The experience bar on the panel jumped hard.
Lines Attribute Leveled Up! Current Level: Lv4 (5/800)
A brand-new level of control flooded his throat and tongue. It wasn't just clearer pronunciation—it was total mastery of rhythm, stress, pauses, and the exact emotional weight every single word could carry. He could even feel how his voice resonated through the theater space, bouncing off the walls like it had its own power.
Cassius's heart surged with excitement, but his face stayed stone calm.
He gave the brave Arab-American girl a quick nod of respect, then signaled the host they could keep going.
The rest of the Q&A stayed sharp, but every question—even the tough ones—landed perfectly under his newly upgraded Lines control. Gina loosened up and shut down a couple of action-scene gotchas with her usual blunt humor. Keira stayed elegant, breaking down the emotional beats between Lindsey and Cassius like the pro she was.
The roadshow ended on a way warmer note than it started.
As they headed out, Rob leaned in close. "Nailed it, bro. Especially that Simon Baz pull—genius move. Twitter's already blowing up with clips of the girl and screenshots of his comic bio."
Cassius nodded, glancing out the window. The protest crowd had thinned a little, but the fan side was still loud and proud.
The premiere and cast appearance wrapped. The movie was officially out.
Unlike the old timeline, Warner skipped the New Zealand soft launch and went straight for a full U.S. opening.
The True Green Lantern Alliance and Guardians of Classic Cinema weren't done standing around with signs. They got organized—blocking main theater entrances, forming human walls, shouting at anyone trying to buy a ticket.
"You're really gonna watch that Asian superhero?"
"Your Green Lantern's gonna cry!"
"Don't give your money to this rewrite!"
That was the polite version.
Rob's reports from theater managers and Warner field teams painted a uglier picture. At least a dozen cities saw worse shit go down.
In Chicago, masked protesters surrounded a group of Asian college kids, snatched their tickets, and ripped them up on the spot.
In Houston, a single mom with her kid got tailed and threatened by a pack of big dudes until she gave up and drove home.
Small scuffles broke out in other spots too—protesters shoving fans and security, cops called, chaos.
It scared off tons of normal moviegoers. Nobody wanted to pay money just to get harassed—or worse.
Casual fans who were only curious took one look at the circus outside and turned around to catch the family cartoon instead.
Cassius, Gina, and Keira sat in the hotel suite Rob had booked, staring at the laptop on the coffee table. Rob's latest data dump glowed on the screen.
"East Coast and Midwest—opening-night shows are down at least forty percent from projections," Rob's voice crackled over speakerphone, tight with stress. "West Coast is a little better, but not by much. Ticketing sites show a ton of pre-sales getting refunded or just… not used."
Keira sat across from them, cold tea forgotten in her hands, brow furrowed. Gina paced like a caged tiger.
The rest of the team hovered in the living room; even through the door you could hear the low buzz of worried talk.
"What are the media saying?" Cassius asked.
"Mainstream outlets are playing it cool—talking 'below expectations' and focusing on reviews," Rob answered. "But social and the film-nerd accounts are on fire. #GreenLanternFlop is climbing."
Cassius rubbed his forehead. "Any word from Warner?"
Gina stopped pacing, voice sharp. "They're just gonna let these assholes wreck their own investment?"
"Legal and security are on it—warnings sent, local cops looped in," Rob sighed. "But you know how slow that shit moves. The real troublemakers are the fringe guys hiding in the crowd. Hard to pin anything on the main groups—they're 'just protesting legally.' Cops' hands are tied."
"Fucking hell," Gina muttered.
Keira set her cup down and looked at Cassius, worry clear in her eyes. "What now? If the opening weekend completely tanks…"
She didn't finish. Everyone knew the rest. In Hollywood, opening weekend basically decided everything—more screens, more marketing, the whole future of the movie.
If it bombed out of the gate, even killer word-of-mouth later wouldn't save the money or the rep.
There wasn't much they could do. Cassius knew the film was solid—better than the old timeline in a lot of ways—but this kind of outside noise? No easy fix.
They split up for the night, carrying that heavy feeling with them.
Meanwhile, Warner Bros. headquarters in Burbank. Executive conference room. Heavy walnut doors shut tight.
The long table was packed, but nobody was talking.
At the head of the table, a big screen showed one ugly red number slowly ticking up.
Domestic opening-weekend box office.
Way below projections.
Greg Silverman's fingers drummed the glossy table.
"Greg!" The VP of global analytics jumped in. "Our breakdown shows the casting backlash is responsible for over thirty-five percent of the shortfall. Negative sentiment crushed turnout from families and men over twenty-five—the core demo!"
Already throwing him under the bus?
Greg stared at the guy who'd been his rival since day one at the company.
Before he could answer, the CFO lifted his head, eyes narrow behind rimless glasses. "Marketing spend-to-return ratio is flashing red. If we keep dumping money into phase-two global promo and saturation ads while domestic keeps bleeding, the whole profit model collapses. The board won't sign off on throwing good money after bad."
Pressure hit Greg like a truck.
He'd been the biggest champion of this project—from picking Martin Campbell to green-lighting Cassius every single step.
"Cassius's pull in international markets is already turning into real ticket sales," Greg pushed back. "Global territory still has huge upside. We just need time for the movie itself to speak and drown out the noise from the loudest voices here at home—"
"But this is Hollywood, Greg," a senior board member cut in, voice low but brutal. Everyone who'd voted yes on Cassius suddenly had amnesia.
"We all hoped overseas would cover the gap, but we have to face facts. The DC universe lives or dies in North America."
"A movie tagged as controversial and divisive from day one? Merch, sequels, everything downstream takes a hit."
The meeting wasn't even an hour old when fragments of the bloodbath started hitting Cassius's phone.
"Opening shaky, pressure mounting—Silverman looking grim."
"People floating 'market misread' and 'casting risk.'"
"Talk of scaling back promo and doing a post-mortem on decisions."
All from Rob's network inside the building.
Rob's last text: "Bro, heads up. Shit's about to fly. Hollywood doesn't keep losers, even when the loss isn't all your fault."
Social media turned the soft opening into fresh meat.
"Green Lantern Opens Weak—Racial Controversy Casts Shadow Over Debut"
"Warner's New Superhero Stumbles—Can Audiences Accept the New Face?"
Headlines everywhere.
Forums and Twitter were a war zone.
"Told you! Warner lost their minds letting some sitcom Asian carry a superhero tentpole!"
"Congrats DC, new record for worst investment!"
"Pretty sure Disney hexed them. Straight-up flushing money down the Pacific—with a rock tied to it."
"Martin Campbell's too old, lost his touch. Greg Silverman should resign—he rammed this disaster through."
"Cut losses now. Slash the rest of the promo budget, eat the L, and pin it all on that cocky Asian actor who couldn't carry the role."
Even wilder rumors started: "Heard the set was toxic—Cassius clashed with Keira Knightley every day."
The same people who'd backed him—Martin, the producers, Greg Silverman—were suddenly the internet's favorite villains. Classic Hollywood move. Success? Everybody eats. Failure? Find the scapegoat, slice him clean, and keep the party going.
Cassius and Martin were the easiest targets right now.
Then Martin Campbell's number lit up his phone.
The old man sounded tired but not broken.
"Cass, you seeing this garbage online?"
"Currently enjoying the show," Cassius answered dryly.
"Pack of hyenas." Martin snorted. "Warner just wrapped their meeting—total screaming match. Silverman's under the gun. Some suits want to slash the rest of the promo spend and start pointing fingers at 'bad decisions.'"
"So they're throwing us under the bus?"
A short pause, then Martin's bitter laugh. "Pretty much. But Silverman hasn't caved yet and neither have I. The movie's only been out one damn day! Idiots."
"Director," Cassius asked quietly, "you think we're done?"
"Hell no!" Martin's voice rose. "The movie's good—I've been doing this my whole life, I know quality when I see it. We're just getting dragged down by a bunch of assholes using cheap shots!"
The next morning Cassius was still half-asleep when Rob burst into the Beverly Hills house, eyes bloodshot, laptop clutched like a shield.
He kept muttering "this isn't right" and "this is bullshit."
The screen showed the second day's early numbers—slightly better than opening night, but nowhere near enough.
#GreenLanternFlop still trending despite Warner PR trying to bury it.
Industry leaks were already out: "Warner quietly reviewing damage-control options, considering massive cuts to global marketing."
"These flip-flopping cowards!" Rob slammed the table. "Yesterday they were all smiles, today they're writing fanfic about internal drama."
Cassius poured himself water at the kitchen counter, face calm. Level-4 Emotion kept the mask perfect even while his stomach twisted.
Warner and the money guys had short patience. If North America really couldn't be saved, even decent international numbers might not matter. A big, expensive, controversial flop could bury his career.
Hollywood forgave failure. It rarely forgave expensive failure—especially when it came wrapped in casting drama.
Green Lantern kept bleeding exactly like the headlines said. Some chains even started trimming screens.
But Greg Silverman held the line. The global rollout stayed on schedule.
Warner had bet big on Asia—especially China. That was half the reason they'd fought for Cassius and the Azure Dragon angle in the first place.
The Asian market kept growing. They couldn't ignore it anymore.
This was Cassius's home turf.
And Greg's last lifeline in those boardroom bloodbaths.
The film sailed through censorship and locked in a New Year's Day release.
Trailers and posters had been flooding Weibo for weeks. "First Asian Lead in a Major DC Superhero Movie" trended nonstop.
The first reaction didn't come from regular moviegoers—it came from the domestic film-circle snobs.
On a highbrow film forum known for deep-dive takes, a post titled Dissecting Green Lantern: Rise of the Azure Dragon—Hollywood's China Special Edition and Self-Congratulatory Pandering shot straight to the top.
The poster claimed to be an industry screenwriter and laid it out like gospel:
"Anyone with eyes can see this is classic Hollywood assembly-line product, tweaked special for the market. Slap an Asian face on the lead, sprinkle in some Chinatown flavor, and boom—they think they own the box office. Lazy as hell."
"Before this superhero gig, Cassius was just the funny Asian sidekick in 2 Broke Girls and a nobody in Thor. If Warner really believed in the role, why give it to a TV comedy actor and Marvel extra? Doesn't add up."
"I predict his screen time gets chopped to nothing, or he's just a plot device. The real hero moments and emotional core will stay with the white characters—the instructor and the love interest."
The thread exploded. Big film critics and self-proclaimed experts retweeted similar hot takes.
"Hollywood's abacus is practically hitting me in the face—using an Asian lead for ticket bait while the real savior narrative stays white. Can't wait to be proven right."
"Watch out for the sugar-coated bullet. Cassius is probably just the gimmick. Real depth is somewhere else—don't fall for the surface."
A couple domestic movies opening the same day quietly stoked the fire behind the scenes.
Rumors spread fast on Weibo and beyond.
But none of it stuck.
Because when Green Lantern finally hit Chinese theaters in full 3D IMAX, the haters got steamrolled.
Zero o'clock shows in Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, Shenzhen—packed solid.
Ticketing apps flashed "sold out" on every prime weekend slot.
Inside the theaters, the lines for tickets and popcorn were full of young people—hoodies, headphones, groups of friends buzzing with energy.
"Finally! Screw what the critics say—we'll decide after we watch!"
"Whole dorm bought a row together—six of us!"
"I just wanna see Cassius in the Green Lantern suit. That trailer shot was way too short!"
"Heard the effects are insane? They built brand-new Oa scenes?"
Lights down. Movie started.
The second Cassius appeared on screen—plaid shirt, tired eyes, scarfing a sandwich on the subway as a coder—soft laughter rippled through the hall.
"Damn, that's too real…"
"Programmer life!"
"That's literally me!"
The super-relatable opening wiped away any distance.
When the Chinatown robbery hit, the ring and jade pendant synced, coins rained down knocking out the thugs, and Cassius tumbled into the hotpot restaurant next door—full-on laughter erupted.
"Hahaha what kind of power is this?!"
"Coin rain? So feng shui!"
"Hotpot boss: what the hell?!"
The funny, grounded start hooked everyone.
Young audiences realized this superhero played different.
He wasn't Tony Stark flashy or Steve Rogers perfect.
He was scared, clumsy, beaten down by real life—but kind at heart.
As the story rolled, Oa's epic visuals drew gasps. The brutal, realistic training fights with Gina sent adrenaline spiking. The sweet, funny, slow-burn romance with Keira grabbed hearts—especially the girls.
"That instructor is so badass! Step on me, sis!"
"Keira's gorgeous! And she and Cassius have actual chemistry!"
"The grandma scene at the herbal shop… I almost cried."
"That final Azure Dragon construct in the big battle? Straight fire!"
The theater erupted in cheers.
For the first time, a major Hollywood superhero movie had an Asian face front and center—and audiences weren't just watching.
They were claiming it.