Chapter 46: Mental Damage Hurts More Than Physical Damage
"Is that all your full power?"
Homelander hovered in mid-air, his right fist still extended.
There was a tiny cut on his knuckles.
His skin had split.
Striking Ryan's Bio-field, the recoil had cracked his own knuckles.
A drop of blood seeped from the cut, dried by the high-altitude wind, turning into a thin, dark red line.
He looked down at his fist.
Then he looked at Ryan, who was unscathed three hundred meters away.
"Impossible."
When these two words fell from his lips, his voice was almost inaudible.
"What's impossible?" Ryan's voice carried across the three-hundred-meter distance, so steady it made one's teeth itch.
"You hit me with everything you had, and I'm fine. What's impossible about that?"
"Your strength is indeed greater than mine. Much greater."
"But no matter how great your strength is, you have to get through my Bio-field to hurt me."
"You can't get through."
"It's that simple."
Homelander pulled his fist back.
He turned his right hand over, staring at the cut on his knuckles.
The blood had stopped flowing. His healing ability was extremely powerful; he could stop the bleeding in seconds.
But the pain remained.
An aching pain he had never experienced before, drilling out from deep within his bones.
"Do you know," Ryan's voice came over again, "that punch you just threw was the heaviest punch you've ever thrown in your life."
"About fifteen hundred tons."
"But the actual effect of you hitting me—"
He patted his forearm; the sleeve of his hoodie was torn in two places, but his skin was intact.
"It was roughly equivalent to an ordinary person being hit by a pillow."
"Soft."
"Actually quite comfortable."
Homelander's back teeth clenched together.
Grinding out a sound.
Creak, creak.
"You are provoking me."
"I am stating facts." Ryan's tone was no different from reading a weather forecast. "A-Zu, your strongest attack method is Heat Vision, which is ineffective against me. Your strongest physical attack is a full-power punch of fifteen hundred tons, which is about the same as a tickle when it hits me."
"Your only advantage is that your strength is greater than mine. But you can't catch me. You can't hit me. Even if you occasionally land a hit, you can't hurt me."
"Tell me, how are you going to win this fight?"
Homelander didn't answer.
His blue eyes stared fixedly at Ryan, his pupils shrinking into two pinpricks.
Ryan looked at his expression, the corners of his mouth curving up again.
"Not talking anymore?"
"Then let me analyze it for you."
He extended a finger in mid-air.
"First, you can't kill me. Heat Vision is useless, fists are useless. Even if you pinned me to the ground and beat me for an hour, I wouldn't die."
He extended a second finger.
"Second, I can't kill you. My strength is five hundred tons, and your defense is higher than mine. If I punch you, it might just feel like a mosquito bite to you."
He extended a third finger.
"Third, I am faster than you. Mach eight versus your Mach five. You can't catch me. If I want to leave, you can't stop me."
The three fingers retracted, forming a fist.
"So the conclusion is—neither of us can kill the other."
"But I can keep hitting you."
"You can't hit me."
"The longer this drags on, the more disadvantageous it is for you."
"Because every time you take a punch, even though the damage isn't great, it will accumulate."
"And every time I take a punch, my Bio-field absorbs over eighty percent of the impact. I barely get hurt."
"By the end—you will get more and more exhausted, slower and slower, and easier and easier for me to hit."
"And I will get smoother and smoother with my hits."
"A-Zu, what is this called?"
He tilted his head.
"This is called boiling a frog in warm water."
"And you are that frog."
Homelander's body was trembling.
Starting from his fingertips, along his arms, all the way to his shoulders.
His body was sending an alarm to his brain—you cannot beat the person in front of you.
But his brain refused to receive this signal.
"Impossible," he said again. "I am Homelander. I am the strongest. No one is stronger than me."
"Are you sure?" Ryan's voice carried a hint of a smile. "A-Zu, how many times have you said that? Three times? Four times?"
"Repeating a sentence won't make it a fact."
"Even if you say 'I am the strongest' ten thousand times, it won't make your fist punch through my Bio-field."
Homelander's lips were trembling.
"Do you know where your problem lies?" Ryan's voice suddenly changed.
A very calm tone.
"Your problem is—you have never been treated as an equal by anyone."
Homelander's pupils shifted.
"You grew up in a laboratory. No parents, no friends, no one treated you as a human being. You were a test subject. A weapon. A commodity."
"Later, Vought packaged you as a hero. The whole world worships you. But that isn't equality—that is looking up. They look up to you because they fear you."
"Stillwell listens to you, not because she respects you. It's because she knows you could kill her at any moment."
"The Seven obey you, not because they acknowledge you. It's because they can't beat you."
"In your entire life—there has never been a single person who stood at the same height as you, looked you in the eye, and talked to you."
Ryan paused for a beat.
"Until today."
"Until me."
The high-altitude wind whistled between the two.
Homelander didn't say a word.
The red light in his blue eyes had completely extinguished.
His attention had been completely absorbed by Ryan's words.
Every word was like a needle, piercing into his deepest parts.
Laboratory.
No parents.
No friends.
Weapon.
Commodity.
Fear.
He knew all these words. He had thought about them countless times in the dead of night. In the lounge on the 79th Floor of Vought Tower, sitting alone in the dark, staring at the ceiling, he had thought about them countless times.
But no one had ever said them to his face.
Never.
Because no one dared.
"Shut up." Homelander's voice squeezed through his teeth, every word carrying a crushing texture.
"Did I hit a sore spot?"
"I said shut up!"
"A-Zu, do you know why you are so afraid of someone being stronger than you?"
"Because 'the strongest' is your only value."
"Vought needs you because you are the strongest. If you weren't the strongest—Vought wouldn't need you."
"The whole world worships you because you are the strongest. If you weren't the strongest—no one would worship you."
"Everything you have—your fame, status, power, the screams of those fans—is all built on the words 'I am the strongest'."
"Once those words collapse—you are nothing."
"You are just someone who crawled out of a laboratory, with no parents, treated by the whole world as a tool—"
Ryan stopped.
He didn't say the last word.
But Homelander knew what he was going to say.
Orphan.
Monster.
Test subject.
Any of them would do.
Each one was a knife.
Homelander's body trembled violently at three thousand meters in the air.
Not because of the cold.
Not because of anger.
It was because of fear.
For the first time in his life, he felt real fear.
Not fear of Ryan's power.
It was fear of the things Ryan said.
Because those words were true.
Every word was true.
Everything about him was truly built on the words "I am the strongest."
If those words collapsed—
He was nothing.
"A-Zu." Ryan's voice came over one last time.
Homelander looked up.
Ryan was hovering fifty meters away, no mockery or smugness on his face.
Only a very calm gaze.
"Go back and think about it."
"Think about who you really are."
"Not Homelander."
"But yourself."
Homelander's mouth opened.
He didn't say anything.
"Also—" Ryan's mouth finally curled slightly, "don't use Heat Vision to write next time you want to set up a fight, it uses too much power. Just send a text message."
"You should have my phone number; it's written in the Vought HR department's files."
Chapter 47: Three Hundred Million People Watch Him Get Beaten
"You should have my phone number; it's written in the Vought HR files."
After saying this, Ryan did not leave immediately.
He hovered in place, waiting for Homelander's reaction.
Homelander did not speak.
He hovered fifty meters away, his red cape billowing in the high-altitude air currents, his golden hair tousled by the wind and plastered against his forehead.
The blood at the corner of his mouth had not yet been wiped away.
The split on his knuckles had just healed, leaving a strip of pale pink new skin.
His blue eyes stared at Ryan, without blinking.
The silence lasted for five seconds.
Then he moved.
He took a step back.
At an altitude of three thousand meters, he took a step back.
This movement was small.
But the significance was great.
Because Homelander never retreats.
Never.
After he took a step back, he stopped again.
The expression on his face was struggling.
To retreat or not to retreat.
To fight or not to fight.
To leave or not to leave.
Ryan watched his expression and made a judgment in his heart—there would be no result tonight.
Homelander's mental state had already been disrupted.
His brain was a mess right now; Heat Vision was useless, fists were useless, he couldn't keep up with the speed, and those words had struck at the deepest part of him.
He needed time to process.
And Ryan also needed time.
The strength gap of five hundred tons versus twelve hundred tons was indeed a disadvantage in a head-on confrontation.
Although he had the advantage in speed and defense, if they fought to the death, he would expose too many of his trump cards.
Homelander was a smart man.
Crazy, but smart.
The longer they fought, the more he would be able to figure out Ryan's combat patterns and the boundaries of his abilities.
Stopping now was the best opportunity.
Ryan finished this calculation in his mind.
Then he did something that no one expected.
He turned around.
At an altitude of three thousand meters, in front of Homelander, he turned around.
Turning his back to Homelander.
The implication of this action was very clear—I am not afraid of you launching a sneak attack from behind.
Or more accurately—you are not worthy of making me guard against you.
"A-Zu." He spoke with his back to Homelander.
"Let's stop here for today."
Homelander's pupils contracted.
"It's not that I can't beat you."
Ryan's voice carried far in the wind.
"It's that you are not yet worth me going all out."
This sentence was like a stone thrown into deep water.
There was no sound.
But ripples spread beneath the surface.
Homelander's lips were moving.
There was no sound.
But Ryan's Super Hearing captured the vibration frequency of his lips, reconstructing those words.
"Not worth it?"
"Yeah." Ryan nodded, though he was facing away from Homelander. "Not worth it."
"When you've figured things out, come find me again."
"I'll have a serious fight with you then."
"But today—no."
"Because today, you're too chaotic. Beating someone whose head isn't clear is meaningless even if I win."
His Bio-field condensed at the soles of his feet.
The thrust of Mach 8 was ready to go.
"Goodbye, A-Zu."
"Next time we meet—"
His body began to accelerate.
"Remember to wear something sturdy."
Mach 8.
His body turned into a dark streamline, shooting towards Brooklyn at a speed of 9,800 kilometers per hour.
A Sonic Boom exploded behind him.
The shockwave blew Homelander's cape violently backward.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
Ryan's figure disappeared into the night sky.
The speed was too fast.
Homelander's eyes couldn't keep up.
He stood at an altitude of three thousand meters, watching the direction where Ryan disappeared, motionless.
The wind whistled in his ears.
In the distance, the lights of New York flickered beneath his feet.
He was alone.
Hovering in mid-air.
Alone.
On the ground, everyone saw it.
That dark point of light suddenly accelerated, disappearing into the night sky at an incredible speed.
And that red point of light—remained in place.
Motionless.
Blackie's live stream viewership had exceeded one hundred million.
Adding up the rebroadcasts, screen recordings, and secondary streams on major global platforms, the real-time viewership exceeded three hundred million.
Three hundred million people watched Preservation Walker and Homelander have a fight over New York.
Three hundred million people watched Homelander's Heat Vision get deflected.
Three hundred million people watched Homelander bleed.
Three hundred million people watched Preservation Walker turn and leave, leaving Homelander alone, hovering in mid-air.
Bullet comments, comments, reposts—servers on all platforms overloaded at the same time.
Twitter crashed.
YouTube crashed.
Instagram crashed.
TikTok crashed.
The global internet experienced the largest traffic surge in history at this moment.
Ryan felt it during his flight.
The system panel automatically popped up in his consciousness, golden numbers jumping frantically.
[Global-level emotional tsunami detected...]
[Direct witnessing positive worship (ground masses): +2800]
[Direct witnessing negative fear (Vought supporter group): +1200]
[Live stream online emotion harvesting (peak 320 million online, after multi-level decay): +5500]
[Defeating/forcing back The Seven leader one-time reward: +3000]
[Global-level event rating bonus reward: +2500]
[Total increase: +15000]
15,000 points.
One fight.
15,000 points.
[Historical accumulation + this increase = current total emotion points: 18421]
Ryan watched this number while flying at Mach 8, the corners of his mouth curving up.
18,421.
How many points are needed for the third purification?
He flipped through the system instructions.
[Third DNA purification required: 30,000 points.]
30,000.
Still short 12,000.
But according to tonight's harvesting efficiency—
It's not far off.
He decelerated over Brooklyn and landed on the roof of his rental apartment.
He climbed through the window into the room.
The phone next to his pillow was vibrating so much it was about to fall to the floor.
He picked it up and took a look.
Message list:
Blackie: 47 unread messages.
Hughie: 12 unread messages.
Ashley: 23 unread messages.
There were also three calls from unknown numbers.
He looked at Blackie's first.
The first one: "Walker, bro!!! You started fighting Homelander!!!"
The forty-seventh one: "The online viewer count hit one hundred million, bro!!! One hundred million!!! My phone is almost burning up!!! ( ﾟ Д ﾟ; )"
Ryan replied with one word.
"Yeah."
Blackie instantly replied with a long string of exclamation marks and trembling emoticons.
Then it was Hughie's.
"Ryan! Are you okay? I saw it on TV! You fought Homelander!"
"Are you hurt?"
"Why did you suddenly fly away?"
"Did you win?"
Ryan thought for a moment and replied.
"Didn't win. Didn't lose either."
"A draw?"
"Consider it me going easy on him."
Hughie sent a stunned emoticon.
Finally, it was Ashley's.
Twenty-three messages; the first twenty were all varying degrees of breakdown and questioning.
The twenty-first: "You actually really fought him."
The twenty-second: "You actually didn't die."
The twenty-third: "You actually managed to fly away."
Ryan replied.
"I told you. He can't kill me. ( ￣ ▽ ￣ )"
Ashley didn't reply instantly.
After thirty seconds, a message popped in.
"Vought is going crazy over here. All executives have been called back for an emergency meeting. Edgar is presiding personally."
"There is only one topic."
"How to deal with you."
Ryan looked at this message, his thumb hovering over the screen for a second.
"Let them discuss it slowly."
"I'm going to sleep first."
"How can you sleep???"
"I'm a bit sleepy after the fight. ( ～ ﹃ ～ ) ~ zZ"
He threw the phone next to the pillow, lay down, and looked at the ceiling.
The corners of his mouth curved up slightly.
"18,421."
"One more time, and it'll be enough for 30,000."
He closed his eyes.
Outside the window, the night sky of New York still held the last embers of the words burned by the Heat Vision.
Come to me — H.
The handwriting had dimmed to the point of being almost invisible.
But what happened tonight, the whole world saw it.
Chapter 48: That's Enough for Today, You Aren't Worth It
Three thousand meters above, Homelander hovered over New York, the night wind whipping his red cape until it snapped loudly.
His blonde hair was dampened by cold sweat, clinging to his temples.
His gaze was riveted to the night sky over Brooklyn in the southeast, motionless.
Beneath his feet, the sea of neon lights in Manhattanspread out into a brilliant, silent band of light.
Usually, he would spend a few minutes meticulously patrolling this absolute territory that belonged to him, enjoying the view like a monarch.
But at this moment, he had lost the confidence to even look down again.
The lingering heat of the street revelry gradually faded with the arrival of dawn, yet a few groups of people still held their phones up, lenses aimed at the lonely red dot in the night sky.
Wind is the best messenger at high altitudes.
"What is Homelander still doing standing up there?"
"Why hasn't he left yet? Could he be looking for a way to save face?"
"Don't tell me he lost the fight."
Those fragmented syllables, torn apart by the vast space, were captured perfectly by his Super Hearing and pieced back together in his cochlea without a single error.
Every word burned a blister onto his nerve endings.
He won.
Right, he won.
The bastard who retreated was the one who slunk away like a deserter.
Yet, at this very moment, the image of the other person's back as they departed abruptly flashed through his neural pathways.
That masked guy had completely exposed his defenseless back, smashing through the thick clouds of New Yorkdirectly with a Sonic Boom.
That wasn't a retreat.
That was an arrogant stride that didn't hold the God of New York in any regard at all.
An uncontrollable tremor radiated from his finger bones, and his leather gloves groaned under the strain.
He raised his right arm, examining his knuckles.
The newly formed, thick muscle tissue had completely smoothed over the previous skin lacerations, as good as new.
But his motor neurons stubbornly replayed the phantom sensation of bone-shattering pain from a few minutes ago to his brain.
A sense of foreignness he had never experienced before.
This Superhuman body, touted as indestructible, had tasted the true flavor of flesh being damaged for the first time in his life.
"He said I wasn't worth his effort."
He ground these stiff syllables out from between his teeth, the chewing motion carrying the physiological nausea of glass shards grinding against his gums.
The scorching red glow in his blue eyes, battered by the cold wind, flickered precariously before finally dissipating completely.
Ten minutes later, he slowly changed direction in the center of the clouds.
The sound barrier was not broken in a showy display; his sluggish flight speed of less than Mach 1 revealed his utter exhaustion, like a falcon with tucked wings falling from high altitude toward its nest.
The blue and white light source on top of Vought Towerpierced through the darkness ahead.
His expensive leather boots stepped onto the rough concrete of the rooftop helipad, omitting even the heavy thud that usually announced his presence when landing.
The emergency light in front of the security door illuminated Stillwell's blonde hair, ruffled by the wind.
Her body, wrapped tightly in a black coat, leaned forward against the wind, her knuckles clutching her phone turning white, clearly having waited for a long time.
Her gaze didn't meet his face; instead, she stared at his chin.
A patch of dark red, dried blood hung on the superhero's clean-shaven chin, an ugly blemish.
Her gaze moved down along the mottled bloodstains.
On the chest of that Stars and Stripes suit, in the center of the inverted triangle emblem symbolizing supreme power, there was a shocking, clear indentation of a fist.
"You're hurt."
Her vocal cords trembled; it was a small amplitude, but she trembled.
That bloodied face ignored this shocked statement.
The red cape brushed past the fabric of her woolen coat, and he stepped straight forward.
"Good heavens, you're actually bleeding, John."
Stillwell's high heels clicked rapidly against the rooftop, echoing as she chased after him.
"Just a scrape."
The words he spat out were like crushed ice, devoid of any warmth.
"Even the concentrated fire of anti-aircraft machine guns couldn't cause a scrape like this."
The leather boots in front finally stopped.
His blonde hair, scattered by the turbulent wind, hung over his brow bone; he slowly raised his gloved right hand to rub at the blood scab on the corner of his lip.
Dry, crushed blood powder fell in flakes onto the indentation on his chest.
"Madelyn."
"I'm listening."
"Cancel all subsequent arrangements."
"I don't understand what you mean, John. Tomorrow's 'Good Morning America' was scheduled long ago."
"I said," he interrupted her, "interviews, photo ops, ribbon cuttings—clear all that garbage meant for attention-grabbing for me."
The sound of high heels chasing him in the wind stopped.
Stillwell stood three steps behind him, a subtle, safe distance.
"What are you going to do?"
"Root out that bastard from tonight."
He forcibly curled his fingers into a fist at his side, the leather glove causing the bones inside to grind with a chilling, dull thud.
"Pull his bones out inch by inch and feed them to the dogs."
Stillwell's index finger dug hard into her palm, the sharp pain keeping her awake.
She was all too familiar with these signs of mania before a pathological episode.
"If he could hurt you once, he can severely injure you a second time."
"Your judgment is being affected by anger; this is very dangerous."
The thick, incoming murderous intent caused her stomach lining to spasm uncontrollably.
"No one gets to shit on my head, Madelyn."
"Your jaw is still bleeding, John."
"Cut out that hypocritical concern that makes me sick."
"In these thirty years, not even nuclear-level data tests have been able to break your skin defenses."
She tried to calm him down with facts.
"Because every single day in the past, I've been playing house with a bunch of losers!"
His leather boots exerted force again as he took large strides, each step echoing dully within Stillwell's ribs.
"Tonight, someone with guts finally showed up."
The rusty hinges let out a shrill wail as the security door was kicked open violently.
The dark stairwell instantly swallowed his imposing figure.
"Before that damn bastard left, he left behind a very interesting remark."
From the darkness, his voice drifted out, mixed with an echo.
Stillwell spoke toward the pitch-black void.
"What did he say?"
"He thinks my weight isn't enough to fully draw out his full strength."
The shadows of the stairwell completely cut off the light and the sound of the wind.
In the deathly silence, a question drifted out.
"Do you think so too?"
Stillwell felt as if her throat had been tightly constricted by a rough rope; her breathing stalled.
Agreeing or denying would both invite retaliation from this mad dog at such a critical juncture.
She pressed her lips tightly together, not daring to say a single word.
Three seconds later, a few dry, neurotic laughs came from the darkness, like sandpaper rubbing back and forth on bone.
"Heh, heh."
"You don't even have the guts to open your mouth anymore, Madelyn."
"So you were planning to hide in the back and watch me make a fool of myself."
The dull sound of leather boots extending further down finally disappeared completely into the depths.
Her weak knees caused Stillwell to stumble and collapse against the edge of the cold iron door frame.
The phone screen lit up again as her thumb swiped across it.
A close-up replay screenshot from the Blackie live streaming platform dominated the homepage of the trending topics.
That masked, slender figure walked away with extraordinary grace, leaving only the arrogant God of New York looking like a fool alone in the night sky.
All the major mainstream media outlets were frantically pushing this still photo that carried such a strong sense of defeat.
Anyone with common sense could see that this was an act of bottom-line humiliation of an overwhelming nature.
Slapping him in the face and then leaving calmly, leaving absolutely no room for retaliation.
This kind of behavior was more hurtful than smashing the superhero directly one hundred meters into the ground.
The cold touch of the metal casing finally allowed Stillwellto regain a little bit of her sanity.
This severely wounded beast could tear half of New Yorkinto smoldering ruins at any moment.
Her trembling thumb quickly tapped out a row of encrypted letters on the work messaging interface.
"Target One has returned to the nest."
"Epidermal defenses damaged; mental barriers on the verge of total collapse."
"Immediately escalate the Cradle Initiative to the highest alert level."
Ten seconds after the send button was pressed, the system on the other end returned a short reply.
"The Cradle Initiative has been operating at full capacity for half an hour."
A wave of unspeakable bitterness welled up in her eyes as she stared at the screen.
Edgar, that old fox, could always smell the scent of disaster before blood was even spilled.
She shoved her phone back into her coat pocket, wrapped her coat tighter around herself, and quickly darted into the building's elevator lobby.
On the rooftop helipad, only the high-altitude turbulence remained, wreaking havoc and whistling loudly.
Chapter 49: A-Zu Stood in the Air All Night
"The 'Cradle' contingency plan has been initiated. Thirty minutes before you sent this message."
Stillwell looked at Edgar's reply, stuffed her phone back into her coat pocket, pushed open the safety door, and walked into the stairwell.
Her high heels clicked sharply against the concrete steps as she walked down, floor by floor.
When she reached the 79th Floor, she stopped.
The lights in the hallway were dim.
Only a sliver of light shone from the private lounge at the end of the corridor.
The door was not closed.
She walked over and stood at the doorway.
She saw Homelander.
He was sitting on that expensive leather sofa, his posture exactly the same as when he had left a few hours ago—both arms resting on the armrests, his back against the sofa back.
But one detail was different.
The shallow, fist-shaped indentation on the chest of his combat suit was exceptionally clear under the light.
He looked down at the indentation.
He traced it over and over with the index finger of his right hand.
Tracing the edge of the indentation.
Tracing the shape left by the fist.
Once.
Again.
Stillwell stood at the doorway and watched him for ten seconds.
"What do you need?" she spoke up.
Homelander did not look up.
"Milk."
Stillwell turned and went to the pantry.
She poured a glass of warm milk, brought it back, and placed it on the coffee table.
Homelander picked it up and took a sip.
Put it down.
Continued to trace the indentation on his chest.
"Do you plan on sitting here all night?"
"Yeah."
"Edgar is holding a meeting at eight tomorrow morning."
"Not going."
"He specifically requested your attendance."
"Not going."
Stillwell pursed her lips.
"What are you planning to do?"
Homelander finally lifted his head.
His blue eyes looked a bit lighter than usual under the light.
"Do you think he was right?"
"Who?"
"Preservation Walker." Homelander's voice was flat, "He said everything about me is built on the three words 'I am the strongest.' He said if those three words fall, I am nothing."
Stillwell's back stiffened.
"He is provoking you. It's a psychological tactic."
"I know." Homelander nodded, "But the reason psychological tactics are effective is because they speak the truth."
"Lies don't hurt people."
"Only the truth does."
Stillwell did not respond.
Homelander lowered his head again, looking at the indentation on his chest.
"He hit me." His voice was very soft, "Five hundred tons of force. Hit me."
"Does it hurt?"
"Yeah."
"Does it hurt a lot?"
"Not a lot. It's…" He thought for a moment, "It's a feeling I've never had before."
"Someone was able to hurt me."
"This fact itself makes me more uncomfortable than the pain."
He picked up the milk glass and took another sip.
"And then he said—'You aren't worth me using my full strength yet.'"
"Then he turned around, turned his back to me, and flew away."
"He wasn't afraid of me attacking him from behind."
"Because he knew—even if I attacked from behind, I couldn't hurt him."
Homelander put the milk glass down.
The glass clinked sharply against the coffee table.
"Madelyn."
"Yes?"
"I want to find his weakness."
"What weakness?"
"Everyone has a weakness." Something was swirling in Homelander's blue eyes, "His strength is five hundred tons. His speed is Mach 8. His defenses are immune to my Heat Vision."
"But he must have a weakness."
"Maybe his force field has a time limit. Maybe his force field disappears when he sleeps. Maybe an attack of a certain frequency can penetrate his force field."
"I need data."
"I need Vought's lab to help me analyze the properties of his force field."
"I need—"
He paused.
"I need to fight him again."
"Not to win."
"But to collect data."
Stillwell looked into his eyes.
The madness in those blue eyes had not disappeared.
But beneath the madness, there was another layer.
Rationality.
Cold, precise, scalpel-like rationality.
This was more terrifying than pure madness.
"I will talk to Edgar," Stillwell said, "but you need to give me time."
"How long?"
"One week."
"Too long."
"Three days."
Homelander looked at her.
"Three days." He repeated, "After three days, whether you are ready or not—"
"I will go find him."
Stillwell nodded.
She turned and walked out of the lounge.
When she reached the corridor, she looked back.
Homelander was still sitting on the sofa.
Looking down at the indentation on his chest.
Tracing it over and over.
Stillwell closed the door.
She leaned against the hallway wall and closed her eyes for a moment.
She took out her phone and sent a message to Edgar.
"He wants data. He wants to analyze Preservation Walker's force field properties. He gave a three-day deadline."
Edgar's reply arrived ten seconds later.
"Give it to him."
"Give him everything he wants."
"Make him think we are helping him."
"But in reality—"
"We are helping ourselves."
Stillwell stared at the last line for a long time.
Then she put her phone away and walked down the corridor toward her office.
The sound of her high heels echoed in the empty corridor.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Meanwhile.
Brooklyn.
Ryan's rental apartment.
He was not asleep.
Although he told Ashley that he was "sleepy after the fight," in reality, his brain was wide awake.
Five hundred tons of strength surged through his muscles, Mach 8 speed stood by in his force field propulsion system, and every cell in his body was in a highly active state.
His body, after DNA purification, had recovery abilities far exceeding that of a normal person. The stamina consumed in the battle just now had been completely restored within ten minutes of lying down.
He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Reviewing the battle in his mind.
"Homelander's strength is between 1,200 and 1,500. Three hundred tons higher than my estimated upper limit."
"He has rich combat experience. Mixing feints and real attacks, changing direction, stopping on a dime, tricky punching angles. He isn't some brute who only knows how to crush with raw strength."
"His weakness—speed. Around Mach 5. Nearly half as slow as me. This is my greatest advantage."
"His second weakness—psychology. His psychological defenses are ten thousand times more fragile than his physical ones. A few words can make him lose control."
"The third weakness—he doesn't know how to fight a war of attrition. He is used to one-hit kills and has never dealt with an opponent who can't be killed."
"Conclusion—next time we meet, if I complete the third purification, increase my strength to over one thousand tons, and increase my speed another notch—"
"I can win."
"Not a draw where 'I can't kill him but he can't kill me.'"
"A real win."
He rolled over and looked out the window.
It was almost dawn.
The eastern horizon was beginning to turn white.
He picked up his phone and took a look.
The system panel was still hanging in the corner of his consciousness.
[Current Total Emotion Points: 18421 / 30000]
"Still need 11,579."
He put the phone down.
Closed his eyes.
This time he really fell asleep.
Outside the window, the sky over New York turned from black to deep blue, and then from deep blue to light gray.
The sun rose from the east.
A new day had begun.
And this world was already not the same as it was yesterday.
Chapter 50: News Headlines, Global Shockwaves
A new day had begun.
And this world was no longer the same as it was yesterday.
Ryan was woken up by the vibration of his phone.
It wasn't a message notification.
It was a call.
One after another.
He groggily picked up his phone to take a look.
Seventeen missed calls.
Fourteen of them were from unknown numbers.
Two were from Blackie.
One was from Hughie.
He called Hughie back first.
"Hello?"
"Ryan! You finally picked up!" Hughie's voice cracked. "Do you have any idea what's happening out there?"
"What?"
"You're on the news! Global news! Every channel is showing footage of you fighting Homelander!"
Ryan yawned.
"What time is it?"
"Ten in the morning! You've slept all morning!"
"Yeah, the fight last night went pretty late."
"Can you be serious for once?" Hughie's voice went up an octave. "CNN's headline is 'Preservation Walker and Homelander Duel in the Sky'! BBC's headline is 'Is Homelander Injured?'! The New York Times' headline is 'Who Is the Strongest on Earth?'"
"Which headline do you think is best?"
"What?"
"I'm asking which headline is written the best. Personally, I think 'Who Is the Strongest on Earth' is a bit cliché. It doesn't have the same impact as 'Is Homelander Injured?'"
Hughie was silent on the other end of the line for three seconds.
"Are you still not awake?"
"I'm awake, I'm awake." Ryan sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. "Let's talk business. What's the reaction over at Butcher's?"
"Butcher—" Hughie's tone changed. "After he finished watching the live stream, he was a completely different person."
"How so?"
"He used to think Homelander was invincible. All of his plans were built on the premise that you couldn't beat Homelander in a head-on fight."
"But last night, he saw you fight Homelander, and Homelander bled."
"His premise has been overturned."
"So?"
"So he called everyone together this morning and reformulated the plan."
"What's the new plan?"
"To recruit you."
Ryan's lips curled slightly.
"What did he say?"
"He said—'This lunatic is our only chance. No matter the cost, we have to get him on our side.'"
"Cost? What cost?"
"He didn't say. But he told me to arrange a meeting as soon as possible."
"Hmm." Ryan thought for a moment. "Tell him three days from now."
"Three days? Why three days?"
"Because some things will happen within three days. Once those things happen, he'll need me even more. When we meet then, I'll set the terms."
"What things?"
"You'll find out when the time comes."
The phone hung up.
Ryan got out of bed, washed his face, and turned on the TV.
Every channel was broadcasting what happened last night.
CNN: "...Preservation Walker and Homelander engaged in a fierce battle lasting several minutes at an altitude of three thousand meters above Manhattan. Based on analysis from ground witnesses and live footage, Preservation Walker displayed astonishing speed advantages and defensive capabilities, successfully resisting Homelander's Heat Vision attacks and physical strikes..."
The screen cut to the face of a military analyst.
"According to our calculations, Preservation Walker's flight speed is at least between Mach 7 and Mach 8, far exceeding Homelander's known Mach 3 to Mach 5. This means that in terms of speed, Preservation Walker has formed an overwhelming advantage over Homelander."
"What's even more shocking is his defensive capability. Homelander's Heat Vision can melt most known metals, but when it hit Preservation Walker—according to thermal imaging analysis—it didn't even cause a rise in surface temperature. This defensive mechanism is completely beyond our understanding."
The screen cut again.
Fox News: "...Vought International's stock price plummeted 12% after opening this morning, marking the largest single-day drop since the company went public. Multiple investment institutions have downgraded Vought to'sell'. Analysts point out that if Homelander is proven to no longer be the'strongest on Earth', Vought's core business logic will face a fundamental challenge..."
Ryan watched the flickering stock price numbers on the screen.
It dropped another 12%.
Added to the previous 20%—Vought's stock price had fallen by over 30% in two weeks.
Nearly 200 billion dollars in market value had evaporated.
"200 billion." Ryan let out a whistle.
The TV screen cut to White House.
"...The US President called an emergency National Security meeting this morning to discuss the 'Superhuman threat' issue. According to White House sources, the core topic of the meeting was—if Homelander is no longer the strongest Superhuman, how will the US national security landscape be adjusted..."
"...Meanwhile, the UN Security Council also held an emergency meeting. The Russian representative proposed at the meeting that an 'International SuperhumanRegulatory Framework' should be established. The Chinese representative expressed support..."
Ryan turned off the TV.
He walked to the window and pushed it open.
The air of Brooklyn poured in, carrying the morning chill and the scent of baked bread from a distant bakery.
His phone vibrated again.
Ashley.
"Did you see the news?"
"I did."
"Vought's stock price dropped 12%."
"I saw."
"Edgar called an emergency meeting at 8:00 this morning. All executives attended. Homelander didn't go."
"What is he doing?"
"Sitting in the lounge. He hasn't moved since last night."
"All night?"
"All night. Stillwell brought him three glasses of milk. He drank two. The third one got cold."
Ryan looked at this message, his lips twitching slightly.
Homelander sat for the whole night.
He sat staring at the fist-shaped dent in his chest all night.
This image was more convincing than any rage.
"What was the conclusion of Edgar's meeting?"
"Two things."
"First, collect intelligence on Preservation Walker with full effort, and analyze the boundaries of his abilities and his weaknesses."
"Second—"
Ashley's message paused for five seconds.
"What's the second?"
"Second, initiate the 'Cradle' contingency plan."
"'Cradle'? What is that?"
"I don't know. This is top-secret. My clearance level can't access it."
"But I heard Stillwell mention it while she was on the phone in the hallway—"
"She said the core of 'Cradle' is 'giving Homelander a reason he cannot refuse'."
"What reason?"
"A reason to make him calm down."
"Or—a reason to make him even crazier."
Ryan stared at this message for a long time.
"Cradle."
Has this word appeared in the original work?
He searched through his mind.
No.
This is something that wasn't in the original work.
The butterfly effect.
His arrival had changed too many things, and Vought's response strategies were also starting to deviate from the original trajectory.
"Keep an eye on this 'Cradle' plan." He replied to Ashley, "Tell me the first time there's any new information."
"I'll try. But my clearance is really limited."
"Then find a way to expand your clearance."
"How do I expand it?"
"What does Stillwell need the most right now?"
"She needs someone who can control the situation."
"Then go be that person."
"Take the initiative to help her share the workload. Take the initiative to provide valuable analysis. Make her feel like she can't do without you."
"Once she can't do without you, the clearance will come naturally."
Ashley was silent for ten seconds.
"When did you become so calculating?"
"Learned it from Vought. (￣▽￣)"
"What you learned from Vought was how to tear Vought down."
"Exactly. This is called 'learning the enemy's skills to defeat them'."
Ashley sent an eye-rolling emoji.
Ryan put his phone away.
He walked to the window, looking at the skyline of New York in the distance.
The V-shaped logo of Vought Tower was glowing with a blue-white light in the sunlight.
His mind was turning.
Current Emotion Points: 18421.
Requirement for the third purification: 30000.
Still need: 11579.
Based on last night's harvesting efficiency, one more global event on the level of Homelander would be enough.
But he didn't plan on fighting Homelander again.
At least not in the short term.
Because after the third purification, his strength would go up another level. Only then, when confronting Homelanderhead-on again, would he have a real chance of winning.
What he needed to do now was—use other ways to farm the remaining ten thousand plus points.
How to farm?
He made a list in his mind.
Continue sweeping gang strongholds—the efficiency was too low, at most a few hundred points a night.
Burn another Vought facility—possible, but Vought must have strengthened the defense of all facilities now, efficiency unknown.
Create a global positive event—such as saving people from a large-scale disaster, or publicly exposing more of Vought's dark secrets.
The third option had the highest efficiency.
"Vought's dark secrets." Ryan's eyes narrowed.
Butcher had dirt on them.
Hughie was working undercover beside Butcher.
If he could get the dirt from Butcher and expose it through Blackie's live streaming platform—
Global public opinion would be ignited again.
Emotion points would skyrocket.
Third purification.
And then—
The ultimate showdown with Homelander.
"Three days." Ryan looked at the skyline outside the window, his lips curling slightly.
"Within three days, get the dirt, ignite public opinion, and farm enough for thirty thousand points."
"And then—"
He closed the window, turned around, walked to the closet, and began to change his clothes.
"A-Zu, the game has only just begun."
Chapter 51: The Waters at Vought Run Deep, the JanitorTeaches a Lesson
One week later.
Vought Tower, 78th floor.
Ryan wore that familiar blue Janitor uniform, carrying a mop in his hand.
He was mopping the floor.
The marble floor was polished so well it reflected his silhouette.
Ashley's hushed voice came through the Bluetooth earpiece.
"You're crazy."
"Homelander has turned all of New York upside down three times."
"Edgar has raised the building's security level to the maximum."
"You actually got a fake ID badge and came back to work as a Janitor?"
Ryan threw the mop into the bucket and rinsed it.
"This is called hiding in plain sight."
"If I don't come in myself, how can I investigate the 'Cradle Initiative'?"
Ashley was freaking out on the other end.
"What have you found out?"
"I found out that the women's restroom on the 78th floor is clogged." Ryan wrung out the mop. "The excrement of these Superhumans is harder to deal with than normal people's."
Ashley didn't take the bait on this terrible joke.
"You need to leave immediately. Homelander hasn't left his lounge all week. His current state is extremely unstable."
"The more unstable he is, the more Vought needs to divert public attention."
Ryan pushed the bucket forward.
"Hughie sent word. The dirt on Vought that Butcher has in his hands will be ready today."
"I came to Vought today to figure out Edgar's trump card before the dirt is exposed."
Ashley sighed.
"Edgar's trump card is Homelander."
"No." Ryan corrected her. "Homelander is the open card. The 'Cradle Initiative' is the trump card."
"You have a big move today, right?"
"Translucent and A-Train are out of commission, and the stock price has dropped by thirty percent."
"Edgar desperately needs a new face to save the market."
Ashley tapped on her keyboard on the other end.
"Yes."
"We're introducing a new member today."
"A Midwestern pageant winner. Clean image, the standard girl-next-door. The Public Relations Department has set her brand route as 'Purity'."
"Purity." Ryan chewed on the word.
"That's exactly what Vought is missing right now."
The elevator door at the end of the corridor opened.
A blonde girl wearing a white and gold uniform walked out.
Annie January.
Codename: Starlight.
She walked very slowly, her hands nervously clasped in front of her, looking around.
Ryan stopped the mop.
Annie walked along the corridor.
She was too busy looking at the superhero posters on the wall to watch her step.
Her toe tripped over Ryan's bucket.
The bucket wobbled.
Dirty water splashed out and spilled onto Annie's white boots.
Ryan didn't move.
In Vought Tower, if a Janitor dirtied a Superhuman's clothes, the outcome was usually getting a few bones broken.
Annie looked down at her boots.
She didn't get angry.
She quickly pulled a pack of tissues from her uniform pocket and crouched down.
First, she went to wipe the water off the floor.
Then, she wiped her own boots.
"I'm sorry!" She looked up at Ryan. "I wasn't watching where I was going and bumped into your bucket."
Ryan looked at her.
The Superhumans in Vought Tower never apologized to the Janitors.
In their eyes, Janitors didn't even count as people.
"It's fine." Ryan replied.
Annie stood up, clutching the dirty tissue in her hand.
"First day on the job?" Ryan asked.
Annie nodded vigorously.
"Yes."
"My name is Annie. My codename is Starlight."
"I've dreamed of joining The Seven since I was a kid, and today it finally came true."
She smiled very sweetly.
There was a genuine light in her eyes.
Ryan looked at that light.
She still didn't know what kind of place she had entered.
She thought this was heaven, but in reality, it was a slaughterhouse.
"Congratulations." Ryan gripped the mop handle. "But the waters at Vought run deep. Be careful not to drown."
Annie didn't understand the hidden meaning of that sentence.
She thought this was a well-meaning reminder from a low-level employee.
"Thank you. I will work hard."
She pointed ahead.
"Excuse me, do you know how to get to the conference room? The Public Relations Department told me to go there and wait for the others."
"Turn right, it's the third door."
Annie thanked him and turned to walk that way.
She had only walked two steps.
The Deep walked out from around the corner.
Wearing a green scale-patterned bodysuit.
His hair was fixed firmly with hair gel.
"Oh, look who it is."
The Deep spread his arms, blocking Annie's path.
Annie paused, then immediately recognized him.
"Mr. The Deep!"
She seemed even more excited.
"I'm a fan of yours! I've seen you on TV many times."
The Deep smiled.
He looked Annie up and down.
His gaze swept repeatedly over her chest and thighs.
Ryan was very familiar with that kind of look.
The look a Butcher gives pork.
Ryan stood ten meters away.
The original plot had begun.
"Fans are great." The Deep took a step forward, closing the distance.
"We in The Seven love fans the most."
"First day here?"
Annie nodded.
"Yes."
"A little nervous?"
"A little."
The Deep reached out and patted her shoulder.
His hand squeezed her shoulder twice.
Annie shrank her neck a little, feeling uncomfortable.
"Don't be nervous." The Deep's voice was very soft.
"The Seven is a big family."
"In a big family, we need to take care of each other."
"I'm the second-in-command of The Seven. I happen to be free right now, how about I show you around?"
Annie hesitated for a moment.
"But the Public Relations Department told me to go to the conference room and wait..."
"What's there to wait for in the conference room?" The Deep interrupted her.
"Those people in the Public Relations Department will only teach you how to fake a smile for the camera."
"If you want to survive in this team, you have to know the rules."
"I'll teach you the rules."
He pointed to the other end of the corridor.
"Go to my private lounge."
Annie didn't understand the true meaning of that term.
She thought this was mentorship from a senior.
"Then I'll trouble you, Mr. The Deep."
The Deep smiled greasily.
"No trouble at all. Follow me."
He turned to lead the way.
Annie followed behind.
Ryan stood in place, watching them walk into a room at the end of the corridor.
The door closed.
Ashley's voice came through the earpiece.
"The Deep took that newcomer away."
"He's going to do his thing again."
There was numbness in Ashley's tone.
"Aren't you going to do something about it?" Ryan asked.
"How am I supposed to do something about it?" Ashleyraised her voice.
"I'm from the Public Relations Department! I'm only responsible for cleaning up their messes, not teaching them how to behave!"
"And that's The Deep."
"A veteran of The Seven."
"If he toys with a newcomer, Edgar won't care at all."
Ryan didn't speak.
He put the mop into the bucket.
In the original story, Annie faced The Deep alone.
In order to hold onto her dream, she compromised.
That incident became a shadow over her life.
Ryan closed his eyes.
Super Hearing activated.
The sounds from the room at the end of the corridor came clearly into his ears.
"Sit." The Deep's voice.
"Thank you." The sound of Annie pulling out a chair.
"Want something to drink?"
"No, thank you. Mr. The Deep, you just said you wanted to teach me the rules..."
"The rules are very simple."
The sound of The Deep's footsteps approaching.
"In this team, you have to be obedient."
"Obedient to whom?"
"Obedient to me."
The sound of fabric rubbing.
The Deep leaned closer.
"Annie, do you know how many people want to get into The Seven?"
"Thousands."
"What makes you think you deserve to get in?"
"Because you're pretty."
"But there are a lot of pretty people."
"If you want to stay, you have to pay a price."
Annie's voice began to tremble.
"Mr. The Deep... what do you mean?"
"What do I mean?"
The Deep let out a laugh.
The sound of a zipper opening.
"Take off your pants."
The room was silent for a second.
Then came the sound of Annie backing away.
The chair was knocked over.
"No!" Annie's voice was tearful.
"You can't do this! I'm here to be a superhero!"
"A superhero?"
The Deep's voice turned cold.
"There are no superheroes here."
"Only Vought's products."
"If you don't take them off, I guarantee you'll be kicked out of The Seven tomorrow."
"And I'll tell everyone that you're a slut."
"No..."
Annie was crying.
Ryan opened his eyes.
He glanced at the mop in the bucket.
The dirty water sloshed in the bucket.
The water in Vought Tower is always dirty.
Last time, he sat in front of a screen watching this scene.
He could only curse a few times in the comments.
But this time, he was here.
"Ryan?" Ashley was calling him in the earpiece.
"Are you listening?"
"I'm listening." Ryan reached up and took off the earpiece.
Crushed it.
He picked up the mop.
Water droplets dripped from the mop's strands onto the marble floor of the corridor.
One step.
Two steps.
He walked toward that room.
The corridor was long.
But his steps were steady.
In the room, The Deep's voice grew louder.
"Don't be ungrateful!"
"Take them off!"
"Otherwise I'll call Edgar right now!"
Annie was begging.
"Please... don't do this..."
Ryan walked to the door.
Stopped.
He looked down at his blue Janitor uniform.
It fit well.
Since he was a Janitor.
Then he should do what a Janitor is supposed to do.
Clean up the trash.
In the room.
The Deep lost his patience.
He reached out to grab the collar of Annie's uniform.
"Don't play innocent—"
Outside the door.
Ryan raised his right foot.
Five hundred tons of force waited in his leg muscles.
Chapter 52: Cleaning Up Trash Along the Way
Bang!
The solid wood, soundproof door, along with its frame, exploded inward.
Wood splinters and metal parts sprayed into the room like shotgun pellets.
The Deep's hand was three centimeters away from Annie's neckline.
Startled by the loud noise, he shuddered, his hand stopping in mid-air.
The two of them turned their heads toward the door simultaneously.
Ryan stood in the hallway outside, holding a dripping mop.
Not even a speck of dust clung to his blue Janitor uniform.
After The Deep saw who it was, the shock on his face turned into anger.
"What the fuck are you?"
"Are you blind? Can't you see the 'Private Lounge' sign hanging on the door?"
"Get out!"
Ryan didn't roll out.
He stepped into the room.
His leather shoes made a dull thud on the carpet.
Annie slumped beside the overturned chair, tears still streaking her face.
She looked at this Janitor, her mind a complete blank.
In Vought Tower, Janitors were the lowest of the low.
Now, this bottom-feeder had kicked down the door of the second-in-command of The Seven.
"Are you deaf?" The Deep stood up straight.
His green scale-patterned bodysuit was stretched tight.
"I told you to get out. And while you're at it, call that damn head of security over here."
"I'm going to shove you into a toilet and flush you down to the sewer!"
Ryan stopped half a meter in front of The Deep.
"Sewer." Ryan chewed over the three words.
"That place really does suit you."
"After all, when seafood has been sitting out too long, it smells about the same as a sewer."
The Deep was stunned for a moment.
He didn't understand.
Or rather, he couldn't believe a Janitor would dare speak to him like that.
"Are you looking to die?"
The Deep raised his right hand.
It was the same hand that had been about to tug at Annie's neckline.
He intended to slap this ignorant Janitor.
A slap from a Superhuman was enough to snap a normal person's cervical spine.
Ryan watched the hand swing toward him.
Too slow.
With his Mach 8 reaction time, The Deep's movements were slower than a sloth.
Ryan raised his left hand.
He grabbed The Deep's wrist.
The Deep's movement stopped.
He yanked hard.
It didn't budge.
That hand was firmly clamped in an iron vise.
"You..." The Deep's expression changed.
From anger to shock and suspicion.
Ryan looked at him.
"You just said that the rules are whatever you say, right?"
Ryan released the mop handle with his right hand.
The mop fell onto the carpet.
"I have a rule, too."
Ryan, holding The Deep's wrist with his left hand, bent it downward.
Snap.
A crisp sound of breaking bone echoed in the room.
The Deep's wrist was bent at a grotesque right angle.
Bone fragments pierced the skin, exposed to the air.
"Ah!!!"
A scream of agony tore from The Deep's throat.
He collapsed to his knees in pain, his knees slamming heavily onto the carpet.
Ryan didn't let go.
He took the opportunity to raise his right foot.
He stepped on The Deep's broken hand.
He released just a fraction of his five-hundred-ton strength.
Squish.
The bones, muscles, and blood vessels of the hand were crushed into a pulp under the sole of his leather shoe.
"My hand! My hand!"
The Deep's face was twisted in pain, tears and snot streaming down.
He struggled frantically on the ground.
But his hand was pinned down firmly, impossible to pull free.
Annie stared, dumbfounded.
She covered her mouth, trembling all over.
She didn't understand.
A Janitor.
How could he pin The Deep of The Seven to the ground and crush him like this.
"Who... who exactly are you..."
The Deep squeezed the words out through his teeth.
He was about to faint from the pain.
Ryan looked down at him from above.
"Sorry."
"I'm off the clock."
"Just cleaning up some trash on my way out."
Ashley's frantic roar came through his earpiece.
"Ryan! What have you done! ( ╬ ◣ д ◢ )"
"My vital signs monitor is going off! The Deep's heart rate has spiked to two hundred!"
"Did you hit him?!"
Ryan ignored the voice in his earpiece.
He applied a little pressure with his foot.
The Deep let out another pig-like scream.
"You're crazy!" The Deep used his remaining left hand to push against the carpet, trying to stand up.
"I'm in The Seven!"
"I'm The Deep!"
"If you dare treat me like this, Homelander will tear you to pieces!"
He shouldn't have mentioned Homelander.
As soon as he mentioned Homelander, Ryan laughed.
"Homelander?"
Ryan crouched down, looking at The Deep's face, which was distorted by pain.
"He should still be in the lounge on the 79th Floor right now, staring blankly while touching the crater in his chest."
"Do you want to call him and ask how he got that crater?"
The Deep's pupils dilated.
Although he wasn't very bright, he wasn't truly stupid.
He certainly knew about the battle from last night that shocked the world.
The monster that made Homelander bleed.
The bane of existence that had the entire Vought upper management in a panic.
The Deep looked at the plain, unremarkable face of the Janitor in front of him.
Then he looked at the foot that had crushed his hand bones, completely motionless.
A terrifying realization exploded in his mind.
"You... you are..."
"Preservation..."
Ryan didn't let him finish the name.
He kicked The Deep in the chin.
The Deep's body flew out, hit the wall, and bounced back to the floor.
A few bloody teeth were spat onto the carpet.
"You guessed right." Ryan stood up.
"But there's no prize."
"Only punishment."
The Deep lay on the floor, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
Terror had completely taken over his brain.
He wanted to run.
But the door to the room was blocked by Ryan.
There was no water here.
His water-based Superhuman ability couldn't do a damn thing here.
Physical strength was even more of a joke in front of this monster who could go toe-to-toe with Homelander.
But he didn't want to die.
"Don't kill me!"
The Deep rolled over and backed away using his remaining left hand.
"I was wrong! I'll never do it again!"
"Annie! Please, beg for me! I was just joking with you earlier!"
He yelled at Annie in the corner.
Annie bit her lip and shrank back.
She looked at the man who had been so high and mighty just a moment ago, but was now crawling on the ground.
She felt disgusted.
Extremely disgusted.
Ryan stepped forward.
One step.
Two steps.
Closing in on The Deep.
"Joking?"
"You call this a joke?"
Ryan walked up to The Deep and stopped.
"Your tone wasn't joking when you told her to take off her pants earlier."
"And you weren't joking when you threatened to destroy her dreams."
"A-Zu is a giant baby."
"A-Train is a junkie."
"You're not even as good as them."
"You're just a piece of trash who only knows how to bully women."
The Deep retreated to the corner.
There was nowhere left to retreat.
He looked into Ryan's emotionless eyes.
He was in despair.
Despair birthed madness.
"I'll fight you to the death!"
The Deep roared, clenched his left fist, and used all his strength to smash it toward Ryan's crotch.
This was a full-force blow from a Superhuman.
Even without water, his base strength far exceeded that of a normal person.
He wanted to make a final counterattack.
Ryan watched the incoming fist.
A cruel arc tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Fight to the death?"
"What do you have to fight me with?"
Ryan didn't dodge.
He didn't even use his hands to block.
He simply raised his right leg.
Bent his knee.
Pinpointing the back exposed by The Deep's punch.
Aiming for the most fragile vertebra.
Five hundred tons of force, compressed into his heel in an instant.