaningless, but it represented his current wariness and probing.
"Not a bad performance." Homelander's voice was steady, having shed the casual indifference he held while watching just moments ago. His gaze swept over the mountain-like corpse of the beast before landing back on Marcus. "I've never seen you before."
He paused slightly before adding, "You aren't on Vought's registered list of superhumans. Who the hell are you?"
Marcus did not answer.
His gaze shifted past Homelander toward the stadium. The evacuation was still underway, with tens of thousands of civilians surging toward the exits. Above the crowd, several figures were busy: a man in a deep blue bodysuit zipped through the ruins at super speed, scooping up injured civilians from the edge of the collapsed stands and moving them to safety—it was A-Train.
At the main entrance of the stadium, a woman with long red-brown hair held up a collapsing steel frame with her arms, supporting the structure to buy space for the crowd below to evacuate—that was Queen Maeve.
Further away, a blonde girl in a bright yellow uniform crouched beside a broken concrete beam. She gripped the edge of the beam, bent her knees to exert force, and physically lifted the structural piece, which weighed as much as a car. Beneath the beam lay an unconscious, bleeding elderly man. She steadied the heavy object and turned her head to shout, "Stretcher! There's another casualty over here!"
It was Starlight.
Marcus withdrew his gaze and looked back at Homelander.
"Instead of obsessing over who I am," he said, his tone flat and devoid of emotion, "you should be fulfilling your duties as a superhero."
With that, he rose directly into the air and flew away.
Homelander hovered in place, watching the white figure disappear between the buildings. A hint of a smile remained on his lips, but there was no warmth in his eyes.
He looked down into the stadium: A-Train was transporting the injured, Maeve was supporting the steel frame, and Starlight was lifting the beam to save people. He had done nothing.
The smile on his face remained frozen in place.
Two days later. Upper East Side, a three-story townhouse.
Marcus surfaced from the pool, water streaming down his shoulders and back, flowing along the grooves of his abs into the cracks of the non-slip tiles by the pool. He drifted out of the water and walked barefoot toward the living room.
The TV was on. A local New York news station was playing a long-range shot on loop: the man in white was riding on the beast's head, his entire right arm buried in the beast's skull. Blue-black fluid sprayed from the wound, splattering his face. He pulled his arm out, wiped his hand on the carapace, and then looked up at the sky—the camera panned up with his gaze, framing a small figure hovering in the distance above the stadium.
The footage froze at the moment he looked up. Scrolling text appeared at the bottom of the screen: "True identity of mysterious man in white still under investigation—Vought says it is 'willing to talk to him'."
The camera cut back to the studio. The anchor's tone was that practiced, enthusiastic style: "As we just saw in the footage, this unidentified superhuman single-handedly killed a massive, unknown creature on the highway next to the stadium."
"A Vought spokesperson issued a statement earlier today, claiming that The Seven 'joined forces with this mysterious hero to save tens of thousands of people.' Here is Homelander's own response in front of the Vought Tower—"
The footage cut to the front of the Vought Tower.
Homelander stood at the podium, his cape unfurling in the breeze, wearing a standard smile. "The New York incident demonstrates the power of heroes uniting. Whether you are registered or not, as long as you are willing to fight to protect this world, you are our companion."
He paused, then added, "I hope he will join us."
Marcus picked up the half-eaten sandwich from the coffee table.
Getting money hadn't taken much effort. The Lower East Side was full of gangs and gray-market dealings that didn't ask questions. He sought out the local boss, Marty, and in the face of absolute power, the man docilely handed over the safe combination. Three hundred and twenty thousand in cash was enough for him to live comfortably for a while.
Renting the townhouse had also gone smoothly. This private townhouse allowed for short-term private subletting, with no need for social security checks, credit reports, or identity files. The agent had originally asked about qualifications as a routine, but Marcus simply laid eight stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills on the table.
Paid in full, upfront, with a premium.
The agent fell silent instantly, skipping all the procedural interrogations. A three-month lease, including a pool and underground garage, with cleaning services twice a week—private, quiet, and with no one checking up on him.
He leaned back on the sofa and stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth. The TV cut to another news story—Vought's media outlet was broadcasting an edited version. In the footage, Homelander was hovering above the stadium, and the camera deliberately framed his position and the beast's corpse on the ground in the same shot, as if they were fighting side-by-side.
Marcus chewed the last bite of bread and picked up the remote to change the channel. The movie channel was playing an old film he had seen in his past life. He set the remote on the sofa armrest and didn't change it again.
He wasn't in a hurry to go back. On the planet Viltrum, training was so he wouldn't be killed during his coming-of-age ceremony, and missions were so he wouldn't be executed as a traitor by the military. He had spent eighteen years doing what others wanted him to do, every single thing for the sake of survival.
Now, there was no one whispering in his ear, urging him to train.
He had a pool, good food, and an entire day of leisure time to spend as he pleased.
Vought Tower. A windowless conference room.
On the screen, a high-definition satellite image was playing on a loop. Vought had mobilized three low-earth orbit satellites to reconstruct the entire battle on the highway next to the stadium from three angles. In four minutes and seven seconds, a hexapedal creature the size of a Boeing 747 was torn apart by hand.
Madelyn Stillwell stood in front of the screen, the hand holding her pen motionless.
"Find him," she said.
There were five people sitting in the conference room. An analyst pulled up a set of surveillance screenshots: "Lenox Hill, Upper East Side, a private townhouse. This property was listed with an agent and wasn't originally for short-term rent. Forty-eight hours ago, someone bought it with cash, in full, without any credit checks."
He paused. "We checked the neighborhood traffic cameras and caught this."
A photo popped up on the screen. A gray long-sleeved shirt, black trousers, coming out of a convenience store, carrying a bag of sandwiches.
Marcus's face.
"He isn't hiding at all," the analyst said.
Madelyn Stillwell looked at the photo, a faint smile touching the corners of her lips.
Just then, her phone screen suddenly lit up.
A message from Homelander popped up on the screen, only four words: "Have you found him?"
Madelyn Stillwell tapped her finger on the screen and replied with the address: "Lenox Hill, Upper East Side. He rented a townhouse with a pool."
Three seconds later, Homelander replied with one word: "Good."
Late at night. The townhouse rooftop.
Marcus stood at the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the brightly lit city below. He had changed his clothes—the gray long-sleeved shirt and black trousers he'd bought at the mall during the day; his white uniform was washed and drying in the bathroom.
He didn't know how the crossing had happened. At the time, he was pushing the beast out of the atmosphere, his vision completely blocked by the beast's body, and he only felt a momentary sensory interruption—and then he had collided and arrived in this city. There was no warning, no discernible pattern, at least not one he could see yet.
The only thing he could be sure of was that he couldn't go back to his original world for the time being.
Behind him, a sonic boom approached from the distance.
It was extremely fast, carrying an undisguised intent to attack.
Marcus turned around.
In the night sky, a black speck was rapidly growing larger.
Chapter 4: Suppressing the Rampaging Homelander
The black dot rushed to the edge of the rooftop in a single breath.
Marcus clearly saw the face of the newcomer.
A blue bodysuit, a stars-and-stripes cape, and a five-pointed star emblem right in the center of the chest. His blonde hair was meticulously combed, and his signature smile hung at the corners of his mouth. He was exactly the same person who had been hovering above the stadium two days ago.
Homelander.
His right fist had already been thrown, aimed directly at Marcus's face. The edge of his fist tore through the air, carrying enough impact force to pierce steel plates.
Marcus raised his hand.
His palm caught the fist. The moment the knuckles struck his palm, a shockwave exploded from the point of contact, and the dust on the rooftop floor was blown away by the blast. His arm did not move an inch.
He stared at that hypocritical smiling face, his brows slightly furrowed.
"Why are you attacking me?"
His voice was steady and waveless; there was no anger, only scrutiny and confusion.
Homelander did not answer. His smile did not change, and his pupils did not constrict. He tried to pull back his fist, but he couldn't.
Marcus's five fingers clamped onto his knuckles; without any technique, relying solely on terrifying physical strength, he held him firmly, making it impossible for the other party to pull his hand away and break free.
Homelander smiled again, then immediately threw his left fist.
Marcus tilted his head to avoid it. The force of the punch brushed past his ear, missing its mark. He released his right hand and backhanded a palm onto Homelander's chest; the force wasn't great, but it was enough to push the other party back several meters. Homelander's boot heels plowed two shallow grooves into the concrete, stopping at the edge of the rooftop.
Marcus's tone deepened a few notches, his patience completely exhausted, and he spoke again:
"I'm asking you, why are you attacking me?"
Homelander straightened his body. He tilted his head, the smile still hanging on his face, and then rushed up again.
Marcus stopped asking.
Superfluous questioning is only useful for people who understand reason.
This time, he didn't wait for the other party to get close. The moment Homelander stepped into his arm's reach, his right fist had already been thrown—striking him directly in the chest. The sound of bone cracking exploded under his fist, a fist-shaped indentation sank into Homelander's chest, and he flew backward like a cannonball, crashing through the concrete railing at the edge of the rooftop, sending debris flying everywhere.
Homelander tumbled twice in mid-air, not stopping, not turning back. He took advantage of the impact from the punch to accelerate, his blue figure trailing a straight wake as he sped toward the west side of the city. His speed was more than twice as fast as when he arrived.
Marcus stood at the edge of the rooftop, watching Homelander shrink into the distance. He didn't pursue immediately, his brows tightly locked as he pondered the question: Why? When they met by the stadium two days ago, Homelander was still cautious and restrained, yet tonight he showed up late at night and launched an aggressive attack without any buildup.
He couldn't figure it out.
Marcus stopped dwelling on it. He kicked off the ground and took flight; the sonic boom from his supersonic flight exploded behind him, and the violent shockwave swept through the surrounding villas, causing rows of glass windows to shatter in response, with fragments falling down in a rustle.
The city lights flashed backward beneath him. His flight was driven by pure physical strength, requiring no buildup or adjustment of flight posture; the outpouring of power could be converted into continuous acceleration, with a speed surpassing that of Homelander.
Three seconds. It took him only three seconds to catch up to that blue wake.
Marcus reached out his arm, his five fingers clamping onto the back of Homelander's neck from behind, his palm pressed against the cervical spine, his fingertips digging into the soft tissue on both sides of the Adam's apple, locking on like alloy steel pliers.
Homelander's supersonic flight was abruptly strangled to a halt, the massive kinetic energy acting entirely on the pressure point on his neck, the inertia causing his limbs to fling forward, only to be forcibly pulled back by the severe pain in his neck.
He wanted to turn his head to break free, but Marcus's thumb pressed against the back of his mandible, sealing off any room for rotation; he struggled to push forward, but the other party's fingers tightened slightly, forcing a suffocated gasp from his throat.
Homelander raised his hands to counterattack, grabbing Marcus's wrist and trying desperately to pry it off, but he couldn't shake it in the slightest; his legs kicked backward frantically, slamming heavily onto Marcus's legs, each strike possessing the terrifying force to overturn an armored vehicle.
But Marcus's body was as steady as a rock, not shaking in the slightest, the strength in his hand constant; he neither exerted force to snap the other party's cervical spine, nor did he loosen his grip by even a fraction.
Homelander struggled for over ten seconds before gradually coming to a stop. It wasn't because he was willing to submit, but because his stamina had been exhausted by the endless struggling. His chest heaved violently, his compressed trachea turning his breathing into a hoarse wheeze, his palms still resting on Marcus's wrist, no longer having the strength to struggle or kick, his legs hanging limply in mid-air.
"Since I can't figure out why you're attacking me,"
Marcus said calmly: "Then we'll go to Vought Tower and ask clearly."
He grabbed Homelander by the back of his neck, changed course, and flew toward Vought Tower.
During the flight, his palm continued to press against the back of Homelander's neck, tightly squeezing the blood vessels in his neck. Coupled with the continuous jolting and vibration from the high-speed travel, the injured Homelander's remaining struggles weakened bit by bit, until he finally lost all strength and sank into a deep coma.
Suddenly, another sound of wind breaking approached from ahead.
Marcus slowed down and looked up.
A blue bodysuit, a stars-and-stripes cape, meticulously combed blonde hair, a pristine nose—it was another Homelander.
Homelander suddenly hovered to a stop fifty meters away, his gaze falling on the person being choked in Marcus's hand, his expression suddenly freezing. First, with a look of confusion, he scanned that face, which was identical to his own, repeatedly. Then came fear—his pupils shrank, his lips quivered. Immediately after, his entire face was twisted with fury.
"I am perfect—one of a kind—how dare they clone me!"
As the roar fell, he lunged over violently.
Marcus looked at the figure lunging out of control and said calmly: "You should calm down first."
"Shut up!" Homelander's Heat Vision erupted from his eyes, two crimson beams shooting straight at Marcus's face.
Marcus tilted his head to avoid the Heat Vision, and dodged the fist that followed immediately after. Carried by the inertia of his charge, Homelander swept forward, instantly turning his back to Marcus, who seized the opportunity to kick him in the back, sending him straight from mid-air toward the ground.
Below was a construction site. Homelander's body slammed into the open ground, the scaffolding was shaken with a clatter, steel pipes rolled everywhere, and dust billowed up several meters high.
Marcus watched Homelander trying to get up again, and while holding the unconscious Homelander in his hand, he instantly appeared behind him. He stepped his right foot onto Homelander's back, pinning him back to the ground.
"Calm down first."
Homelander didn't listen. He lay in the pile of rubble, struggling angrily, his hands frantically clawing at the ground. Heat Vision erupted from his eyes, and he twisted his head left and right, firing wildly at both sides.
But with his back firmly pressed down, his upper body completely against the ground, the beams could only sweep left and right along the ground, burning through large patches of soil and rubble, carving several scorching, burning trenches into the ground. Flames spread along the construction debris, igniting the scaffolding and stacked paint buckets. A steel beam was burned red, emitting a harsh sound of metal twisting.
Marcus didn't wait any longer. With a speed that Homelander couldn't react to, he lifted his foot and stepped down again.
The ground collapsed into a large pit nearly ten meters in diameter with Homelander at the center, rubble and steel pipes were pushed to the perimeter by the shockwave, and the stirred-up air blast blew the burning paint buckets away. Homelander vomited a large mouthful of blood, which splattered onto the rubble beneath him.
"Have you calmed down?"
Homelander's fingers were still twitching in the rubble, blood from the corners of his mouth mixing with dirt as it flowed down. His voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible: "I am perfect... I will kill you all..."
Marcus looked at the still-furious Homelander at the bottom of the pit and lifted his foot to step down again. This time, the sole of his shoe landed on the back of Homelander's head. The force was precise, directly knocking him unconscious. Homelander's body went limp at the bottom of the pit.
Marcus withdrew his foot and bent down to lift Homelander's cape. The fabric on the back was covered in dust and scratched with rubble, already dirty and mottled. He still held the other previously unconscious person by the back of the neck with one hand.
Two Homelanders. One was held in his hand, and the other was being dragged behind him by his cape.
The fire in the construction site was still burning, the firelight shining on his profile, expressionless.
He kicked off the ground and took flight, continuing to fly toward Vought Tower.
Chapter 5: Vought's Trump Card, Completely Out of Control
On the top floor of Vought Tower, Marcus crashed in from the night sky, the tempered glass tearing like paper before him.
Debris rained down on the office carpet like rain, and the alarm sounded throughout the building instantly.
He stood still amidst the broken glass, throwing the two people he had been carrying onto the floor.
Two Homelanders.
One had a clear fist print denting his chest; the other had a torn cape and was covered in mud and blood.
Two identical faces lay side-by-side on the expensive Persian carpet of the Vought executives, like two skin masks that had been ripped off.
There were originally two overtime executives in the office.
The woman was wearing a beige suit, and the moment the glass shattered, the coffee cup in her hand suddenly slipped.
The other man was wearing a headset and seemed not to have reacted to the incident before him; in the next second, he froze completely, mouth agape, speechless.
Marcus scanned the two of them and spoke: "Bring your person in charge."
The woman did not move.
Her eyes were still fixed on the two Homelanders on the ground.
Marcus did not repeat himself.
He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, with his back to them, looking at the lights of the city below.
The night wind blew in, rustling his grey long-sleeved clothes.
The first batch of security personnel arrived within three minutes.
Twelve security guards crowded at the door, riot shields held to their chests, stun guns all aimed at Marcus's back.
But when they saw the two figures lying on the carpet, all the shields dropped instantly, and no one dared to pull the trigger.
The security captain's Adam's apple bobbed violently, and he immediately shouted into his communicator: "Notify Ms. Stillwell immediately! Emergency situation on the top floor!"
A harsh sound of static came from the communicator, followed by a calm and strong female voice command that directly overrode the channel:
"Everyone stand down, do not fire, do not approach."
During the five minutes of waiting, Marcus remained with his back to everyone.
He made no extra movements and did not strike any threatening poses, standing quietly by the window like a statue.
On the ground, the two identical bodies were frozen on the carpet; one was in a deep coma with shallow breathing, and the other had a shoe print on the back of his head that was particularly striking.
The office door was pushed open.
Madelyn Stillwell walked in slowly, her high heels carefully avoiding the broken glass all over the floor, occasionally brushing against fragments, making a soft crunching sound.
She was wearing a dark grey suit skirt, her blonde hair was meticulously groomed, and two pearls hung from her earlobes.
There was no panic on her face; the hidden terror was forcefully suppressed by her years of professional training.
She walked to the sofa furthest from Marcus and stood still, without sitting down.
Her gaze suddenly nailed to the floor—two identical blue bodysuits, paired with star-spangled capes, the same blonde hair, perfectly matched.
Madelyn's pupils shrank, and her breathing hitched.
The company had never disclosed to her that a second Homelander existed.
She instinctively looked at the figure with the torn cape; this was someone she faced every day and was familiar with to the bone, but the absurd scene before her made her unable to be certain for a moment.
Marcus turned around, his face devoid of any expression.
"Your people attacked me. Two of them. I need an explanation."
Madelyn lifted her chin again.
Her professional calmness acted like a shield on her face again; her voice steadied, but the tremor in the first half-second could not be completely hidden.
"This is Vought's failure in supervision, our personnel provoked you without authorization.
Thank you for your restraint in not killing them.
This avoided a total loss of control, which is critical.
Vought will take full responsibility for handling this matter."
After speaking, she raised her gaze and looked at Marcus.
She tried to read something from that expressionless face—anger? Greed? Room for negotiation? She could read nothing.
Those eyes were just looking back at her calmly, as if waiting for her to finish all the nonsense and then provide something truly useful.
Just as she was about to continue, the office door opened again.
Edgar walked in slowly.
His suit was crisp and sharp, his leather shoes crushing the broken glass on the floor, stepping out with a steady sound.
He locked onto Marcus at the first glance; there was no fear or anger in his eyes, only calculation, like a merchant meeting a new variable that would change the situation.
He turned his head to Madelyn, the crowd of security guards at the door, and the two executives, and spoke lightly: "You all go down first."
The moment his voice fell, the security team at the door, who had been stiff for a long time, tightened their nerves and did not dare to stay for another moment.
Everyone put away their shields and firearms, and the two shaken executives followed closely and walked out of the office quickly, clearing the entire doorway area instantly.
Madelyn looked at him, her lips moving.
Her questions were ultimately swallowed back; professional instinct made her choose to remain silent.
She turned and left, the sound of her shoes slowly disappearing into the depths of the corridor.
Edgar walked to the sofa and sat down, picked up two crystal glasses, poured two fingers of whiskey into each, and pushed one to Marcus.
Marcus did not reach out.
Edgar did not mind, took a sip himself, placed the glass on his knee, and leaned back.
His posture was relaxed, but his eyes remained locked on Marcus, and he explained in a flat tone: "The Homelanderwho attacked you this time, in Vought's classified files, we call him Fake."
He looked at the unconscious body on the ground and continued: "The original intention of creating him was to check Homelander, to guard against the worst-case scenario where he goes completely out of control and no one can suppress him.
From the time the test subject was formed until now, Fake's mental state and behavior have always been extremely stable, and there has never been a situation where he acted on his own and escaped control.
I also have no way of knowing why he suddenly went out of control today and attacked you."
Marcus looked at him, his tone carrying cold skepticism: "Do you think I will believe you?"
Edgar was about to speak in defense, when a faint grunt suddenly sounded in the quiet air of the office.
The "Fake" on the carpet who had taken the initiative to attack suddenly curled his fingertips, his chest heaved violently twice, and he slowly opened his eyes.
Edgar paused, a hint of surprise flashed in his eyes, then his expression became calm again, and he looked up at Marcus, speaking lightly: "Perfect, Fake is awake.
No need for me to explain further, just ask him directly, and all answers will be there."
After saying that, his gaze fell on the newly awakened and still dazed Fake, and he asked in a deep voice: "Why did you act without authorization and attack this gentleman?"
Fake lay on the carpet, his gaze unfocused at first, like a machine that had just been rebooted slowly resuming operation, his sight slowly focusing on the light on the ceiling.
He never looked at Edgar.
He just stared at the ceiling.
After a moment of silence, he spoke slowly: "The mission I was created for was to kill the out-of-control Homelander."
His fingers scratched unconsciously on the carpet, his nails scraping over the velvet, making a subtle, teeth-aching friction sound.
"But I never waited for the order."
The calm shell quietly cracked, like ice under pressure, the cracks dense and silent, spreading all the way.
"So I thought of a plan—"
His voice rose suddenly, and a sharp laugh was squeezed from his throat.
The laughter was short, like glass being suddenly crushed.
His body sprang up from the carpet, half-kneeling on the ground, hands supporting his knees, his head lowered, shoulders heaving violently.
Then he suddenly raised his head.
On that face identical to Homelander, a twisted and exaggerated smile was pulled out.
Drool dripped from the corners of his mouth, the whole person appearing insane, his pupils vibrating violently, like a planet on the verge of disintegration.
"I used a face identical to Homelander to do all kinds of bad things!"
He said every word distinctly, as if each word was squeezed out from between his teeth, carrying a kind of almost devout fanaticism.
His hands gestured in the air, gesturing at those non-existent buildings, non-existent cities, non-existent destruction.
"Make Homelander think he has a split personality! Make him unable to distinguish what he did and what I did! Make him start to doubt himself, fear himself, hate himself!"
His voice echoed in the office, like a beast trapped in a cage.
"By that time, he will naturally completely break free from your control!"
He pointed suddenly at Edgar, his fingers trembling uncontrollably, his smile becoming increasingly hideous and terrifying.
"Once he loses control, you will give the order for me to eliminate him.
This is the meaning of my existence, and it is the only purpose for which I was manufactured!"
His voice dropped suddenly.
From roaring to a breathy voice, from a breathy voice to a kind of intermittent, dry laughter like sandpaper rubbing against glass.
"I succeeded."
He lowered his head, his knuckles digging hard into the carpet, his shoulders shaking violently and silently.
"Homelander became arrogant, narcissistic, moody... He doesn't know if he is one person, doesn't know which memory is real."
He raised his head again, his gaze scanning everyone in the room blankly.
"But I also failed."
That string snapped completely.
The voice was so light it was almost swallowed by the night wind, carrying a kind of dead, grey despair.
"Because you—still haven't given the order."