Chapter 74: Transformation! Homelander!
"Holy crap, is this bleach?"
Mark looked at Black Noir, almost thinking he also had vitiligo.
Even the treatment reserved for the world's greatest dancer was being inflicted upon you!
From now on, you won't have to fear the cops blasting you when you go out anymore!
A class leap was achieved so easily.
However, Black Noir couldn't hear Mark's voice at all at that moment.
His originally jet-black hair was turning golden at an astonishing speed.
In just a few seconds—
He had truly transformed from a Black man into a White man!
And his appearance was infinitely close to Homelander's!
That face, that contour, those eyes—
He was practically Homelander's twin brother!
"Die!!!"
Black Noir roared!
His eyes turned completely crimson!
Those eyes, which had already turned blue, rapidly became bloodshot, shooting out terrifying heat vision!
Two scarlet beams of light shot straight toward Mark!
The temperature—
Black Noir could feel that the temperature of this heat vision was even more powerful than Homelander's!
Homelander's heat vision averaged only two thousand degrees.
But at this moment, the intensity of Black Noir's heat vision had reached three thousand degrees!
That terrifying heat vision landed directly on Mark!
And then—
A warm sensation washed over him.
Mark's expression turned delighted!
"Hahahaha!!!"
He burst out laughing!
"It's real! It's real! My company can create Compound Vthat replicates Homelander's abilities!"
"Hahahahahaha!"
"This old Daoist is about to make it big!"
He laughed maniacally, gestured wildly as he laughed, as if he had just won a five-million-dollar lottery!
He, he wanted heat vision so badly!
He dreamed of it!
Black Noir's expression turned to horror!
He was already using his full power with the heat vision!
Three thousand degrees of high temperature!
Enough to melt steel, enough to burn through rock, enough to instantly vaporize an ordinary person!
But this Invincible—
Why was it like taking a hot shower?!
Mark could also feel his body heating up just a little bit.
But only a little.
Although his current strength wasn't comparable to the Invincible in his mid-to-late stages, he could still comfortably swim on the surface of the sun for a while.
The temperature on the solar surface started at five thousand five hundred degrees.
And Black Noir's three-thousand-degree heat vision was—
Child's play to Mark.
"It's been a while since I took a hot shower."
Mark walked toward Black Noir step by step, enduring the heat vision.
The terrifying beams of light struck him, yet didn't leave even a single red mark.
"A good rinse like this feels quite refreshing."
He walked right up to Black Noir.
He extended both hands and pressed them onto Black Noir's head.
He used his thumbs to cover Black Noir's eyes.
Because this was Black Noir's first time using it, he couldn't shut off the terrifying heat vision.
After being blocked by the thumbs—
It could only shoot backward into Black Noir's eyes!
"Aaaaaaahhhhhh!!!"
Black Noir wailed in agony!
He swung his fists constantly, hitting Mark's face, body, and chest!
But those punches were no different from tickling Mark!
Mark assessed the power contained in those fists and nodded with satisfaction!
This Vought Corporation was truly a pleasant surprise!
This product was excellent!
The power brought by this Compound V was even better than Homelander's!
Stronger power!
More ferocious heat vision!
Although the cost might be lifespan, that was something Black Noir needed to worry about; what did it have to do with him?
If Compound V tried to harm Mark's body, the Intelligent Atom would teach it how to make medicine.
The red light gradually extinguished.
Black Noir's brain had been burned into charcoal, rendering him unable to use heat vision anymore.
His eyes had turned into two charred holes.
Mark released his hands.
Allowing Black Noir's corpse to slip down.
"Thump."
The body hit the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.
And at this moment, Mark was already ecstatic, laughing wildly!
"Hahahahahahahahaha!"
That laughter echoed through the night sky, spreading throughout the entire building!
Butcher knelt to the side, watching the figure laughing, his eyes filled with fanatical worship.
Sir... He truly is a God.
"Black Noir could actually turn into Homelander?"
Butcher's eyes widened until they nearly popped out.
The cigarette in the corner of his mouth slipped down silently, burning a charred hole in his pants, but he didn't notice at all.
"And this Invincible could kill him so easily!"
The surveillance feed froze on that blue-and-gold figure.
Mark stood beside Black Noir's corpse, laughing up at the sky.
That young face looked so flamboyant, so unrestrained, so—arrogant under the moonlight.
Butcher turned off the computer and leaned back in his chair, frowning deeply.
He smoked one cigarette after another.
Smoke permeated the small rented room, heavy and chaotic like his thoughts at that moment.
A dead end.
A perfectly pure dead end.
If Homelander's power was still within Butcher's cognitive range—
A super-powered human, a monster that could be killed by schemes, weapons, and the extinction serum developed by the father of Compound V.
Then this Mark before him... was simply a pseudo-human who had surpassed the human species!
He clearly looked human, laughed like a human, walked like a human—but in reality, he was no longer human!
Homelander killing ordinary people was like slaughtering chickens.
And this Mark killing a monster on Homelander's level was like Homelander killing ordinary people!
What did that make him? An ant?
"Could what he said be true?"
Butcher muttered to himself, his voice sounding faint amidst the smoke.
"Is he really an alien?"
He picked up the FBI report from the table and flipped through it repeatedly.
All thirty pages contained not a single piece of identity information for Mark Grayson.
No birth records.
No social security number.
No medical files.
No school records.
No credit card transaction history.
Nothing.
It was as if this person had appeared on this planet out of thin air.
If Mark was a superhero newly created by the Vought Corporation,
Then the Vought Corporation wouldn't have needed to hold a welcome party for him, nor would they have needed to invite him to join.
Chapter 75: I Killed the Alien Fiend!
Edgar was not such a boring person.
That banquet, that level of formality, that grand display.
If Mark was already a superhero from Vought Corporation, then all of this would be meaningless to Edgar.
That old fox would never engage in a losing proposition.
That meant—
Mark's identity information was not covered up by Vought Corporation.
It was very likely the truth.
This man had appeared on this planet out of thin air.
What was his purpose?
Compound V?
He had previously massacred the G-Men and now killed Black Noir. It really looked like he was collecting Compound V...
Thinking of this, Butcher's eyes lit up.
It was the kind of light that only appears when a hunter spots the trail of its prey.
He picked up the phone and dialed that encrypted number.
"Baum."
The phone rang for a long time before it was answered.
A hoarse and tired voice came from the other end, mixed with the crisp sound of colliding test tubes.
"Butcher? What time is it that you're calling me?"
"Never mind the time."
Butcher's voice was urgent and low.
"I'm asking you, is that serum that exterminates Superhuman specifically targeted at those who have taken Compound V?"
"Of course."
Vogelbaum's voice carried a trace of displeasure at being questioned.
"Otherwise, why would it be called the 'Extermination Serum for Superhuman'? Do you think I'm developing what? Vitamin C?"
"Anyone who has swallowed Compound V will work?"
"Of course!"
Baum's voice was full of confidence.
He was extremely confident in this Extermination Serum.
He had researched it for over a decade and improved the formula countless times.
Ensuring that all Superhuman who had taken Compound Vwould be killed by this serum.
Because this serum would combine with the Compound Vinside those Superhuman, turning it into a deadly poison.
The principle was simple, but the effect was absolutely reliable.
"I guarantee you, Butcher."
Baum's voice was resolute.
"Anyone who has taken Compound V can be killed!"
There was a two-second silence on the other end of the line.
Then, Butcher's voice came through, carrying a trace of eerie calm:
"What about the alien?"
"Huh?"
Baum paused, subconsciously reaching up to scratch his ear, thinking he had misheard.
The test tube in his hand almost slipped, shaking twice on the workbench before he stabilized it.
"Say that again? Alien?"
Butcher took a deep breath and recounted everything he had discovered tonight.
The battle in the surveillance footage.
Black Noir transforming into Homelander.
Mark killing him with one punch.
That blank federal report.
That bizarre welcome banquet.
On the other end of the line, Vogelbaum was silent for a long time.
The liquid in the test tube gently swayed, reflecting his old and solemn face.
"Butcher..."
He finally spoke, his voice becoming more serious than ever before.
"I'm not entirely sure."
"If that guy really is an alien, if he inherently possesses the terrifying power he has now, rather than relying on Compound V.
Then the amount of poison I dispersed into the atmosphere might not be enough to kill him directly."
Butcher's heart sank slightly.
"However..."
Baum changed his tone.
"You said he would try every means to devour Compound V.
As long as he swallows Compound V, his body will already contain the deadly poison."
"I will specifically make you a virus with one hundred percent concentration and load it into a spray gun."
His voice became fanatical, the fanaticism of a Scientist.
"As long as he takes Compound V, you spray the agent from the gun at him.
Whether it's the skin, mucous membranes, or the mouth.
As long as there is contact, even if his innate quality is at the level he currently possesses, he will still die!"
Butcher's eyes grew brighter and brighter.
It was the light of seeing hope in a desperate situation.
"Are you sure?"
"I guarantee it with my forty years of research career."
Baum's voice was resounding.
"Those Superhuman gain power through Compound V. Compound V is their lifeline, and also their fatal weakness.
Since this alien wants Compound V, he must bear the price of Compound V."
Butcher hung up the phone.
He leaned back in his chair, looked up at the crack on the ceiling, and a smile slowly spread across his lips.
Mark's arrival might not be a bad thing.
He would help him eliminate most of the annoying Superhuman.
The G-Men, Black Noir, maybe even Homelander.
Once he killed off most of these bastards, leading to the mass extinction of Superhuman—
His job would be greatly reduced.
He only needed to deal with Mark.
Only deal with this one.
Butcher pulled the last cigarette from the pack and put it in his mouth, lighting it.
Smoke billowed up, blurring his face.
But his eyes shone astonishingly through the smoke.
"An alien?"
He muttered to himself, a hint of icy laughter in his voice.
"The one I killed was an alien fiend!"
He was a Human Supremacist!
Even Superhuman were bastards in his eyes.
Let alone an alien scum!
At this moment, it was as if the voices of countless human ancestors were shouting in Butcher's ears:
Admit it, you simply cannot tolerate those bizarrely shaped extraterrestrials.
They are different from us.
You cannot tolerate the disrespect shown to corpses. Today it consumes the body of your relative, tomorrow it will treat you as food.
You cannot tolerate a life filled with creatures indistinguishable from the monsters in ancient legends.
Our emotions cannot connect, our logic is vastly different.
Coexistence? Absolutely impossible.
The time has come to reclaim the traditions of our ancestors.
That word has disappeared from our culture for tens of thousands of years,
But it will never disappear from our genes.
From the moment our ancestors left the branches and stepped onto the ground,
Our destiny has been tightly bound to the word 'Human'.
The living space of humanity must not be invaded by alien races.
In all human languages, they converge into that shout etched into the soul:
War!
The shout was vast and magnificent, making Butcher's blood boil.
He felt like a modern-day Vampire Hunter seeing a newspaper report about vampires.
He was itching to take a cross and stab it into Mark's chest immediately!
Don't underestimate my intelligence network!
Your skin is pale, you shun the daylight, you hate it when people pull open the curtains, and you scream if a clove of raw garlic is stuffed in your mouth.
A cross leaves marks on you, and once wounded by a silver sword, you bleed endlessly!
If a sharp wooden stake is pierced into your heart, you die instantly, right?!
You inherently evil little vampires, daring to disguise yourselves as the flowers of the new era!
I will personally!!!
...
The room was a mess.
Homelander was curled up in the depths of the room, his body trembling uncontrollably.
He looked like an abandoned child, his suppressed whimpers echoing in the empty room.
He had always thought he was the most powerful and irreplaceable being in the world.
But at this moment, he was left only with boundless anxiety and fragility.
Until a subordinate's trembling report came through the communicator.
Black Noir was dead.
Easily killed by the suddenly appearing Invincible—Mark Grayson.
Homelander suddenly lifted his head.
Tears instantly froze on his face.
The next second, violent rage swept over his entire body.
"Mark..."
He gritted his teeth, his voice filled with brutality and madness.
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
"Who gave you the guts to dare kill someone close to me?"
He frantically smashed everything around him, his roar shaking the entire building slightly.
In his eyes, Black Noir was just Vought's most loyal dog, a top-tier Super agent, an assassin.
In terms of actual power, he was far inferior to him.
But even such a strong individual,
Was heavily wounded by Mark's punch.
After unleashing his full power and forcibly boosting his strength,
He was still easily crushed by the opponent.
He couldn't even scratch the opponent's skin.
The more Homelander thought about it, the deeper the chill in his heart became.
Pressure, like a mountain, pressed heavily on his chest.
He faced an existence as powerful as him, perhaps even more terrifying.
A monster that could casually crush his sharpest blade.
For the first time, he felt threatened.
He felt his throne shaking.
"I will kill you."
"I must kill you!"
His eyes were icy, and his tone was only resolute.
He could not tolerate a second god in this world.
And he absolutely could not tolerate someone daring to challenge his status.
Homelander turned and walked straight to the rooftop.
The night was deep, the moonlight cold.
A fierce wind howled around him, whipping his hair and cape.
He hovered in mid-air, looking up at the solitary, high moon.
The restlessness, fear, anger, and unease in his heart had swelled to the point of tearing him apart.
He needed an outlet.
He needed to vent this pressure that was about to explode him in the most primal, most unrestrained way.
Getsuga Tensho!
He stood in the wind, facing the vast night sky and the bright moonlight, completing a frantic and silent release.
The release ended.
Homelander took a deep breath.
The last trace of fragility in his eyes completely vanished.
Only cold, cruel, and unchallengeable killing intent remained.
"Mark Grayson."
"This planet can only have one ruler."
"I'm going now."
"To tear you to shreds with my own hands!"
As the words fell, he transformed into a streak of red light, piercing the night sky, and flew fiercely toward Mark's location.
Chapter 76: Capturing Edgar
"I can't endure this any longer."
Mark's voice boomed in the night sky, like a thunderclap piercing the Manhattan skyline.
He bent his legs slightly and then suddenly exerted force.
The rooftop terrace beneath his feet instantly shattered, concrete fragments flying everywhere, and cracks spread like a spiderweb in all directions!
His entire being transformed into a bolt of blue-gold lightning, soaring into the sky!
Charging straight for the top floor of the Vought Corporation!
However—
When he landed on the windowsill of that luxurious Chairman's Office on the top floor, all he saw was a mess.
Documents were scattered everywhere, a cigar was still smoldering in the ashtray, a chair was overturned, and the massive oil painting on the wall was askew—but the person was nowhere to be found.
"Ran away?"
Mark frowned.
He looked up at the night sky.
In the distance, the roar of helicopters could be heard faintly.
A formation of a dozen black helicopters was flying toward the East Coast.
The largest one among them had the Vought Corporationlogo printed on its fuselage, and its cabin door was wide open.
A man in a tailored suit stood at the doorway, looking down at him coldly.
Edgar.
Mark smiled.
That smile appeared exceptionally bright and flamboyant in the night wind.
"You truly delight me, Edgar!"
His voice pierced the night sky, reaching Edgar's ears directly.
"If you didn't resist, you might have had an easier time!"
Mark shook his head with a bitter smile.
He hadn't expected this old fox to be so oblivious to the heights of heaven and the depths of the earth.
Never mind taking a helicopter.
Even if he turned himself into ashes right now, packed them into an urn, and launched it into space on a rocket—he, Mark Grayson, could still reach him within a minute!
How could the flight speed of a Viltrumite be compared to a mere piece of scrap metal?
"Fire now!!!"
"Fire for me!!!"
"Where the hell are my Italian Specialty Cannons? Fire them all!"
Edgar roared into the walkie-talkie, his voice carrying a hint of imperceptible fear.
"Shoot all your ammunition at that guy! Don't worry about this building! I can rebuild it anytime!"
Surrounding him were all members of Vought Corporation's Reaction Department.
Those elite warriors in black tactical suits, armed with heavy weapons, were once trained as the last line of defense against out-of-control Superhuman.
Upon hearing Edgar's command, these members were momentarily stunned.
They had originally thought Edgar wanted to deal with other rogue Superhuman, but as it turned out—
He actually wanted them to deal with the great Mark Grayson!?
"I think you're looking to be turned into seaweed egg soup!"
"No side dishes, and no soup!"
"There are thirty of us here; if each of us empties a magazine into you, I guarantee the coroner won't even find your remains!"
Edgar was still roaring, completely oblivious to the changing expressions of the warriors behind him.
A large hand suddenly pressed down on his shoulder from behind.
"I already know your wishes, Sir."
Thorne's voice came from behind, as calm as a pool of stagnant water.
Edgar felt a surge of joy.
"It's good that you know my wishes!" he shouted without looking back. "Now hurry up and kill him! As long as you kill him, I'll give you a bonus, Thorne!"
He smiled, waiting for that loyal lapdog to execute the order.
The next second—
He was pinned directly to the ground!
*Bang!*
His face slammed hard against the cabin floor, his nose throbbing with pain as blood instantly flowed out!
"Are you fucking high on drugs?!"
"I told you to hit him! Hit him! Not hit me!"
Edgar roared angrily while pinned to the ground.
He struggled to turn his head, looking at the nearby Reaction Department members, shouting for them to help.
However—
Everyone stood silently in place.
Everyone stood tall and straight.
Everyone had a solemn expression.
Even—
They began to salute!
Not to Edgar.
But to the blue-gold figure who had landed in the cabin at some unknown point!
Across all ten helicopters, except for the pilots, every member stood in quiet solemnity, their right hands snapping to their foreheads in a salute!
Mark landed inside the cabin, his red cape fluttering gently in the night wind.
He looked at Thorne and nodded with satisfaction.
"Your loyalty pleases me."
His voice was calm, yet it carried an unquestionable authority.
"Your actions deserve a reward."
He reached out and patted Thorne's shoulder.
"Come to my place tomorrow to pick up a chest of gold bars.
Oh no—I'll have the Teleporter send it to you.
A chest of gold bars will appear by your bedside tomorrow."
He paused, his tone carrying a hint of an elder's concern.
"Sleep well tonight, and don't catch a cold."
After saying that, he grabbed Edgar by the collar and lifted him off the ground.
"Mark Grayson!"
Edgar dangled in mid-air, his legs kicking wildly, but his face still maintained a final shred of dignity.
"I am the one in power at Vought Corporation! I hold the lifeblood of this world!
I have countless Superhuman under my command!
Do you want to make enemies of all Superhuman?!"
Mark looked at him, a playful glint in his eyes.
"And if I do?"
Edgar was stunned.
He looked at Mark in bewilderment, staring into those black eyes.
There was no anger, no killing intent, not even any emotional fluctuation.
Only a kind of calm.
A matter-of-fact calm.
He was certain—the other man was telling the truth.
"This world truly is corrupt."
Mark's voice rang out in the night wind, sounding as if it came from far away.
"The so-called Superhuman are just a bunch of scum.
They can't bring happiness to the people, nor can they create better value."
He carried Edgar to the cabin door.
The night wind howled, whipping his cape and messing his hair, but his voice reached everyone's ears clearly.
"If the so-called heroes start becoming dictators—"
He turned his head and looked at the warriors of the Reaction Department.
"Then go and kill those heroes!"
"The fate of the people can only be held in their own hands!"
"And not by those so-called heroes and the descendants who inherited their will!"
His voice grew louder and more impassioned, like thunder exploding in the night sky!
"No matter how great the organization or how glorious the title, there will always be a day of loss and fading!"
"If that is destined to come—"
"It is better for the people to fight for it themselves!"
Chapter 77: The Feudalist Warrior
At this moment, Mark was serious.
Edgar could tell.
This guy—he's actually serious!
What the hell!?
Aren't you the strongest in the world?
You're powerful as all hell, and you're telling me you want to do Communism?
So you weren't just bullshitting?!
At this moment, a terrifying specter was haunting the European continent.
And the true power players of Europe, those capitalistic titans pulling the strings from behind the scenes, finally realized—
This specter was never a ghost.
Throwing back his hood and gripping his scythe—
He was practically a Grim Reaper!
Ready to harvest all life!
"I already know you have the ability to manufacture the serum, Edgar."
Mark placed Edgar back on the cabin floor and looked down at him from above.
"Do you want to live?"
He asked with a smile.
That smile was incredibly gentle, even a bit warm—as natural as asking an old friend, "Have you eaten tonight?"
Edgar sat on the floor, gasping for air.
He looked up at that young face, those black eyes.
"Heh."
He gave a cold laugh.
"Would you even let me live?"
He straightened his disheveled suit collar, trying to maintain his last shred of dignity.
"You want to exterminate even the Superhuman, let alone me—the culprit who created them. "
"There's absolutely no way you'd let me live."
"No matter what you say now, it's just pretty words."
Mark raised an eyebrow.
He hadn't expected the man before him to be such a tough nut.
"So—you're refusing?"
"Are you stupid?!"
Edgar suddenly blurted out a curse. He sat right there on the floor, pulled a cigar from his pocket, stuck it in his mouth, and lit it.
"Of course I agree!"
He took a deep drag, the tip of the cigar glowing crimson.
"If I didn't agree, you'd definitely torture me first."
"With your abilities, you'd probably take me up thousands of meters and let me play free-fall!"
As he spoke, he took a satisfying puff of smoke.
Then he exhaled sharply.
That deep inhale—what a rush!
This feeling of being about to die wasn't so bad! At least he didn't have to worry about his health anymore!
Before, he had to work hard to maintain his body so he could live a long life and better exploit the masses.
But now, he didn't have that concern anymore.
Who says capitalists aren't self-disciplined?
As a top-tier capitalist and a staunch warrior of capitalism,
everything he did was to squeeze more profit out of the people!
Now that he couldn't squeeze anymore, he might as well enjoy one last cigar!
"Stop acting like a big shot."
Mark gave Edgar a light slap.
"Slap!"
Edgar was sent flying, slamming hard into a seat behind him. His cigar flew off, leaving him in a pathetic state.
Mark walked over, fished another cigar out of Edgar's pocket, and put it in his own mouth.
Thorne, standing nearby, immediately stepped forward and respectfully lit it for him.
Mark took a deep drag into his lungs.
His evaluation: Not as refreshing as inhaling hydrogen chloride.
"You're just a mere capitalist warrior, yet you dare bark in front of a feudal slave owner who's been around for centuries!"
He looked at Edgar with disdain.
"How many years have you even been a capitalist? I'm a goddamn Emperor!"
At this moment, Edgar's worldview was shattered once again.
Holy shit.
This guy isn't a communist warrior.
He's a goddamn Feudalist Warrior!
A pure feudalist!
A Feudalist Warrior who has transcended any low-level interests!
A feudalist leader who, to realize his own desire for rule, would even wipe out all capitalists to ensure the health and happiness of the people!
If this merit were achieved in ancient times, he'd have both 'Civil' and 'Martial' in his posthumous title!
"I actually believe you're an Emperor now."
Edgar sat helplessly on the floor, no longer struggling or trying to run, just slumped there.
"To be ruled by an alien Emperor... I don't know if I should call myself lucky or unlucky."
He sighed and then just gave up completely.
"I saw the surveillance earlier."
"You want Homelander's abilities, right?"
Mark nodded.
"I do indeed have a relevant research team."
"If funds are no object, it really can be researched."
"And the results should be even stronger than Black Noir's."
Seeing how cooperative Edgar was, Mark smiled.
He walked over, helped Edgar up, sat him in a chair, and brushed the dust off him.
"Wouldn't it have been better to do this from the start?"
He patted Edgar on the shoulder, his tone as friendly as if he were talking to an old friend.
"Don't worry, when it's time for you to die, I'll just use a Viltrumite Hand Chop."
"I promise you won't feel a thing!"
"I really thank you for that."
Edgar had truly accepted his defeat.
To be so calm about his own death, he truly was a top-tier capitalist!
With that kind of mindset, no wonder he made so much money!
"But there's one thing I have to make clear to you."
Edgar's expression suddenly tightened.
He was truly afraid of Mark torturing him—his own methods of torture were already varied enough.
Who knew how many tricks this staunch Feudalist Warriorhad up his sleeve?
"Speak," Mark said, sitting opposite him and crossing his legs. "As long as you make it clear now, I promise you and your entire family a quick and painless end."
Edgar's expression looked like he'd swallowed something bittersweet—he was quite shaken by the use of the term 'I' (Zhen).
But in the end, he gave a helpless sigh.
"The so-called Compound V must be injected during infancy to fundamentally improve the human body."
He held up one finger.
"When adults take Compound V directly, although they can gain superpowers, it's only temporary and completely random."
"If taken directly, even I can't be sure which superpower you'll obtain."
Mark frowned.
If it was only temporary, he wouldn't deign to use it.
As for the physical harm Edgar mentioned?
Heh.
He likely knew that with Mark's current physical constitution, he didn't have to worry about that bit of damage.
What kind of bullshit thinks it can harm me after entering my body?
Go have a fight with my Smart Atoms first!
I'll let you know immediately what they mean by—
Left fist high damage, right fist damage high!
Ults used as auto-attacks, finishers used as normals!
Smart Atoms: Is it hitting? Is it hitting? Is it hitting?
Compound V: It's hitting... I can't take it! I can't take it!
Mundo: So good! So good!!
Don't ask why Mundo is here.
Because Mundo goes where he pleases.
"Then what about the serum Black Noir used?" Markasked.
"That's the second point I wanted to tell you."
Edgar held up a second finger.
"The one Black Noir took, and the one The Deep took, aren't strictly speaking pure 'Compound V'."
He paused to organize his thoughts.
"To be able to give people specific superpowers, the Scientists under me developed a new technology."
"By solidifying a Super's ability, we can create a version of Compound V that allows the user to directly obtain that corresponding ability."
"They used Homelander's genetic information to create the serum in Black Noir's hands."
"It allows Black Noir to directly gain all of Homelander's abilities."
Mark's eyes lit up.
"But this serum can only be taken once per person."
"You absolutely cannot take more, otherwise the superpowers will clash and cause chaos."
Edgar's voice became serious.
"Even if your physical constitution means you won't die, the original abilities you gained will definitely disappear."
He held up a third finger.
"There's one more problem."
"Why the fuck do you have so many damn problems?!"
Mark almost delivered a real Viltrumite Hand Chop to Edgar's head.
"You think you're in jackie chan adventures?!"
"Just one last one! One last one!"
Edgar quickly begged for mercy.
He might not be afraid of death anymore, but he didn't want to die *right now*.
"After I say this problem, there really won't be any more!"
Mark withdrew his hand and signaled for him to continue.
"You've seen Black Noir's situation."
Edgar spread his hands.
"That wasn't by my design; it's an inevitable result of using Compound V containing Homelander's genetic information."
"In the process of gaining the superpowers, the serum will directly remodel you to be like Homelander."
"It's no exaggeration to say it's practically a different kind of cloning."
"While you retain your original memories and thoughts, on a physiological level—you are already Homelander."
Having finished, Edgar sat there, waiting for Mark's judgment.
Chapter 79: I'll Eat Your Last Meal for You
After all, losing everything from head to toe.
It might even weaken Mark's current abilities.
No matter how you look at it, this isn't a profitable deal.
He was very worried that after hearing this, Mark would simply give him a disappointed chop to the neck.
By then, he could super-evolve from a "capitalist" into a "staunch feudal warrior."
He would basically be cosplaying as Louis XVI...
"Oh, is that it?"
Mark's reaction was unexpected to Edgar.
"Don't ask such unnecessary questions next time."
"Otherwise, I'll erase you!"
Mark threatened him, then sat back down in his seat.
He reached out and picked up the items placed on the small table next to him—
Foie gras!
Red wine!
"Hey! You old guy actually brought foie gras and red wine? Running for your life and still so indulgent, tsk tsk tsk!"
He shook his head, looking disdainful.
"Anyway, since you're going to die soon, I'll eat this last meal for you."
After saying that, he started eating with gusto.
Using both knife and fork, he cut the foie gras neatly, dipped it in sauce, and put it into his mouth.
He took a sip of red wine, squinted his eyes, and looked thoroughly satisfied.
"Huh?"
Edgar was stunned.
He never expected the person in front of him to have such an open mindset.
Could he really abandon everything he originally had just to obtain Heat Vision?
Well done, Mark Grayson!
I'm actually starting to approve of you!
Mark didn't care at all about Edgar's shock.
The ordinary Earthling in front of him couldn't possibly understand the aggressiveness of Viltrumite genes.
Let alone a tube of Compound V.
Even if you made me have a baby with a Mantis person, the child born would definitely look human!
The power of Smart Atoms, baby!
Not to mention that Mark possessed royal blood, making his own lineage even more stable.
The Scourge Virus couldn't kill him, let alone a tube of Compound V.
People who didn't know might think I couldn't afford to inject it.
Give me a box!
Inject a tube into every vein!!
Inside his body, those hundreds of millions of Smart Atomswere silently working.
They were like the most loyal guards, protecting this body at all times.
Any foreign invaders—viruses, bacteria, toxins, or even Compound V—could only tremble in their presence.
The Smart Atoms gathered in a circle, watching the approaching Compound V as if looking at a clown who didn't know his place.
"Come on, come on, let the brothers see what this piece of crap is."
"Compound V? Heard it's a good thing that can modify genes?"
"Modify genes? Modify whom? Modify us?"
"Hahahaha!"
They laughed loudly, their laughter echoing in Mark's blood vessels.
"Let it come! Let it come! I want to see what kind of waves it can make!"
"Our Viltrum royal blood is something that can even withstand the Scourge Virus!"
"A mere concoction brewed by Earthlings, and it wants to act tough in front of us?"
"Exactly! Let it come! Let it see what true power is!"
Mark felt the excitement of the Smart Atoms within him, and the corner of his mouth curved up.
Compound V?
Come on.
The more, the better.
I'll take it all.
By then, Heat Vision will be mine.
The bio-field will be mine.
Flight ability will be mine.
Super strength will be mine.
Super speed will be mine.
It will all be mine!
Homelander?
Just a lab rat used for testing drugs.
Once I get Heat Vision, the first thing I'll do is blast him into a sieve!
He cut off a piece of foie gras, put it into his mouth, and chewed carefully.
The taste was indeed quite good.
Edgar sat on the side, watching this "alien emperor" eating with such relish, his mood extremely complicated.
He had seen madmen.
He had seen maniacs.
But he had never seen anyone like this—
A monster who took everything for granted.
No, not a monster.
An emperor.
A true, pure emperor who believed from the marrow of his bones that he should rule over everything.
Edgar suddenly smiled.
He stood up, walked over to Mark, picked up another glass of red wine, and poured himself some.
"To you, Mark Grayson."
He raised his glass.
"To you—the feudal warrior who is going to send me on my way."
Mark also raised his glass.
The two glasses clinked together, making a crisp sound.
"Clink—"
"To you, Edgar," Mark said with a smile, "To you—the capitalist who knows the current situation."
Both of them drank it in one gulp.
The night wind howled, and the helicopter fleet slowly turned in the night sky, flying towards Vought Corporation.
Mark put down his glass and looked at the brightly lit city outside the window.
Soon.
Soon, he would be able to obtain Heat Vision.
Soon, he would be able to possess all of Homelander's abilities.
Soon, he would be able to make this world truly submit to his feet.
He smiled.
The smile looked exceptionally bright and flamboyant in the night wind.
Edgar looked at this smile and suddenly felt—
Perhaps, being ruled by such an emperor wouldn't be such a bad thing?
At least, he keeps his word.
At least, he promised to let you go quickly and painlessly.
That was enough.
He picked up his cigar, relit it, and took a deep drag.
Refreshing!
The helicopter fleet landed slowly on the roof of Vought Corporation.
Mark stood up and brushed off the non-existent dust on his body.
"Edgar."
He looked at the man sitting in the corner smoking a cigar.
"Tomorrow, have your research team ready."
"I want to see results."
Edgar nodded.
"Rest assured."
"I, Edgar, have always been honest in my business dealings."
Mark smiled.
He walked to the cabin door, his red cape flapping in the night wind.
"Thorne."
"Here!"
Thorne immediately stepped forward, stood at attention, and saluted.
"Take care of your brothers."
"Tomorrow, the gold bars will be delivered on time."
"Thank you, Captain!"
Thorne's voice was as loud as a bell.
Mark nodded, and then—
He leaped, disappearing into the night sky.
The night wind blew, bringing a silence.
Thorne stood at the cabin door, watching the retreating figure for a long time without moving.
Behind him, those soldiers from the Reaction Departmentstill stood straight.
Still saluting.
Edgar sat in the corner, smoking his cigar, watching this scene, and suddenly smiled.
"Loyalty..."
He muttered to himself.
"So, this is loyalty."
He shook his head and stubbed out the cigar in the ashtray.
Then he stood up, straightened his suit, and walked out of the cabin.
In the night wind, his voice drifted away:
"Alien emperor... heh, interesting."
Chapter 79: Praise the Omnissiah
Six in the morning, at the Vought Tactical Reaction Department base on the outskirts of New York City.
Thorne stood on the review stand, watching the neat square formation of two thousand men before him, the corners of his mouth curling up unconsciously.
What do you call style?
This is what you call style!
Every single soldier was equipped with the latest 'Guardian-3' external exoskeleton.
The things were matte black all over, with hydraulic rods supporting the joints and miniature nuclear fusion batteries on the back.
Don't ask why the U.S. military has nuclear fusion technology; just assume the world-building of "The Boys" is a bit unhinged.
These exoskeletons allowed a person to lift five hundred kilograms as if it were nothing, run at speeds of sixty kilometers per hour, and jump over five meters high.
Even more impressive, it could automatically adjust balance, so they wouldn't even trip if they stepped on a banana peel.
Though Thorne felt that with the quality of his men, the probability of stepping on a banana peel was lower than stepping on a landmine.
Once worn, it guaranteed that every soldier's physical strength was greater than that of ordinary Superhuman!
It was enough to make the soldiers kneel and shout: Praise the Omnissiah!
They were also equipped with 'Viper-7' sealed combat suits, providing 360-degree protection with no blind spots.
The fabric used the military's latest nano-composite material, with toughness comparable to Kevlar and hardness capable of stopping small-caliber bullets.
Even more thoughtfully, it could automatically regulate body temperature.
Cooling in summer and heating in winter, it was more considerate than a blanket.
Oh right, the suits also had a self-cleaning function.
If they got blood or mud on them, a quick shake and it would fall right off—saving water, electricity, and being eco-friendly.
The weapons went without saying.
Everyone had a standard M4A1 carbine, equipped with a holographic sight, tactical flashlight, and M203 grenade launcher.
Snipers were equipped with the Barrett M82A1, capable of shooting through two walls with one shot.
Assault troops were equipped with AA-12 shotguns, capable of firing ten rounds per second, turning people into honeycombs.
Fire support teams carried M249 light machine guns, with a rate of fire that could turn a wall into a sieve.
There were also ten AH-64E 'Apache' attack helicopters, fifty M1A2 'Abrams' main battle tanks, and several strange things whose names he couldn't quite recall.
These things were originally the military's precious treasures.
The Secretary of the Military Department originally didn't want to give them up.
But Mark insisted...
Thorne recalled yesterday's 'friendly negotiation,' and the curve of his mouth rose a bit more.
At the time, the Secretary of the Military Department sat behind his desk, legs crossed, cigar in mouth, with an expression that said, 'I'm just not giving it to you, what are you going to do about it?'
Mark stood opposite him, hands in his pockets, asking with a smile:
"Is that a yes?"
The Secretary of the Military Department blew a smoke ring and said slowly:
"It's a no."
Mark raised an eyebrow.
"Oh? You dare say no?"
His voice was still calm, but Thorne noticed the floor beneath his feet had already begun to crack.
"Still dare to bare your teeth?"
Mark took a step forward.
"Watch me crush you!"
The next second—
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
Thorne still hadn't figured out how that sound was made.
Anyway, it was just 'Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!', the entire Pentagon building shook three times, and several pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling.
After the dust settled, the Secretary of the Military Department had crawled out from behind his desk, kneeling on the ground with his hands held high.
He had a transcendent expression, as if he had'seen through the mortal world.'
"Yes, yes, yes!" he shouted in broken Chinese, "I surrender!"
Mark brushed the dust off his hands and nodded with satisfaction.
"Wouldn't it have been better if you'd done this earlier?"
Then he turned his head and looked at the Quartermaster General, who was already dumbfounded.
"By the way, give me another three thousand elites."
The Quartermaster General's mouth opened as if to say something, but after meeting Mark's black eyes, he very wisely shut it.
"Alright, I'll arrange it immediately."
Those three thousand elites arrived just this morning.
Thorne stood on the stage, looking at the three thousand new faces at the back of the formation.
They were wearing uniform military gear and standing straight, but the expressions on their faces... were like they'd eaten shit...
How to put it? Like corporate drones forced to participate in a company team-building event.
Unwilling.
Very unwilling.
Extremely unwilling.
Thorne could understand their feelings.
After all, the day before they were big shots in the military.
The next day they were packed off to some 'Reaction Department' they'd never even heard of.
Who would be happy about that?
But it didn't matter.
Thorne believed their 'unwillingness' would soon turn into 'pure bliss.'
He waved his hand.
The adjutant beside him understood immediately, picked up a walkie-talkie, and said a few words.
The next second, the three thousand young men in uniform each had a gold bar stuffed into their hands.
Glittering gold.
Heavy gold.
It was even stamped with '1kg.9999.'
Those three thousand new faces changed instantly.
"Loyalty!!!"
It was unclear who shouted first.
Regardless, within three seconds, three thousand people knelt down in unison, their shouts shaking the heavens.
Thorne nodded with satisfaction.
As the saying goes, there is gold beneath a man's knees—if you don't take it, isn't that a waste?
Our great America hates waste the most.
Scene change.
In the center of New York City, on the top floor of a high-end hotel.
A grand 'private party' was being held here.
Those invited were all people with names and faces in the superhero circle.
Second-rate and third-rate heroes—the guys who usually weren't qualified to enter The Seven but were doing quite well on local stations.
As for the content of the party...
One could only say it was unsightly.
The lights in the hall were dim, and smoke filled the air.
Amidst the deafening music, a group of scantily clad men and women writhed on the dance floor.
On the sofas, in the corners, even on the windowsills—indescribable scenes were playing out everywhere.
The heroes who were usually trusted by the people now displayed a wretchedness that was even more nauseating than that of criminals.
On a sofa to the east, 'Speedster' Max was hugging two girls, holding a bottle of whiskey and pouring it down his throat.
This hero known as the 'Man Like the Wind.'
He usually maintained a sunny-boy image on TV, always wearing a warm smile when signing autographs for children.
But now, his face was flushed, his eyes were blurred, and he was cursing and swearing, showing no trace of his'sunny' image at all.
"I'm happy today!" he shouted loudly. "This girl is mine tonight, no one better try to take her from me!"
The two girls beside him forced smiles, their eyes filled with fear.
In a corner to the west, 'Sonic Girl' Melanie was holding a glass tube and snorting into her nose.
Her ability was attacking enemies with sound. She usually appeared as a cultured young woman in front of the camera, always saying 'music is my life.'
But now, after snorting that tube of stuff, her whole body slumped on the sofa, her eyes vacant and saliva dripping from the corner of her mouth, like a walking corpse.
Chapter 80: You Have the Right to Resist!
In the center of the hall.
Tommy "Iron Fist" was dancing cheek-to-cheek with a woman in a red dress.
His hands roamed inappropriately over her body; she tried to dodge, but he yanked her back.
"What are you dodging for?" he said with a grin. "I'm a hero who saved this city. What's wrong with playing with me for a bit?"
The woman's eyes reddened, but she didn't dare resist.
She knew the consequences of resistance.
Last year, a girl refused a certain hero's "invitation."
The next day, dirt about "drug use" and "prostitution" was leaked; her reputation was ruined, and she finally committed suicide by jumping off a building.
Everyone knew it was a setup, but no one dared speak up.
Because whoever spoke up would become the next victim.
In a corner, a few people were playing poker, with the stakes being Compound V.
The losers would inject it on the spot, gambling that they could survive it—if they didn't, they died.
Two people were already lying on the ground, their faces pale and foaming at the mouth, but no one cared about them.
If they died, they died; there were plenty of newcomers to take their place anyway.
This was the true face of the superhero.
These were the "heroes" looked up to by the people and worshipped by children.
Justice, protection, light—
All bullshit.
They were just a bunch of animals with superpowers.
A man in a red skin-tight suit had just climbed up from a sofa, grabbed a glass from a nearby table, and took a large gulp.
"Another round!" he shouted to those nearby. "I'm not going home until I'm drunk today!"
He was Kevin "Pyro," with the ability to control fire, and was somewhat famous in Ohio.
Right now, his face was flushed red, and he swayed as he walked, yet he was still pushing his way into the center of the dance floor.
Just as he finished speaking—
Bang!!!
The windows shattered.
Not just one, but an entire row.
The night wind howled as it poured in, making the curtains dance wildly.
It knocked over the wine glasses on the tables and instantly dispersed the hallucinogenic smoke.
Before the people in the room could react, countless dark muzzles were already aimed at them.
"Nobody move!"
A resonant voice came from outside the window.
Then, one by one, soldiers in black combat suits leaped through the broken windows, quickly taking up advantageous positions.
Their movements were uniform and their coordination seamless, clearly the result of professional training.
The hydraulic rods of their exoskeletons hissed softly, and their muzzles were aimed steadily at every Superhuman.
Thorne stepped onto the wing of an Apache helicopterhovering outside the window and strode into the room.
His black tactical trench coat flapped in the night wind, and the modified revolver at his waist glinted coldly under the lights.
The burn scar on his left cheek, grazed by a laser eye, looked particularly hideous in the dim light.
Behind him, more soldiers filed in.
Ten Apache helicopters hovered around the hotel, their autocannons aimed at every possible escape route.
Fifty M1A2 tanks blocked the streets completely, their 120mm smoothbore barrels pointing in unison at the hotel building.
"Good evening, heroes."
Thorne's voice was calm, as if he were making small talk.
He pulled a piece of paper from his coat and unfolded it.
It was a Federal Emergency State Order.
It bore the President's personal signature, the seal of the Federal Supreme Court, and the stamp of the Department of Defense—all were authentic.
As for how he got it, that was another story.
After a friendly discussion with Mark.
The Chief Commander of the Department of Defensestated that he never wanted to see another Superhumanagain! Except for Mark Grayson!
"According to Section 302 of the Federal Emergency State Act,"
Thorne began to read, his voice clear and slow, "when the nation faces a supernatural security threat,"
The President has the authority to declare a state of emergency and authorize federal law enforcement agencies to take all necessary measures to eliminate the threat."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the face of everyone present.
"According to Chapter 7, Section 4 of the Antisocial Supernatural Being Control Act, any supernatural individual proven to have committed serious illegal or criminal acts,"
Will no longer be protected by the Supers Registration Actand may be subject to compulsory measures according to the law."
His voice echoed in the silent hall.
"According to Title 18, Section 1114 of the Federal Criminal Code, the murder of a federal official or law enforcement officer is punishable by death."
"According to Title 18, Section 1201, kidnapping is punishable by up to life imprisonment."
"According to Title 21, Section 841, the sale of controlled substances resulting in death is punishable by life imprisonment to the death penalty."
"According to Title 18, Section 2241, aggravated sexual assault is punishable by life imprisonment."
He finished reading the last point, folded the paper, and put it back in his coat.
Then he looked up at the pale-faced "heroes," his lips curling into a cold arc.
"Everyone, the charges against you include, but are not limited to: first-degree murder, kidnapping, sexual assault, drug trafficking, abuse of power, obstruction of justice, and—"
He paused, a hint of irony in his tone, "group debauchery."
The evidence for the above charges is conclusive.
I have the testimonies of thirty-seven victims, eighteen DNA identification reports, and sixty-five video recordings."
"Under federal law, you have the right to remain silent.
But anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
He pulled out the modified revolver from his waist, the muzzle slowly sweeping across everyone present.
"You have the right to an attorney.
But if you cannot afford one, the court can appoint one—of course, that's assuming you survive tonight."
He smiled.
There was no warmth in that smile.
"Now—"
He raised his walkie-talkie and said coldly:
"Everyone, fire!"
Chapter 81: Leave No One Alive
Gunshots exploded!
The rapid fire of M4A1s blended into a single roar, and shell casings clattered onto the floor, instantly covering it in a golden carpet.
Those heroes who had just been reveling in pleasure had no time to react at all.
"Speedster" Max was about to move when he was hit by three bullets simultaneously.
One hit his thigh, one hit his shoulder, and one hit his lower abdomen.
He screamed, rolled off the sofa, fell to the floor, and twitched all over.
"I'm a hero! You can't do this to me!"
He roared as blood gushed from his wounds, staining the white carpet red.
No one paid him any attention.
Three more bullets followed, and he stopped moving entirely.
"Sonic Girl" Melanie slumped on the sofa, her eyes still glazed over.
The substance she had inhaled had completely stripped her of her ability to react.
Three bullets hit her chest; she didn't even let out a groan before she was gone.
A dazed smile still lingered on her face.
"Iron Fist" Tommy had the fastest reaction.
He shoved the woman in his arms aside, his hands instantly turning to metal as he charged toward the nearest window.
"I'm going to kill you all!" he roared, his Iron Fist smashing toward the window frame.
But outside the window frame was an apache helicopter.
The apache's autocannon had already been aimed at him.
The 30mm autocannon roared!
"Bang bang bang bang bang bang—!!!"
Tongues of fire spat out wildly as shells tore through the air with blinding tracers, swallowing Tommy whole in an instant!
His Iron Fists, claimed to be able to smash steel plates, were no different from paper in front of the 30mm autocannon!
The shells penetrated his body, blowing flesh and blood everywhere!
His upper body was blown directly into fragments, while his lower half still charged forward two steps before collapsing and twitching twice, never to move again!
The apache pilot said into the intercom: "Clearance complete."
Then it continued to hover, its autocannon turning toward the next target.
Someone tried to fly.
"Flyer" Karl—his ability was flight, and his speed could reach three hundred kilometers per hour.
He lunged upward, smashing through the ceiling and heading straight for the roof!
His idea was correct—once in the air, their guns wouldn't be able to touch him.
But he forgot there were ten more apaches in the sky.
Just as he emerged from the hole in the roof, he saw at least three apaches with their autocannons pointed right at him.
Those three apaches had already anticipated his escape route.
Thermal imaging locked onto him.
The Longbow Radar had him dead to rights.
The next second—
Three apaches opened fire simultaneously!
The 30mm autocannon shells poured down like a rainstorm!
Karl tried desperately to dodge, but his flight speed was only three hundred kilometers per hour, while the shell speed was one thousand kilometers per hour!
He couldn't dodge them!
"Bang bang bang bang bang bang—!!!"
The shells caught up to him and exploded on his body!
His entire being was torn to shreds in mid-air!
The blood mist was like a red cloud, exploding in the air and then slowly dissipating.
Ten seconds later, the blood mist settled on the ground; nothing was left.
Someone tried to tank it.
"Iron Man" Mike—his ability was body metallization, with a hardness comparable to armored steel plates.
A metallic luster spread over his body as bullets clattered against him, leaving only shallow dents.
"Hahahaha!"
He laughed loudly, digging out the bullets embedded in his skin one by one as he charged out. "Is this it? Is this it? Is this all the power your guns have?"
He smashed through the wall and rushed onto the street!
The air outside was so fresh!
Freedom was so close!
Then he saw what was across the street.
Fifteen M1A2 "Abrams" main battle tanks were lined up, their barrels all aimed at him.
He froze.
"Wait a minute—"
Before he could finish, fifteen 120mm smoothbore guns fired simultaneously!
"Boom!!!"
The sound was enough to burst eardrums!
Fifteen Depleted Uranium Armor-Piercing Shells hit his body at the same time!
His metallic skin, claimed to be "harder than armored steel," was no different from paper in front of the depleted uranium shells!
The shells directly penetrated his body and exploded behind him!
He was blown into fragments!
Fragments flew everywhere, like a rain of iron.
Three seconds later, only a five-meter-diameter crater remained, with a pool of flesh and blood at the bottom that was completely unrecognizable as human.
Someone tried to burrow.
"Marmot" George—his ability was rapid digging.
He lunged down, his hands digging frantically as his body sank rapidly!
But the soldiers of the Reaction Department had already anticipated this.
Two M203 grenades landed and exploded right next to him!
The Shockwave flipped him out of the ground!
Before he even hit the ground, five M4A1s opened fire simultaneously, turning him into a sieve!
Someone tried to use invisibility.
"Phantom" Lily—her ability was to make herself invisible.
She held her breath and slowly moved toward a corner.
But she forgot that the Reaction Department soldiers were wearing thermal imagers!
In the thermal imagers, her outline was as clear as could be!
Five bullets hit the "invisible" figure simultaneously!
A scream came from the air, and then a corpse appeared out of nowhere and fell to the ground.
Someone tried to use telekinesis.
"Psychic" Paul—his ability was telekinesis.
He stood up abruptly and pushed with both hands, trying to shove away all the soldiers in front of him!
But the next second—
Five grenades landed around him at once!
He was blown into the air, and before he could land, more than thirty bullets caught up to him!
By the time he hit the ground, he was a corpse riddled with holes.
Others tried to negotiate.
"Wait! Wait!"
A man in a golden suit raised his hands. "I am 'Golden Man'! I've never killed anyone! I just came here to have some fun today!
I can cooperate with the investigation! I can be a star witness! I can—"
Before he could finish, a bullet pierced the center of his forehead.
His eyes widened in disbelief, and then he slowly collapsed.
Thorne walked over and looked down at him.
"Cooperate with the investigation?" He sneered. "The girl who jumped off the building last year—that was your doing, wasn't it?"
No one answered.
Dead men don't answer.
Thorne stood in the center of the hall, watching those once-lofty heroes fall one by one, his face devoid of any expression.
He had seen too, too much.
Those heroes were perfect idols in front of the cameras and incarnations of light in front of the people.
But in places the cameras couldn't reach, in corners the people couldn't see—the things they did were a hundred times, a thousand times more disgusting than the criminals they fought.
Drugs.
Sexual assault.
Abuse.
Silencing witnesses.
They did everything.
Now, it was finally their turn.
"Captain, East Sector cleared!"
"Captain, West Sector cleared!"
"Captain, all three floors upstairs have been purged!"
Reports of success kept coming through the intercom.
Thorne nodded.
"Good, prepare to move to the next location—hm?"
His brow suddenly furrowed.
An anxious voice came through the intercom:
"Captain! We've got a tough nut here! Bullets won't penetrate!"
Thorne rushed to the scene.
At the entrance of a suite on the third floor, a dozen soldiers were firing frantically inside.
Bullets poured in like raindrops, but the figure inside remained motionless.
Chapter 82: Boss, Someone Wants to Kill Us!
"Ceasefire!"
Thorne raised his hand.
The gunfire stopped abruptly.
As the dust and smoke cleared, the scene inside was revealed.
A burly man over two meters tall, his skin shimmering with a metallic luster, stood there, looking at them with a cold smirk.
His muscles were bulging, veins popping, and every fiber of his being looked as if it were cast from iron.
Thorne recognized him.
"Alloy" Marcus, a second-rate hero with first-rate defense.
His ability allowed his body to transform into a special Alloy, with a hardness far exceeding ordinary steel.
It was said he had once taken a direct hit from an RPG and suffered only minor injuries.
At this moment, dozens of bullets were densely embedded in his Alloy skin.
But those bullets were only wedged in shallowly, failing to wound the flesh at all.
"That's it?"
Marcus smiled, reaching out to pick a bullet from his chest as easily as popping a pimple.
"Your guns only have this much power?"
He took a step forward.
The soldiers instinctively took a step back.
It wasn't fear.
It was a tactical retreat.
"Come on! Again!"
Marcus spread his arms, a look of enjoyment on his face.
"I want to see today just what you ants can do to me!"
He suddenly lunged forward, throwing a punch at the nearest soldier!
The soldier couldn't dodge in time and was sent flying by the punch, slamming heavily against the wall!
The Exoskeleton emitted a piercing alarm, and the chest armor was severely dented!
"Hahahaha!" Marcus laughed loudly. "I'm a man who can survive an RPG! Your pathetic guns aren't even enough to tickle me!"
Thorne's frown deepened.
Their weapons were more than enough to handle ordinary Superhuman.
But dealing with someone with skin of bronze and bones of iron was indeed a bit difficult.
Unless they used a tank's main cannon.
But if the main cannon fired, this whole building would collapse.
There were still brothers clearing other floors downstairs, and there were innocent people in the building—though the hotel was booked out today, who knew if someone had slipped through the cracks?
What to do?
Thorne stared at Marcus for two seconds.
Marcus lunged at another soldier, punching him away!
The soldier spat out a mouthful of blood upon landing, clearly seriously injured.
"Who else?!" Marcus roared. "Come on! Come on!"
Thorne picked up the walkie-talkie and pressed the special channel.
His voice was calm, but every word seemed squeezed out from between his teeth.
"Boss."
"There's a brat being unruly, trying to take the brothers' lives."
There was a second of silence on the other end of the walkie-talkie.
Then a voice came through; it sounded very calm, but Thorne knew it was the calm before the storm.
"What?"
Mark's voice came through the walkie-talkie, not loud, but every word felt solid, slamming into Thorne's heart.
"Someone—wants my brothers' lives?"
The next second—
BOOM!!!
The ceiling exploded!
It literally exploded!
Reinforced concrete was torn apart like paper, and rubble and dust formed a vertical waterfall.
And in the center of that waterfall, a blue and gold figure plummeted vertically at supersonic speed!
Before Marcus could react, he felt an irresistible, massive force from above.
It was the force of a sole stepping onto the top of his head.
BANG—!!!
His entire body was stomped into the floor!
No.
He was stomped right through the floor!
The third floor shattered, the second floor shattered, and the first floor shattered!
He fell all the way down, crashing through three floors, finally hitting the underground parking lot of the hotel with a loud 'thud'!
And that foot, from beginning to end, was firmly planted on his head!
The dust slowly dissipated.
Mark stood on the edge of the deep pit—no, he was standing on Marcus's head.
His red cape fluttered gently in the dust, without a single speck of dirt on it.
He looked down at the lump of meat beneath his feet that no longer looked human.
The lump of meat was still twitching, but it no longer had a human shape.
"That's it?"
Mark withdrew his foot and rubbed his sole against the nearby rubble.
"A waste of time."
He looked up toward Thorne's head peeking out from the hole upstairs.
"Any more?"
Thorne blinked, then shook his head.
"Reporting to the Boss, just this one was being unruly."
Mark nodded.
"Alright then, let's go clear out the next place."
His feet lifted slightly off the ground, preparing for takeoff.
But before flying away, he looked back at Thorne again.
"From this day forward—"
His voice wasn't loud, but everyone heard it clearly.
In the entire hotel, all the soldiers of the Reaction Department and all the survivors held their breath, listening to that voice.
"I want this world, besides me—"
"To have no more Superhuman!"
Thorne stood at the edge of the stomped-through hole, watching the blue and gold figure soar into the sky, disappearing into the morning light.
Behind him were two thousand Reaction Departmentsoldiers.
No, including the three thousand newly recruited elites, there were exactly five thousand people.
At this moment, they all stood in place, motionless.
Five thousand pairs of eyes were all looking in the direction he had gone.
The breathing of five thousand people grew heavy.
Thorne took a deep breath.
He turned around.
Looking at those five thousand faces.
On those faces, there was exhaustion, excitement, the relief of surviving a disaster, and also a longing for the future—no, for the 'future' that man had spoken of.
"Everyone."
He spoke, his voice sounding exceptionally resonant in the morning light.
"Did you all hear that?"
No one answered.
But every single person nodded heavily.
Thorne smiled.
He raised his right hand, clenched it into a fist, and placed it over his chest.
"Then—"
His voice grew louder and louder, finally turning into a roar:
"LOYALTY!!!"
Five thousand people raised their right hands simultaneously.
Five thousand voices exploded at once:
"LOYALTY!!!"
Chapter 83: Dawn of a New world
September 1, 2024.
A day worthy of being recorded in history.
Seven full days.
168 hours.
Ten thousand and eighty minutes.
From New York to Los Angeles, from London to Tokyo, from the Antarctic research station to the Arctic ice cap.
In seven days, Mark's Expeditionary Force sent 99.999% of the Superhuman on Earth to where they belonged.
Some called it a reign of terror.
Some called it historical inevitability.
But regardless, when the sun of July 14th rose from behind the American flag, the entire nation...
No, the entire world, became different.
Sunlight shone down, spilling over the White House.
The white building glowed softly in the morning light, dewdrops on the lawn sparkled, and the Stars and Stripes fluttered in the wind on the flagpole.
Everything looked so peaceful, so beautiful.
As if nothing had ever happened.
But everyone knew that everything was different.
Completely different.
A full week of counter-terrorism operations had completely wiped out 99.999% of the Superhuman in the world.
This wasn't an exaggeration; it was a statistical figure.
Under Mark's leadership, the five thousand soldiers of the Reaction Department fought from the West to the East of the Earth, and from the South to the northern ice fields.
They took transport planes across the Pacific, landing in Tokyo's Ginza, dragging those heroes hiding in nightclubs out for summary execution.
They rode tanks across European fields, opening fire beneath the Eiffel Tower in Paris, blasting those super-powered nobles hiding in ancient castles to pieces.
They hunted on the African savannas, where those "gods" who thought they could rule tribes with their abilities knelt and begged for mercy before the cannons of apaches.
They finished up on the Antarctic ice cap, where those who had escaped to the ends of the Earth didn't even have the strength left to run.
Strike one blow to avoid a hundred.
If your entire race is exterminated, then naturally, no blows will come.
This ancient Eastern saying was taught to the whole worldby Mark in the most direct way possible.
At exactly nine in the morning.
A blue and gold figure appeared in the sky.
That figure wore a red cape—no, that cape was different from before.
A special "Presidential Honor Shawl" made by the U.S. Department of Defense and the FBI.
It wasn't ordinary cloth; it was a blend of top-tier cashmere and bulletproof fibers.
The edges were trimmed with a ring of pure white Arctic fox fur, soft as a cloud yet capable of stopping small-caliber bullets.
It didn't flutter in the wind like a cape; it was more like a majestic shawl.
Wrapped around Mark's neck, the ring of white fur shimmered softly in the sunlight.
Wearing it, Mark didn't look like a hero.
He looked more like a king.
An innate majesty radiated from him.
He slowly descended from the air, his feet landing on the red carpet of the White House's central avenue.
The red carpet had just been laid this morning, stretching five hundred meters from the gate all the way to the steps of the White House.
Both sides were lined with soldiers carrying live ammunition, each wearing their most formal dress uniforms and standing as straight as pines.
Mark walked on the red carpet, his pace neither hurried nor slow.
There was no one behind him.
In front of him stood a crowd of people.
The President of America, Congressional leaders, the Chief Justice of the Federal Supreme Court, the Director of the FBI, the Director of the CIA, the Minister of Defense, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff—
The entire core of American power stood at the entrance of the White House at this moment, showing Mark their most fawning smiles.
How should one describe those smiles?
It was like you owed the bank a million dollars, and the bank manager was kneeling and begging you not to pay it back.
The President was an old politician in his sixties, with gray hair but well-maintained, his face always wearing the standard politician's smile.
Now he wore a sharp black suit, holding a Bible in his hands, preparing to take the oath.
Seeing the President open his mouth to speak, Markwaved his hand.
"My brothers haven't arrived yet."
His voice wasn't loud, but every word was crystal clear.
The President immediately shut his mouth, his smile unchanging.
"Of course, of course. We'll wait, we'll wait."
No sooner had he spoken—
A roar came from the sky.
The sound approached from afar, growing louder and louder until it became a deafening howl.
Looking up, twenty C-17 "Globemaster" transport planes emerged from the clouds in a neat formation.
Their cargo doors opened simultaneously.
Ropes dropped from the sky like countless black waterfalls.
And then—
People began to jump!
One after another!
Hundreds and thousands!
Soldiers in black combat suits slid directly to the ground from high altitude!
Their figures traced black trajectories in the sunlight, like a flock of falcons descending from the sky!
"Boom!"
"Boom!"
"Boom!"
The Earth shook!
Every soldier who landed immediately knelt on one knee, performing the highest salute toward the man in the center of the red carpet!
The exoskeletons on their bodies were still steaming, their combat suits were still stained with blood, and their faces bore the exhaustion of seven sleepless days—
But their eyes were as bright as stars.
A full five thousand people landed within thirty seconds.
Five thousand kneeling figures, five thousand pairs of fanatical eyes, five thousand silent salutes.
Thorne knelt at the very front.
His face was blackened by smoke, and the scar on his left cheek looked exceptionally hideous in the sunlight.
But his back was straight, and his gaze was as firm as iron.
"Reporting to the Commander-in-Chief of American Counter-Superhuman Operations—Mark Grayson!"
His voice was as resonant as a bell, echoing across the plaza in front of the White House.
"Since August 24, 2024, when you issued the 'Anti-Supers Emergency State Decree,' the Expeditionary Force has traveled day and night, fighting across the globe!"
"A total of 14,732 Superhuman have been killed!"
"561 Superhuman have been wounded and detained!"
"207 Super-powered criminal organizations have been destroyed!"
"Over 30,000 innocent civilians controlled by Superhumanhave been rescued!"
He paused and took a deep breath.
"At this point—except for Homelander, there is not a single Super left alive on Earth!"
Silence.
A deathly silence.
And then—
Mark smiled.
Of course, there were still some redundant Superhumansurviving.
But they were no longer Superhuman now; they were pure-blooded, orthodox humans!
Many times, birth is a part of power.
Just then, an untimely voice suddenly came from the crowd.
"Ahem—Mr. President, allow me to remind you of something."
It was a middle-aged man in a gray suit.
Wearing gold-rimmed glasses and with his hair meticulously parted, he looked exactly like the kind of career bureaucrat who had spent twenty years in Washington.
He was a member of the President's advisory team, specifically responsible for protocol and procedures.
He took a step forward, leaned in close to the President's ear, and whispered:
"According to convention, the report should be made to you first, and then you would announce the results.
Bypassing you like this to report to a... well... private citizen, I'm afraid it might damage the presidential dignity."
His voice was kept very low, but everyone present was as sharp as a tack; who couldn't hear what he was saying?