Chapter 45: God-Tier Draw, Acquired Superman's Heat Vision
"Draw."
The moment the command fell into the depths of his consciousness.
A dazzling burst of golden light exploded in Lynn's mind.
The brightness made his nerves tremble, even causing his eardrums to ache faintly.
Immediately after, a huge, ancient, phantom roulette wheel appeared out of thin air.
The edge of the wheel was carved with obscure patterns, and the pointer began to spin crazily, whipping up a phantom wind.
The golden afterimages blurred into one.
Lynn slowed his breathing, letting the pointer "click-clack" as it skipped over the glowing squares.
The rotation speed finally slowed down little by little.
It brushed past a shield with stars, passed over a hammer engraved with runes.
Finally, it stopped steadily on a square marked with a scarlet "S" logo.
A mechanical voice sounded, carrying a flat, cold, and hard texture.
[Congratulations, Host, you have acquired a max-level ability: Kryptonian Heat Vision (No CD / No Side Effects Version).]
As the voice faded.
Two scorching streams of energy flowed along the optic nerves and poured directly into Lynn's eye sockets.
His eyeballs felt like they were soaked in boiling magma, and the burning sensation burned all the way into his cerebral cortex along his retinas.
He didn't feel pain; instead, he felt a thrilling sensation as if the power was about to burst his blood vessels.
The capillaries around his eye sockets throbbed uncontrollably.
Deep within his pupils, a layer of unsettling dark red halo surged quietly, like two active volcanoes suppressing magma.
His consciousness returned to reality; less than half a second had passed in his surroundings.
The sensation under his feet was still a bit mushy.
Stormfront's corpse, with its broken cervical spine, was twitching reflexively.
The black leather boots, stained with muddy water, kicked the floor tiles powerlessly, making a harsh friction sound.
Then it stopped moving completely.
A pool of dark red blood overflowed from her collapsed face, slowly creeping along the gaps in the marble.
The air was filled with the smell of ozone scorched by lightning, mixed with the salty, fishy scent of fresh blood.
Tens of thousands of protesters below the stage were dead silent; not even a cough could be heard.
The news broadcast drone in mid-air buzzed with its rotors, its red recording light flashing non-stop.
Lynn lowered his eyelids slightly and casually ground his shoe tip on the pile of minced meat.
His sole was stained with blood, and he lifted his leg in disgust.
The leather shoe left the corpse and stepped onto the clean floor beside it, making a crisp "clack" sound.
A few steps away.
Homelander still maintained that posture of dodging backwards.
His iconic Stars and Stripes cape was blown by the night wind, wrapped around his calves, looking somewhat ridiculous.
His blonde hair was stuck to his forehead by sweat, and his nostrils flared violently.
He was gulping down the cold air that carried the smell of blood.
His gaze was nailed tightly to Stormfront's limp neck.
That peer who had just been spouting wild words, wanting to establish a new order with him.
Had now turned into a piece of squashed rotten meat.
The heart in his chest, which usually beat steadily, was now like a leaking broken drum, thumping against his ribs.
Homelander swallowed a mouthful of dry saliva.
His Adam's apple slid up and down, scraping painfully.
Cold sweat trickled down his temples, dripping onto his red rubber gloves, shattering into several pieces.
He was a god.
He was the most perfect crystal created in the laboratories of Vought Corporation, the only existence on this planet that didn't need to look up at anyone.
Bullets couldn't pierce him, and bombs couldn't hurt him.
But what about now?
His lofty sense of superiority as a god had been crushed together with Stormfront's skull by this man in the grey suit in front of him.
Afraid?
Was he actually afraid of a mortal?
The moment this humiliating thought emerged, it was like a red-hot iron skewer.
It stabbed fiercely into Homelander's fragile nerves.
He looked down at his trembling hands, his complexion instantly turning from pale to iron-blue.
Fear was swallowed by a twisted rage.
"Ah... urgh, aaaaah!"
A suppressed low roar rolled from his throat, and his facial muscles pulled to the sides like a cramp.
That handsome face was completely distorted, hideous like a mad dog backed into a dead end.
He couldn't accept that he would feel such a low-level emotion as trembling.
He could only use rage to cover up the cowardice in his bones.
Lynn turned his head slowly.
His gaze swept over lightly, locking directly onto the caped freak who was having a fit.
He reached out to undo the last button of his suit collar, his knuckles cracking as he flexed them.
"What?"
Lynn pulled up the corners of his mouth, his tone carrying a careless mockery.
"Can't bear to part with your new ally? Want to go down and join her?"
This sentence became the final spark that ignited the powder keg.
Homelander's teeth chattered, and blood seeped from his gums.
"Shut up..."
His muscles bulged all over, his Stars and Stripes suit stretched tight, as if it would rip at any moment.
His fists were clenched tightly, nails digging into the fibers of his gloves.
"You... disgusting bug!"
He roared at the top of his lungs, spittle flying in the night wind.
"Go to hell!!!"
Along with this roar.
The capillaries around Homelander's eyes bulged, and his eyeballs were instantly filled with thick scarlet.
"Zzzzt—"
The air was instantly torn apart by the terrifying high temperature.
Two bucket-thick scarlet laser beams, carrying scorching heat waves capable of slicing through aircraft carrier armor.
Shot straight towards Lynn's head.
The red light illuminated the entire night sky of Central Park like daylight, the ear-piercing roar of energy drowning out all other noises.
The heat wave dried up the blood on the ground, emitting a pungent white smoke.
The crowd below the stage covered their eyes in fear, terrified of seeing the gruesome sight of a head melting.
Lynn didn't dodge even half an inch.
His hands were still leisurely in his trouser pockets, his leather shoes stepping steadily on the shattered marble.
He lifted his chin slightly, facing that deadly red light.
The dark red light that had been brewing in his eyes for a long time suddenly exploded deep within his pupils.
Chapter 46: Homelander is Jealous, Why Do You Have Heat Vision Too?
Two dark red, high-temperature beams, like magma bursting through the earth's crust, erupted directly from the depths of Lynn's pupils.
In mid-air, they slammed solidly into the crimson Heat Vision shot by Homelander.
The piercing sound of energy tearing apart sounded like tens of thousands of rusty chainsaws cutting through steel plates simultaneously.
A bright light flashed.
The two terrifying, high-temperature beams locked together tightly, neither giving an inch.
A visible ring of shockwaves exploded at the intersection point, whistling as it rippled outwards.
The towering old elm trees nearby were uprooted by the shockwave, their trunks catching fire in mid-air before crashing into the lawn in the distance.
The marble floor tiles on the podium could not withstand this temperature at all.
The stone surface melted instantly, turning into pools of rolling, dark red magma.
Hissing with white smoke, the muddy water was instantly evaporated.
Stormfront's body, not yet cold, happened to be within the range of impact; her flesh curled and withered, emitting a nauseating smell of charred corpse.
The smell of scorched stone mixed with the pungent odor of ozone, making one's lungs ache.
Homelander gritted his teeth tightly, the veins on his neck bulging like green snakes ready to burst.
He had originally expected that this glance would split the bastard in the suit in half.
He had even visualized the scene of his intestines being scorched and falling to the ground.
But now, the situation was completely wrong.
His crimson beam collided with Lynn's pillar of light, like hitting an impassable, high-dimensional wall.
Not only did the beam fail to advance even half an inch, but it was actually being pushed back.
"This... how is this possible!"
Homelander stared fixedly ahead, a wheezing roar squeezing out of his throat.
The capillaries around his eye sockets couldn't withstand the pressure of the high temperature and burst one by one.
Threads of blood crawled down from the corners of his eyes, flowing into the laugh lines at the corners of his mouth.
The muscles on his face twitched crazily, and jealousy, like a venomous insect with teeth, gnawed at his nerves.
Heat Vision—that was his unique trademark!
It was the exclusive authority bestowed upon him, a god among men, by the Creator!
Why? Why could a PR rat crawling out of a sewer also shoot Heat Vision?
Moreover, the opponent's beam was clearly deeper in color and thicker!
That dark red light carried a heavy pressure capable of destroying a galaxy.
This sense of deprivation was driving him mad.
The protesters under the podium had long since scrambled to escape.
Shoes were left scattered everywhere, and the screams were completely drowned out by the noise of the beams clashing.
Several news broadcast helicopters in mid-air were tossed about by the rising heat currents from below.
The pilots desperately pulled on the control sticks, the propellers emitting an overwhelmed roar.
High-definition cameras, through the windshields, broadcasted the scene of these two heaven-defying beams clashing to hundreds of millions of screens around the world.
In the basement in Brooklyn.
The potato chip Frenchie had just stuffed into his mouth fell back into the bag, scattering crumbs across the table.
His wrist trembled, knocking over an empty beer bottle at the corner of the table.
The glass bottle rolled onto the floor, hitting the corner of the wall and shattering into pieces.
"G-good god... not only is the Boss immune to electricity, but he can also shoot fire from his eyes?"
Frenchie's tongue was tied in knots, breaking his sentence into several pieces.
He hammered on the keyboard a few times, pulling up the satellite temperature monitoring map.
On the screen, the area of Central Park, the color block representing the temperature turned deep red, literally off the charts.
"Three thousand degrees... four thousand degrees... damn it, is this meter broken!"
The cooling fan in the computer case spun so fast it was about to take off, emitting a strange whirring sound.
Hughie gripped the back of his chair tightly, his fingernails scratching white marks into the wood.
"I always thought he only knew how to punch people; what kind of god is this..."
Butcher spat out the chewed-up cigar in his mouth, his brows knitting into a tight knot.
He didn't say a word, his rough fingers unconsciously rubbing against his pant leg.
A trace of wariness flashed in the old soldier's eyes as he stared fixedly at the figure on the screen whose tie wasn't even ruffled.
The scene cut back to Central Park.
Homelander's legs began to tremble uncontrollably.
The anti-slip treads on the soles of his leather boots were melted by the scorching floor tiles, pulling stickily.
His pride-and-joy leg muscles were spasming from the excessive exertion.
His breathing became as heavy as a bellows, his chest heaving violently.
He felt like his eyeballs were about to be roasted.
A stinging pain like needle pricks shot through his optic nerves, causing the back of his head to throb.
The sweat beads on his forehead were instantly evaporated by the heat wave in front of his face as soon as they appeared.
Even a few strands of his iconic blond hair were scorched, curling and turning yellow.
But he couldn't stop, and he didn't dare to stop.
The moment he eased up, that dark red beam of light from the opposite side would pierce right through his head.
He felt that his superpower was like a water tank hitting the bottom.
Usually, he could drown people just by turning on the tap.
Now, encountering a bottomless ocean, his small stock was simply not enough.
"Aaaah!"
A beast-like roar rolled out of Homelander's throat, his spit spraying into the air and turning into white smoke.
He frantically squeezed the remaining Compound V in his blood vessels, his heart pounding in his chest as if it were going to break his ribs.
Even if he had to overdraw the lifespan of this body, he had to burn the imposter opposite him to ashes!
"This is my power!"
His face was twisted, blood dripping down his chin and splashing into blood blossoms beside his boots.
"Only I am a god! What kind of thing are you!"
Small flames ignited on the edge of his Stars and Stripes cape, and he didn't even have a spare moment to reach out and pat them out.
Facing this hysterical rage, Lynn didn't even move a step.
His polished leather shoes stood steadily on the edge of the bubbling magma nearby.
Even though the rubber on the soles was baked slightly soft, it didn't affect his rooted stance.
His hands were still in the same old position, casually tucked into his suit trousers pockets.
He didn't even touch his suit buttons.
His eyes remained as calm as water, and his breathing rhythm showed no sign of being disrupted at all.
To him, this Heat Vision was as natural as drinking water or breathing.
It didn't require any Compound V to catalyze it, nor was there any concept of running out of energy.
The dark red light in his pupils became increasingly bright.
The diameter of the light beam expanded by a circle at a speed visible to the naked eye.
The color was so deep it seemed to be devouring the surrounding light sources, and even the crackling sound of molecules breaking could be heard in the air.
The intersection point of the two rays was steadily pushing forward toward Homelander, inch by inch.
Listening to Homelander's cracked, roaring shout.
Lynn lifted his eyelids slightly, his lips curling into a scornful smile laced with cold contempt.
"Your power?"
His Adam's apple rolled up and down, and he spat out a bland, mocking remark.
Lynn stared at that face full of blood and jealousy.
"Then let me show you what a genuine crackdown looks like."
Chapter 47: Beam Clash! Homelander's Heat Vision is Suppressed.
As the words fell, a ring of dark red light flared violently in Lynn's eyes.
There was no charging, no wasted movement.
The violent Heat Vision, originating from Krypton, saw its core temperature skyrocket, doubling instantly.
The beam, originally only as thick as a fist, expanded to more than twice its size in an instant.
The air was torn apart by the intense heat.
It emitted a screeching sound, like thick canvas being ripped apart, which was incredibly grating to the ears.
The two beams collided violently in mid-air.
The blinding orb of light at the point of intersection, which had originally been hovering right between the two of them, began to move.
The dark red beam carried an unreasonable dominance.
With overwhelming force, it pushed against the blood-red laser, inching forward toward Homelander.
The speed was not fast, but it carried the dull, oppressive feeling of a steamroller crushing an ant.
The heatwave exploded above the podium, creating a visible ring of airflow.
The gale swept past, setting the crowns of the old elm trees at the edge of the square on fire, and the withered leaves were burned to ash in mid-air.
"Sizzle—"
The marble floor tiles beneath their feet could not withstand this temperature.
The originally hard stone surface melted directly into a pool of boiling, dark red magma.
The plastic casings of several loudspeakers still in operation melted from the heat, dripping onto the ground.
The non-slip treads on the soles of Homelander's leather boots softened.
The rubber stuck to the scorching stone, pulling out several black strands of goo and emitting a pungent, foul odor.
He planted his feet firmly in a horse stance, pressing his knees down.
The muscles in his calves were tensed to the limit, causing even his pants, patterned with the Stars and Stripes, to pull into rigid creases.
"Ugh..."
Homelander let out a wheezing roar from his throat, his teeth grinding together with a clicking sound.
He felt the resistance increase exponentially.
His laser vision, which he took such pride in, was being ruthlessly pushed back, like trying to hold up an iron plate with a toothpick.
There was a burning pain around his eye sockets as if they were being scorched through.
His optic nerves felt as though someone were stabbing them with red-hot iron skewers through his eye sockets, making his brain throb with pain.
Compound V surged wildly in his bloodstream, attempting to repair the damaged blood vessels in his eyes.
But the rate of destruction far outpaced the healing.
Two lines of blood flowed from the corners of his eyes, tracing down his cheeks.
Before they could drip to his chin, they were dried up by the thousands-of-degrees heatwave rushing toward him, leaving only two dark black scabs on his skin.
In the basement in Brooklyn, Frenchie stared at the computer screen, the half-bottle of vodka in his hand suspended in mid-air.
"Merde... The—the temperature sensor on the radar probe just burned through."
He stammered, reaching out to slap the smoking computer case twice.
The red warning boxes on the screen flickered wildly before the screen went black.
Hughie gripped the back of the chair, his fingernails digging into the seams of the wood.
He stared at the live feed on another monitor, swallowing a mouthful of dry saliva.
"That fake Superman... is about to lose."
Butcher spat out the chewed-up cigar in his mouth, his brow furrowed into a tight knot.
He didn't say a word, his rough fingers unconsciously rubbing against his pant leg, staring intensely at the back on the screen, whose tie hadn't even been ruffled.
The scene returned to Central Park.
The dark red beam had pushed to within a meter of Homelander.
The scorching heat baked his blonde hair until it curled and turned yellow.
Homelander was afraid.
For the first time in all his years, he smelled the scent of his own flesh about to be roasted.
That sense of superiority, of being above all living beings, was being burned to ash bit by bit by this high temperature.
He did not understand.
This was his most prized, exclusive divine power.
It was the authority granted to him by the Creator.
How could an Asian man who didn't even wear a bodysuit also shoot lasers?
And be stronger than him?
Jealousy, like a venomous worm with teeth, gnawed at his brain nerves.
"This is my power!"
Homelander's face twisted, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth and splattering near his boots.
He desperately squeezed the power within his body, not caring about overdrawing his physical limits.
"Only I am a god!!!"
The roar hadn't even faded before the cowardice in his bones overcame his ridiculous pride.
He couldn't win; he would die.
This thought exploded in his brain.
He twisted his neck violently, intending to cut off the connection of his Heat Vision.
He wanted to use the explosive power in his legs to shoot into the night sky and dodge this deadly red light.
But he overestimated his speed.
And he underestimated the ruthlessness of the man opposite him.
Homelander's toes had barely left the ground by half an inch.
The dark red beam in Lynn's eyes seemed to have eyes of its own; without the slightest pause, it instantly changed its trajectory.
Like a maggot on a bone, it locked onto his moving form.
"Sshh—"
The blinding, high-temperature ray swept directly across his chest.
That special Stars and Stripes suit, which claimed to be impenetrable even by armor-piercing bullets, was no better than paper.
The fabric was instantly ignited and melted.
The scorching synthetic material turned into a gelatinous substance, sticking firmly to the skin beneath.
Immediately after, the dark red beam pierced through the obstruction and cut solidly into his fair chest.
The stench of burning flesh, mixed with the toxic smoke of chemical fibers, suddenly spread.
The skin on Homelander's chest instantly carbonized.
The fat and muscle underneath were burned into a charred, gaping hole.
The flesh curled outward, sizzling with grease, and the charred ribs were vaguely visible.
The piercing, excruciating pain tore through his nerves.
"Argh—!!!"
Homelander opened his mouth wide, letting out a shrill, cracking scream.
His voice was filled with a crying tone, as miserable as a slaughtered pig.
The tremendous impact of the beam slammed into him without reservation.
His feet left the ground.
Like a broken sack hit head-on by a heavy truck, he flew backward.
His body traced a pathetic parabola in mid-air.
He smashed through two lampposts at the edge of the square, the glass covers shattering all over the ground.
Sparks flew everywhere.
"Boom!"
Homelander's back slammed heavily against the bronze general statue in the center of the square.
The multi-ton bronze base was smashed to pieces by this freakish force.
The horse's head on the upper half of the statue snapped in two with a crack.
Carrying tons of weight, it crashed into the muddy ground.
Gravel and copper fragments flew everywhere, clattering against the wooden benches nearby.
Dust and smoke rose several meters high at the scene, blocking out most of the moonlight.
The red light in Lynn's eyes slowly faded away, returning to its original deep blue.
He lowered his head and glanced at his grey suit.
One of the buttons on the chest had been melted by the heatwave, and the fabric carried a foul, burnt smell.
The tie had long since turned to ash.
He reached out and took off the ruined jacket, tossing it casually onto the steaming floor tiles.
Beneath it was a still-clean white shirt.
From the ruins came a few heartbreaking coughs.
Homelander lay in the pile of rubble, spitting out mouthfuls of blood foam mixed with dust.
He propped himself up with his trembling arms, crawling miserably out of the mud and copper slag.
The charred, gaping hole in his chest made him gasp in pain.
He raised a hand wearing a red glove, hovering it over the wound, not even daring to touch it.
His fingertips were trembling violently.
His blonde hair was plastered to his forehead with mud and sweat.
He looked up, his eyes devoid of the arrogance from just moments ago.
Filled with terror and disbelief, he stared intensely at the direction of the podium.
Lynn stood there unharmed.
Not even the arc of his hair was ruffled.
Lynn strode forward with his long legs, his leather shoes stepping on the scorching stone steps.
One step.
Two steps.
He walked down the steps slowly.
His leather shoes crunched over the broken bricks, making a crisp sound.
He raised his right hand and casually rotated his wrist twice.
The joints rubbed together, making a few crisp cracks.
Lynn stopped a few steps away from the ruins.
He looked coldly at the panting, scum of a Superman kneeling on the ground.
"Can't take it anymore?"
Lynn tilted his head, his voice piercing through the night wind and drifting over.
A mocking smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You were shouting quite happily just a moment ago, weren't you?"
Chapter 48: Rubbing Homelander Against the Wall, What Kind of God Are You?
"Can't take it anymore?"
Lynn tilted his head.
His voice cut through the night wind, crossing the scorched and glowing stone slabs scattered across the ground, and drifted over.
"You were screaming quite happily just a moment ago, weren't you?"
These mocking words swirled over the empty Central Park.
Carried by the night wind, they sounded exceptionally harsh.
Homelander lay prone in the ruins of a bronze statue.
The bowl-sized, charred, bloody hole in his chest was emitting an unpleasant white smoke.
The smell of roasted fat mixed with the stench of burning synthetic fibers drilled straight into his nostrils.
The scent made him nauseous.
He opened his mouth wide, desperately gulping air into his lungs.
A sound like a broken bellows wheezed from his throat; with every breath, the torn flesh in his chest throbbed with tearing pain.
Having lived for over thirty years, he had never even feared the tip of a needle.
Today was the first time he had truly tasted the sensation of his flesh being burned through.
Four or five news broadcasting drones circled tirelessly in mid-air.
The red recording lights flashed rhythmically.
High-definition lenses captured Homelander's pathetic, beaten-dog appearance with crystal clarity.
In a basement in Brooklyn.
The half-eaten pizza in Hughie's hand dropped to the concrete floor, cheese sticking everywhere.
He stood with his mouth half-open, forgetting to chew, staring at the screen and swallowing hard.
"The Boss… the Boss burned a hole through that caped freak's chest?"
Frenchie held an empty bottle in his hand, forgetting to pour it into his mouth.
A drop of undrunk vodka splashed onto his pant leg.
"Holy shit, if this news gets out, Vought Tower will have its foundations dug up by tonight."
Butcher stared intently at the screen, rubbing his rough hands against the seams of his pants.
His palms were covered in a layer of cold sweat.
He had originally thought Lynn was just a crazy PR agent with some superpowers.
Now, it seemed clear that this was simply a monster wearing human skin.
In the ruins of Central Park.
Homelander kept his head lowered, his blonde hair matted against his forehead by sweat and bloodstains.
He heard the protesting crowd, who had originally been fleeing for their lives, stop in their tracks a few hundred meters away.
No one was shouting his name, and no one was cheering.
There was only dead silence, punctuated by a few irrepressible gasps and whispers.
Those ants were watching him as a joke.
This kind of look made him go even more insane than the wound in his chest.
"Shut up... you trash, all of you, shut the hell up!"
He pushed himself up with both hands against the scattered bronze debris, swaying as he stood.
His leather boots crunched on the gravel.
His face, originally handsome and flawless, was now twisted, his features contorted together.
His teeth gnashed together, his gums bleeding, the blood flowing through the gaps in his teeth down to his chin.
The capillaries around his eye sockets had burst, and the whites of his eyes were terrifyingly red.
But he couldn't unleash his Heat Vision now.
His optic nerves felt as if they had been pierced by a red-hot iron; the moment he tried to channel his power, the pain made his vision go black.
It didn't matter; he still had his pride-worthy monstrous strength.
The strength to lift a Boeing airliner with one hand and punch through the armor of a main battle tank.
In hand-to-hand combat, he could still smash this bastard in the white shirt into meat paste!
"Ahhhhhh!"
A hysterical roar rolled from Homelander's throat.
Spittle flew in the wind.
He stomped hard against the ground.
"Boom!"
The soil and gravel beneath his feet instantly exploded into a basin-sized crater.
Several hundred-pound bronze statue fragments nearby were sent flying by the reaction force.
He transformed into a sonic boom afterimage.
The white shockwave created by tearing through the air dragged a long, cone-shaped tail behind him.
He covered the distance of tens of meters in less than a tenth of a second.
A gale whipped up from the ground, causing the hem of Lynn's white shirt to flap violently.
Leveraging the kinetic energy of his supersonic charge.
He swung his right arm in a full arc, his fist whistling with a piercing sonic shriek, hurtling straight toward Lynn's face.
The force of this punch was enough to snap a ten-story building in half.
In his mind, he had already envisioned the image of Lynn's head exploding like a watermelon.
A flash of twisted fanaticism crossed his eyes.
Lynn stood his ground, not retreating even half a step.
On that expressionless face, he didn't even raise an eyelid.
He only performed one motion.
He pulled his left hand from his suit pocket, fingers splayed, and casually raised it to meet the blurred, lightning-fast fist.
"Clang—!"
A terrifying, deafening boom that could rupture eardrums exploded between them.
It sounded like a heavy armor-piercing hammer slamming hard against a solid titanium alloy plate dozens of meters thick.
The sound was dull and heavy.
A visible circle of white shockwaves spread wildly outward from where they clashed.
The marble fragments and soil on the ground were swept away by this shockwave, as if the ground itself were being scraped away.
The ground beneath Lynn's feet collapsed with a boom, cracking into dozens of spiderweb-like fissures.
But he himself stood like a steel spike welded deep into the Earth's crust.
His knees didn't even bend.
The soles of his shoes were nailed firmly into the shattered stone slabs, not moving an inch.
Homelander's manic laughter froze on his face.
He felt as if his fist hadn't struck a human hand.
Instead, it was like slamming into a solid asteroid with supersonic kinetic energy.
"Crack."
Several crisp sounds of bone breaking were particularly jarring amidst the roaring aftermath.
The finger bones of Homelander's right hand, clad in a red glove, could not withstand this terrifying recoil.
His index and middle fingers snapped on the spot, the knuckles bending back toward the back of his hand at a twisted angle.
Excruciating pain surged straight to his brain along his nerves.
"Urgh—!"
Homelander let out a miserable scream, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.
He instinctively tried to pull his hand back.
But he found that Lynn's five slender fingers were already like hydraulic clamps forged from raw iron.
Clamped tightly onto his fist.
"Is this the strength you use to punch through tanks?"
Lynn curled the corner of his mouth, his tone full of disdain.
Lynn flipped his wrist down sharply.
The terrifying power of his Steel Body erupted instantly.
Homelander only felt an irresistible pulling force coming from his right arm.
His wrist joint was forcibly twisted in the opposite direction.
With a "Snap."
His right wrist was dislocated.
Lynn took the opportunity to grab that limp, hanging arm, and dropped his shoulder sharply.
A clean and efficient over-the-shoulder throw.
The two-hundred-plus-pound body traced a semicircle in mid-air.
Carrying the monstrous force of Lynn's throw, he slammed hard onto the relatively intact marble ground nearby.
"Boom!"
The ground let out a mournful groan once again.
The hard granite floor tiles were shattered into pieces, leaving a human-shaped crater.
Homelander landed on his back.
This throw displaced his internal organs, and he spat out a mouthful of stomach acid mixed with blood foam.
His vision went black, and he couldn't even catch his breath.
Before he could even roll over.
A sudden, tearing pain shot through his scalp.
Lynn bent down, his right hand grabbing a fistful of Homelander's pride-worthy blonde hair.
He wrapped his fingers around the roots twice and gripped tight.
"Get up and walk a few steps."
Lynn's voice was cold enough to drop icicles.
He carried him like a freshly plucked chick.
Dragging Homelander's head, he spun around abruptly.
The super-speed ability beneath his feet activated instantly.
Lynn's figure blurred into a shadowy afterimage in the night.
Homelander only felt his body lighten, followed by his back being furiously scraped against the gravel ground.
He flailed his hands, trying to grab Lynn's pant leg.
But the wind pressure from the super-speed made it impossible for him to even open his eyes.
Dragging that blonde hair, Lynn charged straight toward the long granite wall on the perimeter of Central Park.
The wall was built with rough, off-white granite blocks, usually used to block vehicles.
"What are you doing! Let go!"
Sensing the wrong direction, Homelander screamed at the top of his lungs.
His fingernails dug into the ground, gouging furrows even into the stone slabs.
But under the drag of Lynn's monstrous strength, it was completely futile.
Three meters from the stone wall.
Lynn exerted force with his right hand, swinging that head hard to the side.
Slamming Homelander's entire face solidly against the rough surface of the stone wall.
"Bang!"
His nasal bone smashed into the granite and collapsed instantly.
Lynn didn't stop; instead, he accelerated.
Holding onto the hair, he sprinted along the dozens-of-meters-long wall.
A hair-raising grinding sound exploded at the edge of the park.
It was like someone using a giant, coarse grinding wheel to furiously sand down a piece of raw meat.
"Ssssss—"
Homelander's pride-worthy bulletproof skin was indeed tougher than an ordinary person's.
But under this kind of high-speed, violent friction, the surface of the stone wall was instantly heated to a high temperature.
Friction generated heat, and sparks kept spraying out from where his side-face met the stone.
"Ahhhhhhh!!!"
A miserable howl resounded through the night sky.
The skin on his cheeks finally couldn't take it anymore, torn raw by the rough particles.
The fat and flesh underneath rolled outward.
Blood sprayed out like a mist, staining the off-white wall.
Lynn ran incredibly fast.
The stone wall was forcibly plowed into a half-inch-deep groove by that hard head.
Crushed limestone mixed with bits of flesh flew everywhere.
Homelander clawed desperately at the wall, his fingernails worn flat, leaving bloody scratch marks on the stone.
His lips were ground to shreds, and two molars snapped off during the friction, falling from his chin to the ground.
A shocking, dozens-of-meters-long blood groove was thus painted onto the outer wall of Central Park.
After finishing the last stretch of the wall.
Lynn paused, his leather shoes digging a pit into the mud as he stopped.
He released his hand with disgust.
And followed up with a kick to Homelander's stomach.
The limp body flipped twice in mid-air.
With a "Thud," it slammed into a pile of gravel nearby like a puddle of mud.
Homelander looked ten times worse than Black Noir had earlier.
That perfect face, originally used for posters to rake in box office revenue, was ground into a bloody mess on the right side.
The white bone fragments of his cheekbone were exposed.
His nasal bone was completely broken, skewed to the left cheek.
His mouth was full of blood, and his breathing was reduced to a faint wheeze.
He lay limp on the gravel like a toothless dead dog.
He couldn't even lift a single finger.
The excruciating pain made his whole body twitch uncontrollably, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes into the torn flesh, making him roll his eyes in agony.
Lynn walked up to him.
He lowered his head and glanced at his dirty white shirt, his eyebrows furrowing.
There were a few specks of blood on the cuff.
How disgusting.
He stepped forward with his right foot, his dust-covered leather sole, perfectly centered.
Stomped hard onto the still-smoking, charred, bloody hole in Homelander's chest.
"Urgh—!"
A miserable, muffled groan escaped Homelander's throat.
His sternum was crushed inward, the pain making his eyes feel like they were about to pop out of their sockets.
Lynn casually stuffed his hands into his suit pockets.
Looking down condescendingly at the pile of rotting meat beneath his feet.
The night wind blew the stray hair from Lynn's forehead.
In those cold blue eyes, there was not a trace of pity, only the purest mockery and contempt.
"You've been playing God in front of mortals for too long."
Lynn's voice was not loud, but every word pierced the heart.
He ground his foot into the bloody hole again.
"Did you really think you were invincible?"
Watching the utter despair that finally surfaced in Homelander's eyes.
Lynn coldly spat out the last few words.
"What kind of God are you?"
Chapter 49: Edgar Wants to Compromise? Sorry, I Do Not Accept Negotiations
"What kind of god are you?"
This light, airy question swept across the night wind of Central Park.
It slammed into Homelander's ears like a rusty chisel, ruthlessly piercing through his last shred of dignity.
He lay prone in the pile of broken bricks, half of his face a bloody mess.
His mouth was wide open, his upper and lower jaws dislocated, unable to close.
He wheezed in his throat, exhaling a string of red blood bubbles.
The bubbles burst at the edge of his lips, splattering onto the jagged break of his nasal bone.
Homelander wanted to retort.
He wanted to shout that line he had recited countless times: "I am the savior of this world."
But he couldn't make a sound.
His windpipe was filled with inhaled lime dust; the slightest exertion caused the charred, bloody hole in his chest to ache with a tearing pain.
In those blue eyes that had always been so high and mighty, the light had completely faded, leaving behind only grayness and dullness.
His fighting spirit was like a punctured, rotten balloon, deflated until not a scrap remained.
He had lost.
He had lost to a mortal who didn't even wear a spandex suit, lost like a stray dog rolling in a mud pit.
Just at this moment of deathly silence,
"Buzz—buzz—buzz—"
A dull motor vibration sound abruptly rang out from Lynn's suit pocket.
A numbing itch came through the fabric pressed against his thigh.
Lynn lowered his head and reached into his pocket.
He pulled out the encrypted phone with two cracks in its screen.
The cold white backlight of the screen lit up, illuminating Lynn's expressionless chin.
On the caller ID, a long string of garbled code with no origin location was jumping.
This was Stan Edgar's private line frequency.
Lynn glanced at the screen, not in a hurry to answer.
He lowered his eyelids and looked at Homelander, who was still whimpering under his feet.
This giant baby's mouth was leaking air, and sticky blood flowed down his chin onto the toe of Lynn's shoe, dirtying the leather that had originally been polished to a shine.
Lynn frowned.
He pulled his right leg back slightly, lifting his shoe heel off the ground.
Then, with a cold and ruthless force, he swept his foot out.
"Bang."
A dull thud.
The side of his shoe kicked solidly against Homelander's temple.
Homelander didn't even manage a scream.
His head jerked violently to the side, slamming heavily against the jagged remains of a bronze base.
His eyes rolled back, and he passed out completely.
His limp body lay like a puddle of mud in the rubble, unmoving.
Only then did Lynn retract his leg and swipe his thumb across the green answer button on the screen.
He pressed the phone to his ear.
He didn't speak, just listened quietly.
From the other end of the line came some hurried breathing.
The composure of having everything under control from the past was gone.
Edgar's voice was filled with undisguised dryness, as if he had just swallowed a handful of sand.
"Lynn."
Edgar called his name, his speaking speed much faster than usual.
In the background, one could still hear the crunching sound of a shredder frantically devouring paper.
"You won."
This behind-the-scenes tyrant of Vought Corporationfinally lowered his noble head.
"The stock price has fallen through the floor, and the secret of Compound V can no longer be kept. You have achieved your goal of destroying the building."
Lynn switched the phone to his other hand.
The night wind whipped his ragged white shirt, making it flap loudly.
He nudged a piece of broken glass on the ground with his toe, not taking the bait.
"We need to talk, immediately."
Edgar took a rough breath, his tone carrying the calculation typical of a businessman and politician.
"If this keeps going, the military and Congress will intervene. By then, this cake will be carved up cleanly by them, and you won't get anything."
The voice on the phone, transmitted through the speaker's currents, sounded slightly distorted in the night.
But the content was heavy as a thousand pounds.
"Half."
Edgar tossed out his chips, his voice sounding fierce.
"Fifty percent of Vought Corporation's original shares will be transferred to an offshore account under your name first thing tomorrow morning."
He paused, tossing out an even bigger bait.
"It's not just money. The control of all super-powered individuals in the entire country will be handed over to you. You will be the underground emperor of this new empire, and I will retreat to the second line to act as your white glove."
These chips were too heavy.
Heavy enough to buy several small countries.
In a deserted basement in Brooklyn,
Frenchie was holding a broken keyboard, his fingers frozen in mid-air.
He had been monitoring Lynn's communication frequency.
Hearing the price Edgar offered in his headphones right now, he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down several times.
"Good god... half of Vought?"
Frenchie turned his head to look at Butcher, who was leaning against the wall, his voice drifting.
"That's hundreds of billions of dollars, plus the power of life and death over hundreds of thousands of super-powered individuals."
Hughie slipped, stepping on a pizza slice that had just fallen to the floor.
He didn't care about the disgust; he lunged toward the computer screen, staring intently at Lynn in the live broadcast.
"Boss... will he agree?"
Hughie's tongue was tied.
Butcher didn't speak.
He bit his lip, the stubble on his chin standing on end.
His rough right hand gripped the holster on his outer thigh tightly.
The sugar-coated bullets of capital were too sweet.
How many people who flew the banner of justice had eventually fallen to such sky-high bribes?
Butcher had seen too much of it.
He had no confidence; he was even prepared for Lynn to defect and for himself to draw his gun and fight for his life at any moment.
Above Central Park,
Several news broadcast drones were positioned very close, their high-definition microphones recording this conversation clearly.
Audiences around the world, hundreds of millions of eyes, were all staring intently at their screens.
The barrage in the live broadcast room suddenly came to a deathly halt.
A few seconds later, white text flooded the entire screen like an avalanche.
"It's over, he's going to compromise!"
"Capitalists can always buy everything, this is reality!"
"Don't agree to him! Kill that caped freak!"
Countless people were smashing keyboards and throwing cups in front of their computers.
They had just treated Lynn as a god who could split the darkness, but now they were terrified that this god would turn around and sign a contract with the devil.
Panic and despair spread wildly across the internet.
On the other end of the line, Edgar couldn't hear Lynn's response and assumed he was tempted.
His tone softened slightly, carrying a bit of a high-and-mighty preachy quality.
"But there is a prerequisite, Lynn."
Edgar tapped on his desk, making a rhythmic knocking sound.
"The test subject under your feet, Homelander, you must spare his life."
"The company needs a symbol to stabilize the final base; even if he's a disgraced lunatic, as long as he's still breathing, the stock can still be saved."
Edgar threw out his trump card.
"Kill him, and we all go down together. Keep him, and you are the god who controls this country. Do we have a deal?"
The night wind howled.
Blowing up several discarded newspapers from the ground, swirling them into the air.
Lynn stood in the ruins, Homelander's blood-stained blonde hair at his feet.
He lowered his head, watching the call timer flashing on the phone screen.
One minute and twenty seconds.
Suddenly,
Lynn laughed.
First came a very light sneer,
followed by a low, cold laugh that vibrated from his chest.
He shook his head, his fingers pinching the phone.
He turned around.
Facing the Frenchie-exclusive live broadcast drone in mid-air that was closest to him and blinking with a red light.
He raised his hand.
He aimed the screen-shattered phone at the high-definition lens.
This action made audiences around the world hold their breath.
"Mr. Edgar."
Lynn spoke into the phone's microphone.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a sense of determination and arrogance that cut off all paths of retreat.
"You might have misunderstood one thing."
As soon as he finished speaking,
the five fingers holding the phone suddenly exerted force.
The terrifying grip of his Primary Steel Body instantly acted upon the fragile electronic device.
"Crack!"
The tempered glass screen shattered first.
Sharp glass shards pierced into Lynn's palm, but they didn't even leave a white mark, instantly crumbling into powder.
Next was the aluminum alloy frame.
Under the crushing force of several tons, the metal casing twisted, folded, and broke like a piece of paper,
emitting a harsh creaking sound.
The motherboard chips and micro-components inside were crushed alive.
The lithium battery couldn't withstand the pressure and exploded on the spot.
With a "pfft" sound,
a blinding electrical spark burst into light in Lynn's palm.
Sparks mixed with black smoke emerged.
The pungent smell of chemical burning instantly spread.
Lynn didn't even frown.
He let the high-temperature flame burn in his palm, continuing to tighten his five fingers and kneading it frantically.
Two seconds later,
a state-of-the-art encrypted phone had been crushed by him into a lump of metal waste emitting black smoke.
He released his hand.
Metal powder with sparks and charred plastic residue fell through his fingers,
pattering downwards.
They landed on Homelander's ragged Stars and Stripes cape, burning a few small black holes.
They landed in the pool of blood on the ground, making a faint "hissing" sound.
At this moment, the barrage in the live broadcast room across the entire network was completely cleared.
Everyone was so shocked by this violent and pure action that their scalps went numb.
In the basement,
Butcher released his grip on his gun.
He slapped Frenchie on the back with enough force that it almost knocked the Frenchman down.
"I knew I didn't misjudge him!"
Butcher grinned wide, laughing until tears almost came out.
Lynn brushed the black ash from his palm.
He looked up, his azure eyes staring directly into the drone's lens.
His gaze pierced through the screen, as if looking at Edgar, who was sitting in the CEO's office hundreds of kilometers away breaking into a cold sweat.
"I do not accept negotiations."
Lynn straightened his shirt collar, which had been messed up by the wind.
His voice was cold, each word sounding like a solid iron ingot hitting the ground.
"What I want is Vought Corporation."
He kicked Homelander's head to the side, grinding his toe into the dirt.
"Completely erased from this world."
Chapter 50: Controlling National Opinion, the Hunting Feast Has Only Just Begun
Charred plastic casing mixed with motherboard debris fell in a flurry through Lynn's fingers.
The powder landed on Homelander's mud-stained Stars and Stripes cape, searing a few small, smoking black holes into it.
The pungent scent of chemical burning drifted through the night air.
The entire online livestream room was deathly silent for a full five seconds.
Then, the comments flooded in like a breached dam, completely drowning out all the broadcast screens.
Frenchie held the broken laptop, the white text on the screen scrolling so fast it was nearly blinding.
"He isn't accepting negotiations! He didn't take the money!"
"My god, he actually crushed the big boss of Vought's phone!"
"This is a real god! Kill those cape-wearing freaks!"
The perimeter blockade around Central Park collapsed.
The SWAT officers who had been holding riot shields now simply tossed their transparent shields onto the ground.
No one tried to stop the protesters surging forward in a frenzy.
The police themselves removed their helmets, staring at the drone with its flashing red lights in the sky, breathing heavily.
From the pile of ruins a few dozen meters away came the sound of footsteps crushing stone slabs.
Butcher emerged from the shadows of the dark bushes.
His rumpled black leather jacket was flecked with blades of grass.
His rough right hand carried a silver metal insulated box.
Frenchie and Hughie followed behind, hauling a bundle of thick, dark gold chains.
The chains clattered against each other, emitting a dull, heavy metallic sound.
These were the Vibranium chains taken from the system suitcase just moments ago.
Butcher strode across the debris-strewn ground.
He stopped beside the motionless Homelander.
He looked down at this enemy—once high and mighty, the man who had killed his wife Bekka—his eyes bloodshot, as if they might bleed.
"Fuck... I've been dreaming of this day."
A distorted curse squeezed out of Butcher's throat.
He crouched down and flicked open the metal latch of the insulated box with one hand.
Inside lay a massive military-grade syringe.
The barrel was as thick as a carrot, filled with a cloudy, eerie green liquid.
This was a potent concoction Frenchie had brewed using several types of elephant tranquilizers mixed with neurotoxins.
"B-Butcher, his skin is so tough, will the needle even go in?"
Hughie asked, stuttering, as he dropped the Vibranium chains, the impact making his wrists go numb.
Butcher ignored him.
He grabbed Homelander by the back of his collar and flipped the heap of broken flesh over.
Homelander's eyes were tightly shut, and the large hole in his chest, burned through by Heat Vision, was still oozing blood.
The charred skin curled back, exposing the fragile blood vessels and muscle tissue beneath.
Butcher gripped the syringe tight, aiming at the patch of exposed flesh.
"Can't pierce the skin?"
He gritted his teeth and drove his wrist down hard.
"Squelch."
The thick needle plunged deep into the charred wound, straight into a vein.
Homelander twitched in agony, spitting out a mouthful of blood and foam.
Butcher pressed the plunger with his thumb, injecting every last drop of the green poison into his veins.
The drug took effect almost instantly.
Homelander's limbs, which had been trembling, went limp like cooked noodles, leaving him a completely unconscious shell.
"Get to it, tie him up tight."
Butcher pulled out the syringe and tossed it into the mud.
Frenchie and Hughie scrambled forward.
The two shook out the heavy Vibranium chains.
They wrapped them tightly around Homelander's neck, torso, and legs, layer by layer.
With each wrap, they clicked the locks into place.
In less than two minutes, the most powerful superhero in America was trussed up like a dark gold metal mummy.
He wouldn't be able to move even his little finger.
Lynn stood to the side, watching it all with cold eyes.
He straightened the collar of his slightly rumpled white shirt, his dress shoes resting on a protruding piece of marble debris.
He turned to face the news drones hovering in the air.
Every camera lens swiveled to focus on him at the same time, the red recording lights forming a sea of light in the darkness.
Lynn cleared his throat.
His voice was not loud, yet it carried an overwhelming sense of calm and dominance.
Through the high-definition microphones on the drones, his words reached every corner of the world.
"Vought International, from today, is history."
Lynn stared into the lens, his gaze cold and sharp.
"They are no charity; they are a criminal syndicate built on human experimentation and lies."
The crowd watching from afar was silent, all ears pricked to listen.
"I will not negotiate with any politicians, nor will I accept any form of corporate co-option."
Lynn extended his right hand, gesturing toward Homelander, who lay tied up like a pig on the ground.
"This piece of experimental waste, once hailed as a god, is the outcome."
He lowered his hand and stood tall in the night wind.
"From now on, I am taking over all the files on superpowered individuals in this city."
"I am establishing the Super Crime Investigation Bureau."
Every word Lynn spoke sounded like a declaration of war against the old era.
"For anyone who has blood on their hands or has committed crimes,"
he curled the corner of his mouth into a chilling sneer,
"keep your tails tucked."
"Because the hunting feast has only just begun."
With those words, the internet erupted into a frenzy once again.
Countless civilians who had been oppressed or harmed by Superheroes smashed their beer bottles in front of their screens, roaring in celebration.
This was no longer a one-sided slaughter.
The rules of the game had changed.
...
4:00 AM, Brooklyn.
The peeling black van pulled into the back alley of an old apartment building.
The exhaust pipe sputtered, puffing out two plumes of black smoke before the engine died.
Lynn pushed open the security gate of the abandoned basement.
The hinges let out an unpleasant, grating creak.
The basement still held that smell of moldy old newspapers, and the exhaust fan in the corner spun weakly.
Hughie collapsed onto the tattered leather sofa the moment he entered.
He gasped for air, his legs shaking uncontrollably.
"My god... we actually survived."
He covered his face with his hands, his voice thick with the exhaustion of someone who had just escaped death.
Frenchie tossed the hard drive filled with Vought's classified files onto the wooden table.
He reached into a drawer and pulled out an unopened pack of cigarettes.
He tore it open, stuck one in his mouth, his fingers still slightly trembling as he lit it.
Butcher brought up the rear.
He slammed the iron door shut, the heavy metallic crash causing flakes of plaster to fall from the walls.
For the first time in forever, the old war dog didn't curse.
He strode over to the greasy liquor cabinet in the corner.
He reached out and grabbed a bottle of cheap whiskey that was nearly empty, then pulled out two glasses.
"Clang, clang."
He set the glasses on the table, twisted off the cap, and poured the whiskey into both.
His hands were shaking violently.
It wasn't from fear, but from the intense adrenaline rush of finally releasing hatred that had been suppressed for who knows how many years.
The liquor splashed onto the table, soaking a large patch.
Butcher picked up one of the glasses, turned, and handed it to Lynn, who was standing in front of the map board.
His eyes, lined with age and wear, were filled with unconcealable fanaticism.
His eye sockets were terrifyingly red, even glistening with moisture.
"Boss."
Butcher's voice was hoarse, his Adam's apple bobbing with effort.
"This one's for you."
He raised his glass high, looking at Lynn's profile.
"That bastard is lying in the trunk of our car right now, like a pig waiting to be slaughtered."
Butcher sniffed, forcing the moisture in his eyes back.
"My wife's revenge... it's finally been served. From now on, this life is yours. Wherever you tell me to strike, I won't even blink."
Lynn turned his head and looked at the swaying cheap alcohol in Butcher's hand.
He didn't take it.
Lynn raised his hand and gently pushed the glass back.
The bottom of the glass scraped against the tabletop with a short, jarring sound.
Butcher froze.
His hand, still holding the glass, hung in mid-air, his face full of confusion.
"Boss? What's wrong? Think the booze is too cheap?"
Lynn shook his head.
He turned to face the map of Vought's secrets on the wall, covered in photos and red string.
He reached out and ripped off a photo of Homelander.
The incandescent light hit Lynn's face, leaving half in light and half in shadow.
"Homelander, that piece of trash, might be locked up."
Lynn's voice was soft, yet it detonated in the quiet basement, making one's heart race with unease.
He turned his head, his gaze pinning Butcher's face like a spike.
He looked into the man's confused eyes.
Lynn paused for two seconds, then spat out the words, one by one.
"But there is one thing, Butcher, that you need to know."
Butcher's hand trembled.
A few drops of amber liquor spilled onto his black leather jacket.
"What is it?"
he asked instinctively, his voice tight.
Lynn looked at him, his expression slowly turning cold.
"Your wife, Bekka..."
Lynn watched as the color drained from Butcher's face.
"Is not dead."