Chapter 38: Stormfront's Provocation, Lynn's Public Execution Notice
The chubby young man's feet kicked uselessly in mid-air.
The rubber of his soles brushed against the black combat suit on Stormfront's thighs, leaving a dusty mark.
Purple electric arcs snaked into the collar of his plaid shirt, instantly singeing the hair on his chest.
"Ugh… cough, cough…"
The programmer rolled his eyes, white foam with a sour smell continuously bubbling from the corners of his mouth.
He clawed desperately at the woman's arm, which felt like an iron clamp, leaving bloody scratches with his ten fingers, but he couldn't pry it open even a fraction.
"Find the person who posted that!"
Stormfront roared, her shrill voice piercing the silence of the entire office area.
Spittle sprayed all over the chubby young man's face, smearing his thick resin lenses.
"Creak… creak."
A steady sound of leather shoes stepped slowly onto the shattered glass in the corridor.
The sound wasn't loud, but it seemed particularly abrupt in the deathly silent hall.
Stormfront's eyelid twitched; she didn't loosen her grip, glancing over from the corner of her eye.
Lynn was holding a cup of hot Americano he had just brewed in the break room.
White steam curled upward, brushing against his chiseled chin.
He walked at a leisurely pace, as if he hadn't seen the mess on the floor or heard the murderous roar.
He stopped five steps away from the woman.
He lowered his head to blow the steam off the edge of the paper cup and took a small, shallow sip of the bitter black coffee.
"Stop looking, old hag."
Lynn swallowed the coffee, his Adam's apple bobbing, his voice as flat as if he were making small talk.
"I was the one who posted it."
Stormfront's fingers suddenly loosened.
With a dull thud.
The chubby young man landed on the wool carpet like a broken sack, clutching his charred throat and gasping for air on the floor.
She turned around to face Lynn directly.
In those eyes with heavy eyeliner, a purple glow surged up like boiling lava.
The muscles around her eyes twitched unnaturally from anger.
"You?"
She gritted her back teeth, squeezing the word out through her teeth.
She looked the Asian man in the cheap suit up and down.
Was this the Deputy Manager of the PR Department who was bowing and scraping with a sycophantic smile in front of her just yesterday?
That useless lackey who only knew how to serve tea and pour water?
"How dare you plot against me?!"
The woman's self-esteem burst instantly like a balloon pricked by a needle.
Not bothering with any extra nonsense, she thrust her hands forward violently.
"BOOM—!"
A violent bolt of purple lightning, as thick as a thigh, roared toward Lynn's chest with a piercing sound that tore through the air.
Nearby computer monitors couldn't withstand the strong magnetic field, instantly going black and exploding with sparks.
If this high-voltage current hit an ordinary person.
It could burn them into a charred, foul-smelling husk of flesh and bone in the blink of an eye.
There wouldn't even be a need for resuscitation.
Several long fluorescent lights on the corridor ceiling shattered one after another, broken glass raining down.
Several employees hiding under their desks covered their ears in fear, burying their heads in their knees and screaming repeatedly.
The blinding electric light illuminated the entire PR Department hall in a ghostly pale color.
A thick, pungent smell of ozone quickly filled the air, mixed with the scorched scent of burning synthetic fabric.
The light flickered for two seconds before gradually fading away.
The cruel sneer on Stormfront's lips froze, her mouth slightly agape.
Her eyelids twitched uncontrollably, as if she had seen a monster that defied the laws of physics.
Lynn was still standing in the same spot.
He hadn't moved even half a footprint, and not a single drop of brown liquid had spilled from the coffee cup in his hand.
The front of his cheap gray suit had a large hole blasted into it by the lightning.
The edges of the fabric were still emitting wisps of smoke, curled up from the burn.
Through the charred hole, one could clearly see the skin underneath, completely unharmed.
No carbonization, no bleeding.
Not even a single red mark from the high heat could be found.
The Kryptonian's body of steel was like a bottomless deep-sea sponge.
It swallowed the terrifying kinetic energy and the thousands of degrees of heat from the lightning completely.
It didn't even burp.
"That's quite a loud way to say hello."
Lynn casually set the paper cup in his hand onto the lid of the nearby copier.
The bottom of the cup tapped against the plastic casing, making a dull sound.
He lowered his head and glanced at the dark blue tie on his chest that had been charred by the lightning.
He raised his right hand, pinching the tie knot with two fingers.
He pulled it downward casually with force.
"Rip."
The already brittle fabric turned into a clump of black ash, falling onto the carpet and blending into the footprints.
Lynn raised his hand, his gaze meeting the woman's face, which was filled with extreme shock.
He clenched his right fist and held up a middle finger straight.
The fingertip was pointed directly at Stormfront's bridge of the nose.
"Your outdated Nazi tricks are useless now."
Lynn's tone was cold and hard; every word was like an iron nail with ice shards, hammering into her eardrums.
He lifted his chin slightly, his eyes full of condescending provocation.
"Tonight at eight, at the abandoned pier."
Lynn lowered his hand and brushed the black ash off his shirt collar.
"I'll personally send you to meet Hitler."
Stormfront's chest heaved violently, and her breathing became heavy.
Her hands, hanging at her sides, clenched into fists, her nails digging deep into the palms of her leather gloves.
Her head was buzzing, and she wanted to unleash another, more lethal lightning strike.
But her intuition, honed over a hundred years, told her that the man in front of her was inexplicably sinister.
Someone who could withstand her full-force blow without changing expression was definitely not someone she could easily crush on her own.
Deep down, she was a bully who picked on the weak and feared the strong.
Faced with an unknown, tough nut to crack, her first reaction was to retreat and find help.
"Hmph, you death-seeking thing… you just wait."
She snorted coldly and glared viciously at Lynn.
Swallowing her pride.
A blinding purple electric web instantly exploded beneath her feet.
She turned into a stream of light and rushed out the way she came, through the glass door she had shattered earlier.
The deafening thunder rolled away in the high sky outside the building.
Gale-force winds rushed in, blowing waste paper on the desks all over the place.
The hall was deathly silent.
Only the heavy coughing of the chubby young man lying on the floor and the sound of wind rushing through the ventilation ducts remained.
Lynn turned around, ignoring the PR Departmentemployees who were peeking out from under their desks with shocked expressions.
He raised his left hand and pressed his index finger against the micro-communicator hidden in his left ear.
The red indicator light on the edge of the earpiece blinked rhythmically in the dim light.
From the shadows deep in the corridor where the sunlight couldn't reach, a few crisp sounds of joints rubbing together could be heard.
"Click, crack."
Kimiko was half-crouched in the shadows of the corner.
Her ten fingers, stained with dried blood and mud, cracked as she bent them herself.
Like a she-wolf that had caught the scent of blood, her pitch-black eyes were rolling with bloodthirsty excitement and fanaticism.
A faint, suppressed growl emanated from her throat.
Lynn turned around, looking at the blinking red light on his earpiece: "Butcher, bring the gear, and prepare a grand funeral for this old hag."
Chapter 39: Kimiko's Revenge, Tearing Stormfront's Lackeys Apart Barehanded
Deep in the shadows of the corridor, the crisp sound of grinding joints had not yet faded.
Kimiko was like a she-wolf guarding her prey, a low, repressed growl rumbling in her throat.
Lynn pressed his earpiece, the cold sneer on his lips not yet faded.
"Butcher, grab the gear. Let's prepare a grand funeral for this old hag."
Night had fallen at the abandoned container terminal in Brooklyn.
The sea breeze whipped like a barbed blade, swirling discarded newspapers and plastic bags through the air.
The air was thick with the stench of fermenting dead fish, mixed with the smell of rust flaking off the containers.
A few flickering streetlights illuminated the puddles of various sizes on the ground, casting shifting light and shadow.
Lynn leaned against a red, rusted container, his hands tucked into his suit trouser pockets.
The sea breeze caught his jacket, blowing the hem back and flapping it against his thighs.
"Crackle—"
Blinding purple light tore through the night.
Stormfront descended from the sky, her leather boots slamming heavily onto the muddy, sandy concrete.
The splashing mud nearly hit the surface of Lynn's leather shoes.
She hadn't come alone.
Behind her followed four strange-looking men, all wearing black jackets emblazoned with far-right symbols.
This group had fierce glares, their necks tattooed with chaotic Nazi insignia.
"I thought you would have brought a few more dogs to die."
Stormfront twisted her neck, purple electric arcs dancing between her fingers.
She sneered, sizing up the lone Lynn.
"Just you? Where are all your PR bots? Why didn't you call them to save you with their keyboards?"
Lynn didn't take the bait, tapping his shoe tip against a puddle.
"Bringing four third-rate losers to back you up."
He lifted his eyelids, scanning the brawny men who were limbering up for a fight.
"Old hag, are you not confident in your own strength?"
Stormfront's face darkened, the muscles in her cheeks twitching twice.
"Rip his mouth open."
She stepped back half a pace, pointing at Lynn.
"Leave him alive; I want to slowly fry his brain."
The four brawny men surrounded him with sinister grins.
The leader was bald, half his face covered in burn scars, his features bunched together.
He rubbed his hands together, and a ball of orange flame appeared out of thin air in his palms, the surrounding air parched by the heat.
Beside him, a lanky man waved his arms, sending two invisible wind blades whistling through the air.
"Leave this yellow monkey to me." The scarred bald man grinned, revealing a mouthful of rotten teeth.
"I love the smell of Asians roasting."
Lynn didn't even bother to look at him directly.
He kept his hands in his pockets, slowly pulling his right hand out.
He rested his thumb against his middle finger.
"Snap."
A crisp snap echoed far into the sea breeze.
A dark shadow lunged down from the top of the rusted container on the left.
No sound, no wasted movement.
Kimiko was like a leopard released from a cage, leaping into the air and slamming straight into the crowd.
"Bang!"
The lanky man hadn't even reacted before Kimiko kicked him in the chest.
The dull thud of his sternum shattering accompanied the spray of blood from his mouth as he flew backward, crashing into the metal container.
The scarred bald man was startled, instinctively throwing the fireball in his hands.
The fireball slammed solidly into Kimiko's shoulder.
Her tattered clothes ignited instantly, her skin sizzling and emitting a burnt stench.
Kimiko didn't even make a sound.
She turned her head, her pitch-black eyes fixed intently on the scarred bald man.
The killing intent in her eyes churned like magma, her muscles taut as iron plates.
This face, this scar. She would recognize him even if he were turned to ash.
Back in the underground gang's water prison, it was this man who had branded her back with a red-hot iron rod.
Forcing her to inject those disgusting blue serums.
A shrill, mournful shriek escaped her throat.
Kimiko charged headlong into the wind blades and fireballs, ignoring everything.
The lanky man, who had been kicked away, scrambled up and unleashed a wind blade, slicing a deep gash into her thigh that exposed the bone.
Just as the blood sprayed out, the flesh began to squirm and heal at a speed visible to the naked eye.
"What… what kind of monster is this!"
The scarred bald man panicked, his feet slipping as he retreated, frantically rubbing his hands together to form fireballs.
The fireballs hitting Kimiko couldn't even slow her pace by a fraction.
She lunged in front of the scarred bald man.
Her hands, covered in blood and mud, clamped onto the bald man's arms like iron pincers.
Her ten fingers dug directly into his bicep muscles.
"Ah—! Let go! You crazy bitch!"
The bald man screamed in pain, struggling wildly and lifting his leg to kick Kimiko's stomach.
Kimiko's eyes widened to the point of splitting, her teeth clenched, her cheeks bulging.
She exerted force from her waist and hips, yanking her arms violently to the sides.
"Riiiip—"
The ear-piercing sound of tearing flesh mixed with the crunch of dislocating joints.
Warm blood sprayed like a fountain, covering Kimiko's face and head, blurring her vision.
His two thick arms, along with a large chunk of flesh from his shoulders, were ripped right off.
Jagged white bone protruded from the stumps, dangling with shredded meat.
The bald man's chest cavity had been ripped open by the force.
Slippery intestines and dark red organs spilled out onto the ground, steaming in the puddles.
The bald man rolled his eyes back, collapsing into the pool of blood like a rotting log.
His body twitched twice, blood bubbles foaming from his mouth, and then he went still.
The remaining three lackeys were stunned.
The lanky man's legs turned to jelly, trembling uncontrollably, and he turned to run out of the terminal.
Kimiko dropped the severed arms, grabbed a piece of scrap rebar from the ground with her backhand.
She swung her arm fully and threw it directly.
The rebar whistled through the air, piercing through the lanky man's back and out his chest.
Pinning him firmly to the muddy ground, his screams cut short.
The other two enhanced individuals hadn't even had time to beg for mercy.
Kimiko was already upon them, her fingers curled into claws, tearing out the throat of one of them.
The hissing sound of the ruptured trachea was chilling in the sea breeze.
She grabbed the last one by the head, repeatedly slamming it against the metal container like cracking a walnut.
"Clang! Clang! Clang!"
Until the metal dented, red and white brain matter dripping down the groove.
The man slid limply to the ground.
Less than three minutes.
The smell of blood in the sea breeze was nauseatingly thick, overpowering the stench of dead fish.
The four lackeys who had been strutting around were now just piles of shredded meat and severed limbs on the ground.
Kimiko panted, standing in the center of the pool of blood.
Her burns had mostly healed, leaving only tattered strips of clothing hanging on her body.
She lifted her head, staring at Stormfront, her face covered in blood.
Her eyes were filled with undisguised bloodlust, truly like an Asura crawled out of hell.
The smugness on Stormfront's face was long gone.
She glanced at the shredded meat on the ground, then at Lynn, who was standing by without having lifted a finger.
The muscles in her cheeks twitched with rage, her nails digging into her palms.
"A bunch of useless trash!"
She gritted her teeth, squeezing these words out from between them.
She raised her hands abruptly, violent purple lightning rapidly condensing in her palms, the crackling of electricity hissing.
The electric light illuminated the terminal as bright as day.
She glared at Lynn and Kimiko, her voice shrill and breaking.
"I'll fry you both into charcoal myself!"
Lynn leaned against the container, watching the purple light filling the sky.
Not only did he not dodge, but he chuckled instead.
He hooked the tip of his shoe under a silver metal briefcase beside him and kicked it forward casually.
The briefcase slid across the mud, stopping in front of a pair of muddy combat boots.
"Butcher."
Lynn, hands in his pockets, tilted his chin up.
"Try out the new toy."
Chapter 40: The Boys Get an Upgrade, Fully Equipped with Vibranium
A silver metal briefcase slid across the muddy ground, carving out a dirty trench.
It stopped squarely, right in front of Butcher's black-mud-caked military boots.
It came to a halt.
Butcher lowered his head and spat out the stub of the cigar he'd nearly chewed to pieces.
He lifted his right foot, aiming the steel-capped toe of his boot at the center latch of the case, and stomped down hard.
"Click."
The latch sprang open, and the lid flipped halfway up.
The sea breeze rushed into the case, dispersing the layer of moisture-proof powder clinging to the shock-absorbent foam.
Several custom-made items, glowing with a dull golden luster, lay quietly inside.
The metal had no excess reflection, its surface covered in fine, dense textures.
It exuded a heaviness that seemed to absorb all the surrounding light.
Frenchie's eyes went wide, and he scrambled over on his hands and knees.
He didn't even bother wiping the blood off his hands as he tremblingly picked up a curved blade from the edge of the case.
The blade was ice-cold; the moment it touched his fingertip, it drew a thin line of blood.
"My God... this weight, this molecular density..."
Frenchie gasped, his tongue tied in knots, looking at Lynnas if he had seen a ghost.
"Boss, which alien spaceship did you dismantle?"
Lynn didn't respond, just kicked a pebble on the ground with the toe of his leather shoe.
"Don't talk nonsense, put them on."
He stood with his hands in his pockets, gesturing with his chin toward Stormfront.
"She's impatient to have a barbecue."
Butcher bent down and pulled two dark golden brass knuckles from the case.
The metal fit over his knuckles perfectly, seamless and snug.
The cold sensation crept up the back of his hand, and the heavy weight felt reassuring.
He clenched his fist tightly, his knuckles popping with a series of sharp cracks.
Hughie shrank back, Frenchie having forcibly shoved a sawed-off shotgun into his arms.
Along with a box of custom armor-piercing rounds with dull casings.
"Hold it steady, virgin; a single one of these bullets could buy a building in Manhattan," Frenchie patted Hughie on the shoulder.
Hughie's hand shook, and two bullets fell into the mud; he hurriedly bent down to dig them out of the muck.
"This gun... why is it so much heavier than a normal one?" he muttered.
Two kukri blades traced two arcs through the air.
They landed steadily in Kimiko's hands.
She weighed them in her hands, her thumb brushing over the dark golden blades.
A fire ignited in her pitch-black eyes as she stared fixedly at the Nazi hag opposite her.
Stormfront watched this group distribute equipment right under her nose, the muscles in her face twitching in distortion.
The humiliation of being ignored rushed straight to her head.
"You think you can turn the tables with a few pieces of scrap metal?"
She gritted her teeth, her voice sharp enough to pierce the night wind.
"I'll burn you all to ash, along with that damn box!"
She threw her arms open wide.
Violent purple thunderclouds formed instantly in her palms.
The blinding electric light illuminated half the abandoned wharf in a ghastly white, and the surrounding air was filled with the acrid smell of ozone.
"Die, you sewer maggots!"
She shoved her hands forward violently.
Several purple lightning bolts, as thick as thighs, roared like venomous snakes with gaping maws, striking directly at The Boys.
The air was ionized by the high voltage, crackling and popping.
Hughie squeezed his eyes shut in terror, crouching on the ground with his hands clamped over his head.
He was waiting for death, waiting for that excruciating pain of being roasted alive.
The anticipated high heat and the smell of burning flesh did not appear.
The purple lightning struck Butcher's brass knuckles and Kimiko's kukri blades.
Even the shotgun in Hughie's arms took a hit from a thick arc of electricity.
But that high-voltage current, capable of melting an armored vehicle in an instant, was like a stone dropped into the ocean.
It slid along the surface of the dark golden metal, disappearing completely without a trace.
Not even a single spark of static electricity jumped out.
Hughie opened one eye and touched his arm; not a single hair stood on end.
Stormfront was stunned.
She maintained her forward-pushing posture, her eyes wide enough to split their sockets.
She looked at her palms, then at the few people opposite her, who were completely unharmed.
Her brain was buzzing.
"This is impossible..."
She wouldn't give up, frantically channeling her superpowers.
Her hands whirled like windmills, raining purple lightning down on them.
Vibranium absorbs energy.
This batch of custom equipment rewarded by the system treated the kinetic and electrical energy that Stormfrontwas so proud of as nothing more than a power bank.
The lightning struck them without even making a sound.
Butcher twisted his neck and began to walk forward.
"Is your circus act over?"
He strode forward, his heavy boot soles splashing mud and water in all directions.
A bloodthirsty grin hung on the corner of his mouth.
Stormfront panicked; in over a hundred years of life, this was the first time she felt her superpowers were a joke.
She instinctively wanted to turn into lightning and fly away to create distance.
A dark shadow was faster than her.
Kimiko darted across the ground like a ghost.
The Vibranium kukri in her hand slashed violently from bottom to top.
"Rip."
Her tough black combat suit was sliced clean open.
Stormfront's bulletproof skin was cut open like soft tofu.
A bloody gash, deep enough to see bone, appeared on her calf.
She cried out in pain and stumbled, the lightning she had just gathered at her feet instantly disrupted.
Before she could steady herself.
Butcher was already right in front of her.
He swung his right arm in a full arc, his fist, encased in the Vibranium brass knuckles, whistling through the air as it smashed solidly into her chin.
The dull thud of bone shattering was clearly audible in the night.
Stormfront's super-defense, which could withstand bullets, was as brittle as paper in the face of Vibranium that had absorbed full kinetic energy.
Her jawbone caved in directly.
She spun half a circle in mid-air before crashing heavily into the mud pit.
Mud and water splashed all over her.
A few molars stained with blood were spat out of her mouth, mixed with mud and sand.
"You dare hit me..."
She clutched her deformed lower face, howling incoherently.
She scrambled backward on her hands and feet, her high boots gouging long trenches in the mud.
Kimiko and Butcher closed in from left and right, step by step.
They cornered her into a dead end between two red shipping containers.
Hughie had regained his senses by now, following behind with the shotgun raised.
The muzzle shook as he aimed it at her blood-stained face.
Frenchie twirled a crowbar in his hand, leaning against the shipping container and whistling.
Four mortals without any superpowers.
Had backed a "god" who had lived for over a hundred years, high and mighty, into a desperate situation with no way out.
Stormfront's back pressed against the rusted iron, the cold sensation seeping through her clothes.
The bloodline she was so proud of, her lightning, had all become useless.
Tears mixed with the blood on her face, and that delicate, arrogant face was now filled only with terror.
She was like a stray dog cornered in an alleyway.
Lynn walked slowly out of the shadows, hands in his pockets.
His leather shoes crunched on the ground, stepping on the remaining sparks of electricity, making faint popping sounds.
He walked past Hughie and stopped in front of Stormfront.
He looked down condescendingly at this Nazi remnant kneeling in the mud.
The sea breeze lifted the hem of Lynn's grey suit.
Stormfront looked up, and seeing Lynn's eyes, which were like ice, she began to tremble uncontrollably.
"We... we can talk."
Her tongue pressed against her shattered gums, her speech lisping, her voice trembling.
"I know many of Vought's secrets; I even have dirt on that old Black man... I can help you make money..."
Lynn didn't listen to her nonsense.
He reached out his right hand and snatched the heavy shotgun from Hughie's hands.
He held it level with one hand, the stock pressed against his waist.
He pressed the barrel down.
The cold metal muzzle forced open Stormfront's bleeding mouth.
He shoved it in roughly, knocking out two of her front teeth, and pushed it all the way to her throat.
She let out a gagging whimper, grabbing the barrel with both hands to pull it out, but Lynn's one-handed strength pinned it firmly in place, unmoving.
Lynn lowered his head and leaned toward her ear.
His warm breath hit the woman's mud-caked cheek.
"Your era should have ended a hundred years ago."
Lynn's finger rested on the trigger, his voice light, dissolving into the howling sea breeze.
"Click."
Lynn pulled the trigger.
Chapter 41: Homelander wants to team up with Stormfront? Keep dreaming.
"Bang—!"
The eardrum-shattering sound of a shotgun blast exploded in the corner of the shipping containers.
A blinding ball of orange-red flame spewed from the muzzle.
In that split-second gap.
The night sky overhead was suddenly torn wide open.
A red-and-blue afterimage, accompanied by a piercing sonic boom, crashed down like a meteorite.
The violent airwave, like a tangible iron hammer, smashed fiercely against Lynn's wrist.
The gun barrel was jerked upward by this freakish force, deviating by a fraction.
The thick bullet, loaded with a Vibranium armor-piercing round, grazed Stormfront's upper jawbone and shot out at an angle.
Flesh and blood flew everywhere.
"Aaaaaah—!"
Stormfront writhed frantically in the mud like a catfish out of water.
Her originally arrogant face had now completely turned into a smashed watermelon.
The lower half of her jaw, along with her left ear, had long since flown off somewhere.
Dark red blood mixed with mud, coating her entire neck.
Air whistled through her throat, and the sound she let out was even worse than fingernails scratching a chalkboard.
The airwave swept up flakes of rust from the surface of the shipping containers, sending them flying everywhere.
Lynn narrowed his eyes and took half a step back, his leather shoes crushing a piece of hardened mud.
"Cough, cough... Damn it, what the hell is that?"
Frenchie was blown onto his butt by the wind, clutching the silver briefcase tightly in his arms.
Kimiko, like a startled cat, quickly crouched low, holding her Vibranium machete in front of her chest.
The dust settled.
A man wearing a stars-and-stripes cape hovered half a meter above the muddy puddle.
Homelander.
His iconic blonde hair was as messy as a bird's nest.
The edges of his cape were still stained with the plaster and dark, dried blood from Madelyn's villa.
His chest rose and fell slightly, his heavy breathing audible even from three meters away.
Homelander's originally vacant, unfocused gaze landed on Stormfront on the ground.
Watching the woman struggling in the bloody slush.
Watching these mortals surrounding her.
The snapped string in his brain suddenly reconnected in a twisted, pathological way.
"You're all here to kill her too..."
Homelander landed on the ground, his boots making two clicking sounds.
He tilted his head, a layer of neurotic bloodshot veins appearing in his eyes.
He was now a fugitive wanted nationwide, a stray dog who couldn't even return to his own lair.
And this old hag on the ground just happened to be a rat crossing the street, loathed by the entire internet.
A twisted empathy of shared misfortune fermented wildly in his brain, which was deformed by a lack of love.
"This bunch of ungrateful insects."
Homelander gritted his back teeth and walked toward Stormfront step by step.
"What do they know? We are the gods! It's these mud-legged peasants who are unworthy of us!"
"Bullshit!"
Butcher wiped the black mud from his face and sprang up from the ground.
He gripped his Vibranium brass knuckles tightly, his back teeth grinding loudly.
"You perverted serial killer, I'm sending you to hell along with her today!"
Butcher swung his arms, ready to charge forward.
"Butcher, get down!" Lynn shouted in a deep voice.
Just as the words fell.
Homelander whipped his head around, crimson light instantly igniting in his azure eyes.
"Zzzzt—!"
Two thick beams of Heat Vision swept directly across.
The high temperature made the air crackle and pop.
The red light grazed Butcher's scalp and sliced into the red shipping container behind him.
The thick iron sheet was melted into a large gash as if it were butter, and molten iron dripped onto the ground, emitting white smoke.
The members of The Boys were all forced to hide in the blind spots of the cover.
Hughie clutched his shotgun and huddled behind the iron sheet, his heart beating as if it were going to shatter his ribcage.
Kimiko curled her body into a ball, the reflection on the back of her blade mirroring the vigilance in her eyes.
Homelander didn't pursue them.
He bent down and used his red-gloved hands to scoop up the blood-covered Stormfront.
His movements were surprisingly gentle, as if he were holding a fragile piece of porcelain.
"It's okay now... I'll take you away."
Homelander looked down at the half-dead woman in his arms, the corners of his mouth actually curling into a chillingly gentle smile.
"In this world, only we are of the same kind."
Stormfront twitched in pain, her remaining hand gripping his cape tightly.
A gurgling, wheezing sound came from her throat, and tears mixed with blood smeared onto Homelander's chest.
"Boom!"
Homelander exerted force with his legs, creating a half-meter-deep crater in the muddy ground.
The powerful reaction force carried them both into the sky, breaking through the thick fog over the sea.
In the blink of an eye, they turned into a blurry little red dot, disappearing into the black clouds on the horizon.
The deafening sonic boom gradually faded away, and the sea breeze flooded back into the abandoned wharf.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"
Butcher rushed out from behind the shipping container and kicked a half-brick on the ground, sending it flying.
He was so angry that he punched the iron sheet, shaking off a large patch of rust.
"That son of a bitch flies too fast! We were so close!"
Butcher's chest heaved violently, the bloodshot veins in his eyes threatening to burst.
Having finally encountered his wife's killer, only to watch him get away, felt worse than eating a fly.
Hughie also crawled up from the muddy water, his hands covered in dirty mud.
His hands trembling, he raised the sawed-off shotgun, aiming at the pitch-black night sky, still trying in vain to take aim.
"Bo-Boss, they got away... We're in big trouble now."
Hughie's tongue was tied, his back felt chilly, and he shivered as the cold wind blew.
"Two monsters teaming up... are we even enough to fill the gaps between their teeth?"
A hand reached out from the side and pressed down on Hughie's trembling shotgun barrel.
Lynn brushed the mud spots off his suit cuffs.
His movements were leisurely, and he didn't even frown.
As if the ones who had just escaped before his eyes were nothing more than two house mice stealing cheese.
"What's the panic?"
Lynn adjusted his shirt collar and looked down at his left wrist.
He was wearing a seemingly ordinary black mechanical watch.
He pressed his thumb gently on the knob on the side of the watch face.
"Beep."
The surface of the watch face instantly lit up with a ghostly green light, turning into a miniature radar screen.
In the center of the screen, a small red dot was blinking.
The trajectory of the red dot pointed directly toward the center of Manhattan.
Frenchie leaned over, took a look at the glowing watch face, and opened his mouth wide.
"Merde... Is this a tracker signal? When did you put that on?"
Lynn lowered his wrist, a flash of bloodthirsty coldness crossing his eyes.
When he shoved the gun barrel into Stormfront's mouth earlier, it wasn't just to talk tough.
A micro-capsule tracker had long been hidden in the slot at the front of the gun barrel.
With the propellant force of the shotgun, that capsule had already embedded itself deep into the back wall of the old hag's mangled mouth.
It couldn't be dug out even if she tried.
He turned his head and looked at the exasperated Butcher.
A cold smile curled his lips: "Good riddance, now we can just wipe out the two biggest rats in one go."
Chapter 42: Exposing Stormfront's Identity in Public, the Whole Nation is Shocked
"Wipe them all out?" Butcher leaned his massive head in.
He stared intently at the dial on Lynn's wrist, which was glowing with a faint, eerie green light, not even bothering to brush off the ash that had fallen onto his black leather jacket.
In the center of the screen, the red dot was speeding toward Manhattan at an unnatural pace.
"When I shoved the barrel into that old hag's mouth earlier, I slipped her a micro-tracking capsule."
Lynn pulled his suit cuff down, covering the dial in a leisurely manner.
"The thing has barbs; it's stuck in her tracheal cartilage, and she won't be able to dig it out."
He pulled his phone from his pocket, swiped his thumb across the screen, and dialed Frenchie's channel.
From the other end of the line came the crunching sound of potato chips, mixed with the sharp clacking of a keyboard.
"Frenchie, toss the snacks."
Lynn's dress shoes stepped into a puddle, muddy water splashing onto his pant legs.
"Cut off all TV channels in Manhattan and get ready to take over the giant screens in Times Square and Central Park."
The scene shifted to the open-air plaza in Manhattan's Central Park.
The protesting crowd was like a pot of boiling water.
The stench of sweat and fermented garbage, mixed with the hoarse shouting from loudspeakers, made one's head throb.
Tens of thousands of citizens holding handwritten banners packed the open area so tightly that not even water could trickle through.
"Whoosh—!"
The low-hanging clouds overhead were suddenly torn apart by a violent blast of air.
A red and blue afterimage descended from the sky.
A gale force wind whipped up from the ground, knocking dozens of young men holding signs in the front row into the crowd, stripping away a layer of turf.
Homelander touched down, his boots crushing two marble floor tiles.
He was cradling Stormfront in his arms.
Relying on the Compound V remaining in her system, the woman's face, which had been shredded by shotgun blasts, was rapidly writhing and regenerating.
The newly emerged granulation tissue was a pale pink, pieced together with the charred, curled dead skin nearby, a sight that made one's stomach churn.
Homelander placed Stormfront in the center of the constructed podium.
His perfect face wore his signature fake smile, but the muscles at the corner of his eyes were twitching uncontrollably.
After a night of being hunted, betrayed, and backed into a corner.
He now desperately needed these blind lambs to fill the void where his shattered godhood once stood.
"Listen! My fellow citizens!"
Homelander grabbed the microphone from its stand on the podium, his voice slamming into the crowd through the massive speaker array.
"Vought Corporation has lied to us, and they have lied to you!"
He raised his free hand and pointed at Stormfront beside him.
"But we Supes are not monsters! We are the guardians here to maintain order!"
The crowd below went quiet for a moment.
Then, an even louder burst of boos and jeers erupted.
Half a leftover burger slammed into the podium pillar, splattering cheap mayonnaise everywhere.
The fake smile on Homelander's face froze for half a second, veins bulging on his forehead.
He gritted his teeth, suppressing the urge to use his Heat Vision to slice the ants below into chunks of meat.
"Riots only bring destruction! Only the absolute power of Supes can establish perfect order!"
He raised his volume, his voice drowning out the crowd's insults.
"I, along with Stormfront, will join forces to lead this country toward true evolution!"
Stormfront leaned against the podium pillar, her fingers touching her face where her chin had just half-regenerated.
She grinned at the angry protesters below, revealing a row of blood-stained teeth.
She put on the face of a condescending overlord.
Just as Homelander spread his arms, preparing to welcome the cheers he imagined.
"Bzzzt—"
A piercing screech of microphone feedback exploded over the entire Central Park, making everyone's eardrums ache.
The six giant, multi-story LED billboards surrounding the plaza froze simultaneously.
The screens, which had been playing car commercials, flashed with a massive expanse of black-and-white static.
Then, they went completely black.
The plaza of tens of thousands of people was like someone had hit the mute button; everyone looked up, staring blankly at the black screens overhead.
Two seconds later.
A yellowed, black-and-white vintage photograph popped up without warning, dominating everyone's field of vision.
In the center of the photo was a woman wearing a WWII Nazi uniform.
A glaring swastika badge was pinned to her chest, and she was standing on the skeletal remains of several Black corpses.
The woman was looking up and laughing; the curves of her facial features and the contours of her eyes were identical to the hero on stage named Stormfront—you couldn't find a difference even down to a single strand of hair.
Next to it were a few lines of Gothic German script, with English subtitles thoughtfully added below:
"SS Subject No. 1: Liberty."
Homelander's hands, raised in mid-air, froze.
He turned his neck, following the crowd's gaze toward the nearest giant screen above him.
The photo began to scroll, turning into a grainy color video.
In the footage, Stormfront was wearing 1970s bell-bottoms, toying with purple lightning in her hands.
She pinned a young Black man against a brick wall, the electric light pouring relentlessly into the top of his skull.
The young man convulsed, his eyeballs bursting in their sockets, and his screams pierced through the hundreds of high-powered speakers in the plaza, drilling clearly into everyone's ears.
The date in the bottom right corner of the video was clearly stamped as 1972.
The air in the crowd froze.
No one spoke, no one jeered, and even the sound of breathing was trapped in their lungs.
A girl holding a cola cup loosened her fingers, and the paper cup dropped to the ground.
The brown carbonated drink splashed onto her white canvas shoes.
Stormfront on the stage was completely stunned.
Her face, which had just half-regenerated, was as pale as paper, her legs trembling as she took two steps back.
Her high-heeled boots caught on the microphone cable, and she nearly fell flat on her face.
"No... this isn't real... it's fake news made with computer graphics!"
She waved her hands, arguing incoherently, her voice weak and shaky, unable to even hold a coherent tune.
Cold sweat streamed down her forehead, and she felt like killing someone.
"Dum, dum, dum."
A deafening, rhythmic WWII German military march.
It cut off her pale excuses, pouring out from the speaker arrays in every direction.
That low, oppressive brass music made the hair on the back of everyone's necks stand up in the crowd of tens of thousands.
Tens of thousands of people looked at the old hag on stage with terror in their eyes.
Some began to cover their mouths and retreat, while others were so scared they threw their banners straight into the trash cans.
Homelander stood where he was.
His brain, which wasn't very functional to begin with, couldn't process anything at all at this moment.
He turned his head blankly, looking at this "ally" beside him who had claimed to understand him and wanted to join forces to build a new world.
A Nazi remnant who had lived for over a hundred years?
An absurd feeling of being played for a fool, mixed with the rage of being deceived, made a wave of nauseating acid rise in his stomach.
Just as everything on and off the stage descended into chaos.
"Clack, clack, clack."
A steady sound of dress shoes climbed the wooden steps, one by one.
Lynn, wearing his slightly rumpled gray suit, walked up with his hands in his pockets.
From the very front of the packed crowd, he strolled onto the podium like a man out for a post-dinner walk.
He stopped less than two meters to the side of Homelander.
He reached out his right hand and casually snatched the microphone from the hands of the host, who had long since frozen in fear.
He tapped his fingertips on the microphone's metal mesh, making a "thump-thump" sound check noise.
Lynn turned his head, looking at Homelander, whose eyes were starting to glow red.
A mocking curve, laced with cold contempt, tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Homelander, your eye for picking allies is truly as disgusting as ever."
Chapter 43: That Old Hag Still Dares to Discharge Electricity? Crushing Your Thunder With Bare Hands
"Homelander, your taste in allies is truly as disgusting as ever."
This mocking remark, laced with icy disdain, slammed into the night sky through the hundreds of high-powered speakers in Central Park.
The sound waves caused the leaves of the old elm trees nearby to rustle violently.
In the square filled with tens of thousands of people, not even a single cough could be heard; the dead silence made one's scalp tingle.
Stormfront stared fixedly at the giant LED screen overhead.
Her eyeballs bulged, and the bloodshot whites of her eyes seemed ready to pop out of their sockets.
The Nazi symbols on the black-and-white photos, along with those top-secret massacre files bearing official seals, hit her taut nerves like hammer blows.
The persona of an equality fighter she had painstakingly cultivated shattered into unrecoverable mud.
It was all over.
Those netizens who had been calling her "Queen" just a second ago were now staring at her with the look one reserves for vermin.
A young man wearing a baseball cap dropped the hot dog in his hand.
Mustard squeezed onto the top of his shoe, but he didn't even bother to wipe it off, retreating while trembling.
"This old woman... is a war criminal?"
Stormfront's face, which had just half-healed thanks to Compound V, twisted into a knot.
Freshly sprouted pink granulation tissue crowded together with charred, curled dead skin.
She looked just like a skinned demon that had just crawled out of a hellish frying pan.
Her teeth gnashed, making a grinding sound, and dark red blood seeped from her gums.
Shame, rage, and the embarrassment of having her secrets completely exposed burned away the last shreds of her sanity.
"Shut up... all of you fucking shut up!"
She shrieked like a shrew, her voice cracking like a rusty saw scraping against glass.
She clutched her head with both hands, her fingernails digging into her scalp.
She turned her head; the giant baby draped in the Stars and Stripes next to her was still standing there in a daze.
Homelander's blue eyes were filled with confusion, his jaw slightly agape.
His brain, which didn't usually work very well, hadn't even processed what was happening.
Isn't this woman the same kind of person as me, persecuted by Vought? How did she become an antique from a hundred years ago?
"Get lost!"
Stormfront swung her arm violently, shoving Homelanderin the chest.
Homelander stumbled half a step, crushing a wooden step, and looked at this suddenly insane woman with a face full of astonishment.
Stormfront didn't care about him at all.
She spread her legs, planting them firmly on the wooden boards of the podium.
A non-human, weird screech erupted from her throat; she was forcibly overdrawing the life potential within her body.
Purple light shone from beneath the veins on her neck.
It illuminated that layer of shriveled skin until it became transparent, making even the capillaries inside clearly visible.
"Die! All of you, just die!"
"Zzzzt—Boom!"
Purple thunder, ten times thicker than before, exploded violently from her palms.
This wasn't the static electricity she usually used to scare people.
The violent current, like dozens of giant pythons dancing in a frenzy, instantly engulfed the entire solid wood stage.
The smell of ozone in the air was thick and choking; taking a single breath made one's lungs burn with pain.
The tens of thousands of people under the stage had never seen such a spectacle.
The heat wave hit them in the face, and the eyebrows of several people in the front row were singed and curled.
"Run! This crazy bitch is going to kill us!"
Someone shouted at the top of their lungs, not knowing who it was.
The crowd completely panicked.
Screams, the sound of shoes crushing soda cups, and the muffled thuds of people falling and being trampled all mixed into a boiling pot of chaos.
The metal barricades were pushed over; the riot police didn't even bother with their shields, joining the crowd to squeeze their way out of Central Park.
Stormfront's eyes glowed with dazzling purple light, locked tightly onto Lynn, who was a few steps away.
"Go to hell! You yellow-skinned monkey!"
She pushed her hands forward fiercely.
The thunderstorm, capable of melting several heavy tanks into molten iron, smashed head-on towards Lynn.
The electric light wove into an airtight net of death in mid-air.
It also covered the ordinary civilians huddled together behind Lynn, who were trying to escape, within its range of attack.
The high temperature of the thunderstorm scorched the surrounding air until it twisted and deformed.
The strong wind carried heat waves, mixed with sparks from the charred wooden boards, blowing onto Lynn's face.
Lynn didn't dodge.
He didn't even show the slightest intention of retreating a single inch.
He casually threw the microphone down at his feet.
With a "thud," the microphone rolled down the steps and hit the turf.
Lynn had one hand in his suit pocket.
Facing that blinding purple glare, he slowly lifted his foot.
His leather shoe stepped onto the still-smoking wooden steps of the podium.
One step, two steps.
His posture was as casual as if he were taking a stroll in his own backyard.
Not even the rhythm of his breathing was disrupted in the slightest.
"Crackle!"
The lightning, as thick as a thigh, struck Lynn's shoulder fiercely.
The powerful current surged down his arm, and electric sparks exploded into charred pits on the surrounding floor.
Lynn's cheap gray suit suffered.
The fabric was scorched at the edges by the high heat, emitting a puff of acrid white smoke.
The smell of burning synthetic fiber assaulted his nose.
The cuff turned directly into a pinch of black ash, drifting away with the wind.
But his seemingly ordinary skin didn't even develop a red mark.
The Kryptonian's physique of steel treated this high-voltage electricity of tens of thousands of volts as nothing more than a therapeutic scraping massage.
Even the few loose hairs on his forehead weren't made to stand up by the static electricity.
"This... impossible..."
Stormfront maintained her forward-pushing posture, her eyeballs nearly falling out onto the stage.
Her tongue was tied, and even her voice was floating.
She desperately squeezed out every last drop of energy from her cells.
The purple light was blindingly bright, cracking her own fingernails.
Beads of blood had just emerged from her fingertips when they were instantly evaporated into red blood mist by the electric light.
But the man in the suit opposite her was still walking up unhurriedly.
He was even distracted enough to pat down his turned-up collar.
"Is that all you've got?"
Lynn stepped onto the last step.
He stood firmly less than half an arm's length away from Stormfront.
He lowered his head and glanced at his suit cuff, which was still smoking.
His brows furrowed slightly, and he pouted with a hint of disgust.
"It'll have to be dry-cleaned now that it's dirty."
Lynn muttered to himself.
Stormfront was scared out of her wits.
The switch in her brain that represented her being a high-and-mighty god had completely short-circuited.
She wanted to shrink back, wanted to turn into lightning and fly away.
But her legs felt like they were filled with lead, nailed firmly to the wooden boards, unable to move even a fraction.
Lynn raised his free right hand.
The movement didn't look fast at all, yet it accurately pierced through that airtight thunderstorm.
His five fingers spread out like steel bars.
He grabbed the old hag's right wrist, which was still crazily spewing lightning.
The moment their skin made contact.
All the purple light was extinguished instantly, like a cigarette butt stamped out by a foot.
The violent current didn't even cause a splash in Lynn's palm.
All that remained in the air was the lingering, pungent smell of burning, and the chaotic noise of the crowd fleeing in the distance.
Stormfront looked at Lynn's expressionless face, which was inches away.
Fear, like a bucket of ice water, rushed from her tailbone straight to the top of her skull.
Goosebumps rose all over her body, layer upon layer.
"You... what exactly are you..."
Her lips trembled, her teeth clattering with a faint sound as she spat out a few shaky syllables.
The corners of Lynn's mouth curled up.
He pulled his wrist in sharply, his five fingers suddenly exerting force.
"Snap!"
A crisp sound of bone cracking, amplified by the residual pickup effect of the lapel microphone, traveled far and wide.
It rudely interrupted the woman's nonsense.
Stormfront's wrist bones, ulna, and fascia were crushed into fragments by this unreasonable monster strength.
Her entire right hand twisted into an unnatural ninety-degree angle.
White, jagged bone shards pierced through her black combat suit, exposed to the cold wind.
"Ahhh—!"
The pain made her knees go weak, and she knelt directly on the marble stage.
Tears and snot gushed out, smearing all over her ugly face.
Lynn looked down at her eyes, which were filled with terror.
His voice was so cold it felt like it was dropping ice shards.
"A pile of dead batteries, and you dare to shine in front of me?"
Chapter 44: Live Streaming Crushing Stormfront, Harvesting One Million Fear Points
"Crack!" The crisp sound of a wrist bone shattering traveled through the miniature microphone on Lynn's collar and directly into the hundreds of high-power speakers in Times Square.
The sound waves swept overhead, shaking the leaves of the old elm trees in Central Park until they fluttered down.
A shrill, off-key scream erupted from Stormfront's throat.
Her right hand, which had just been glowing with purple light, instantly went limp, hanging by her waist like a dead snake with its tendons pulled out.
The violent lightning gathered in her palm fizzled out completely.
The air was filled with the stench of burnt flesh and protein, mixed with the salty tang of the sea breeze.
"You... you dare break my hand..."
She was sweating cold beads of sweat from the pain, her mascara running down the creases by the corners of her eyes.
Gritting her bloodied back teeth, she stubbornly raised her left hand, fingers curling into claws, still trying to scratch at Lynn's suit collar.
Lynn didn't even blink.
He jammed his left leg forward, precisely locking behind her knee.
Using the momentum from the twist of his waist and hips, he swung his right hand, the back of it striking like a heavy iron weight.
It slammed solidly into her chin, which had only just half-healed thanks to the serum.
"Bang!"
A spray of broken teeth and blood erupted from her mouth, splattering onto the marble platform.
Stormfront's head buzzed, and her ears rang.
Her knees gave way, and with a heavy thud, her two-hundred-plus pounds of weight collapsed, kneeling before Lynn.
Her kneecaps left two white marks on the marble slab, causing it to crack with fine lines.
Lynn took the opportunity to raise his mud-stained leather shoe.
With a heavy sense of oppression, the sole of his shoe stepped ruthlessly onto the back of her head.
He ground his ankle down with force.
He pressed that once-arrogant, haughty face firmly against the rough stone floor, grinding it mercilessly.
Several news broadcasting drones hovering in mid-air zoomed their lenses to the limit.
The red recording indicator lights flashed frantically.
Without a single pixel of censorship, this scene was broadcast in high-definition, unedited, onto tens of millions of screens across the United States.
In a basement in Brooklyn.
Frenchie stared at the monitor, stuffing a handful of potato chips into his mouth, the sound of his chewing alarmingly loud.
"G-good job, Boss! Crush this Nazi hag to death!"
Hughie clutched his shotgun, huddled in his chair, his eyes wide as saucers.
"God... the Boss actually has her under his foot. That's a monster from The Seven."
He swallowed a mouthful of dry saliva, his palms soaked with sweat.
The chat streams on major live broadcasting platforms had stalled for a few seconds due to the Nazi scandal.
Now, they were flooding the screen like an avalanche.
Dense white text and garbled characters completely blocked the live feed.
"Nice stomp! Kill this war criminal!"
"Who is this guy in the suit? He's not even afraid of lightning. Was he sent by God?"
"Vought Corporation, give me back my hard-earned money! Get this bunch of man-made trash off the planet!"
The tens of thousands of protesters below the stage were also stunned.
The crowd, which had just been fleeing in all directions, stopped in their tracks, craning their necks to watch the scene on the high stage.
Meanwhile, on the stage.
Standing a few meters away, Homelander's breathing rhythm was completely disrupted.
His eyes, which had originally been glowing with red light, had now shrunk into tiny black dots.
His gaze was locked firmly on the leather shoes Lynn was using to step on someone's head.
His golden hair was blown into a mess by the night wind.
His ten fingers, clad in red gloves, were trembling uncontrollably.
He looked at the "ally" who, just a second ago, had been chatting and laughing with him, spouting theories about superhuman evolution.
Now, that person was being stepped on like a dead dog, unable to even lift her head.
A chill, like shards of ice, shot up Homelander's spine, straight to the back of his head.
Since he was born into this world, this was the first time he had smelled the stench of death.
The man in the gray suit hadn't used laser eyes or supersonic speed.
With nothing but pure physical strength, he had pinned a super-human capable of discharging electricity to the ground, treating her like a floor rag.
"No... this is impossible..."
Homelander's lips went pale, and he took a half-step back, his high boots creaking as they stepped on broken wooden boards.
His god-like invincibility, which he took such pride in, cracked at this very moment.
[Ding.]
In Lynn's mind, that familiar mechanical voice rang out frantically, like firecrackers going off.
[Detected intense emotional fluctuation from target 'Homelander'.]
[Fear Points + 5000.]
[Fear Points + 10000.]
The notifications didn't stop; instead, they became increasingly frequent.
[Superhumans watching the live stream globally are experiencing panic; Fear Point pool is stacking massively...]
Those cape-wearing freaks, usually so high and mighty, were watching the stream from their mansions or bars.
Seeing one of their own being ground into the ground by a mortal, their sense of superiority shattered completely.
Panic spread like a plague along the internet cables, into the hearts of everyone who had been injected with Compound V.
The numbers on the edge of his retina jumped frantically.
One hundred thousand.
Three hundred thousand.
Six hundred thousand.
Stormfront, beneath his foot, was still making her final struggle.
Her cheek, half of its skin ground away, was pressed against the cold floor tiles, tears mixing with dust into a clump of black mud.
"Don't... let me go..."
The old hag finally realized the reality of the situation, squeezing out a wheezing plea for mercy.
Her usual arrogance and domineering attitude were long gone, god knows where.
"I have money in the bank... I have eighty million saved in Switzerland... I'll give it all to you, I'll give you everything..."
Her only remaining left hand clawed desperately at the marble crevices.
Her fingernails were completely torn back, bleeding dark red blood that dragged into streaks on the tiles.
Lynn looked down at her bloodshot eyes.
There was no warmth in his eyes; it was like looking at a bag of trash about to be thrown into an incinerator.
"Save it to buy hell money down there."
Lynn's voice was very soft, drifting into the woman's ears on the cold wind.
He slowly raised his right foot.
The Fear Point counter on the edge of his retina just passed nine hundred and ninety thousand, breaking through the one million mark.
"Bang!"
The hard heel of his shoe, carrying immense force, stomped precisely onto Stormfront's seventh cervical vertebra.
With a dull "snap."
Her neck bone, like a crispy twist, was snapped on the spot by this monstrous force.
Stormfront's limbs twitched violently once.
Her eyes rolled back, and a short, wheezing gasp escaped her throat.
Her body went limp against the floor tiles, and she stopped moving completely.
A pool of viscous blood slowly seeped through the cracks in the stone slabs into the soil below.
The Nazi old hag, who had lived for over a hundred years and had blood-stained hands, died just like that, under the sole of an unknown PR executive's shoe.
The surrounding air seemed to freeze.
The protesters below the stage forgot to shout, each of them with their mouths open, gasping for breath.
The reporters holding cameras forgot to press the shutter, their lenses locked firmly on the motionless female corpse.
Lynn took out that checkered handkerchief and disdainfully wiped the few drops of blood that had splattered onto his shoe.
He casually threw the bloodied cloth onto the corpse.
[Ding!]
Deep in his mind, the system's final notification drowned out the wind outside.
[Fear Points have broken through the one million mark!]
[God-level prize pool has been opened for you.]
[Current status of host detected. Would you like to draw immediately?]
Lynn's right hand, which he had tucked back into his pocket, curled slightly.
His fingertips rubbed against the fabric of his suit lining.
He raised his eyelids and glanced at Homelander, who was standing beside him, stiff all over and retreating step by step.
The panic on the golden-haired man-child's face could no longer be hidden.
A cruel smile curled the corners of his lips as Lynn stared at Homelander's face.
He exhaled a breath of stale air and whispered a single word.
"Draw."