Chapter 11: Brooklyn Cleaning Night
Two figures jumped down from the factory roof.
They landed lightly, without making a sound.
The moonlight illuminated their faces clearly.
The tall one was a man, looking to be about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, wearing a deep blue combat suit with a metal emblem of an eagle with spread wings on his chest.
Ryan recognized this emblem.
A member of the "Warrior Alliance," a second-tier superhero team under Vought International.
The short one was a woman with short hair, wearing the same style of combat suit, holding a telescopic baton in her hand.
But neither of these two were from The Seven.
Ryan couldn't recall their names because, in the original plot, these kinds of second-tier superheroes were disposable tools that didn't even get a chance to officially appear.
"You're the one who's been making a lot of noise online lately?" the tall one spoke up, his voice quite aggressive. "Preservation something, was it?"
"Preservation Walker," Ryan corrected. "Are you from the Warrior Alliance?"
"Shockwave." The tall man tapped the emblem on his chest. "Vought-signed superhero, number two in the Warrior Alliance. She's my partner, Baton Girl."
"Baton Girl?" Ryan glanced at the short one. "Who came up with that name?"
"What's it to you?" Baton Girl's tone was unfriendly. "Do you have any idea that what you've done tonight has already alerted Vought International headquarters?"
"Alerted them? That's good." Ryan crossed his arms. "Saves me the trouble of having to find them myself."
Shockwave took two steps forward, standing three meters away from Ryan.
"I'm going to say something you might not like to hear." His tone changed, taking on a condescending air. "It's fine if you beat up some street drug dealers; Vought can't be bothered with small matters like that. But the Morales Family warehouse? That's a Vought client."
"Client?" Ryan raised an eyebrow.
"The Morales Family pays a large amount of protection money to Vought every year in exchange for Vought's 'negligence,'" Shockwave said. "Simply put, this warehouse is under Vought's protection. You can't touch it."
Ryan was silent for two seconds.
Then he laughed.
"You mean Vought International is acting as a protective umbrella for drug dealers?"
"It's business." Shockwave shrugged. "If you want to survive in this city, you have to know the rules."
"I don't really know the rules." Ryan took a step forward. "But I know a thing or two about big slaps."
Shockwave's expression changed.
"You want to lay a hand on a Vought-signed superhero? Do you know what that means?"
"It means your dental insurance is going to come in handy tonight."
Blackie was holding his phone twenty meters away, stomping his feet in excitement.
The live stream chat was going crazy.
"It's on, it's on!!"
"He's going to attack a Vought superhero?! For real?!"
"Preservation Walker is awesome! He dares to hit even Vought's people!"
Online viewers: 72,000.
Shockwave didn't want to fight.
His mission was just to warn this "Preservation Walker" not to touch the Morales Family's warehouse, and then report back.
But this guy didn't seem to have any intention of listening.
"Last chance." Shockwave pulled his hands out of his pockets, his knuckles cracking. "Leave East Brooklyn, and Vought will pretend tonight never happened."
"And what about your second chance?" Ryan asked.
"There is no second one."
"Oh." Ryan nodded. "That's perfect, I don't need one either."
He made his move.
No running start, no charging up, just a simple extension of his right hand, pushing his palm against Shockwave's chest.
This strike used one-tenth of his strength.
About eight tons.
Shockwave's body flew backward as if hit by a truck, his back crashing through the factory's wire fence, plowing a five-meter-long trench into the ground, and finally stopping only when he slammed into the tire of a parked truck.
He opened his mouth, his eyes nearly popping out, and the metal emblem on his chest was crushed out of shape.
"Cough... cough cough..." Shockwave choked out some blood, every bone in his body protesting.
Baton Girl turned pale.
She gripped her baton, hesitating for 0.5 seconds.
Then she made a very wise decision—
She threw the baton on the ground.
And raised her hands.
"I surrender."
"Smart." Ryan gave her a thumbs up.
He walked past Baton Girl and headed toward the factory gate.
The people moving goods inside the factory had long panicked upon hearing the commotion outside; a few had already run away, and the rest were still hesitating.
Ryan kicked open the factory's iron door.
The iron door flew off and smashed into a forklift inside the factory, totaling it instantly.
"Everyone!" Ryan stood at the entrance, scanning the dozen or so people inside. "You have two choices."
"First, lie down and wait for the police."
"Second, I'll help you lie down."
"Three seconds."
It didn't even take one second.
A dozen or so loading workers and drug dealers collectively flopped onto the ground, hands covering their heads.
"Very obedient." Ryan nodded with satisfaction.
He walked deep into the warehouse and found the area piled high with goods.
Dozens of large crates were neatly stacked, all filled with drugs compressed into bricks.
Next to them was a safe.
Ryan reached out, grabbed the safe's door, and pulled with force.
The thirty-centimeter-thick steel door was ripped off by him like opening a soda can.
Inside were stacks of bundled cash, and a few tubes of blue liquid in aluminum alloy containers.
Blue liquid.
Ryan picked up one tube and examined it against the light.
"compound v," he muttered.
The Morales Family wasn't just dealing drugs; they were also smuggling Vought International's core product—compound v, used to create Superhumans.
"Interesting." Ryan put the tube of blue liquid back and turned to walk out of the warehouse.
He couldn't use these things right now, but he had to remember this information.
The black market circulation of compound v indicated that someone inside Vought International was secretly reselling it.
The upstream of this chain might even connect to Vought's top brass.
When he walked out of the factory, Blackie had already run to the entrance.
"I got it, I got it! I got it all!" Blackie held up his phone, his voice cracking with excitement.
Ryan glanced at the live stream room.
Online viewers: 124,000.
One hundred twenty-four thousand.
Approaching the viewer count of a Vought official channel live stream.
The chat was scrolling like a waterfall.
"One hour! He took out three strongholds in one hour! And he knocked away a Vought-signed superhero!"
"I'm numb! Who exactly is this Preservation Walker?!"
"Something big happened in Brooklyn tonight!"
"Vought International, are you seeing this?! This is the kind of superhero we need! Not those useless show-offs you have!"
"Preservation Walker! Preservation Walker! Preservation Walker!"
The entire chat section was spammed with these three words.
[Ding! Massive influx of Emotion Points!]
[Offline Fear + Worship mixed harvest: +850]
[Online positive emotion harvest: +1200 (after decay)]
[Defeated Vought-signed superhero 'Shockwave': +400]
[Current total Emotion Points: 5410/10000!]
Five thousand four hundred points!
In one night, he went from less than three thousand to over five thousand!
He was less than halfway to the ten thousand points needed for the first DNA purification!
Ryan's blood was burning.
He took a deep breath and looked up at the night sky over Brooklyn.
The city lights dyed the sky a murky orange.
In the distance, the Vought Tower's V-shaped logo hung high in the night.
Like an eye staring at him.
"Still need four thousand six hundred," Ryan muttered to himself.
Blackie leaned in, looking up at him.
"Brother Walker, are we continuing tonight?"
"No." Ryan patted Blackie's head. "That's enough for tonight. If we keep going, it won't be second-tier superheroes coming next time."
He was right.
The news of Shockwave being knocked away should have already reached Vought headquarters by now.
If he kept causing trouble, the next one to appear in Brooklyn might be a member of The Seven.
Or even—
Homelander himself.
Now was not the time to face that man-child head-on.
"Going home." Ryan pulled his scarf up over his nose and walked into the depths of the alley.
Blackie stood in place, doing his final sign-off for the phone camera.
"Hey everyone! Tonight's Brooklyn Cleaning Night ends here! Preservation Walker, one hour, three strongholds, plus one Vought-signed superhero! This is our guardian of Brooklyn!"
"Whether he'll be here tomorrow, I don't know. But I'll be waiting! Follow me! Black Noir! Brooklyn's number one frontline reporter!"
He turned off the live stream.
The online viewer count finally settled at—137,204.
One hundred thirty-seven thousand.
Blackie gripped his phone, his palms full of sweat.
He looked back in the direction where Ryan had disappeared.
The man in the grey long coat had already melted into the night, no longer visible.
Blackie sniffled and muttered a sentence.
"So cool..."
Meanwhile.
Vought Tower, 72nd floor.
In a dimly lit office.
A person sat behind a large desk, with a tablet computer in front of them.
On the tablet screen, Blackie's live stream recording was playing back.
In the footage, the man in the grey coat pushed Shockwaveaway with one palm.
The video paused.
That person's fingers tapped lightly on the desk twice.
Then they picked up the phone next to them and dialed a number.
"Get Ashley from the Public Relations Department here."
"Tell her to escalate the contingency plan."
"This guy..."
The person looked at the grey figure frozen on the screen, pausing for a second.
"We can't let him keep running wild out there."
Chapter 12: Threatening Me? Tell Homelander to Wear Something Sturdy When He Comes to Find Me!
2:17 AM.
When Ren returned to his rented room, he was covered in the smell of sweat and dust.
He took off his long gray coat and hung it on the nail behind the door, throwing his scarf and sunglasses onto the bed.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he closed his eyes and pulled up the system panel.
[Host: Ren]
[Current Template: Tighten (Dandruff-Flawed Version)]
[DNA Purity: 0.3%]
[Emotion Points: 5,410/10,000]
Five thousand four hundred and ten.
Still four thousand five hundred and ninety short of ten thousand.
"Beating people up offline brought in just over two thousand, while the online livestream and video distribution contributed over two thousand." Ren counted on his fingers, rolled over to lie on his back, and stared at the crack in the ceiling. "At this rate, another two or three nights will be enough to gather ten thousand points for the first DNA purification."
"But beating up Vought's signed superhero tonight... this isn't over."
He rested his hands behind his head.
Shockwave was a second-tier useless trash, yes, but he represented Vought's brand.
Sending him flying with a single palm strike in front of a livestream of over a hundred thousand people was equivalent to leaving a slap mark on Vought's face.
"If I were Edgar, what would my next move be?"
First step: public opinion control, banning Blackie's livestream recordings, and suppressing discussions about the Preservation Walker online.
Second step: investigate the identity.
Third step: if the first two steps don't work, send in the muscle.
"Who would they send?"
The second-tier superhero was already dealt with tonight.
Within The Seven, A-Train had been scared off by him, that useless fish Deep couldn't even make it ashore, and Translucent could turn invisible but his close combat was like a joke.
The only usable ones left are Queen Maeve and Starlight Annie, and going up from there...
Ren tapped his fingers twice on the bedsheet.
Homelander.
"If A-Zu comes in person..."
He sat up from the bed, his lips curling slightly.
"Perfect."
"I'm also quite curious about what effect his Laser Eyes will have when they hit my Bio-field."
He chuckled twice, then fell fast asleep.
A dreamless night.
The next morning, Ren went to Vought Tower to work as usual.
Yes, after sending Vought's signed superhero flying last night, he was still wearing his Janitor uniform to mop the floors at Vought Tower today.
He couldn't lose this identity.
As a Janitor, he could move freely inside the tower, hearing and seeing information from various floors. This was his only channel to probe Vought's cards.
Besides, if he quit, there would be no salary.
It was pitifully small, but having it and not having it were two different things.
Pushing the mop along, his eyes scanned the activity in the lobby.
Today was a whole order of magnitude busier than yesterday.
Mid-level managers in suits bustled back and forth, their faces tense, their paces half a beat faster than usual.
The Public Relations Department had mobilized almost entirely, with groups of people jogging through the corridors holding tablets and clutching folders.
Promotional videos of The Seven played on rotation on the lobby's LED screen, with Homelander smiling radiantly in front of the American flag.
But during a news broadcast between commercials, one item made Ren's hands stop.
"New York police announced this morning that a series of major criminal strongholds were dismantled in East Brooklyn last night. Three drug-related strongholds were cleared by an unidentified individual within an hour, resulting in the arrest of over thirty suspects and the seizure of a large amount of drugs and illegal weapons."
"Notably, a tubular liquid suspected to be compound v was discovered at one of the strongholds. The police are currently coordinating their investigation with Vought International."
"Witnesses state that the individual who cleared the strongholds was a masked man calling himself the Preservation Walker. The view count of the relevant livestream video this morning has already surpassed..."
The host's voice pitched up a notch.
"One million views!"
The mop stopped.
A million views.
He looked down to glance at the system panel.
[Ding! Online emotions continue to be harvested. The view count of last night's livestream recording has surpassed 1 million across the internet. Effective positive emotion harvested +620 (after multi-stage decay), effective negative fear harvested +180.]
[Current Total Emotion Points: 6,210/10,000.]
Six thousand two hundred and ten.
Less than four thousand short.
Just as the corners of his mouth were about to curl up, someone approached from the other end of the corridor.
Ashley.
The head of Vought's Public Relations Department.
Today she wore a dark gray suit. The professional smile from yesterday was gone from her face; her lips were tightly pursed, and her brow was furrowed in a tight knot.
"Ren."
"Oh, Miss Ashley." The mop didn't stop, and he didn't look up. "Here to inspect the janitorial work?"
"You know very well what you did in Brooklyn last night."
"Last night?" He rinsed the mop in the water. "Sleeping at home."
"Don't play dumb with me." Ashley quickly walked up to him, her voice lowered. "Even though the coat of the person in the livestream video was different, the body shape and manner of speaking are exactly the same. I'm not blind."
"Can you prove it?" Only then did Ren look up at her.
Ashley clenched her teeth.
"Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused me last night?"
"Not really."
"Shockwave is currently lying in the Vought Medical Center with three fractured ribs, a shattered collarbone, and a pulmonary contusion." She took half a step forward. "He is a Vought-signed superhero. You beating him up is equivalent to slapping Vought's face."
"He went to act as an umbrella for drug dealers. What's wrong with me slapping his face?"
Ashley's mouth opened and closed, unable to find a reply.
The facts were right there.
Shockwave was indeed sent by Vought to protect the Morales Family warehouse. Everyone internally knew it, but no one dared to bring it out into the open.
"Listen to me." Ashley took a breath, lowering her voice even further. "The seventy-second floor has already set its eyes on you."
"The seventy-second floor?" The hand mopping the floor stopped.
"Vice President Stillwell's floor."
Madelyn Stillwell.
Senior Vice President of Vought, her actual power second only to CEO Edgar.
In the original story, she was the character Homelanderrelied on the most, and one of the coldest executors in Vought's power network.
"How does she plan to handle it?"
"I don't know." Ashley's expression was very grim. "But she held an emergency meeting this morning, and after the meeting ended, she gave me an instruction."
"What instruction?"
"To pull up all of your files and deliver them to her office before the end of the day."
Ren didn't say a word, drawing a circle on the floor with the mop in his hand.
"And then?"
"And then..." Ashley hesitated. "I heard her say something to someone on the phone."
"What did she say?"
Ashley's voice was so low it was almost inaudible.
"She said, if he doesn't cooperate, let Homelander go have a chat with him."
Silence lasted for three seconds.
Ren put the mop back into the bucket and stood up straight.
Looking at Ashley, the corner of his mouth slowly curled up.
"Let him come."
"Are you crazy?" Ashley's voice cracked.
"Not crazy." Ren pushed the mop bucket to the corner, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his Janitor uniform, and rolled his neck. "Go back and pass a message to Stillwell."
"What message?"
Ren winked at her.
"Just say, if she wants Homelander to come find me, tell A-Zu to remember to wear something sturdy."
"Last time A-Train rammed into me, he shattered his own shoulder."
"If A-Zu wants to ram me too, it won't just be his shoulder that shatters."
Ashley stared at him for five seconds, then turned and left.
Her high heels tapped urgently on the marble floor, fading into the distance.
Ren watched her enter the elevator, then looked down, picked up his mop, and continued mopping the floor.
On the lobby's LED screen, Homelander's smiling face was still playing on loop.
Bright, warm, and approachable—exactly what a perfect hero should look like.
Ren glanced at that face and shook his head.
"Oh, A-Zu, A-Zu, you'd better not come looking for me."
"Because if you do, you'll discover the most devastating thing in your life."
"Which is that the guy who can take a hit better than you is fucking mopping floors."
In the distance, in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows on the seventy-second floor of Vought Tower, a woman's figure looked down upon the city below.
Madelyn Stillwell held a freshly printed personnel file in her hand, flipping to the last page.
The man in the ID photo was wearing a Janitor uniform, his expression casual, probably thinking about something else when the picture was taken.
In the upper-right corner of the file, three words were marked in red pen.
High Risk.
Stillwell closed the file and picked up the telephone on the desk.
"Connect me to Homelander."
The phone rang for less than three seconds, and then there was only a busy tone.
He didn't pick up.
She put down the phone, tapped her fingers twice on the desk, reopened the file, and drew another line under those three words with the red pen.
At the same time, in the first-floor lobby.
Ren leaned against his mop and yawned.
He didn't know what they were up to on the seventy-second floor, but his self-made persecution mania told him that no matter what scheme they were cooking up upstairs, the window of opportunity left for him was narrowing.
He had to step up his efforts tonight.
After work, he returned to his rented room, took out his long gray coat, scarf, and sunglasses, fished out that crumpled notebook from under the bed, and flipped to the page that read "Make a Fortune in Silence."
He added a line of text: "Second round of sweeps, target only the big ones."
Closing the notebook, he changed into his gear and headed out.
9:40 PM, West Brooklyn.
Blackie was already crouching at the agreed intersection. Today he had changed into a slightly cleaner T-shirt, holding his cracked-screen phone high, his livestream room already open.
Number of viewers online: 53,000.
Last night's livestream recording had fermented for a whole day, and Blackie's followers had grown more than tenfold. As soon as the broadcast started today, all the old viewers flooded in.
"Brother Walker, you're here!" Blackie jogged over to greet him.
"What are you shouting for? Keep a low profile." Ren pulled his scarf up a bit.
"Where are we planning to go tonight?"
Chapter 13: Whoever Dares Deal Drugs or Sell Guns, I'll Personally Deliver a Slap to Their Face!
"The Morales Family that the tattooed burly guy snitched on last time was just a small fish," Ryan said as he walked. "I asked around this afternoon. The real big fish in the East District's underworld is an arms dealer named Iron Hook. He has three strongholds: one in a modified warehouse at the docks, one in an abandoned church basement, and another behind a laundromat in the old town."
"An arms dealer?" Blackie swallowed hard. "Isn't that way more dangerous than drug dealers?"
"Dangerous?" Ryan looked down at him. "To me, arms and firecrackers are no different."
"Except maybe a rocket launcher is a bit louder."
Blackie was amused by this remark, and his shoulders relaxed quite a bit.
"Let's go, we need to be highly efficient tonight," Ryan quickened his pace. "One hour, three strongholds. We'll try to pull them all out before Vought's people can react."
The live stream chat was already boiling over.
[It's here, it's here! Sweep Night, Part Two!]
[Checking in, everyone who was too hyped to sleep last night!]
[We're fighting arms dealers this time? The difficulty level has gone up!]
Online viewers: 71,000.
And it was still rising.
The first stronghold: the modified warehouse at the docks.
The corrugated iron factory building was three times larger than last night's drug den. Two armed pickup trucks were parked outside, heavy machine guns mounted on their beds, with six armed sentries standing at the entrance.
Ryan didn't enter through the front door.
He circled around to the wall behind the warehouse, squatted down, and swept the area with his Super Hearing.
There were at least twenty people inside, dismantling and assembling various models of firearms. In a corner, someone was debugging a modified drone, its propellers buzzing loudly.
"Blackie, old rules, back off a hundred meters."
"Why further than yesterday?"
"Because they have heavy machine guns inside today. Ricocheting bullets fly far, and your skull won't be able to handle it."
Without another word, Blackie ran off.
Ryan stood in front of the wall, stretched his wrists, and punched it.
The entire corrugated iron wall tore open from the middle, leaving a three-meter-wide gap. Shrapnel splattered to both sides, denting the hood of the nearest pickup truck with several large craters.
Everyone inside the warehouse froze.
"What was that?"
"Ambush!"
"Fire!"
The barrel of the heavy machine gun swung around to aim at the gap in the wall, and tongues of fire spat out.
Bullets sent iron fragments flying everywhere, filling the air with dust and smoke.
The barrage lasted for about ten seconds.
Then it stopped.
Because they saw a figure walk out of the dust, covered in soot. The bullets themselves had all bounced off, clinking as they piled up in a small heap at his feet.
"Finished?" Ryan looked down at the pile of deformed bullet heads at his feet. "Your machine gun maintenance is pretty poor; more than half of the trajectories drifted."
No one in the warehouse spoke.
Ryan walked toward the heavy machine gun.
The gunner's legs went weak, and he fell from behind the mount, scrambling backward on all fours.
Ryan grabbed the barrel with one hand. The alloy steel pipe, as thick as a finger, bent into a U-shape in his grip. Then, he ripped the entire machine gun off its mount, crumpled it into a ball of scrap metal, and tossed it into a corner.
"Next."
Clearing the place took three minutes.
Out of the twenty arms dealers, not a single one could last more than two seconds in front of Ryan.
Someone tried to press a modified shotgun against his head and fire, but the pellets were all deflected a centimeter away from his scalp, leaving only a ring of fine metal powder falling onto his shoulder.
Ryan patted the powder off his shoulder and looked at the shooter.
"Shooting me with this gun is no different from throwing pepper on me."
The man fell to his knees on the spot.
Three minutes later, all twenty people were tied together in a chain with wire.
When Ryan walked out of the warehouse, Blackie shouted into his phone's live stream from afar, "Three minutes! My friends! Three minutes to clear an entire arms warehouse!"
Online viewers: 156,000.
The second stronghold: the abandoned church basement.
The church looked dilapidated from the outside, but the basement was newly renovated with bright, glaring lights. Inside was a black-market weapons deal in progress.
Buyers and sellers were inspecting the goods. Several crates of anti-tank landmines and the wreckage of a shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missile were laid out on the table.
Ryan smashed down through the ceiling.
The ceiling of the church basement was a reinforced concrete structure, about thirty centimeters thick. He jumped from the first floor of the church, stomped through the floor, and descended from above along with chunks of concrete, crashing right into the center of the trading table.
The table snapped in two, the crates of landmines overturned everywhere, and both buyers and sellers were knocked to the ground by the shockwave.
"Today's deal is canceled," Ryan stood up from the pile of rubble and patted the dust off his hands. "Let's switch to a new activity called 'Everyone Lie Down and Wait for the Police.'"
Two people refused to believe it and drew their guns to shoot.
Ryan didn't even bother to block. He stepped forward instantly, slapping one person's gun away with his left hand while delivering a slap to the other person's face with his right.
That slap used only two percent of his strength, which was about 1.6 tons.
The person who got slapped spun a turn and a half on the spot, their two front teeth flying out and clinking against the wall.
The rest of the people all lay down flat.
Without Ryan having to say it twice.
Clearing time: two minutes.
Because most of them voluntarily lay down after seeing their companion get slapped into the air.
The third stronghold: behind the laundromat in the old town.
This was Iron Hook's personal hiding spot.
Fluorescent lights were on in the front lobby of the laundromat, with several washing machines spinning empty. A hidden door in the back lobby led to an underground passage, at the end of which was a secret room.
There were only three people in the secret room.
A large, bald man sat on a leather sofa. His right hand was a metal prosthetic, its five fingers customized steel hooks. This was Iron Hook himself.
Standing beside him were two bodyguards, a man and a woman.
Dark red veins rippled on the male bodyguard's arms—a compound v enhanced type, the same type as that short, fat guy, Paul.
Electric arcs crackled at the female bodyguard's fingertips, tiny sparks snapping and popping.
Two Supes, but both were low-tier trash spawned from low-grade compound v.
Ryan kicked open the door to the secret room, leaned against the frame, and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Good evening, Mr. Iron Hook."
Iron Hook stood up from the sofa, the steel hooks of his prosthetic hand gleaming coldly under the light.
"Are you that Preservation Walker?"
"Your name is being whispered all over Brooklyn today." Iron Hook's voice was deep. "The two dock strongholds and the church stronghold have lost contact. Was that your doing?"
"What do you think?"
Iron Hook stared at him for a few seconds.
"Get him."
The male bodyguard was the first to move, his enhanced right arm throwing a punch that tore through the air.
Ryan leaned to the side, letting the punch brush past his ear, and grabbed the male bodyguard's wrist with a backhand.
"Nice strength," Ryan praised.
Then he squeezed gently.
Crack.
The male bodyguard's wrist bone shattered. Before a scream could escape his mouth, Ryan had already lifted his entire body and hurled him toward the rushing female bodyguard.
The two collided and rolled into a heap.
The female bodyguard scrambled to her feet, discharging electricity from all ten fingers to strike at Ryan. The electric arcs hit his chest, crackling across the surface of his Bio-field for a few seconds before dissipating.
"This voltage of yours isn't even enough to charge my phone."
He slapped the female bodyguard on the shoulder, slamming her flat onto the floor, leaving a shallow, human-shaped crater in the concrete ground.
Only Iron Hook was left in the secret room.
Iron Hook raised his metal prosthetic, spreading his five steel hooks to claw at Ryan's face.
The steel hooks struck Ryan's cheek, producing a harsh metal screech.
Then they snapped. All five steel hooks broke off cleanly, leaving perfectly flush fractures.
Looking at his ruined prosthetic hand, the color drained from Iron Hook's face bit by bit.
"The quality of your prosthetic is pretty lacking," Ryan reached out and grabbed Iron Hook by the collar. "Get a better technician next time."
"What do you want?" Iron Hook's voice began to tremble.
"Nothing much. I just want to use your place to send a message to everyone in Brooklyn's underworld."
"What message?"
"From today on, no arms deals, no drug trafficking, and no trash who drinks compound v like water are allowed to roam the streets of Brooklyn."
"Whoever violates this, I will personally pay them a visit and deliver a slap to their face."
"Plenty to go around, satisfaction guaranteed."
Iron Hook's lips quivered.
"Do... do you know who is backing these businesses?"
"Who? Vought?" Ryan tilted his head. "Their signed Supe was pushed eight meters away by me yesterday. Do you think Vought's brand can scare me?"
Iron Hook fell silent.
Ryan let go, allowing him to slump onto the sofa.
"Be good and wait for the police."
He turned and walked out of the secret room, through the underground passage, and out of the front door of the laundromat.
The night wind blew in his face, carrying the scent of detergent.
Blackie squatted beneath a utility pole across from the laundromat, holding his phone perfectly steady.
Online viewers: 487,000.
It was almost half a million.
The chat was moving so fast that the words were barely legible.
[Three strongholds! Another three!]
[He even beat up the arms dealers! Iron Hook is a real tough character in Brooklyn's underworld!]
[Who on earth is this guy? Even The Seven can't fight like this, right?]
[Long live the Preservation Walker!]
Ryan glanced at the chat, the corners of his mouth curving upward.
Then, he did something.
He looked up at the sky.
Brooklyn's night sky was dyed a murky orange by the city lights, and in the distance, the V-shaped logo of Vought Tower hung high on the skyline.
"Blackie, point the camera at me."
Chapter 14: Overnight Sensation! The Next Target: Slap Translucent First
"Huh? Why point it at you?"
"Just watch."
Rayne bent his knees slightly.
During his lunch breaks over the past two days, he had snuck up to the rooftop of Vought Tower to practice a few times. Takeoff and landing were fine, but his steering was still a bit crooked; if he turned the "steering wheel" too hard, his whole body would swing with it.
Tonight, he didn't need to turn.
Flying straight up would be enough.
Exerting force through his feet, the concrete cracked beneath him, sending gravel flying everywhere.
He shot straight up into the night sky at around Mach one, the hem of his long gray coat flapping loudly in the wind, his scarf stretched into a straight line by the airflow.
Through the lens of Blackie's phone, that figure grew smaller and higher, finally blending in with the few remaining stars in the Brooklyn night sky.
The black dot began to move horizontally.
At an altitude of three hundred meters, dense lights and crisscrossing streets lay beneath his feet. The wind roared in his ears, and the temperature plummeted to over ten degrees below zero, but his Bio-field blocked the chill from his skin.
All of Brooklyn was laid out before his eyes.
In the distance, Manhattan's row of skyscrapers pierced the skyline, with the V-shaped logo of Vought Towersandwiched in between, exceptionally eye-catching.
"It's beautiful, alright," Rayne muttered, "just a bit cold."
He twisted his body to turn, but tilted so much he almost flipped over, flailing his arms and legs to finally stabilize himself.
He pulled out his phone, took a picture of the night view below, sent it to Blackie, and added a message: "Help me post this in the livestream room."
Three seconds later, the photo overlooking Brooklyn from three hundred meters high popped into the livestream room.
The bullet comments went completely wild.
[He's flying! He's actually flying!]
[Is this real? Three hundred meters high?]
[Vought Tower is right under his feet!]
[Preservation Walker is a fucking real superhero! Not one of those show-offs!]
The online viewer count jumped: 712,000.
Continuing to rise: 891,000.
967,000.
After flying for about five minutes, it was about enough, and Rayne began to descend slowly.
Failing to control his force, he slammed onto the rooftop of an apartment building, stomping a basin-sized crater into the waterproof layer, while the blast of air blew two quilts drying nearby onto the roof of the adjacent building.
"Room for improvement."
He patted the dust off his pants and walked down the rooftop fire escape.
[Ding! The flight performance has triggered a massive wave of positive emotions! Real-time online harvest: +580!]
[Current Total Emotion Points: 8,192/10,000!]
Less than two thousand away from ten thousand.
The sound of slippers slapping the ground came from the street corner below. Blackie ran up, completely out of breath, his forehead covered in sweat.
"Brother Walker! You flew! You really flew just now!"
"I did. The landing left a bit to be desired, though."
"It's fine, it's fine! That was so awesome! Look at this, look!" Blackie shoved the phone in front of him, the numbers on the screen jumping again.
Online viewers: 1,024,000.
"A million!" Blackie jumped up, his soles slapping the ground. "A million people watched you fly! My followers have also broken a million! My mom is going to go crazy with joy when she finds out!"
Rayne glanced at the string of numbers.
With one million concurrent viewers, plus the subsequent video replays and secondary circulation, tonight's total views could surge to tens of millions or even hundreds of millions. The emotion points would keep rolling in.
"That's it for tonight." He reached out and patted the back of Blackie's head. "Go back and sleep."
"Alright! Will there be more tomorrow?"
"Depends on the situation." Rayne paused. "But Blackie, there's one thing you must remember."
"What's that?"
"Starting tomorrow, people will come looking to give you trouble."
Half the smile on Blackie's face vanished.
"Vought's people, the government's people—it's all possible." Rayne looked at him. "Deleting videos, shutting down livestreams, threatening you... they'll use every trick in the book."
Blackie gripped his phone with both hands, his fingernails digging into the edge of the phone case, and swallowed hard.
"Then what, what should I do?"
"Don't be afraid. If someone comes looking for you, just tell them one thing."
"What?"
"Preservation Walker is my boss. If you've got the guts, go find him."
Blackie froze for two seconds, then his mouth slowly curled into a grin.
"Got it! I'll remember!"
Rayne turned and walked into the depths of the night.
Blackie shouted at the top of his lungs from behind: "Brother Walker! Who on earth are you?!"
The voice drifted back from half a block away, lazy.
"I told you, a Janitor."
This sentence was later edited into hundreds of versions and went viral all over the internet, accompanied by all sorts of messy background music.
4:37 AM.
Rayne sat on the crossbeam at the top of the Brooklyn Bridge tower, his legs dangling over the edge, the wind blowing into his sleeves so cold his bones ached.
It took him ten minutes to climb up, using both hands and feet, without flying.
He hadn't practiced his flight braking well enough. If he couldn't stop himself on the bridge tower and snapped the steel cables, tomorrow's headline wouldn't be some "Faceless War God," but a terrorist attack.
With the light from his phone screen reflecting on his face, he scrolled through the data.
The final peak concurrent viewers in the livestream room: 1,247,000.
Video replay views: 11,230,000.
The "Brooklyn Faceless War God" was trending in the top ten on Twitter, having not dropped off since 2:00 AM.
Someone had made a slow-motion video of him flying across the night sky, set to symphonic music, which got three million views on a single post.
[Ding! Online emotions are continuously being harvested. As of now, this operation has harvested a total of: Offline +1,120, Online +862.]
[Current Total Emotion Points: 8,612/10,000.]
Short by 1,388.
He stuffed his phone back into his pocket and rested the back of his head against the cold steel beam.
The math was very clear.
Ten million views had only yielded over eight hundred points; he couldn't even get one point for every ten thousand views.
Emotions from indirect witnessing decayed through layer after layer, becoming pitifully thin.
When he first livestreamed to two hundred people, the emotion density contributed by each viewer was terrifyingly high. But once the audience grew to the million-level, the decay coefficient compressed individual contributions to almost zero.
The total was still climbing, but slower and slower.
If he kept beating up low-level gangs, the audience's sense of novelty would wear off. Anyone would get tired of seeing the same kind of footage over and over again.
For the remaining one thousand three hundred-plus points, he had to change his approach.
His gaze pierced through the morning mist, landing on that glowing V-shaped logo in the distance.
He had to find bigger fish.
[Warm Tip: High-value emotion sources usually come from highly renowned Superhumans. The higher their renown, the greater the emotional fluctuation generated by defeating or intimidating them, and the lower the decay coefficient. It is recommended that the Host consider challenging higher-level targets.]
"Speak human."
[Beat up The Seven.]
Rayne stared at this line of text for a few seconds, poking his cheek with his tongue.
Beat up The Seven.
Last time, he only had a brief brush with A-Train and didn't actually fight.
Shockwave was indeed slapped away, but that guy was just a second-tier contracted superhero; he wasn't high-value enough.
"I can't touch Homelander right now. The speed gap is too big; if we fight and he runs, I won't be able to catch up."
"Queen Maeve isn't weak, but she's not a bad person, so there's no need."
"Starlight Annie is even more out of the question—she's a genuine good person."
"A-Train ran away last time; we'll talk about him next time."
"The Deep, that useless fish, usually doesn't come ashore, and Black Noah isn't in New York."
"Then that leaves only one."
Translucent.
The most disgusting pervert in The Seven.
Carbon Metamaterial skin, theoretically invulnerable, conventional weapons can't do anything to him.
But other than invisibility and that layer of skin, he has no means of attack; his strength and speed are entirely at the level of an ordinary person.
Top-tier defense, zero offense, plus a belly full of rotten habits.
"Perfect."
He stood up from the crossbeam and stretched his numb legs.
No rush.
Go back to sleep first. He still had to go to work and mop floors during the day. He would make his move after figuring out the patterns of Translucent's movements.
The eastern sky was mostly bright, and the first ray of sunlight leaked through the clouds, gilding the bridge's steel cables with gold.
He stepped off the edge of the bridge tower, his body rising. The hem of his gray coat fluttered in the morning breeze, his scarf pulled taut by the airflow.
His figure, passing through the thin mist, turned into a black silhouette in the morning sun. He paused for two seconds, turned, and vanished into the Brooklyn skyline.
This scene was captured by a photographer who was out for a morning run on the bridge.
An hour later, the photo appeared on Twitter with the caption: Morning Light and the Faceless War God on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Four hours later, it had five million retweets.
The hashtag topped Twitter's trending list.
It was already 5:30 AM when he got back to his rented room. Rayne threw his coat onto a chair and collapsed onto the bed.
His phone vibrated.
Blackie's message: "Brother Walker! Have you checked Twitter! Someone took a photo of you flying on the bridge! Five million retweets!"
He replied with one word: "Yeah."
Another message: "My followers just broke two million! Two million! I've become an influencer!"
"Congrats."
The third message: "Who on earth are you, Brother Walker? Can you tell me your real name?"
Rayne's thumb paused over the keyboard.
"If you really want to help me, don't ask this."
"If my identity is exposed, it won't do either of us any good."
Blackie didn't ask further.
Shoving his phone aside, his eyelids closed.
1,388.
Translucent.
Two and a half hours later, the alarm went off.
At 8:00 AM, Rayne put on his Janitor uniform and went out, sporting dark circles under his eyes.
Passing by a convenience store to buy coffee, the television above the counter was broadcasting the morning news.
"...The Brooklyn Faceless War God has become the hottest topic in America, with related discussions increasing by 4,000% in the past six hours. Meanwhile, the popularity of official topics related to The Seven has shown a significant decline, and Vought International's stock price fell slightly by 0.8% in pre-market trading..."
The convenience store owner poked his head out from behind the counter.
"Hey kid, have you seen that video of the Preservation Walker?"
"No."
"You've got to watch it! He took down three gang strongholds in Brooklyn last night, and he flew! Really flew! He's ten times better than those guys in The Seven!"
"Pretty impressive."
"Right?! I'm telling you, this Preservation Walker is a real superhero, not like those Vought..."
"Uncle," Rayne slapped some change on the counter, "I'm going to be late."
Carrying his coffee out of the convenience store, his mouth twitched once, then twice, before he let out a muffled chuckle.
The hottest topic in America.
Still short by 1,388.
Find Translucent's whereabouts today, make the move tomorrow.
He quickened his pace toward Vought Tower.
His phone vibrated again.
Blackie: "Brother Walker, someone sent a private message in my livestream room saying they want to interview you. They said they're a CNN reporter!"
"Ignore them."
He paused, then typed another sentence.
"We'll talk after I slap Translucent."
Chapter 15: The Whole Internet Is Talking About That Person
"Wait until I'm done slapping Translucent, then we'll talk."
Blackie stared at the message, not quite understanding what "Translucent" meant, but he instinctively felt that whatever Preservation Walker was planning next might be even bigger than last night.
Nine o'clock in the morning.
The first-floor lobby of Vought Tower.
Ryan pushed his cleaning cart, beginning his day of janitorial work.
The atmosphere in the lobby was completely different from the past few days.
The Vought International employees coming and going walked with a sense of agitation; several middle managers in white shirts jogged through the hallway clutching folders, their faces looking grim.
But the vibe among the lower-level employees was completely the opposite.
Three ladies from the Cleaning Department were gathered around the coffee machine in the breakroom, their phones huddled together, their voices kept low but unable to hide their excitement.
"Did you watch it? That livestream last night! Preservation Walker flew in Brooklyn! He actually flew!"
"I watched it! I watched the replay three times! Which group do you think he's from? Vought International has never revealed a superhero this powerful before."
"He's not with Vought International at all! Didn't you see the news? Vought International hasn't given an official response even now!"
"That makes it even cooler! A Superhuman who doesn't belong to Vought International, and can fight better than The Seven. Can you imagine how angry those Vought International executives must be?"
The three ladies burst into laughter.
Ryan pushed his cleaning cart past the breakroom door, his ears catching the entire conversation.
He had no expression on his face as he took his mop and diligently mopped the floor.
"Hey, Ryan!" one of the ladies waved at him. "Did you watch that video of Preservation Walker?"
"What video?" Ryan turned his head, looking blankly.
"The one from Brooklyn last night! Fighting gangsters! Flying! The whole internet is talking about it!"
"Didn't watch it. I went to sleep at ten last night."
"Why don't you ever pay attention to trending topics!" The lady got anxious and shoved her phone in front of him. "Look, just look!"
The phone screen was playing a recording of Blackie's livestream. On screen, a man in a long gray coat kicked open an iron door, walked into an arms warehouse, and bullets pinged off him with a clatter.
Ryan looked at himself on the screen, trying hard to control the curve of his lips.
"Pretty impressive," he commented expressionlessly. "Who is this guy?"
"Who knows! The whole internet is guessing!" The lady took her phone back. "But I don't think that gray coat he's wearing looks very good. He should change into something cooler."
"Is that so?" Ryan looked down at his Janitor uniform. "I think it's pretty good."
"What does a Janitor know about fashion?" The lady rolled her eyes.
Ryan: "..."
He pushed his cleaning cart and continued walking, pausing when he passed the lobby's LED screen.
The news on the screen had switched to a different channel.
"...An FBI spokesperson stated this morning that they have taken note of the 'Preservation Walker' incident and are evaluating whether to launch an investigation into this unregistered Superhuman. The CIA has yet to comment, but sources reveal that a special task force has been established within the agency..."
FBI. CIA.
Ryan wrung out his mop and continued mopping.
"They're pretty quick," he thought to himself.
However, he wasn't too worried. For the FBI and CIA to investigate someone who hadn't even shown their face, it would take weeks to find anything. And even if they did find him, they couldn't catch him.
What he was more worried about was Vought International.
Because Vought International didn't need the FBI's procedures; Vought International had its own intelligence department, its own Superhuman muscle, and its own complete assembly line for dealing with "problematic individuals."
"Stillwell got my file yesterday..."
Ryan's persecution complex began to kick in.
"She must know who I am by now. The question is, what will she do?"
He would soon know the answer to that question.
At ten-twenty, a security guard in a black uniform walked into the lobby and went straight to Ryan.
"Are you Ryan? From the first-floor Cleaning Department?"
"That's me."
"Come with me. Someone on the thirty-eighth floor wants to see you."
Ryan held onto his mop and didn't move.
"Who wants to see me?"
"I don't know. Orders from above."
Ryan glanced at him and stuck the mop back into the bucket.
Last time he went to the thirty-eighth floor, he met with Ashley. He didn't know who it would be this time.
He followed the security guard into the elevator. As the elevator doors closed, he noticed the security guard didn't press the button for the 38th floor. It was the 39th floor.
"The thirty-ninth floor? Didn't you say thirty-eighth?"
The security guard didn't answer.
The elevator stopped at the 39th floor, and the doors opened.
The hallway was narrower than the thirty-eighth floor and quieter too. The walls on both sides were decorated with posters of superheroes—not The Seven, but other teams under Vought International.
There was a door at the end of the hallway. The security guard gestured for him to enter, then retreated back into the elevator.
Ryan stood in front of the door and knocked twice.
"Come in."
Still a woman's voice. But not Ashley.
Ryan pushed open the door.
The office was twice as big as the one on the thirty-eighth floor. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows was the New York skyline, and the sunlight shining in made the whole room very bright.
A woman was sitting behind the desk.
In her early forties, with short, golden-brown hair combed immaculately, she was wearing a dark blue tailored suit, and a string of understated but definitely not cheap pearls hung around her neck.
On the desk in front of her was an open laptop and a steaming cup of coffee.
Ryan recognized her. Although he had only seen her from a distance in the hallway once before, this face was second only to The Seven themselves in terms of fame within Vought Tower.
Madelyn Stillwell. Senior Vice President of Vought International.
"Sit," Stillwell said, looking up at him.
Ryan didn't sit.
"I'll just stand."
Stillwell stared at him for three seconds, then looked down and opened a folder on the desk.
Ryan glanced at it—it was his personnel file.
"Ryan, twenty-four years old, temporary worker in the Cleaning Department. Employed for three months, no abnormal records," Stillwell read from the file. "Your previous resume is almost blank. No college, no formal work experience, social security records only starting three months ago. It's like you're a person who appeared out of thin air."
"I don't have a very good memory," Ryan said.
"Is that so?" Stillwell closed the folder and crossed her hands on the desk. "Then let me help you remember."
"Three days ago, a surveillance video from a convenience store was uploaded to the internet. In the video, a man in a Vought International Janitor uniform took a supersonic impact from A-Train of The Seven head-on and didn't budge an inch."
"Two days ago, Ashley from the Public Relations Department spoke with you, and you refused to cooperate."
"Last night, a masked man calling himself 'Preservation Walker' conducted a large-scale crime sweep in Brooklyn, the entire process of which was livestreamed. During the sweep, he injured the Vought International-contracted superhero 'Shockwave' and finally flew across the night sky of Brooklyn."
"This masked man's build, height, and way of speaking highly match your file photo."
"So you mean that person is me?" Ryan tilted his head.
"You know yourself."
"I really don't know," Ryan said with an innocent expression. "I went to sleep at ten last night, and my neighbor can testify to that."
Stillwell didn't dwell on this question.
She stood up, walked to the window, and turned her back to Ryan.
"Regardless of whether that person is you," her voice was steady, "I need you to understand one thing."
"What thing?"
"Vought International's attitude toward unregistered Superhumans has always been one of two things."
"Cooperate, or disappear."
"There is no third option."
Ryan rolled his eyes in his mind. This again. Ashley said pretty much the same thing last time. Does Vought International only have one template for their threatening rhetoric?
"Ms. Stillwell," Ryan began, "Ashley said something similar to me last time, and I gave her an answer."
"I know your answer," Stillwell turned around.
"Then you brought me here today just to ask me the same question again?"
"No," Stillwell walked back to the desk and pressed a button on the corner of the desk. "I brought you here to have you meet someone."
The side door of the office opened. A figure walked in.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A red cape. The golden eagle emblem on his chest was so bright in the sunlight that it was blinding.
On his face was that bright, warm smile that all of America was intimately familiar with. Homelander.
Ryan looked at that smiling face, his heart rate not quickening by a single beat.
A-Zu walked in slowly, stood three meters away from Ryan, and looked him up and down.
"So," Homelander spoke, his voice light, carrying a kind of condescending nonchalance. "Is this the little Janitor that the whole internet is talking about?"