Chapter 46 Stormfront
Becca looked at him for a long time.
"He is upstairs. Ten minutes."
Butcher walked in. The living room was the same as last time: toys scattered on the sofa, half a glass of juice on the coffee table. He went upstairs and walked to the door of the second room.
The door was ajar. A boy was lying on the bed, eight or nine years old, with brown hair, his face buried in the pillow. He was reading a comic book — Batman.
Butcher stood at the door without going in.
Ryan looked up at him.
"Who are you?"
"A friend of your mother's."
"What's your name?"
"Billy."
Ryan looked at him for a few seconds, then lowered his head to continue reading the comic.
Butcher stood at the door for five minutes. Then he turned and went downstairs.
Becca was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.
"Done seeing him?"
"Done."
"Who does he look like?"
Butcher thought for a moment.
"Like you. Not like him."
He walked out of the house, returned to the car, and started the engine. As the car pulled out of Maple Avenue, he glanced at the house in the rearview mirror. The light on the second floor was still on.
He reached out and touched the glass bottle in his pocket.
"Not now," he said to himself.
The car merged into the highway traffic and disappeared into the night.
---
The flight from Europe was delayed by four hours. Stormfront sat in the last row of first class, a worn copy of Mein Kampf on the small table in front of her — not because she agreed with the content, but because she wanted to study her opponent's way of thinking. That's what she told herself.
When the plane landed in Newark at 2:00 AM, she had no luggage, only a black handbag containing a change of clothes and an encrypted phone. She walked through the jet bridge, crossed the empty terminal, and exited the main gate. A black sedan was waiting by the roadside with the door open.
"Vought International?" she asked the driver.
"Mr. Edgar sent me to pick you up."
Stormfront got into the car. The sedan drove out of the airport and onto the highway. She rolled the window down a crack to let the cold wind blow on her face. The air in New Jersey was the same as when she left — humid, mixed with chemical smells and the salty tang of the distant ocean.
"How is Homelander doing lately?" she asked.
The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "I'm not really sure, ma'am. I just drive."
Stormfront didn't ask again.
3:00 AM, Vought Tower. Stan Edgar's office was on the top floor, the lights still on. When Stormfront pushed the door open, he was standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a glass of whiskey, watching the night view of Manhattan.
"You've aged," Stormfront said.
"So have you," Edgar didn't turn around. "Was Europe not comfortable?"
"Europeans don't need superheroes. What they need is healthcare and pensions."
Edgar turned around and looked at her. His dark hair was cut short, and there were a few more wrinkles on his face, but his eyes were still the same — cold, calculating, and never satisfied.
"Are you coming back?"
"I'm here to work."
"There are no vacancies in The Seven."
"I'm not joining The Seven." Stormfront walked to the liquor cabinet and poured herself a glass of whiskey. "I want to see Homelander."
Edgar looked at her for two seconds.
"He's on the forty-sixth floor. Look up the room number yourself."
Stormfront finished the whiskey in one gulp, put down the glass, and walked out.
Forty-sixth floor, the hallway was very quiet. Stormfrontstood at Homelander's door and knocked three times.
No answer. She knocked three more times.
The door opened. Homelander was wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt, his hair disheveled, his face swollen — a large bruise on his left cheek, and a scabbed cut at the corner of his mouth.
He looked at her.
"Who are you?"
"Stormfront. Don't you remember me?"
Homelander stared at her face for a few seconds.
"The Nazi one?"
"Former Nazi." Stormfront smiled slightly. "Just like you're a former lab rat. People can change."
Homelander didn't move away from the doorway, nor did he invite her in.
"What are you here for?"
"To help you."
"Help me with what?"
"Help you defeat the person who hit you."
Homelander's expression changed. It wasn't anger; it was that instinctive defense when someone touches a sore spot.
"How do you know?"
"There are no secrets in this building." Stormfront tilted her head. "Let me in. It doesn't look good to talk in the hallway."
Homelander stepped aside.
Stormfront walked in and scanned the room — sofa, coffee table, TV, bookshelf. There were three empty milk glasses on the coffee table, and the TV screen showed a recording of the performance at Madison Square Garden, frozen on the frame where Lu Ren was condensing a lightning ball.
"You've been watching this?" she asked.
"Turn it off." Homelander walked to the sofa and picked up the remote to turn off the TV.
Stormfront sat on the sofa and crossed her legs.
"Is Soldier Boy your father?"
Homelander didn't answer.
"I know even if you don't say it." Stormfront took a cigarette from her bag and lit it. "I know all about Vought International's past. Soldier Boy was sold to the Soviet Union, and your genes came from his cells. You are pure-blooded — not one of those mongrels created by random V injections on the street. You are the purest-blooded Supe on this planet."
Homelander looked at her.
"Pure-blooded?"
"Yes. Your father was the first Supe, and you are the second. Those who came later — Starlight, The Deep, A-Train — they are just ordinary people who took V. You are different from them."
Homelander slowly sat on the other end of the sofa.
"Go on."
"The world of Supes also has hierarchies." Stormfrontexhaled a puff of smoke. "The bottom layer are those injected later in life, the middle layer are those injected from childhood, and the top layer is like you — born that way. But you aren't enough on your own. You need your own kind."
"My own kind?"
"Me." Stormfront pointed at herself. "I was also born this way. My mother was injected with V while pregnant, and I had powers from birth. My lineage is slightly inferior to yours, but it's much purer than those mongrels."
Homelander looked at her, and something in his eyes changed. From defense to curiosity, and from curiosity to something else — hunger.
"What do you want?"
"I want a world." Stormfront stubbed out her cigarette. "A world ruled by pure-blooded Supes. Ordinary people farm, work, and pay taxes. Supes manage, protect, and dominate. No need for democracy, no need for elections, no need for those useless politicians. The strong rule supreme."
Homelander was silent for a long time.
"You're crazy," he said.
"Perhaps." Stormfront stood up and walked to the door. "But so are you. Only a madman understands another madman."
She pulled the door open and walked out.
Homelander sat on the sofa, looking at the empty milk glass on the coffee table.
4:00 AM. He picked up his phone and searched for "Stormfront."
A bunch of news articles came up. Most were old — records of her activities in Europe a few years ago. She had killed people, many people. She had been fired by Vought International and expelled by multiple countries. She was called an "extremist," "Nazi remnant," and "dangerous radical."
He put down his phone and looked at the TV screen. Although it was off, a residual image of Madison Square Garden still lingered on the screen.
He touched the bruise on his face.
Hit by Soldier Boy.
His father.
"Pure-blooded," he repeated the term.
7:00 AM, Brooklyn base.
Butcher hadn't slept all night. He sat at the long table with the glass bottle in front of him. The pale blue liquid looked even brighter in the morning light, like a small piece of solidified sky.
MM walked over, pulled up a chair, and sat down.
"Are you planning to use it?"
"I don't know."
"If you use it, you become the kind of person you hate the most."
"Maybe I have to become them to kill them."
MM was silent for a while.
"Frenchie found out something last night. Stormfront is back. She arrived in New York at dawn and went straight to Vought Tower."
Butcher looked up.
"Stormfront? That Nazi?"
"Yes. Edgar brought her back."
"Does Homelander know?"
"She went to see him."
Butcher clenched the glass bottle in his palm.
"One Homelander wasn't enough, and now another one comes along."
"What are you going to do?"
Butcher stood up and put the glass bottle into his jacket's inner pocket.
"Go find Lu Ren."
9:00 AM, Vought Tower gym.
Lu Ren was practicing boxing. The sandbag was specially made and could withstand an impact of five tons. He punched it, the sandbag swayed a few times, and the hanging chains creaked.
Starlight walked in, wearing a sports tank top and leggings, her blonde hair tied in a ponytail.
"Someone went to Homelander's room last night."
"Who?"
"A woman. Dark hair, European. Never seen her before."
Lu Ren stopped boxing.
Stormfront. She was here.
Chapter 47 Stormfront and Homelander
"Do you know her?" Starlight looked at his expression.
"I've heard of her."
"Who is she?"
"A dangerous person." Lu Ren took off his gloves. "Stay away from her."
Starlight walked over, took his gloves, and set them aside.
"Here you go again. Every time something happens, you just say'Stay away,' but you never tell me why."
"This time, it's for your own good."
"The last person who told me it was for my own good was my mother. She sold me to Vought International." Starlight looked into his eyes. "You are not my mother."
Lu Ren looked at her and didn't speak.
"I don't want you to be my mother either." Starlight stepped closer. "I want you to be my boyfriend. The real kind, not the one Ashley arranged."
"That is for your own good."
"I said it already, you are not my mother."
The two looked at each other for a few seconds.
"Fine." Lu Ren said, "Stormfront is a Nazi. She killed dozens of people in Europe. Her power is weather manipulation—lightning, storms, tornadoes. She is crazier than Homelander, because Homelander at least cares what others think of him, but she doesn't."
Starlight's expression changed.
"A Nazi?"
"A former Nazi. She claims to be 'former'."
"Why would Vought International bring her back?"
"Because she's useful." Lu Ren said, "Edgar doesn't keep dead weight."
Starlight bit her lip.
"Come to my room tonight. I'll cook."
"You can cook?"
"Pasta. The kind where you just pour sauce on it." Starlight smiled slightly. "At least I won't poison you."
She took his gloves and left.
Lu Ren stood where he was, watching her back.
His phone vibrated. A message from Butcher: "You know about Stormfront, right? Come to the hideout. We have business."
Lu Ren changed his clothes and walked down the fire escape.
When passing the 42nd floor, a person was standing behind the fire door. Black Noir.
He was leaning against the wall, the eye lenses of his mask fixed on Lu Ren.
"Did you see the photo?" He spoke. His voice was hoarse and deep, like a machine that hadn't been used in a long time.
Lu Ren stopped.
"You can talk."
"I always could."
"Then why don't you speak?"
"Fear." Black Noir said, "Fear of Homelander. Afraid he'll know I can talk, afraid he'll ask me questions, afraid that if I answer, he'll kill me."
"Not afraid anymore?"
"Soldier Boy hit him. He bled. He will age, he will die." Black Noir's voice was flat, like reading a report. "He is not a god. He is a man."
"Why did you give me that photo?"
"Because I don't have long to live." Black Noir said, "Vought International created more than one of me. Those clones—one of them escaped. It's hiding somewhere. He will come for Homelander. Not me. Another version of me."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Find him. Kill him. Or help him." Black Noir straightened up from the wall. "I don't care how you do it. Just don't let him become like me."
He pushed the door open, walked into the fire escape, and disappeared down the stairs.
Lu Ren stood in the corridor, took the photo out of his pocket, and looked at it again.
The person in the incubation tank had a face exactly like Homelander's.
He put the photo back and went downstairs.
Queens hideout, 2:00 PM.
Everyone was there.
Butcher sat at one end of the long table, with a map of New York spread out in front of him. MM was marking security points for Vought Tower. Frenchie was typing on a keyboard. Hughie sat in the corner, flipping through a book about Supes law. Kimiko stood by the window, peeling an apple with a kryptonite knife.
Soldier Boy sat on the sofa with the TV on, the volume turned down low. He was watching the news—Vought International news, where Ashley was holding a press conference, announcing that "The Seven will be welcoming a new member."
"Stormfront." Butcher said, "The position Edgar arranged for her is'Special Consultant.' She won't be joining The Seven, but she has the right to participate in The Seven's operations."
"Equivalent to surveillance." MM said.
"Surveillance of whom?"
"Everyone."
Butcher glanced at Soldier Boy.
"Have you met her?"
Soldier Boy stared at the TV screen.
"No. She had just started her career when I was in the Soviet Union."
"Her power is weather manipulation. Can you handle her?"
Soldier Boy turned his head to look at Butcher.
"I can handle you."
Butcher didn't respond and turned to Lu Ren.
"You're in Vought Tower, stay away from her. She isn't Victoria Neuman; Victoria Neuman at least has political goals, but she is purely a lunatic."
"I know."
Butcher pulled the glass vial from his pocket and placed it on the table.
"This. I haven't decided whether to use it or not. What do you guys think?"
Everyone looked at the small vial.
"Use it." Soldier Boy said.
"Why?"
"Because you hate us. Hate is the best fuel."
Butcher glanced at him and put the vial away.
"I'll think about it some more."
4:00 PM, Vought Tower lobby.
Stormfront stood in the center of the lobby, looking up at the giant mural on the ceiling—a portrait of The Seven, with Homelander in the center, his cape fluttering.
Ashley came out of the elevator and walked over quickly.
"Ms. Stormfront, Mr. Edgar asked me to show you around the building."
"No need. I'll look around myself." Stormfront didn't look at her, continuing to stare at the mural.
Ashley stood to the side, feeling a bit awkward.
"Then... your office is on the 42nd floor. Here is your keycard."
Stormfront took the keycard.
"Where is Homelander?"
"He doesn't have any public schedule today. He should be in his room."
"Which floor?"
"The 46th floor."
Stormfront walked toward the elevator.
Ashley stood there, took out her phone, and sent a message to Edgar: "She went to find Homelander."
Edgar replied instantly: "Let them talk."
46th floor, Homelander's room.
Stormfront knocked on the door.
The door opened. Homelander had changed his clothes—a black turtleneck sweater and dark trousers. The bruises on his face were still there, but his hair was combed neatly.
"You're here again."
"I've moved in. We'll be seeing each other every day from now on." Stormfront walked into the room and glanced at the coffee table. The milk glass had been replaced by a coffee mug, which was empty.
"Did you think about it all night?" She sat on the sofa.
"I did."
"And the conclusion?"
"You mentioned pureblood. How do you prove that purebloods are stronger than half-breeds?"
Stormfront laughed.
"Do you want a contest?"
"Not a contest." Homelander sat down opposite her. "A cleansing. There are many half-breeds in this city. Cleanse them, and what remains will be pureblood."
Stormfront looked at him for a few seconds.
"I thought you were serious. Turns out you're joking."
"I'm not joking."
"You are definitely joking." Stormfront's smile faded. "Cleanse half-breeds? You can't even beat your own father. What are you going to cleanse with?"
Homelander's face twitched.
"Soldier Boy is not my father."
"He is. And he beat you. You still have his fingerprints on your face."
Homelander stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to her.
"Did you come here just to mock me?"
Chapter 48: Helping You Get Stronger
"I'm here to help you get stronger," Stormfront said, walking up behind him. "Do you know why you can't beat him?"
"Because your powers were designed by Vought International—flashy, impressive, and made for TV."
"His powers were designed for war—brutal, direct, and efficient. You need to change how you fight."
Homelander turned around.
"What kind of fighting style?"
"Learn from me," Stormfront said. "Three months. I'll make it so you can stand in front of him and punch him back."
Homelander looked at her.
"What do you want in return?"
"A world," Stormfront said. "A pure-blood world. You be the king, and I'll be the prime minister."
Homelander was silent for a long time.
"Deal," he said.
Stormfront reached out her hand. Homelander took it.
Their hands clasped together in the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, their shadows cast on the floor like a sculpture.
7:00 PM, 46th floor of Vought Tower, Starlight's room.
Lu Ren knocked on the door. Starlight opened it, wearing an apron, holding a spatula in her hand.
"Come in. The pasta is almost ready."
The dining table in the room was covered with a white tablecloth, set with two sets of cutlery, two wine glasses, and a candle. The candle was unlit.
"Where did you get the tablecloth?"
"I bought it at the supermarket downstairs." Starlight set down the spatula and picked up a lighter to light the candle. "My mom said a date needs a tablecloth and candles."
"Is this a date?"
Starlight looked up at him.
"What do you think?"
Lu Ren didn't answer. He walked to the dining table and sat down.
Starlight brought over the pasta. The noodles were overcooked and a bit soft, and the sauce was canned tomato sauce from the supermarket, sprinkled with a few basil leaves—fresh ones, probably grown by her.
"It doesn't look like much," Starlight said, sitting across from him. "Just make do."
Lu Ren took a bite.
"It's good."
"You're such a smooth talker."
"I'm being serious. Soft noodles are easier to digest."
Starlight laughed, twirled a forkful of pasta, and put it in her mouth.
The two of them sat opposite each other, eating soft pasta and drinking cheap red wine from the supermarket. When the candle had burned halfway down, Starlight put down her fork.
"Homelander and Stormfront spent two hours in his room today."
"How do you know?"
"My neighbor told me." Starlight gestured with her chin toward the wall. "Maeve. She lives next door, and she has sharp ears."
"What did they talk about?"
"I couldn't hear clearly. But when Stormfront left, Homelander walked her to the door. He smiled. It wasn't that fake smile he usually has; it was a real smile."
Lu Ren put down his fork.
"That's bad news."
"I know," Starlight said. "But I don't want to talk about bad news today."
She stood up, walked around the table, and stood in front of him.
"Today, we only talk about us."
She leaned down and kissed him. This time it wasn't the fleeting peck from the warehouse; it was serious, and tasted of red wine.
Lu Ren reached out and put his arm around her waist. She sat down, leaning against him.
The candle burned out.
Outside the window, the lights of Manhattan flickered, and in the distance, the silver spire of Vought Tower glowed in the night.
Starlight leaned on his shoulder, eyes closed.
"Are you asleep?" she whispered.
"No."
"Neither am I."
Neither of them moved.
After a long time, Starlight spoke.
"Lu Ren."
"Yeah."
"Thank you for coming tonight."
Lu Ren stroked her hair.
"Go to sleep."
She closed her eyes, and this time, she really fell asleep.
Lu Ren looked out the window; the night in Manhattan was still long.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out with one hand and glanced at it.
A message from Butcher: "I've made up my mind. I'm going to use that V. Tomorrow."
Lu Ren put the phone back.
Outside the window, a shooting star streaked across the night sky.
---
The Deep had been sitting in the locker room of Vought Tower for twenty minutes, staring at his phone screen.
On the screen was a text message, the sender labeled "The Collective · Consultant"—an organization that claimed they could help him "solve all his troubles."
He had met one of their people last week at a private party in Miami, a bald man in a white suit who spoke very softly, as if he were afraid of waking someone up.
The bald man gave him a business card with a phone number written on the back.
"When you feel like you're being slighted, call me."
The Deep dialed the number. It rang twice before being answered.
"Mr. The Deep." The voice on the other end was as calm as if reading a menu. "You've finally made up your mind."
"What can you do for me?"
"Help you take back what belongs to you. Respect, status, influence. And—make that newcomer who stole your spotlight pay the price."
The Deep took a deep breath.
"His name is Lu Ren."
"We know."
"What do you plan to do?"
"We have a dedicated 'coordinator.' She will be your point of contact. Tomorrow at 3:00 PM, Brooklyn, the address will be sent to your phone. Don't tell anyone when you come."
The call ended.
The Deep put down the phone, his palms sweating.
The next day at 3:00 PM, Brooklyn.
The Deep changed into casual clothes—a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a dark jacket—and walked into an inconspicuous office building with his head down.
The elevator went up to the fifth floor, and at the end of the corridor was an unmarked door. He knocked three times.
The door opened to reveal a small room with the curtains drawn and dim lighting. In the center of the room was a long table, and a woman was sitting across from it.
She was in her early thirties, with short black hair, light-colored eyes, and wearing a turtleneck sweater. Her lips were thin, and when she smiled, only one corner of her mouth moved.
"Mr. The Deep, please sit. My name is Cassandra."
The Deep sat down and took off his sunglasses.
"What kind of organization are you, anyway?"
"We are a 'mutual aid network.' Our members come from all walks of life—politics, business, media, entertainment. What we have in common is: we have all been underestimated, we have all been stepped on, and we all want to take back what is ours."
Cassandra crossed her hands on the table. "You want to deal with Lu Ren. We can help you. But you need to do one thing for us first."
"What thing?"
"Bring this person here." Cassandra took a tablet out from under the table. On the screen was a photo—a middle-aged man, balding, wearing glasses and a plaid shirt. "His name is Daniel Lyman, a reporter for the New York Gazette. He's recently been writing a report on corruption within Vought International. We don't want him to finish it."
"You want me to kill him?"
"No. We just need you to 'persuade' him to change topics." Cassandra smiled. "Your power is communicating with marine life, right? Have you ever tried communicating with people?"
"What do you mean?"
"Daniel Lyman is afraid of water. Very afraid. He nearly drowned as a child. If you could put a shark in his bathtub—it doesn't have to bite him, just let him see it—he'll be very happy to change topics."
The Deep was silent for a few seconds.
"You're a cult."
"We are a 'mutual aid network.'" Cassandra repeated, "Cult is what others call us. We don't call ourselves that."
"What if I refuse?"
"You won't refuse." Cassandra put the tablet away. "Because you're already here. From the moment you walked into this building, you were already one of us. The rules of The Collective are simple—those who come in either become members or become news."
The Deep looked into her eyes. There was no threat in those light-colored eyes, only a certain, chilling calmness that made his back cold.
"When are you going to make a move on Lu Ren?"
"Soon. But you don't need to know the specific time. You just need to know—he will get the lesson he deserves."
Chapter 49: The Collective
The Deep stood up.
"I'll handle the shark thing."
Cassandra nodded. "The fish tank is already prepared. The address has been sent to your phone. Finish it by tomorrow night."
By the time The Deep walked out of the office building, it was already dark. He pulled his baseball cap lower and hurried into the crowd.
He didn't see the black SUV across the street. The windows were tinted dark, making it impossible to see inside.
Inside the car, Kimiko put down her camera and reviewed the photos she had just taken—every frame of The Deep entering and leaving the office building was captured clearly. She signed something, but she was alone in the car.
She sent the photos to Butcher.
When Butcher received the photos, he was in the back room of their hideout, holding that blue glass vial in his hand.
He looked at the photos, zoomed in, and recognized The Deep's face. He replied with a message: "Check that building."
Frenchie replied fifteen minutes later: "The registered company is a shell. The actual user is 'The CollectiveConsciousness Center.' Alias: The Collective."
Butcher placed the glass vial on the table, stared at it for a few seconds, then stood up and walked out of the back room.
"The Collective has reached out to The Deep."
MM looked up from the computer: "The cult, The Collective?"
"Yeah. They have a base in Brooklyn. The Deep went there this afternoon."
"What do they want with The Deep?"
"No idea. But it's definitely nothing good." Butcher glanced at Soldier Boy on the sofa—the old man was resting with his eyes closed, but his ears were perked up. "Where's Lu Ren?"
"At Vought Tower. There's an event tonight."
Butcher picked up his phone and sent a message to Lu Ren: "The Collective has contacted The Deep. Be careful."
7:00 PM, 46th floor of Vought Tower, Starlight's room.
When Lu Ren saw Butcher's message, Starlight was in the kitchen brewing coffee. He put his phone back in his pocket and walked into the kitchen.
"I have to go out for something."
Starlight turned around, holding the coffee pot.
"What is it?"
"The Deep met with that cult. It might be aimed at me."
Starlight set down the coffee pot.
"I'm coming with you."
"No need. Stay home."
"Here we go again." Starlight put her hands on her hips. "'For my own good'?"
Lu Ren looked at her without saying anything.
"I'm coming with you," Starlight repeated. "Not because you need me. Because I want to. Aren't we dating? People who are dating act together."
Lu Ren sighed.
"Change your clothes. Don't wear the uniform."
Starlight changed into a black hoodie and jeans, tucking her hair under a baseball cap. The two of them went down the fire escape, exited the back door of Vought Tower, and got into a taxi.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
"Brooklyn. Wait for my location."
Lu Ren looked down at the address Butcher had sent—it was the same office building The Deep had visited that afternoon. He showed the address to the driver, who nodded and stepped on the gas.
Forty minutes later, they arrived. The office building looked empty from the outside, with only one window on the fifth floor lit up.
Lu Ren scanned the building with his electromagnetic field.
"There are two people on the fifth floor. Two more on the third floor. One in the basement."
"How many people total?"
"Five people. Maybe more; there are some I can't see."
They entered through the side door. There were no lights in the hallway, so a small ball of electric arc lit up at Lu Ren's fingertips for illumination. Starlight followed behind, clutching a ball of faint light in her hand—her ability allowed her to emit light energy.
They went up to the fifth floor. The door at the end of the hallway had no markings.
Lu Ren knocked three times.
No response.
He knocked three more times. This time, the door opened.
Cassandra stood at the doorway, and when she saw Lu Ren, the corner of her mouth twitched.
"Silver Lightning. A rare guest."
"Where's The Deep?"
"Mr. Deep has already finished his mission and left." Cassandra stepped aside. "Please, come in. I've been waiting for you for a long time."
Lu Ren walked in, and Starlight followed behind.
The room was just as The Deep had described—long table, chairs, curtains, dim lighting. On the table was a tablet, its screen lit up, displaying a photo of Daniel Lehman.
Cassandra sat back in the chair behind the table and crossed her legs.
"I knew you would come. Someone has wanted to see you for a long time. One of my 'colleagues.'"
She pressed a button on the table. The door on the side of the room opened, and a man walked out.
He was in his forties, tall and thin, with thinning hair, wearing a gray monk's robe. His eyes were very peculiar—his pupils were silver-white, like two metal beads.
"This is 'The Guide'," Cassandra said. "His ability is... guiding."
"Guiding what?" Lu Ren asked.
The Guide didn't speak. He looked into Lu Ren's eyes, his silver-white pupils glowing slightly.
Lu Ren immediately felt a change—not pain, not dizziness, but a kind of... pushing force. Something was trying to squeeze into his brain, like someone using their hand to push against a closed door.
The system flashed deep within his consciousness.
[Mental intrusion detected. Automatic defense in progress... Defense failed. Mental ability has conflicted with the Rumble-Rumble Fruit's electromagnetic field. The intruder will suffer backlash.]
The Guide's face suddenly twisted. He clutched his head, let out a short, sharp scream, and a wisp of blue smoke rose from his silver-white pupils. He fell to his knees, his body convulsed a few times, and then he collapsed.
Cassandra stood up, her expression changing for the first time.
"What did you do?"
"Your 'Guide' doesn't have enough brainpower," Lu Rensaid. "Who's next?"
Cassandra stared at him for two seconds, then smiled.
"Interesting."
She pressed another button. The lights in the room went out, and rapid footsteps echoed in the hallway—at least six people, all dressed in black tactical gear, holding stun batons.
Starlight raised her hand, a blinding white light igniting in her palm, illuminating the entire room. The six people were blinded by the light and stopped at the doorway.
Lu Ren swept an electric arc across them, and all six stun batons exploded simultaneously. Sparks flew everywhere, and the six people collapsed into a heap.
"Let's go." Lu Ren grabbed Starlight's wrist, rushed out of the room, and ran toward the stairs.
Behind them, Cassandra's voice came from the room, as calm as if she were reading the weather forecast.
"Silver Lightning. Next time we meet, it won't be this simple."
They rushed downstairs, ran out of the office building, and dove into the taxi waiting by the roadside.
"Back to Manhattan," Lu Ren said to the driver.
The driver glanced at them—a man with scorch marks from electric arcs on his clothes and a woman whose palms were still glowing—and without asking any questions, he stepped on the gas.
Starlight leaned back in the seat, panting.
"What was that thing?"
"A mental-type Supe from The Collective. They wanted to control my brain."
"Did he succeed?"
Chapter 50 Ryan
None." Lu Ren glanced at his hand. Arcs of electricity were still dancing at his fingertips, normal.
[Residual traces of psychic intrusion detected. Cleared. It is recommended that the host avoid high-intensity mental activity for the next 48 hours.]
"Are you okay?" Starlight reached out to touch his face.
"I'm fine."
Starlight's hand lingered on his face, not pulling back.
"Don't come alone next time."
"We came as two."
"When I said don't come alone, I meant don't leave me behind."
Lu Ren held her hand.
"Got it."
The taxi drove across Brooklyn Bridge, and the lights of Manhattan spread out outside the car window like a glowing sea.
10:00 PM, the base.
Butcher stood in the back room, the door closed. He placed the glass bottle on the table and unscrewed the cap. The pale blue liquid wobbled slightly under the light, emitting a faint sweet scent—like disinfectant in a hospital, but with sugar added.
He lifted the bottle and looked at it against the light.
Then he downed it in one gulp.
The liquid was thick, like syrup, sliding down his throat and leaving a trail of burning sensation. At first, he felt nothing, but three seconds later—
Butcher fell to his knees. It wasn't pain; it was his body refusing to listen to him. His muscles were contracting, expanding, contracting, expanding, as if something was burrowing under his skin. His bones were rattling, clicking, as if they were about to crack. He gritted his teeth, not letting himself scream.
This process lasted for about twenty seconds.
Then everything returned to normal.
Butcher stood up and looked down at his hands. His palms were half a size larger, his fingers thicker, with veins bulging. He clenched his fist—his knuckles popped like firecrackers.
He walked to the wall and punched the concrete.
His fist didn't break skin. The wall cracked. Cracks spread from the point of impact like a spiderweb.
Butcher looked at his fist and remained silent for a long time.
"Fuck." He said.
He pushed the door open and walked out.
Everyone was outside. MM, Frenchie, Hughie, Kimiko, Soldier Boy. Everyone looked at him.
"Did you use it?" MM asked.
Butcher nodded.
"How does it feel?"
"Like I've been fucking reborn."
He walked to the long table and picked up a hammer. Holding the handle with both hands, he gave it a gentle snap—the hammer handle broke. The hammerhead fell to the floor, gouging out a hole.
Hughie's eyes widened.
"What are you now? A Supes?"
"I'm a weapon." Butcher threw the broken hammer handle on the table, "A weapon specifically for dealing with Supes."
Soldier Boy stood up from the sofa and walked over to Butcher.
"Punch me."
"Why?"
"Test your limits."
Butcher looked at his fist, then at Soldier Boy's face.
"Are you sure?"
"Sure."
Butcher threw a punch.
Soldier Boy raised his arm to block. The fist slammed into his forearm with a dull thud. Soldier Boy took a step back and shook his arm.
"Not bad," he said, "but it's still far from enough to beat Homelander."
Butcher lowered his hand.
"That was just the first punch."
11:00 PM, Vought Tower, 46th floor.
Lu Ren returned to his room, and just as he closed the door, someone knocked.
He opened the door; Maeve stood there. She was wearing a dark sweater and jeans, holding a bottle of whiskey, already half-empty.
"Can I come in?"
Lu Ren stepped aside. Maeve walked in, sat directly on the sofa, unscrewed the cap, and took another drink.
"Elena is sick," she said, "fever. Victoria Neuman's people are guarding the hospital entrance. I can't go see her."
"Why not?"
"Because if I go, they'll know she's my daughter." Maeve looked at the remaining whiskey in the bottle, "I've made a decision."
"What decision?"
"To side with Victoria Neuman. She promised me that as long as I do things for her, she won't touch Elena."
Lu Ren was silent for a few seconds.
"What are you doing for her?"
"Watching you." Maeve looked up, her eyes bloodshot from alcohol but still clear, "Victoria Neuman thinks you're the biggest variable. Even bigger than Homelander. She wants me to tell her everything you say, everything you do, and who you meet."
"Have you told her?"
"Not yet," Maeve took another drink, "but I will. Because if I don't, Elena will be in danger."
Lu Ren looked at her.
"You came here tonight just to tell me this?"
"Yes." Maeve stood up and placed the whiskey bottle on the coffee table, "Because I don't want to lie to you. You've helped me, I owe you. I'm telling you that I will betray you, so you won't be surprised later."
She walked towards the door.
"Maeve."
She stopped.
"Which hospital is Elena at?"
"St. Mary's. Third floor of the pediatric ward."
Lu Ren nodded.
Maeve opened the door and left.
Lu Ren stood in the room, looking at the unfinished bottle of whiskey on the coffee table.
He picked up his phone and sent a message to Butcher: "Maeve is being forced by Victoria Neuman to monitor me. Her daughter is at St. Mary's Hospital."
Butcher replied instantly: "Got it. I'll arrange for someone to watch over her."
Lu Ren put down his phone.
Outside the window, the night view of Manhattan was bright as always, with too many things happening hidden beneath the lights.
---
Butcher set off before dawn. He drove alone, telling no one. There were very few cars on I-95, and he kept his speed at 75 mph, neither high nor low. On the passenger seat was a bag of donuts and a cup of black coffee, bought from the gas station at the base entrance, the paper cup printed with "We Try Harder".
His hands gripped the steering wheel, feeling different. compound v had changed his muscle density; the steering wheel felt like a chopstick in his hand. He had to control his strength, otherwise, he would snap it off.
After driving for four and a half hours, he exited the highway and entered Fairfax County. The house on Maple Avenue looked very quiet in the morning sun; there was a plastic slide on the lawn, and a blue tricycle next to it. Butcher parked the car across the street and looked at the tricycle for a few seconds.
He walked over and rang the doorbell.
Becca opened the door. She was wearing an old pair of jeans and a gray long-sleeved shirt, her hair uncombed, her face still puffy from sleep. Seeing Butcher, she closed her eyes for a moment, as if preparing herself mentally.
"You're here again."
"I want to see Ryan."
"You saw him last time."
"Last time he was reading comics and didn't even look at me properly. This time, I want to talk to him."