I'm sorry for the lack of an update. I have been having issues with internet and could not come online for a while
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"Time to get to work."
Mark moved with a fluid grace across the low rooftops of the Bronx, his steps almost silent as he scanned the sprawling urban landscape below. He was hunting, not for prey, but for a stage. He needed the right kind of trouble, a spectacle dramatic enough to carve his introduction into the city's consciousness. Stopping a simple mugging wasn't going to cut it; the scuffle he'd broken up earlier had been laughably unimpressive, a footnote before the story had even begun.
Unlike the steel and glass canyons of Manhattan, the Bronx was a tapestry of more modest architecture. The buildings, mostly five or six stories high, offered an unobstructed panorama of the streets. And the view was a predictable mosaic of human desperation. Brawls in alleyways, smash-and-grab robberies, drug deals turning violent. He had been watching for less than an hour and had already counted at least eight distinct, serious crimes unfolding within his line of sight.
He hadn't lifted a finger.
It wasn't born of indifference, but of a cold, pragmatic clarity. He harbored no delusions of being a universal guardian. The world was a vast ocean of evil, and he was not arrogant enough to believe he could single-handedly drain it. To take that impossible weight upon one's shoulders was a path to ruin, a self-immolation of the soul. He refused to sacrifice his own sanity for a moral ideal he never truly embraced.
His philosophy was brutally simple: he would act when he chose to, never because he felt he had to. His intervention might be driven by a flicker of compassion, a calculated move for self-interest, or even simple boredom. But it would never be fueled by guilt. And when he chose to stand by, he would feel no remorse. The blame, he believed, must always lie with the perpetrator, not the bystander.
Respect the choices of others. Don't try to save everyone. Don't lose yourself in the intoxicating haze of your own righteousness. It was a harsh, perhaps even selfish creed, but it was essential for survival. In a city like New York, where danger was woven into the very fabric of daily life, a hero who tried to be everywhere at once would burn out, a brilliant meteor reduced to ash. And if he broke, the people who genuinely depended on him would break too.
If, one day, he found himself in trouble, he would be grateful if a stranger stepped in. But if they walked away, he wouldn't curse them. His rage would be reserved for his attacker, not the indifferent crowd.
"There it is" he murmured, a faint smile touching his lips. "A good old-fashioned bank robbery."
Below, the chaos he'd been waiting for erupted. A white armored van, built like a battering ram, tore through traffic. Horns blared in a discordant symphony as civilians screamed and scrambled for safety. The vehicle swerved with reckless abandon down the wide avenue, three police cruisers struggling to keep pace. Muzzle flashes flickered from inside the van's reinforced windows, the chatter of submachine guns shredding the air.
The police officers returned fire with their standard-issue pistols, but their rounds sparked harmlessly against the van's thick plating. They were outgunned and outmatched, holding on through sheer grit.
Then, the van's sunroof slid open. A masked man emerged, a long, sleek tube resting on his shoulder. An RPG.
"Shit" Mark whispered, his interest sharpening into focus.
The rocket ignited with a visceral whoosh, leaving a trail of grey smoke as it screamed toward the lead cruiser. A heartbeat later, the police car was consumed by a blinding fireball, flipping onto its side in a shower of twisted metal and shattered glass.
"A hundred grand a piece! You really think your shitty pension is worth dying for, pigs?!" the man crowed, dropping back inside the van.
The second cruiser swerved violently, tires screeching as it came to a halt. Its occupants weren't cowards; they were professionals who knew the difference between bravery and a suicide run.
Inside the van, delirious laughter erupted. "Once we lose 'em, we hit the switch point," the gang's leader barked, ripping open a duffel bag overflowing with stacks of cash.
"New wheels, new clothes, and we're ghosts by sundown!"
Another man whooped, spraying a wild burst of gunfire out the side window just to keep the remaining cops pinned down.
But as they careened toward the next intersection, something dropped from the sky. It wasn't debris. It wasn't a missile.
It was a man.
Armored in polished gold and silver plates that gleamed like a fallen constellation, he landed in the middle of the street with the force of a meteor strike. The asphalt buckled and cracked beneath his boots, a spiderweb of fissures radiating outward. A shockwave of dust and displaced air billowed in all directions.
"Boss! There's somethin—" the driver yelled, his voice tight with panic.
"Ram him!" the leader roared, his greed eclipsing his fear.
"Don't you dare stop!"
The van, a two-ton behemoth of ballistic steel and raw horsepower, thundered forward. Pedestrians shrieked, diving behind cars and into doorways. This vehicle was designed to smash through concrete barricades; a single man was nothing.
Mark stood his ground. He didn't brace himself or adopt a dramatic stance. He simply raised a hand, his palm facing the oncoming vehicle.
"Stop."
The front of the van imploded. The vehicle crumpled as if it had slammed into an immovable wall. Metal shrieked in protest, glass spiderwebbed across the windshield, and the tires screamed as all its forward momentum vanished in an instant.
Then, with a deliberate, almost casual pivot of his wrist, Mark lifted the entire van into the air. Steel groaned under the impossible strain. He spun it twice over his head as if it were a child's toy before slamming it sideways into the pavement. The crash was deafening, a cacophony of shattered glass and crushed metal. The vehicle skidded to a halt on its side in a grinding storm of sparks.
He could have been more efficient. A kinetic blast from above would have turned the engine block to shrapnel. But this wasn't about efficiency. It was about presence. It was about creating a moment so unbelievable it would be seared into the city's memory.
Now, with the afternoon sun glinting off his armor, casting him as a modern-day hoplite, and dozens of phone cameras capturing his every move, they would remember.
The wrecked van creaked. A side door was kicked open and two robbers stumbled out, bruised and bleeding but still clutching their weapons.
"You freak!" one of them spat, his hands trembling as he raised his submachine gun.
"Die, monster!"
They opened fire.
Mark didn't flinch. The bullets streaked toward him, but instead of deflecting them, he caught them. One by one. His fingers became a blur of motion, plucking each projectile from the air with impossible speed. The hot lead casings fell to the ground around his feet with a series of soft tinks, the only sound in a suddenly silent street.
When their clips ran dry, the robbers stood frozen, their mouths agape, guns hanging uselessly in their hands. The sheer impossibility of what they had just witnessed had short-circuited their minds.
Mark took a step forward.
One of the men, snapping out of his stupor, scrambled back toward the wreckage, reaching for the discarded RPG. He never made it.
In a flicker of movement, Mark closed the distance. A single open-palm strike to the first man's chest sent him flying backward, his eyes rolling up into his head before he even hit the ground. Mark pivoted, driving his knee into the second man's sternum with a sickening crunch. The man folded like a cheap suit, collapsing in a heap.
Both were unconscious, but alive. Heroes didn't kill in broad daylight. Not with the world watching.
Moments later, the wail of sirens grew louder. The remaining police cruisers arrived, screeching to a halt to form a cautious perimeter. Officers spilled out, guns drawn, their faces a mixture of relief, confusion, and fear.
"Don't move!" one of the younger officers yelled, his voice strained. "Hands where I can see them!"
An older, more seasoned sergeant stepped forward, lowering his partner's pistol slightly. "Who the hell are you?" he asked, his voice steady but laced with awe.
Mark turned his head slowly, the polished metal of his helmet catching the sun like a divine beacon.
"War God," he said.
His voice, amplified by a subtle spell, resonated down the street, carrying the weight and authority of thunder. Then, activating the Goku template for its theatrical flair, he looked to the heavens and called out.
"Flying Nimbus!"
A collective gasp swept through the crowd of civilians and police alike. From the clear blue sky, a luminous golden cloud descended, silent and ethereal. It hovered patiently beside him. Mark stepped onto it as if mounting a chariot and soared into the sky, vanishing from sight in a streak of golden light.
A hero needed a name. A brand. It was better to define it himself than to let the sensationalist media slap some ridiculous moniker on him.
'The Gold Avenger? Captain Gold?' He shuddered at the thought. War God was different. It was primal, mythic. It borrowed power from millennia of human stories about Ares and Mars.
(T/N: Yes i know it's a bad name, I left it cause it gets changed later)
Sure, a part of him cringed at the sheer audacity of the declaration. But for the sake of spectacle, he had delivered the line with the solemn gravity of a deity descending to the mortal realm. Ordinary people didn't just want a savior; they wanted a show. And he had just given them one they would never forget.
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