Chapter 2179 - Ch: 1-8

The Heavens: Plunder, Starting with Queen Maeve

Chapter 1: Transmigration and the Laws of Survival

Night in New York, the neon lights blurring into hazy spots in the rain.

On the third basement floor of Vought Security, Rorschachstood under the cold fluorescent lights of the morgue, looking at the body covered by a white sheet. The air was a mix of disinfectant and rust, like some cheap chemical incense.

He wasn't the original owner of this body.

Three hours ago, he had opened his eyes amidst a splitting headache—memories flooded his mind like data from a shattered hard drive: Rorschach, twenty-eight years old, a field agent for Vought Security, raised in an orphanage, a standard background character from the bottom of society.

The only thing special was the photos in his phone's gallery: Queen Maeve, not in her suit, standing before a floor-to-ceiling window, her back looking exhausted.

"How's the scene processing going?"

A cold voice came from the doorway, carrying an undisguised sense of oppression.

Rorschach turned his head.

Homelander stood at the door, his blue uniform spotless, his blonde hair nearly perfect under the lights.

He wore a standard smile, but that smile made Rorschachshiver.

Those blue eyes swept across the morgue before finally landing on Rorschach.

"Reporting, Officer. The scene has been cleared, media control is in place, and witnesses have signed non-disclosure agreements." Rorschach answered according to the original body's memories, his tone steady, though he could feel his muscles tensing involuntarily.

It was a biological instinct—the reaction a rabbit has when facing a lion.

Homelander walked to the autopsy table and used two fingers to lift a corner of the white sheet.

Beneath it was a young man whose head was severely deformed, like a watermelon crushed by immense force, red and white matter smeared across his face.

"Tsk." Homelander let out a light sigh. "What was this kid's name again?"

"William Carson, Officer. Twenty-one years old, a sophomore majoring in sociology. The sign he was holding said 'Heroes shouldn't kill'."

"Ah, right, William." Homelander covered the sheet again, his movements as elegant as if he were tucking in bedsheets. "Do you know how many people died today?"

Rorschach didn't answer.

Homelander didn't need him to answer.

"Zero," Homelander said, turning to look at Rorschach, his smile still perfect. "Because I stopped him before he lost control. A potential superhuman threat that could have exploded at any moment was resolved ahead of time by me—your Homelander. That's the point, Rorschach."

He took a step closer.

Rorschach smelled the fresh scent of laundry detergent coming from the fabric softener on Homelander's cape. But beneath that clean scent, there was a faint, lingering smell of blood—hidden deep, yet persistent.

"But that tone of yours just now," Homelander tilted his head, his gaze like he was looking at a talking ant, "why does it sound like you're... blaming me?"

Rorschach's spine tensed instantly, but his face remained calm: "I wouldn't dare, Officer. I'm just reporting the facts."

"Facts." Homelander repeated the word, his smile fading slightly. "The fact is, for today's event, Vought invested a three-million-dollar budget, invited forty-seven media outlets, and had over five thousand spectators. And student William, with his cheap protest sign, almost ruined everything."

He raised his hand and lightly patted Rorschach's shoulder.

The force wasn't heavy.

But Rorschach felt as if he'd been pressed by a hydraulic press; his bones let out a faint groan, and sharp pain spread instantly. The gap was simply too large.

"You handled it well, Rorschach," Homelander said, his hand still there. "But next time, I hope you can be a bit faster. Clean up the scene before those cameras are pointed at the bodies. Understand?"

"Understood, Officer."

"Good." Homelander withdrew his hand and walked toward the door. "Oh, right—Maeve's state hasn't been great lately. You're in the Security Department, keep a closer eye on her. After all, she is an... important asset of The Seven."

He paused, looked back, and his smile brightened again.

"Don't let me down."

The morgue door was closed.

Rorschach stood in place, his shoulder still throbbing. He looked down at the young corpse under the white sheet, then looked up into the mirror.

The person in the mirror had clear features and sharp lines. His eyes were cold—not a forced coldness, but the kind of calm that comes from seeing too much Death and having no expectations for the World. He was about 1.85 meters tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, a lean and powerful build.

But it was useless.

In Homelander's eyes, there was no difference between him and William's corpse—both were things that could be crushed at will.

"Fuck," Rorschach cursed softly, not in anger, but as a confirmation.

Confirmation that he was still alive—and that he didn't want to become the next "cleanup report."

He walked out of the morgue and through the long corridor. The walls of Vought Tower were as bright as water, reflecting his shadow as he hurried past. None of the security guards or employees he encountered dared to meet his eyes—after dealing with William's aftermath, he was covered in an invisible scent of blood.

By the time he returned to his cramped apartment, it was already two in the morning.

Rorschach took off his uniform and stepped into the bathroom. As the hot water washed over his exhausted body, he closed his eyes and focused.

Transmigration, system, Vought, The Seven, Homelander, Maeve.

Fragments of information pieced together in his mind.

He was a programmer, an orphan in his past life, and still one in this life. No attachments in either life, which made things simpler. But in his past life, he could at least lay low; in this life...

"William was just the beginning," he murmured against the steam.

In this World, superhumans are products, stars, gods. And ordinary people are fuel, background scenery, and trouble that can be "cleaned up" at any time.

The phone in the living room suddenly rang.

Rorschach came out wrapped in a towel. The screen showed a string of numbers with no contact name. But a ripple appeared in the original body's memories—it was Maeve.

The screen flashed for three seconds before he pressed answer.

"..." On the other side was heavy breathing, mixed with the faint sound of jazz and the clinking of glasses in the background.

Rorschach didn't speak.

"...Come over." The woman's voice was raspy, tired, carrying an unquestionable tone of command, yet there was an imperceptible tremor at the end.

"Address," Rorschach said.

"The usual place."

The call ended.

The usual place. The penthouse of a luxury apartment building downtown, one of Maeve's private safe houses.

Rorschach dried himself and changed into casual clothes. The man's eyes in the mirror were still cold, but there was something else—a certain resolve.

He needed information, he needed channels, he needed chips to survive in this World. Maeve might be a danger, but she could also be an opportunity.

The taxi sped through the late-night streets.

He reached the penthouse where Maeve was. The fingerprint lock recognized him, and the heavy door slid open silently.

A strong scent of whiskey hit him.

The main lights in the living room weren't on; only the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows outlined the curled figure on the sofa.

Maeve wasn't wearing her suit; a simple black silk robe was loosely wrapped around her body, her brown hair was messy, and she held half a glass of amber liquid.

She didn't look at him, her gaze staring hollowly at the flickering Vought Tower outside the window.

"close the door." she said.

Rorschach closed the door, cutting off the outside World. He walked to the side of the sofa, but didn't sit, just stood there.

The air was stagnant, save for the slight trembling of the whiskey glass.

"Today," Maeve suddenly spoke, her voice dry, "I watched the scene recording. When William fell, his eyes were still open."

She tilted her head back and finished the drink, her throat moving slightly.

"Edgar said it was a necessary deterrent. The PR Department is already making up stories—a superhumanout of control, a grieving hero turning the tide... cliché."

She finally turned her head and looked at Rorschach.

Her eyes looked exceptionally deep in the dim light; there was anger, disgust, and more than anything, a deep sense of powerlessness.

In her early thirties, years of training and combat had kept her body in beautiful shape, but now, curled on the sofa, she looked like a wounded leopardess.

"Sometimes, I feel like I'm rotting too, from the inside out," she said.

Rorschach still didn't speak.

He didn't know what to say.

Comfort? The original body wouldn't do that.

Judgment? He wasn't qualified.

He was just an accidental intruder, an ant struggling to save himself.

But his silence seemed to be exactly what Maeve needed.

She didn't need answers; she just needed a sounding board who wouldn't take her vulnerability to claim credit.

"When I first joined The Seven," her voice was very soft, "I thought I could really help people. Fight crime, save the World, make those little girls feel like there was still hope."

She pointed to the photo on the wall—Maeve in her early twenties, wearing a brand-new suit, her smile as bright as California sunshine.

"That was ten years ago."

"Elena said I've changed, become a stranger..."

Elena.

Rorschach remembered the name—Maeve's girlfriend. Vought forced Maeve to only promote herself as a lesbian—"bisexuality is hard to market"—it was more profitable to milk the LGBT demographic.

"Where is she?" he asked.

Maeve was silent for a long time.

"We broke up." Her voice was very soft. "Because I could never give her a normal life."

She put down her glass, grabbed Rorschach's collar, and pulled him close.

A strong scent of alcohol mixed with the faint, expensive perfume on her. Her kiss was rough, with a biting force, as if she were venting, or perhaps confirming some real existence.

Rorschach stiffened for a moment, then complied.

This was the original body's "job," and also his best cover right now. He even responded clumsily, his hand stroking her back; the smooth skin under the silk robe trembled slightly.

[Intimate contact detected (Female target: Queen Maeve)]

A cold, emotionless mechanical voice abruptly sounded deep in his mind, and Rorschach's body suddenly stiffened.

[Extracting ability...]

[Obtained: Super Strength 1.0]

[Obtained: Super Defense 1.0]

[points +200, Current total points: 200]

A series of information streams flashed by; there was no interface, no explanation, only conclusions directly imprinted into his consciousness.

System.

Golden finger.

Transmigrator's perk.

[Ability Acquisition Rules: Through blood contact (all abilities) or through intimate contact (randomly extract 1-2 items)]

[points Rules:]

[Level 1.0 ability: +100 points]

[Level 2.0 ability: +1000 points]

[Upgrade cost: 1.0 to 2.0 requires 1000 points]

[Fusion cost: Consumes corresponding points based on ability type and level]

Countless thoughts exploded, but Maeve, dissatisfied with his distraction, bit his lower lip.

The pain brought him back to his senses.

He suppressed the surging waves in his heart and focused more on the "intimate contact" before him. This was no longer a simple cover or task; it was the first cornerstone for his survival in this godforsaken World.

The moment the power surged in, he almost cried out.

It wasn't pain, but a deeper kind of vibration—muscle fibers burning, bones roaring, as if every cell was frantically devouring the newborn energy. His heartbeat changed, no longer that of an ordinary person, but like a precision engine that had just been started.

That feeling was like gears that had been rusted for half a lifetime finally having boiling lubricant injected into them.

Maeve, panting and confused: "You... today... are a bit different..."

Different.

Of course, different.

Rorschach's thoughts briefly split: half immersed in the shock of his body's dramatic change, feeling that savage strength capable of flipping a truck; the other half spinning rapidly—system, points, and how to explain that moment of distraction just now.

He lowered his eyes and kissed her lips, using this body that had just gained superhuman strength to give the most direct response.

Let her forget that momentary abnormality and only remember the heat of this moment.

In the long entanglement, he allowed himself to adapt to this brand-new body. Every inch of muscle was precise and powerful, every breath long and deep; he could even clearly perceive the frequency of Maeve's heartbeat.

This feeling...

It really felt too good.

When it ended, Maeve lay on her side with her back to him, her breathing gradually stabilizing, as if she had briefly escaped from that glamorous hell.

Rorschach got up and put on his clothes.

On his wrist, at some point, a bit of red ink had rubbed off, perhaps from something on Maeve's vanity.

As he reached the door, Maeve's voice came, very soft and sleepy: "...Next time, bring some food. The fridge is empty."

"Mm," Rorschach replied, softly closing the door.

The elevator descended.

The cold metal walls reflected his face, his gaze already different. The initial confusion was replaced by a cold calculation.

Super Strength, Super Defense, 200 points... system.

"Plunder..." he whispered, chewing on the word.

The programmer's logical thinking began to spin frantically. Limits? Costs? Currently unknown. But one thing was clear: in this World where people are like ants and heroes are commodities, this suddenly loaded "system" was his only lever.

Stepping out of the apartment building, the early morning wind carried a chill. He looked up; the crimson logo of Vought Tower was still looking down on all living things.

The corners of his mouth quirked up, that curve finally showing a hint of cynicism.

The red mark on his wrist was like a crude brand, and also like a starting line.

The game has begun.

Chapter 2: Threats and Countermeasures

Three days later, Vought International Headquarters Plaza.

A sea of people filled the area, their voices thunderous. Camera flashes merged into a blinding silver ocean, and the fans' screams nearly toppled the temporary viewing stand.

Today was the launch day for The Seven's new promotional season, a meticulously choreographed show.

Rorschach stood behind the cordon, commands from his earpiece never-ending. His expression was calm as his gaze swept over the "heroes" lined up on the stage.

Homelander stood at the absolute center, in his blue uniform with blonde hair, his smile as perfect as a 3D model, every gesture triggering waves of cheers.

Beside him, Queen Maeve was in full armor, expressionless, looking straight ahead with no trace of that night's exhaustion or vulnerability. Starlight, the new girl, had a somewhat stiff smile, but there was light in her eyes.

The Deep was grinning, A-Train was impatiently tapping his leg, and Translucent's spot was empty—supposedly on a "secret mission." Black Noir was as he always was, like a black statue.

Rorschach's gaze lingered on Homelander for a moment longer.

This was the man who had crushed William's head.

Memories overlapped with the live footage, bringing a cold sense of reality. This was an existence that could easily decide his life or death and be completely indifferent to it.

"Stay alert! Watch the crowd at the three o'clock position!" the Captain roared through the earpiece.

Rorschach turned his head as ordered. At three o'clock was a small group of people holding placards. The writing on the signs varied: "Vought = Lies," "Supers Need Oversight," "Justice for William." Protesters—not many, but highly emotional.

Homelander on the stage seemed to notice them. He turned his head, his perfect smile unchanged, but those blue eyes accurately locked onto the young man at the front of the protesters who was screaming the loudest.

Then, he blinked.

Rorschach's Super Perception had just awakened and was still unstable, but in that instant, he caught it—Homelander disappeared for a fraction of a second and reappeared in the same spot.

No sound. No warning.

The young man's head exploded like a watermelon struck by an invisible sledgehammer. Blood and brains sprayed out, bursting into a blinding fan shape in the sunlight, splashing everyone around him.

The screaming stopped abruptly, and a deathly silence froze the entire venue—the next second, chaos erupted! It was immediately replaced by even more frantic, terrified screams and disorder.

The crowd boiled over, pushing and trampling. Camera flashes flickered like mad.

Rorschach's stomach churned; even from dozens of meters away, he seemed to smell the thick scent of blood. He forced his breathing to remain steady, his gaze sweeping over the stage.

Maeve's fists clenched at her sides, but her face remained like a perfect mask. Starlight was completely stunned, her face pale, the light in her eyes extinguished.

Homelander simply tilted his head slightly, wearing a slightly apologetic expression, and said into the microphone, "Oh, dear. Another rogue Supe lurking in the crowd. Everyone, don't panic. Safety first."

His voice was warm, steady, and carried a convincing magic. It was as if the bloody scene just now was merely a movie special effect.

Rorschach looked away, mechanically blocking several reporters trying to rush the stage as per his orders. In his mind, the points on the system panel ticked coldly: 200.

This small amount of points felt laughably insignificant in the face of what had just happened.

By the time the scene, media, and briefings were handled, it was late at night.

When Rorschach changed out of his uniform and walked out of the side door of the Vought building, the sky was pitch black. The exhaustion wasn't physical—Super Strength kept him energetic—but mental tension. This World was more direct and bloodier than he had anticipated.

The apartment building he lived in was old, with dim hallway lights. As he reached his door and pulled out his keys, he stopped.

In the shadows by the door, a man was leaning.

Tall, burly, wearing a leather jacket, face full of stubble, eyes like a cornered beast, holding a half-empty bottle of liquor.

Billy Butcher.

In his original body's memories, the impression of this former FBI agent was vague but dangerous.

"Oi! Rorschach?" Butcher spoke, his voice raspy and smelling heavily of smoke and alcohol. "Vought's little watchdog."

Rorschach didn't move, his keys gripped in his palm, muscles tightening slightly. Super Strength flowed through his body, giving him the illusion that he could punch through the wall. But he restrained himself.

"Wrong door, sir," he said calmly.

"Not the wrong door." Butcher straightened up and took a step closer. A sense of pressure rushed at him, mixed with cheap whiskey and sweat. "Been getting pretty close to Queen Maeve lately?"

Rorschach's eyes narrowed.

Was Butcher investigating him, or investigating Maeve? Or both.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rorschach said, his body shifting slightly to leave room for a reaction.

"Don't play dumb." Butcher lowered his voice, his eyes bloodshot and ferocious. "You saw what happened at the plaza today. That bastard kills people at will, like stepping on a bug. Your Vought packages it as an accident, as heroic behavior... Ptu!"

He spat, the smell of alcohol spraying onto Rorschach's face.

"I know not all of you inside are idiots and bastards. Maeve? At least she still has nightmares at night. What about you? After watching that show today, can you sleep at night?"

Rorschach remained silent, quickly assessing the situation.

Butcher was a revenger, with clear goals and aggressive methods. Being targeted by him was extremely dangerous, but... it could also be an opportunity. An opportunity outside the Vought system, knowing some of the darker sides.

"What exactly do you want?" Rorschach asked, his tone softening, carrying a perfectly timed hint of hesitation.

Butcher stared at him, as if judging whether he was acting.

"Translucent," he spat out the name, "that self-important, invisible piece of shit. Vought says he's on a secret mission. Bullshit. I know where he usually likes to go, but I can't find him. I need an 'eye,' someone who can reasonably enter certain places without drawing attention."

He leaned closer, almost whispering in Rorschach's ear: "You be my eye, find that piece of shit. I get what I want, and you... maybe you can keep sleeping soundly."

A threat, plain and simple.

But also a twisted olive branch.

Rorschach's mind raced. Refusing now might mean an immediate confrontation with Butcher. Agreeing meant getting involved in a conspiracy against The Seven, which was high risk.

But... Translucent.

The system had prompted that contact with a Supe's blood could acquire their ability. An invisible Supe...

Moreover, Butcher mentioned "Queen Maeve." This meant Butcher knew about his connection with Maeve.

Rorschach looked up at Butcher. In the dim light, the corner of his mouth twitched into a mirthless arc.

He recalled Butcher's situation and let out a cold laugh:

"Mr. Butcher," he said, his voice quiet but clear, "I know you."

Butcher frowned.

Rorschach continued: "Former FBI agent, fired for excessive conduct. Wife, Becca Butcher, missing."

"If I were to tip off Vought or Homelander: 'Billy Butcher, this mad dog, is secretly investigating Translucent'—do you think you'd live to see tomorrow?"

Butcher's gaze instantly became dangerous, his hand moving toward his waist.

Rorschach didn't move and continued in a steady pace: "Cooperation! I'll find Translucent and help you look for clues about Becca; you use your informants to help me keep an eye on 'Missing Items.' We both get what we need."

"My wife's whereabouts?" Butcher's voice turned icy.

He stared intently at Rorschach, his breathing heavy. In those bloodshot eyes, rage and pain surged, with only a flicker of hope like a candle in the wind.

A long silence followed. The only sound in the hallway was the distant drip-drip of a water pipe.

Butcher's hand slowly lowered from his waist. He stared at Rorschach as if trying to see through him.

"Tomorrow night," he finally said, his voice raspy, "Star Cityunderground fight club back alley, ten o'clock. Don't be late."

Butcher stuffed a waterproof bag into Rorschach's hand: "The code is 'Zinc,' ask the waiter for 'Mr. Mirror.' The bag has zinc samples, a taser, and a communicator—my people will be waiting in the back alley. Frenchie and Mother's Milk will handle the perimeter."

Rorschach weighed the bag: "Team operation? I thought you worked alone."

"A mad dog needs fangs too," Butcher sneered. "Don't screw up."

With that, he shook the liquor bottle, turned, and walked down the dim stairs, his heavy footsteps gradually fading away.

Rorschach stood in place and slowly exhaled. He inserted the key into the lock and turned it.

The door opened to a pitch-black room. He turned on the light; the small room was empty.

He went to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on his face. Looking up, the person in the mirror had deep, inscrutable eyes.

Was Butcher a fire pit? But under the shadow of Vought, what inch of land was pure?

[System Prompt]

[Existing Abilities: Super Defense 1.0, Super Strength1.0]

[Current Total points: 200]

The numbers were cold, yet they carried a hint of temptation.

Power was the hard currency in this dog-eat-dog World. He had to get Translucent's ability. And Butcher—was a handy blade.

He dried his face and looked out the window. The light of Vought Tower still shone arrogantly in the night sky.

He needed more "abilities" and "points," he needed... more bargaining chips to survive.

Star City underground fight club.

Ten o'clock.

Chapter 3: Shadow Deal, Three-Day Hunt

Long blonde hair was tousled by the wind, sticking to a forehead soaked in cold sweat.

Her chest heaved violently beneath her supersuit, her waist tightening and relaxing rhythmically with her breathing.

It was the first time she had seen the truth with her own eyes. The chaos lasted for three minutes.

Security rushed up to control the crowd, reporters clicked their shutters frantically, and the PR team swarmed every camera like locusts.

Rorschach didn't move. His gaze swept across the edge of the plaza and stopped on a woman.

Madelyn Stillwell. Vought's Senior VP of Hero Management.

She stood in the shade, wearing a navy blue professional suit, tailored to fit, with a knee-length skirt and black high heels.

In her forties, but maintained like someone in her early thirties, her red hair was pinned up, revealing a slender neck.

She held a custom glass in her hand—childish in design, with a straw, completely at odds with her aura.

She was surveying everything with a calm gaze, like a director watching a play she had choreographed.

Homelander stepped down from the stage and walked toward her.

Madelyn turned, and the two of them walked into the VIP passage at the side of the plaza, one after the other.

She walked with unhurried composure, her high heels clicking on the ground with a rhythm as steady as a metronome.

Rorschach narrowed his eyes.

This was the person who could control a "god." Not with powers, but with a milk bottle, with a look, and with chains carefully woven over decades.

He withdrew his gaze and looked toward the stage. Starlight was being helped down by staff, her steps staggering.

She glanced back at the pool of blood and then quickly turned her head away again.

Queen Maeve stood where she was, staring at her own fist, motionless for a long time.

Rorschach turned and walked into the crowd.

Day 7 of the transmigration. Old pier warehouse.

9:00 PM, an abandoned industrial area in Lower Manhattan. The sea breeze blew in, carrying the scent of salt, brine, and engine oil.

The warehouse's iron door was half-ajar, and the interior was pitch black.

Rorschach pushed the door and entered.

Moonlight spilled through the broken high windows, casting dappled shadows on the ground.

Shelves were tilted every which way, rusted parts and empty oil drums were scattered on the floor, and the air was thick with the smell of mold.

The sound of footsteps came from deep within.

Boots stepped on the concrete floor, one after another, with a loose, casual rhythm.

A figure emerged from the shadows—leather jacket, face full of stubble, eyes like a trapped beast.

He had a burly build with broad shoulders, walking with an air of reckless defiance.

Billy Butcher.

He came to a halt and stared at Rorschach, reeking of alcohol.

"Oi!" he spoke, his voice gravelly, "Come out, I know you're here."

Rorschach took two steps forward from the moonlight and stopped.

Butcher stared at him, his eyes flickering for a moment—that face wasn't quite what he had imagined.

Too young, too calm. But he didn't ask anything.

"Translucent," Butcher said, getting straight to the point without even a greeting. "That invisible piece of shit. I need you to be my eyes."

Rorschach didn't respond. He looked at Butcher and suddenly smiled.

"Mr. Butcher."

His voice was soft but clear.

Butcher frowned.

Rorschach continued, his speaking pace steady: "Former FBI agent, fired for excessive conduct. Wife, Becca Butcher, missing for eight years."

"You've been investigating Vought, investigating Homelander, and investigating all Supes. You formed a small team specifically to do the dirty work."

Butcher's gaze instantly became dangerous. His hand moved toward his waist.

Rorschach didn't move, didn't even look at his hand.

"If I were to tip off Vought or Homelander—" He paused, his smile unchanged, "'Billy Butcher, this mad dog, is secretly investigating Translucent, hoping to follow the trail and find dirt on Homelander.'"

"Do you think you'd live to see tomorrow?"

A long silence followed.

The only sound in the warehouse was the ticking of a distant dripping water pipe. The wind from the East Riverblew through the gaps in the iron door, fluttering waste paper on the floor.

Butcher's hand stayed at his waist, unmoving. He stared fixedly at Rorschach, his breathing heavy.

In those bloodshot eyes, fury and pain surged, with only a sliver of hope like a candle in the wind, flickering and dimming.

Ten seconds.

Twenty seconds.

Butcher's hand slowly lowered from his waist.

He stared at Rorschach as if trying to see right through him.

Then he pulled a photograph from his jacket's inner pocket and tossed it over.

The photo landed on the ground, illuminated by the moonlight—a woman holding a child, with the sign of a Vought nursing home in the background.

The woman was in her early thirties, smiling gently, with an infant in her arms.

"You help me find Translucent," Butcher's voice was raspy, "and I'll tell you what Vought is hiding."

"And Becca—if you can find any clues about her."

Equity.

Rorschach looked down at the photo, then looked up three seconds later.

"Deal."

He paused and added, "Within three days, Translucentdisappears."

Butcher stared at him, something else appearing in his eyes—scrutiny, and a hint of wariness.

This kid agreed too quickly, too decisively. He was either a madman or he had been targeting Translucent for a long time.

But he didn't ask.

"Three days," Butcher repeated, turning to walk back into the darkness.

After a few steps, he stopped and turned his head.

"Do you know why I sought you out?"

Rorschach didn't speak.

"That day at Vought Plaza, the way The Deep looked at you." Butcher curled his lip into a wolf-like smile.

"I'm all too familiar with the way that piece of shit holds a grudge. Someone who can make The Deep hold a grudge is either a dead man or a hard man."

He vanished into the shadows.

The sound of footsteps faded and then disappeared.

Rorschach stood where he was, looking down at the photo in his hand. Becca Butcher, smiling gently.

The Vought nursing home sign was blurred in the background.

He put the photo in his pocket.

He turned and walked out of the warehouse. Moonlight shone on his face, his profile half-lit and half-shadowed.

In the distance, the Manhattan skyline was brilliantly lit. The scarlet Vought logo cut through the night sky.

Three days.

Translucent.

He curled his lip.

His phone screen lit up.

An unknown number, with only one line of text:

"Translucent goes to the Star City back alley sauna every Wednesday night. He has two glasses of whiskey and then stays invisible for an hour. —Someone who knows the truth."

Rorschach stared at the screen, the light reflecting on his face.

Someone who knows the truth.

He put the phone in his pocket and walked into the night.

---

Day 8 of the transmigration, 9:00 AM, Vought TowerSecurity Department.

Rorschach sat before a terminal, pulling up Translucent's internal file.

The screen displayed: Name unknown, Codename: Translucent, powers are invisibility and diamond skin.

In the remarks section was a line of red text: Psychological assessment unstable, suggest limiting public activities.

He scrolled down. In the activity logs for the past three months, most were PR events, with occasional private notes—"Wednesday night, Star City back alley sauna, personal time."

Rorschach stared at that line, narrowing his eyes.

Invisibility, diamond skin, and a fixed visit to the sauna every Wednesday.

He recalled the setting from the show; Translucent's skin was a carbon meta-material that could bend light and had a hardness comparable to diamond.

But high temperatures would disable his invisibility, his internal organs were as fragile as a normal human's, and zinc could block his power tracking.

An encrypted notification sounded.

Butcher's encrypted message arrived: "Translucent. Star City back alley sauna. Every Wednesday night he drinks two whiskeys and then stays invisible for an hour."

"That piece of shit likes to peep in the women's locker room. Tonight is your only chance."

Coordinates and a blurry satellite map were attached.

Rorschach closed the interface, stood up, and walked toward the elevator.

As he passed the floor reserved for The Seven, the elevator doors opened and a blonde girl rushed in, nearly colliding with him.

Chapter 4: The Hunt

"Sorry!" She looked up; that round face with a hint of baby fat belonged to Starlight.

She was in casual clothes—a beige knit sweater and jeans—no makeup, her youthful innocence impossible to hide.

Rorschach stepped aside. "It's fine."

As the elevator descended, Starlight gripped her phone.

She leaned in closer and lowered her voice: "The Deep really did ask me for private training later, but I turned him down like you said."

"His face looked terrible, but he didn't give me any more trouble. Thank you."

Rorschach nodded. "Stay alert. He's been in The Seven for a long time and has many connections."

"I know." Starlight paused. "You too, be careful."

The elevator reached the first floor. The doors opened, and Rorschach walked out without looking back.

Day 9 of the transmigration, 9:50 PM.

Star City Industrial Zone, Back Alley Sauna.

Rorschach leaned in the shadows of an abandoned warehouse across the street, watching the iron door.

The neon sign above the door was missing letters, flickering with the red glow of "Sau__ Room."

The air was thick with the smell of engine oil and mildew, with the roar of trucks in the distance.

He had scouted the location in advance. The sauna wasn't large, with wooden walls and red-hot coals.

There was a ventilation window in the corner, and the door was thick and soundproof.

He had simulated the operation process seventeen times in his mind.

Zinc Sheets, high-voltage stun gun, escape route.

Exactly ten o'clock.

Footsteps came from the mouth of the alley—leather shoes clicking on the concrete, one, two, three.

Then they stopped three steps away from him.

Something was staring at him.

Rorschach didn't move. He pulled a small metal box from his pocket and opened it, revealing silver-white Zinc Sheets.

"I have a zinc deal," he said to the air, his voice steady.

Three seconds of silence.

The air began to distort.

A humanoid silhouette slowly emerged in front of him—first a blurry shadow, then skin, features, appearing bit by bit.

Translucent. In his forties, with an ordinary white man's face, his eyes filled with condescending curiosity.

He was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of swim trunks, his skin possessing the paleness left by long-term invisibility.

"Zinc?" He stared at the Zinc Sheets in the box and reached for them. "Where did this come from?"

Rorschach didn't answer, simply handing the box forward.

Translucent took a zinc sheet, rubbed it between his fingers, and brought it closer to look—at that exact moment, Rorschach moved.

He kicked the waist-high coal stove next to him with his right foot!

The entire stove flew into the air, pouring out scalding sauna stones and boiling water, crashing down onto Translucent!

"Aaaagh—!!!"

Translucent let out a scream like a stuck pig.

The high-temperature steam caused his invisibility to fail instantly. He became fully visible, his skin scalded bright red as he stumbled back.

He instinctively covered his face, exposing a weakness at his waist.

Rorschach closed in.

He jammed the high-voltage stun gun into the man's kidney area.

Zzzzt—!!!

A blue-white electric arc flashed brilliantly.

Translucent's body stiffened, his eyes rolled back, and his mouth hung open but couldn't make a sound. Like a stunned fish, he slumped limply to the ground.

Rorschach put away the stun gun and looked down at the twitching body.

The entire process took less than five seconds.

He fished the car keys from Translucent's waist and opened the trunk of the SUV parked at the mouth of the alley.

Inside lay a custom Zinc Box, two meters long and one meter wide, with the inner walls plated in zinc.

This had been placed there in advance by Butcher's people.

Rorschach dragged Translucent inside, locked the lid, started the engine, and drove into the night.

Twenty minutes later, the Old Pier.

The abandoned loading area was filled with rusted containers, and the sea breeze carried a salty, fishy smell.

An unmarked van was parked in the corner closest to the sea.

Rorschach drove the SUV over and cut the engine.

Frenchie jumped down from the van's cab and opened the rear door. Mothers Milk followed behind him.

The three of them worked together to lift the Zinc Box into the van.

The lid was opened.

Translucent was curled inside, awake, his eyes wide and bloodshot, a cloth stuffed in his mouth.

He saw Rorschach's face clearly, and his pupils shrank—it was the security guard who had ruined his fun at the press conference that day.

The intensity of his struggling surged.

Butcher walked over with an unlit cigar in his mouth and glanced down. "I heard his defense is strong? Can it be pierced?"

"It can't," Rorschach said.

Frenchie said with a serious face, "How about... we try the back door?"

Mothers Milk rolled his eyes.

Butcher grinned. "I like that line of thinking."

Frenchie pulled a palm-length metal tube from a canvas bag, stuffed with compressed C4, with a fuse leading out from one end.

"It's thin enough. Shove it in—boom! No trace left."

Once Translucent saw the object, he immediately shed tears of despair.

Frenchie held down his legs, and Mothers Milk held down his shoulders.

Butcher stood to the side, lit his cigar, and took a puff.

Rorschach took the metal tube and moved to Translucent's side.

Translucent began to shake his head frantically, his eyes full of pleading.

"Time to go," Rorschach said softly.

Then he aimed the metal tube and pushed it in.

Translucent's body tensed violently, a muffled whimper of humiliation and despair coming from his throat.

Rorschach pulled out the outer tube and stepped back.

Frenchie handed over the timer. "How long did you set it for?"

Rorschach glanced at Translucent. "One minute."

Translucent's eyes widened to their limit, filled with nothing but terror.

Beep—beep—beep—

The electronic sound was exceptionally piercing on the silent pier.

The four of them crouched behind a low wall. Fifty seconds. Thirty seconds. Ten seconds. Nine seconds. Eight seconds—

BOOM—!!!

A dull explosion erupted from inside the Zinc Box.

The box shook violently, and a dark red liquid seeped from the seams, running down the walls and pooling into a small puddle on the concrete.

Waves lapped against the shore, and the Manhattanskyline still flickered in the distance.

Rorschach stood up, walked to the Zinc Box, and his finger touched the still-warm liquid.

[+200 Points, Current Total Points: 600]

[Blood contact detected, extracting ability...]

[Acquired: Invisibility 1.0 (Improved), Diamond Skin 1.0(Fused into Super Defense)]

[Super Defense upgraded to 1.1]

Power surged in.

It felt as if an extra layer of controllable "membrane" had appeared under his skin, capable of bending light.

With a slight thought, his right hand began to turn transparent under the moonlight—first the outline blurred, then the skin, blood vessels, and bones vanished in sequence, leaving only a patch of air.

He retracted the ability, and his hand reappeared.

At the same time, the density of his muscles and bones seemed to increase slightly.

His defense had become stronger.

Butcher walked over and handed him a cigarette.

Rorschach took it, lit it with Butcher's flame, and took a deep drag.

The two of them stood at the edge of the pier, smoking toward the dark sea.

Behind them, Frenchie and Mothers Milk worked together to push the Zinc Box into the sea—with a splash, the box tumbled and was swallowed by the darkness.

Butcher stared at Rorschach, a hint of scrutiny in his gaze.

This kid was even more ruthless than he was—no hesitation, no shaking hands, like a veteran who had been doing this for decades.

"Welcome to the real World," Butcher said.

Rorschach blew out a smoke ring and watched it dissipate in the sea breeze. "Next target?"

"The Deep." Butcher paused. "And, don't forget about my wife."

"I haven't."

Rorschach crushed the cigarette butt, threw it into the sea, and turned toward the van.

Butcher stood there, watching his back disappear into the van.

That lightning-fast ambush—first the baiting, then using high heat to break the invisibility, then the electric shock to subdue him—the whole thing took less than ten seconds.

A natural-born killer?

No.

A natural-born hunter.

Butcher took a final puff of his cigarette and also walked toward the van.

Chapter 5: The Deep, Endgame.

The engine started, the van drove away from the wharf, its taillights fading into the darkness.

The wharf returned to a deathly silence.

There was only the sound of waves lapping against the shore and the last string of bubbles rising as the zinc box hit the bottom.

In the distance, a black SUV was parked in the shadows by the roadside.

The car window slowly rolled down a crack, and a lens extended, aiming in the direction the van had disappeared.

Click. Click. Click.

Three soft sounds.

The window rolled up.

The SUV started and silently drove into the night, the Vought logo flashing faintly on its body.

Inside the van, Rorschach sat leaning against the wall of the box, his eyes closed.

In his mind, the system prompts were still there.

Invisibility 1. Diamond Form 2.0.

He opened his eyes and looked at the night scenery rapidly receding outside the car window.

Translucent was dead.

The next one, The Deep.

---

Day 12 of the transmigration, the exclusive training floor for The Seven at Vought Tower.

Rorschach stood in the shadows of the fire escape, watching the tightly closed door at the end of the corridor.

The electronic screen on the door flashed red text: "In Use — The Deep."

He took out his phone and pulled up the data sent by Butcher.

Kevin Moskowitz, thirty-five years old, ranked seventh in The Seven.

His abilities are Underwater Breathing, and he can communicate with marine life, but his combat capability on land is extremely weak.

There was a line of bold red text in the psychological assessment section: "Unstable, lacks a sense of security, craves recognition."

Rorschach scrolled down, and the action logs for the last three months were all public relations activities like "ocean environmental protection promotion."

A line of text frequently appeared in the private notes section: "Every Wednesday and Friday evening, live broadcast in private waters on the West Coast."

He stared at that line of text and narrowed his eyes.

A message from an unknown number popped up.

"Do it tonight."

Attached were coordinates and a satellite map.

Rorschach closed the interface and got up to head towards the elevator.

When passing the floor exclusive to The Seven, the elevator door opened, and Starlight hurried in, her voice tight: "The Deep... came to find me again this morning, saying he wanted to give me a 'mandatory introductory course for newcomers'."

Rorschach looked at her.

She bit her lower lip, her blue eyes churning with fear, disgust, and a hint of suppressed plea for help.

"I turned him down," Starlight said, "I said I had an interview, and his expression was terrible."

She paused and lowered her voice: "The way he looked at me... was even more disgusting than last time, like he was looking at something he would get his hands on sooner or later."

Rorschach nodded: "Stay alert, don't see him alone."

"I know," Starlight looked at him, her eyes complex, "You... take care of yourself."

She turned and left, her golden hair whipping over her shoulder as she turned, the ends of her hair tracing a brief arc in the air.

Rorschach entered the elevator, and the doors closed.

-

Day 13 of the transmigration, 6:00 PM.

West Coast, private waters.

The setting sun burned the sea surface into an orange-red, with waves churning up fragments of gold.

In the reef area three kilometers offshore, a huge black reef was exposed above the sea, like the back of a stranded whale.

Rorschach approached in a small boat, wearing a sun hat, sunglasses, and sunscreen, having used three layers of disguise.

The boat belonged to the Vought Security Department, legal and compliant.

Five hundred meters away, a figure was crouching on the reef.

In a green scale combat suit, with his helmet tucked under his arm, he was adjusting his expression in front of his phone.

The Deep.

Next to him was a transparent water tank, inside which a palm-sized octopus was wrapping its tentacles around his arm.

Rorschach raised high-magnification binoculars.

In the lens, The Deep was coaxing the octopus softly: "My dear, you have to be good during the live stream later."

"Once I earn enough money, I'll get you a bigger tank, I'm not lying to you this time."

The octopus's tentacles wrapped even tighter.

Rorschach's mouth twitched.

He put down the binoculars and took out the modified directional demolition device.

He set the delayed detonation device, then silently slid into the water, the wetsuit insulating him from the chill of the seawater.

He dove to the bottom of the reef and secured the device.

This would create an "accidental explosion," not fatal, but enough to make The Deep panic.

He floated back to the small boat, started the engine, and slowly approached the back of the reef.

The Deep had already started the broadcast: "...Look! Everyone! This is my good friend, Jimmy the Spotted Ray!"

Rorschach pressed the remote control.

Boom—!!!

A muffled explosion came from underwater, the sea surface suddenly arched, and a white water column mixed with fish and coral shot into the sky!

The Deep's scream pierced the twilight: "Ah—!! Help!!"

He scrambled to get up, slipped, and smashed hard into the sea.

The small boat cut into the optimal position.

The Deep swam desperately toward the shore, but the explosion had left him dizzy, his movements crooked.

He looked back and happened to see a small boat heading toward him.

The person on the boat was holding something strange.

A tranquilizer gun.

Whoosh.

The needle precisely pierced The Deep's neck, and the potent anesthetic was injected instantly.

The Deep's struggle slowed down, his eyes unfocused, and he only spat out a string of bubbles before letting his head hang down.

Rorschach reached out, grabbed his hair, and dragged this stranded "fish" onto the boat.

The boat headed toward deep water.

The Deep lay limp on the bottom of the cabin, his breathing weak.

Rorschach crouched down, looking at that lecherous face, slack from the anesthesia, with terror hanging at the corners of his mouth.

The seventh of The Seven, the one who sexually assaulted Starlight, the one who peeked into the changing room, the one who was in a relationship with an octopus.

Rorschach flipped his body over and punched him in the face—not with fatal force, just enough to keep him conscious.

His fist was stained with the blood flowing from his nose.

[Points +300, current total points 900]

[Blood contact detected, ability extraction in progress...]

[Obtained: Underwater Breathing 1.0, Animal Communication 1.0, Super Strength 1.0]

New abilities flooded in.

His lungs' perception of water became acute, as if he could "breathe" liquid.

A strange 'channel' opened in his consciousness, carrying chaotic, primitive, and impulsive signals from beneath the sea surface.

The Deep's Super Strength merged with his existing one, and Super Strength upgraded to 1.1.

Rorschach perceived his new abilities.

He could hear the movement of fish schools on the seabed, could sense the calls of dolphins in the distance, and could distinguish the emotions of living creatures.

The Deep twitched, and his eyelids trembled.

He was about to wake up.

Rorschach grabbed the heavy wrench from the bottom of the cabin.

The Deep opened his eyes, focused on Rorschach's face, and recognized the security guard who had ruined his fun that day.

His pupils shrank.

"You—"

Bang.

A dull thud.

The Deep's head tilted to one side, his pupils dilated, and his body went completely limp.

Rorschach threw away the wrench and checked the carotid artery. It had stopped.

He opened the custom zinc box expressionlessly, stuffed the corpse inside, and poured in the concentrated quick-dissolving agent.

He locked the lid and activated the self-sinking device.

The zinc box rolled, was swallowed by the dark seawater, and disappeared after bubbling up a string of bubbles.

The sea surface returned to calm.

Rorschach stood on the small boat, took off his hat and sunglasses, and let the sea breeze blow through his hair.

He picked up the underwater hydrophone but heard a series of sharp, rapid sound waves.

"Chirp! Squeak! Purl-purl-purl!"

Animal Communication 1.0 ability automatically parsed it.

Translated: "Ptooey! What was that stinky thing that just sank down?! Almost hit me! Curse them!"

It was dolphins. Not just one, but a small pod.

Rorschach was stunned for a moment, then pulled the corners of his mouth—a real, absurd arc bloomed on his face.

On this pitch-black sea surface, having just finished killing a person and disposing of the body, he actually felt a bit like laughing.

"Sorry," he said to the sea, "Your 'hero' isn't coming back."

The dolphins cursed even more fiercely: "Squeak! Purl-purl! Chirp-chirp-chirp!!"

Translation: "That pervert who hugged an octopus and giggled all day? Get lost! We're cursing you! You littering jerk!"

Rorschach turned off the hydrophone and started the boat to head back.

Chapter 6: Attracting Attention

The small boat cut through the night, heading toward the distant, twinkling coastline.

Rorschach leaned back in the driver's seat, replaying the conversation in his mind.

Animal Communication 1.0; he could understand but not speak, capable only of one-way reception.

He looked out at the sea, where moonlight shattered into the waves, rising and falling with the tide.

His phone vibrated.

An internal emergency notice from Vought, on an encrypted channel.

"Attention all field personnel: Tomorrow at 9:00 AM, there will be a mandatory interrogation in the conference room on the third basement level of headquarters. Attendance is required."

Rorschach's eyes narrowed slightly.

Mandatory interrogation. The Deep had just died, and Translucent had been missing for only a week; Vought was finally launching a formal investigation.

He accelerated to return to port.

His phone vibrated again. A strange number, no signature.

"The Deep is missing. It was you, right?"

Rorschach stared at the text.

The range of people who could ask this was very small.

He remembered a certain night, that expensive, cold apartment, that weary face, the heavy scent of alcohol and whiskey.

Maeve.

He didn't reply and put his phone away.

The boat entered the harbor. In the distance, the Vought Tower logo shone in the night sky like a cold eye.

Rorschach jumped onto the dock, tied up the boat, and turned to walk into the night.

Just as he walked out of the dock area, a black SUV drove past him.

The windows were tinted, making it impossible to see inside, but the Vought logo was faintly visible on the car body.

Rorschach didn't stop walking and continued forward.

After walking twenty meters, his phone vibrated again.

This time it was Butcher: "Nice work. Vought is holding interrogations tomorrow. Know how to handle it?"

Rorschach typed: "I do."

Sent.

He put his phone in his pocket and looked up at the sky.

In the night sky, a streak of light flashed by—not a meteor, but some high-speed flying object, trailing a faint blue-and-white wake as it skimmed beneath the clouds.

Rorschach narrowed his eyes.

Stormfront?

No, at this point in time, she shouldn't have joined The Seven yet.

But in Vought's files, there were indeed early experimental records regarding a "Weather Controller"...

The light quickly vanished toward the horizon.

Rorschach looked away and continued walking.

In the distance, the Vought Tower logo looked down upon the masses, as blinding as a blade.

---

Vought Tower, third basement level, Security Department interrogation room.

There were no windows here, only a metal table, two chairs, and a pale LED light panel overhead. The red light on the wall-mounted camera blinked, transmitting the scene to the floors above in real-time.

Rorschach sat in a chair, facing the internal investigator, Green.

Green was in his fifties, balding, and known for his harshness. He was currently staring at the two printed documents on the table: "Translucent Disappearance Timeline Verification Sheet" and "The Deep Disappearance Incident Eyewitness Summary."

He opened the folder and tapped his finger forcefully on the dates on the sheet.

"The day Translucent went missing, November 2nd, where were you?"

Rorschach leaned back against the chair, his expression unchanged: "Off-duty. Watching the game at my apartment. Knicks versus Lakers, watched the whole thing."

Green looked up at him: "Can anyone prove it?"

"Takeout order, delivered at 7:30 PM, pizza and beer. The surveillance downstairs at the apartment building should have captured the delivery person coming and going." Rorschach paused, "If you check my phone, I also posted on a fan forum that night, trashing the Knicks' defense. My account is Rorschach_78."

Green made a note on the sheet without looking up: "The evening of the day The Deep incident happened, November 6th."

"Old pier, fishing." Rorschach said, "Went around 4:00 PM, didn't return until dark. Old Tom, the pier manager, knows me; I rent fishing gear from him every time I go. That day, I rented a rod and bought a box of worms. It was registered."

Green flipped to the back and glanced at it: "We checked the records; your name is indeed there. Catch anything?"

"Rough winds and waves, didn't catch a thing. Sat there for two hours and came back." Rorschach shrugged, "Wasted a box of worms."

Green stared at him for a few seconds, closed the folder, and casually signed the cover.

"That's all, Rorschach. You can go." He pushed the folder aside, "Lately... be careful. The higher-ups are watching closely."

Rorschach stood up and pulled back the chair; the legs scraped across the floor with a harsh, grating sound.

He walked out of the interrogation room, and the door closed automatically behind him.

The corridor was long, and the fluorescent light tubes hummed.

He took three steps, and his phone vibrated.

Maeve: "Did you pass?"

Rorschach typed: "Yeah."

Sent.

In the surveillance room, Rorschach sat in front of the screen, his fingertips tapping lightly on the keyboard to bring up the conference room surveillance.

He had secretly accessed this using his security clearance—Vought's security system already had a backdoor to monitor the monitors, but few people knew how to use it.

On the screen, Stan Edgar sat at the head of the long table.

He was wearing a black suit with a silver-gray tie, his expression as still as a stagnant pool, without a ripple of emotion.

In front of him were two reports: "TranslucentDisappearance Public Opinion Analysis" and "The Deep Disappearance Crisis Plan."

The PR director sat on his left, fine beads of sweat seeping from his forehead, his handkerchief crumpled into a mess.

"Mr. Edgar, for two consecutive weeks, two members of The Seven have gone missing." The PR director's voice trembled, "The media is already asking questions. This morning, the front page of the Daily Bugle read 'Where Have the Superheroes Gone?' Protesters are starting to gather below headquarters; we need to give the public an explanation."

Edgar picked up his coffee cup, his movements so slow it looked like a still image.

He put down the cup and spoke calmly: "Then give them a new hero."

He pressed a button on the table. The giant screen on the wall lit up, and a photo popped up.

A woman, wearing a black tactical suit, her face cold and stunning.

Her gaze was sharp enough to pierce the lens, a faint curve on the corner of her lips, her tall figure exuding the composure of one long accustomed to high positions.

Her long hair draped over her shoulder armor, her skin a cool, pale tone that shimmered like porcelain under the spotlights.

"Lilith Ritt-Haus, codename Stormfront." Edgar's voice was matter-of-fact, "Abilities include electricity manipulation, Flight, and Self-Healing. She had a brilliant record on the European battlefield during World War II, having once single-handedly destroyed a Nazi armored division."

The PR director stared at the screen, his Adam's apple bobbing: "But... she has no public support. The public doesn't know her; the media won't buy it. We need familiar faces, we need..."

"The two missing heroes." Edgar interrupted, his tone devoid of any inflection, "One was a peeping tom, the kind who turned invisible to sneak into women's restrooms. The other was a bestiality fetishist who spent all day whispering sweet nothings to an octopus. The public needs a distraction, not the truth."

The PR director opened his mouth but couldn't get any words out.

The conference room was silent for three seconds.

The door was pushed open.

The sound of high heels clicking against the marble floor was crisp and rhythmic, carrying a certain sense of oppression.

Stormfront walked in.

She didn't look at anyone, her gaze landing directly on Edgar, the curve of her lips deepening slightly.

"Is this the'stage' you were talking about?" Her voice wasn't loud, but every word seemed to carry a faint electrical current, stirring subtle tremors in the air.

Edgar nodded: "In three days, at The Seven press conference, you will officially join."

Stormfront walked to the long table, her gaze sweeping over the PR director, over the two reports, and finally landing back on Edgar's face.

Chapter 7: Stormfront Comes Online

She paused for two seconds, then suddenly said: "I'm a bit interested in those two missing guys. Can you give me their files? Especially the location where they last appeared."

Edgar's eyes flickered—ever so slightly.

"Why?" he asked.

Stormfront shrugged. Her white trench coat swayed with the movement, revealing the tight black combat suit underneath.

"Intuition," she said. "Over a hundred years of intuition tells me this isn't a coincidence."

Edgar looked at her, and three seconds later, nodded at the head of the PR department.

The PR head quickly opened a tablet, pulled up two encrypted files, and pushed them in front of Stormfront.

Stormfront lowered her head to scan them, then said nothing more.

Edgar picked up his coffee and took a sip.

In the surveillance room, Rorschach turned off the audio pickup, leaving only the video.

He stared at the woman in the white trench coat on the screen, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

[New target detected: Stormfront]

[Ability assessment: Unable to fully scan at this time]

[Threat level: High]

The system prompt popped up coldly and then vanished.

Rorschach narrowed his eyes.

Stormfront. A tool for Vought to divert attention? Or...

He pulled up her file and scanned it quickly. Lilith Riterhouse, first recorded appearance: 1943, Eastern Front.

Subsequent records were intermittent, but spanned eighty years. There were no clear birth records, no information on relatives; the archive contained only mission briefings and combat reports.

Over a hundred years of intuition.

Rorschach's fingers stopped tapping.

She was interested in the disappearances. Translucent and The Deep—both disappearances were related to him.

If Stormfront really started investigating, she would stumble upon clues sooner or later.

On the screen, Stormfront put away the tablet and turned to walk toward the door.

When she reached the door, she suddenly turned back, her gaze sweeping over the camera in the corner of the conference room—the very one Rorschach was watching through.

She smiled.

It was faint, but it was definitely a smile. Then she pushed the door open and left.

Rorschach stared at the frozen smile, a slight chill running down his back.

She couldn't possibly see into the surveillance room. But that smile, aimed precisely at the lens, was as if...

He turned off the screen and leaned back in his chair.

At the top of Vought Tower, the sun was shining. But in some corner, dark clouds were silently gathering.

That night, 11:40 PM.

Brooklyn apartment.

Rorschach came out after a shower, his hair still dripping with water. He stood by the window, silently looking toward the distant Vought Tower.

His phone vibrated.

Maeve: "Come over."

That was all it said.

Forty minutes later, Rorschach stood before that familiar door. The smell of alcohol was fainter than last time, replaced by another scent—exhaustion, and a certain indescribable restlessness.

The living room lights weren't on, and the neon light spilled in, dyeing everything a suggestive dark red.

Maeve sat by the window, her back against the glass, one leg curled up and the other stretched out. She wore loose loungewear with an open collar.

She held a wine glass in her hand, the liquid inside looking like congealed blood in the dim light.

She turned her head and looked at him.

That calmness was like the surface of the sea before a storm.

Rorschach closed the door, walked over, and sat down beside her. The floor was cold, and he could feel it through his pants.

Maeve didn't move, just watched him. Her eyes were exceptionally deep in the dimness, reflecting the distant city lights in her pupils.

"You were questioned today," she began, each word clear.

"Mm."

"Did you pass?"

"Mm."

Maeve took a sip of wine, her throat moving slightly: "Stormfront is investigating you."

Rorschach didn't speak.

"She pulled all the data on the missing person cases," Maeve said. "Translucent, The Deep, and the previous anomalous energy records from the asylum. She used screening algorithms for cross-referencing—you were on rotation when Translucent went missing, and you were fishing the day The Deep had his accident. To her, those two coincidences are evidence."

Rorschach felt a chill in his heart, but his face remained completely calm.

"How do you know?"

"I have someone I know inside Vought, in the data center," Maeve said. "The log of her accessing the files was secretly backed up. Your name has been flagged in red."

She paused, set down her wine glass, and the glass clinked softly against the floor.

"I don't know who you are, Rorschach," she stared at him, "but be careful."

The silence stretched between them.

Outside the window, a police car sped by, the sharp siren wailing as it approached, then gradually faded away.

Maeve suddenly reached out, grabbed his collar, and pulled him close.

Her lips pressed against his, carrying the astringent taste of red wine and an indescribable sense of despair.

The kiss was forceful, with a biting intensity, as if venting, or perhaps confirming some real existence. Her body pressed against him, and through the thin loungewear, he could feel the warmth of her skin and the tension of her muscles.

Rorschach responded, his hand stroking her back; beneath the grey cotton fabric, her skin was warm, her muscles slightly tensed.

Their breathing intertwined.

She turned and straddled him, looking down at him, her messy brown hair falling to cover half her face. The emotions in her eyes were as complex as a tangled mess—anger, exhaustion, longing, and a certain indescribable reliance.

The moonlight shone in from behind her, outlining the curve from her shoulders and neck to her waist; her muscles tightened slightly as she exerted force, the lines smooth and powerful.

Rorschach raised his hand and brushed the hair from her face.

She didn't speak, just leaned down and buried her face in the crook of his neck.

In the darkness, there was only the faint light of the city outside and their intertwined breathing.

[Points +200 (Multiplier rule triggered), current total points 1100]

[Intimate contact detected (Female target: Queen Maeve)]

[Obtained: Super Endurance]

The system prompt flashed through his consciousness.

New power flooded in. It was very subtle, like a thin film adhering to his muscles and blood vessels—not explosive power, but endurance, the resilience to withstand longer periods of exertion.

Maeve leaned in his arms, her breathing gradually steadying.

After a long time, she spoke softly, her voice hoarse:

"That girl Starlight... she's about to break."

Rorschach didn't speak, just listened.

"The incident with The Deep broke her. She just joined The Seven, and her head was full of helping others and being a true hero. Then, on the very first day..." Maeve paused, "Now she has nightmares every night."

She raised her head and looked at his profile.

"But she's even more afraid of you."

Rorschach looked down at her.

Maeve met his gaze: "She asked me if you killed The Deep."

Rorschach didn't answer.

Maeve sighed and rested her head back on his shoulder: "I didn't answer. You deal with it yourself."

The two were silent.

Outside the window, the city lights continued to flicker.

Don't know how much time passed, Rorschach gently withdrew his arm and stood up.

Maeve didn't move, just kept her eyes closed, curled up by the window like a trapped beast that had finally run out of strength.

He walked to the door and opened it.

Her faint voice came from behind him: "Lock the door."

Rorschach didn't look back and gently closed the door.

The elevator door opened.

He stepped inside and pressed the button for the 1st floor.

Just as the door was about to close, a hand reached in and blocked it.

The elevator door reopened.

A brown-haired woman stood outside, about thirty years old, wearing a simple trench coat and jeans, her eyes red-rimmed, as if she had just been crying.

Elena.

She glanced at Rorschach, her gaze filled with vigilance, scrutiny, and an indescribable complex emotion. Then she averted her eyes, stepped into the elevator, and pressed the button for the top floor.

The elevator door closed.

The two stood side by side in silence.

The numbers ticked: 38, 39, 40...

Chapter 8: Facing Homelander, A Pleasant Night

A rainy night in the city always carries a metallic scent mixed with hormones. The lights at the top of Vought International Tower pierce through the rain curtain, like a god looking down upon the humble mortals below.

Rorschach leaned back in the cold metal chair of the security duty room, his fingertips carelessly swiping across the tablet screen. His gaze, however, passed through the one-way glass, landing on the figure draped in a Star-Spangled Banner cape in the center of the hall—Homelander.

As the Head of Security for Vought International, Rorschach possessed conveniences beyond the reach of ordinary people. His true identity, however, was a Raiderscarrying a Multiverse Plunder System. He fed on Supes and built his power with points, acting as the most hidden hunter in this world where superheroes and demons coexisted.

[Host: Rorschach]

[Abilities: Super Speed 1., Invisibility 1., Super Defense 2.0, Underwater Breathing 1.0, Animal Communication 1.0, Super Strength 1.1, Energy Manipulation 1.1, Super Hearing 1.0, Shapeshifting 1.0]

[Total Points: 3]

The system panel floated quietly in his mind. Rorschach's gaze swept over the superheroes coming and going in the hall, as if picking out products on a shelf.

"Director Rorschach, Mr. Homelander wants to see you."

The timid voice of the front desk clerk came over the intercom, interrupting Rorschach's thoughts.

He raised an eyebrow and gave a playful smile.

Here it comes.

He had long expected that his overly calm attitude would attract the attention of this control-obsessed "god."

Rorschach straightened his uniform collar and strode out of the duty room with long strides. His leather shoes clicked against the marble floor with a steady, rhythmic sound.

The company employees looked over one after another; some were jealous of his good looks, some were wary of his methods, and more were drawn in by the inscrutable aura he carried.

In the center of the hall, Homelander stood with his back to him, his blonde hair shining under the lights, radiating a suffocating sense of pressure.

Hearing the footsteps, Homelander slowly turned around. Those eyes, as blue as the sky yet as cold as winter, locked firmly onto Rorschach.

"You are Rorschach?" Homelander's voice was deep, carrying an unquestionable authority. "Vought's Head of Security."

"It's me, sir." Rorschach lowered his head slightly, adopting a respectful posture. His heartbeat quickened just enough, and his breathing became slightly hurried, perfectly portraying the fear an ordinary security guard should feel when facing a superhero idol.

Scheming, decisive in killing, a scumbag—these were all Rorschach's labels. And acting was now one of his best skills.

Homelander approached step by step, his powerful pressure crushing down like something physical. The surrounding air seemed to be sucked dry, and passing employees lowered their heads and fled in terror, not even daring to breathe loudly.

"I've been watching you for a long time, Rorschach." Homelander leaned down and leaned into Rorschach's ear, his voice manic. "In the entire Vought Tower, everyone who sees me is either fanatically worshipful or trembling in fear. Only you... are too calm."

"So calm that it makes me feel like you don't respect me at all."

A scorching breath seeped from Homelander's eyes, the power of his Laser Eyes faintly ready to fire, enough to instantly burn an ordinary person to ashes.

Rorschach's body trembled just at the right moment, fine beads of cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. His voice carried a distinct quiver: "S-sir, how could I not respect you! I'm just... just too nervous, so nervous I didn't know how to react!"

He deliberately puffed out his chest, letting Homelander"feel" his accelerated heartbeat. His eyes were filled with just the right amount of fear and worship, perfectly deceiving the violent dictator before him.

Homelander stared at him for a full three seconds before the heat of his Laser Eyes slowly dissipated. He straightened up and snorted coldly: "It better be that way. Remember, at Vought, in this city, in this world, I am God. Anyone who does not revere God will not come to a good end."

"Yes, yes, yes! I'll remember!" Rorschach nodded and bowed repeatedly, keeping his posture extremely low.

Watching Homelander's departing back, all the fear in Rorschach's lowered eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a cold sense of mockery and greed.

Super Strength, Laser Eyes, Flight, Super Endurance... if he could extract even one of Homelander's abilities, his points would skyrocket, and his power would jump to a new level.

Unfortunately, now was not the time.

Rorschach turned quietly and walked toward the Vought internal archives.

His show of weakness just now was merely to lull Homelander into a false sense of security. His true goal was to infiltrate the archives and find Supes with suitable abilities and low visibility—they were his perfect prey.

Meanwhile, in a dilapidated bar in a New York slum, smoke swirled and the smell of alcohol mixed with sweat permeated the space.

Billy Butcher sat at the bar and downed a glass of whiskey in one gulp. The strong liquor burned his throat, but it couldn't suppress the bloodshot madness and obsession in his eyes.

In front of him sat an old man in a black trench coat with a weathered face. It was his former boss, Gardner.

"You still dare to come find me, Butcher?" Gardner held his glass, looking at Butcher with a complex expression. "You're Vought's number one most wanted man now, the leader of The Boys. If I'm associated with you, I'm finished."

"I know you'll help me, old friend." Butcher set down his glass, his rough fingers tightening around it until his knuckles turned white. "I only have one goal: to find Becca, my wife."

"Vought hid her. I know they hid her! That piece of trash Homelander, he ruined everything of mine. I'm going to get Becca out!"

Butcher's voice suppressed a surging rage. When he mentioned Homelander, the killing intent in his eyes almost overflowed.

Gardner was silent for a moment, then sighed and pulled a folded slip of paper from his pocket, pushing it toward Butcher.

"I risked my job to find even a small lead." Gardner lowered his voice. "Becca isn't dead. She's being kept secretly by Vought in a villa on the outskirts of New York, under heavy guard the whole time. Externally, she's declared missing. The specific location is all on there."

Butcher snatched the paper, his hands trembling slightly with excitement. He unfolded the paper, and as he looked at the address, his eyes instantly turned red.

"Thanks, old man." Butcher patted Gardner's shoulder, his voice raspy.

"Don't thank me, Butcher." Gardner's expression was grave. "Vought's guards are all superheroes. You and your Boys are simply no match for them. You're going to your death."

"To my death?" Butcher sneered, a flash of madness in his eyes. "As long as I can save Becca, I'd dare to charge into Hell itself! That piece of trash Homelander, sooner or later I'm going to twist his head off and kick it like a ball!"

With that, Butcher turned and pushed open the bar door, vanishing into the rainy night.

He immediately contacted the members of The Boys.

"Mothers Milk, Frenchie, Kimiko, assemble immediately!" Butcher growled into the intercom. "We've found a lead on Becca. Prepare for action!"

Minutes later, a dilapidated van pulled up in front of the bar. Mothers Milk, Frenchie, and Kimiko all got in, and the cabin was instantly filled with a tense atmosphere.

"Butcher, did you really find Mrs. Becca?" Mothers Milkfrowned, his tone worried. "Vought's defenses are bound to be ironclad. We don't have superpowers; how are we going to break in?"

"If we don't have superpowers, we use our brains, our guns, and everything else we can use!" Butcher stared out at the rainy night, his eyes obsessive. "I don't care what price I have to pay, I'm bringing Becca back!"

Frenchie patted Butcher's shoulder: "Don't worry, Butcher. We are always with you."

Kimiko nodded silently, her gaze firm. She was always the sharpest blade of The Boys.

The van sped through the rainy night toward the outskirts of New York. A raid on Vought's secret base was about to begin.

Meanwhile, in the underground archives of Vought Tower, Rorschach was using Invisibility 1. to slip in silently.

In his invisible state, he was like air, avoiding all surveillance and guards as he walked straight to the Supe archive storage area.

His fingertips brushed over rows of cold filing cabinets as Rorschach's eyes quickly scanned the names and ability information on the files.

"Speedster, trash, not much use for now."

"Skin Hardening, overlaps with my Super Defense. Fusing it only adds 0.1, not worth it."

"Telepathy, female, interesting, could be considered."

Rorschach frowned. Most of Vought's low-level Supes had mediocre abilities with little point value, and fusing them didn't make much sense.

Until he flipped to a dusty folder that read—Flameheart: Pyrokinesis, Super Regeneration, Vought reserve Supe, extremely low visibility, rarely makes appearances.

Rorschach's eyes lit up.

Pyrokinesis could be fused with his Energy Manipulation1.1 to increase its level; and regeneration was an excellent passive ability for staying alive.

The perfect prey.

"You're the one."

He took out his phone and dialed a number. When the call connected, a lazy and sexy female voice came through.

"Honey, how do you have time to call me? Don't tell me you miss me?"

It was Queen Maeve.

Rorschach leaned against the corridor wall, his tone full of flirtation and the unique tenderness and charm of a scumbag: "I miss you, Maeve. Are you free tonight? I've booked a room at the penthouse hotel downtown. I want to 'chat' with you properly."

Queen Maeve on the other end of the phone chuckled, her tone enticing: "Smooth talker. But, I just happen to be free."

"Also, call Starlight too." Rorschach added in a light tone, "I miss both of you."

Queen Maeve was stunned for a moment, then laughed even more seductively: "You really are greedy, Rorschach. But I like it. Wait for us."

Hanging up the phone, Rorschach licked his lips, a flash of desire in his eyes.

Queen Maeve and Starlight were currently his regular 'good friends.' Not only could they satisfy his physical needs, but more importantly, he could gain from the contact. If he could continuously extract and enhance their abilities, that would be good too.

Super Strength, Super Endurance, Starlight's Light Energy Blast... they were all nutrients to improve his strength.

After doing all this, Rorschach straightened his uniform and walked out of the tower, preparing to head to the hotel for this erotic date.

What he didn't know was that in a hidden corner of Vought Tower, the Head-Popper—Victoria Neuman—was watching his figure through surveillance. In those seemingly gentle eyes, a flash of imperceptible vigilance flickered.

This Rorschach is too strange.

At the downtown New York penthouse hotel, outside the floor-to-ceiling windows was the brilliant city night view. Neon lights bathed the room in an ambiguous and enchanting glow.

On the soft, oversized bed, several pieces of messy clothing were scattered. The air was thick with the scent of hormones and perfume.

Rorschach leaned against the headboard, shirtless. His smooth six-pack abs were particularly striking under the lights. His physique was tall and strong, filled with an explosive sense of power.

Queen Maeve curled up on his left like a kitten, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall. Her sexy little body pressed tightly against him, a satisfied smile on her face, tinged with a hint of laziness.

Starlight, on the other hand, leaned against his right like a little rabbit, her cheeks flushed and her eyes misty. A faint blush rose on her pure little face.

Two superheroes who were awe-inspiring outside were like two well-behaved kittens in front of Rorschach, easily subdued by him.

Rorschach's large hands, like palm-leaf fans, rested on their waists. His fingers gently kneaded that delicate skin, feeling the unique constitution of Supes. The system's notification tones also rang out happily and incessantly in his ears.

[Intimate contact with Queen Maeve detected. Extracting Super Endurance 1., obtained 10 points]

[Intimate contact with Starlight detected. Extracting Light Energy Blast 1., obtained 10 points]

[Fusible ability detected. Light Energy Blast merged into Energy Manipulation]

[Host: Rorschach]

[Abilities: Super Speed 1., Invisibility 1., Super Defense 2.0, Underwater Breathing 1.0, Animal Communication 1.0, Super Strength 1.1, Energy Manipulation 1.1→1.2, Super Hearing 1.0, Shapeshifting 1.0, Super Endurance1.0]

[Total Points: 5]

Through these few times of acquiring superpowers, he discovered that the plundered Supe's powers wouldn't disappear; it was more like a duplication. Furthermore, blood contact could completely obtain all of the other person's abilities, while intimate contact was more random, or required many times to obtain all abilities.

Rorschach smiled and lowered his head to give Maeve and Starlight a light kiss on the lips, his tone cheerful: "You two are really becoming more and more charming."

Queen Maeve raised her hand to hook around his neck, her eyes like silk: "It's only because you're so powerful, Rorschach. In all of Vought, only you would dare to provoke both me and Starlight at the same time."

Starlight lowered her head shyly and whispered, "Rorschach, don't always say things like that..."

Seeing Starlight's bashful appearance, a hint of playfulness rose in Rorschach's heart. He leaned down to her ear and said in a voice only the two of them could hear: "What are you shy about? Your body's reaction is much more honest than your mouth."

Starlight's cheeks turned even redder. She gave him a light punch, but he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly.

The three of them lingered in the room, with sweet talk, light laughter, and ambiguous breaths intertwining, spending an erotic and lingering night.

He was a complete scumbag. He didn't have a shred of true feeling for Maeve and Starlight, only utilization and plundering. Yet, he could use extreme tenderness and skill to make two superheroes devoted to him, willingly becoming his nutrients.

That night, the powerful sexual prowess Rorschach displayed made Maeve and Starlight sink completely, falling for his charm.

Meanwhile, outside the secret Vought villa on the outskirts of New York, The Boys had already completed their deployment.