Chapter 17: Are You Fucking Looking to Die?
"Then, A-Train, I hope you can say your last words clearly tomorrow."
1:50 PM the next day.
Times Square.
This place had already turned into a sea of fanaticism.
Thousands of fans surrounded the makeshift stage, packing it so tightly that not a drop of water could pass through. On the giant electronic billboards, A-Train's highlight reel played on a loop—dashing out of an exploding fire, catching up to a runaway train, and smiling at the camera while holding a blonde, blue-eyed little girl.
In the crowd, countless young people held up support signs like "A-Train Forever!" and "The Fastest Man in the World," screaming his name at the top of their lungs.
The air was filled with the aroma of hot dogs, the scent of cheap perfume, and the restless energy of adolescent hormones.
Leon wore a dark trench coat, his hands in his pockets, standing in the crowd ten meters to the front-side of the stage.
He wore a pair of non-prescription black-rimmed glasses, replacing his signature gold-rimmed ones, blending into the crowd completely unnoticed.
Super Hearing filtered out all the screaming and noise, precisely locking onto the conversation in the lounge behind the stage.
"...Ashley, I feel like absolute shit. My heart is beating like it's about to jump out of my throat."
That was A-Train's voice, filled with obvious anxiety and unease.
"Shut up and drink this." Ashley Barrett's voice was cold as ice. "This is a sedative; it will make you look normal on stage. Remember your lines: smile, wave, sign. One and a half hours. Get through it, and your bonus for this month will be doubled."
"But I..."
"No buts! Now, get your ass on stage!"
2:00 PM sharp.
Accompanied by deafening cheers, A-Train rushed out from behind the stage, wearing his signature red and blue spandex suit.
He wore his signature smile—perfected and refined by his PR team—and waved to the crowd, triggering a new wave of screams.
Leon's gaze fell on his face.
Long-term excessive use of compound v had left his sclera covered in fine bloodshot veins, with a ring of dark circles around his eyes that couldn't be hidden.
But Vought International's top makeup artists used thick foundation and concealer to perfectly hide all of this under the aura of a "superhero."
In the eyes of the fans, he was still that sunny, powerful, omnipotent member of The Seven.
After the host finished the opening remarks in an impassioned tone, the fan interaction segment officially began.
The lucky fans selected could go on stage to get A-Train's autograph and a photo.
Leon's gaze swept through the crowd, and he quickly found the figure.
Hughie Campbell.
He was wearing the most ordinary gray hoodie, with the hood up and his head down, blending in among the fans in the front row.
His face was as pale as paper, his lips drained of color from nervousness, and his hands, hanging at his sides, were trembling uncontrollably.
When the third lucky fan's name was called, Hughie, following Leon's instructions, silently replaced that fan under the cover of the crowd and squeezed onto the stage.
No one noticed this small switch.
Everyone's eyes were focused on the radiant A-Train.
Hughie walked toward the autograph table step by step, each step feeling like walking on the edge of a knife.
He could smell the scent of sweat mixed with expensive cologne on A-Train.
He could see the hypocritical, nauseating smile on A-Train's face.
He could even see the large "A" logo on the chest of A-Train's suit.
Robin's face, her bewildered eyes before she died, her body smashed into a mist of blood, her severed hands that still held residual warmth... all the images flashed back crazily in Hughie's mind.
Hatred burned his sanity like magma.
A-Train lowered his head, picked up a marker, and dashed off his signature on the poster handed to him, asking without even looking up.
"What's your name, kid?"
Hughie didn't answer.
His hands were shaking so much he could barely hold anything, but he still pulled the crumpled medical report he had been clutching from his hoodie pocket.
He took a deep breath, used all his strength, and read it out loud into the microphone in front of him, his voice trembling but exceptionally clear.
"Vought International... internal confidential medical report, serial number AT-003!"
As soon as the first sentence was spoken, the noise of the entire square seemed to hit the pause button.
Everyone was stunned.
The smile on the host's face froze.
Ashley Barrett, down in the audience, turned deathly pale in an instant.
A-Train's hand, mid-signature, stopped in mid-air. He jerked his head up, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Hughiewith a death stare.
Hughie didn't stop.
He knew there was no turning back now.
He was going all in.
"Subject: A-Train! compound v concentration in blood exceeds the limit by 321%!"
"Attending physician's recommendation: Immediately cease all high-intensity activities, otherwise it is highly likely... to result in neurological loss of control!"
"Approval decision: Do not execute! Must not affect company image! Approver: Ashley Barrett!"
Dead silence.
The entire Times Square fell into a dead silence that lasted for three seconds.
The fanaticism on the faces of thousands of fans turned into astonishment and bewilderment.
Countless phone cameras and media equipment were, at this moment, all aimed at the pale young man on stage and the superhero whose smile had completely vanished.
"Are you done reading?"
A-Train's voice was very low, as if squeezed through his teeth.
The side effects of compound v and the extreme panic and rage had pushed his emotions to the brink of an explosion.
He snatched the report from Hughie's hand, took one look at it, and then frantically tore it into pieces.
Paper scraps drifted down like snowflakes.
The next second, he struck like lightning, grabbing Hughieby the collar and lifting him up entirely.
Their faces were almost touching.
A-Train's face, twisted with rage, was infinitely magnified in Hughie's pupils.
He lowered his voice, every word sounding like poisoned ice shards.
"Are you fucking looking to die?"
Chapter 18: Your speed is too slow!
"Are you fucking looking to die?"
This sentence was like a thunderclap, waking up the deathly silent Times Square.
The crowd erupted into massive commotion and gasps.
Ashley Barrett, off-stage, screamed frantically into her headset: "Security! Where is security?! Get that lunatic off the stage! Cut the live feed! Now!"
But it was already too late.
A-Train had completely lost control.
Having his ugliest scar exposed in front of the whole world, with compound v screaming wildly in his veins, the string of his sanity snapped with a "pop."
"I'll kill you!"
He roared, swinging his arm violently.
Hughie was flung away like a broken sack, his body arcing through the air before slamming heavily into the sound equipment on the side of the stage.
With a loud "bang," the equipment was smashed to pieces. Hughie fell to the ground, immediately coughing up a mouthful of blood, curling up his body and groaning in pain.
A-Train didn't stop.
His scarlet eyes locked onto Hughie on the ground, killing intent boiling over.
He wanted to make this ant who had ruined everything for him turn into a mist of blood, just like that woman three days ago!
He crouched slightly, assuming a starting stance.
A red afterimage, accompanied by a sonic boom that tore through the air, vanished from the center of the stage.
His speed was too fast.
So fast that the retinas of all the ordinary people at the scene couldn't track his trajectory.
So fast that the six security guards who had just rushed onto the stage hadn't even had time to raise their stun batons.
In everyone's eyes, the twenty-meter distance between A-Train and Hughie seemed to cease to exist.
In the next instant, he would appear in front of Hughie and use his body, capable of crashing through steel plates, to grind the poor wretch into meat paste.
However, the afterimage stopped abruptly just one meter away from Hughie.
Just like a maglev train traveling at full speed hitting an absolutely immovable wall.
Time seemed to freeze at this moment.
Everyone finally saw clearly.
A man wearing a dark trench coat and black-rimmed glasses had appeared there, no one knew when.
He just stood there quietly, one hand simply extended forward, grabbing A-Train's throat with pinpoint precision.
A-Train's body still maintained its forward momentum, his feet even leaving the ground due to the immense inertia.
His face, twisted by excitement and killing intent, was now filled with extreme shock and disbelief.
He felt as if he hadn't crashed into a hand, but a mountain range extending from the depths of the universe.
Those five fingers were like five red-hot steel bars, firmly clamping his throat. The power he was so proud of, capable of breaking the sound barrier, was as insignificant as an infant's cry in front of that hand.
"Gk... gk..."
A-Train wanted to speak, but only a wheezing sound could come out of his throat.
The sensation of suffocation and unprecedented fear made all the muscles in his body spasm wildly.
Leon gripped his throat and lifted his 180-pound body off the ground as easily as picking up a chick.
Beneath his feet, the stage's hard composite wooden floor instantly cracked, spiderweb-like fissures spreading from his feet all the way to the edge of the stage.
But he himself, from the hem of his trench coat to the frames of his glasses, didn't move an inch.
The entire Times Square, thousands of spectators, and countless camera lenses were all locked firmly onto this unbelievable scene.
An ordinary-looking Asian man, with one hand, holding by the throat, lifted the fastest superhero in the world.
That visual impact, that sense of dimensional reduction strike brought by absolute power, made everyone's brain enter a state of shutdown.
Leon ignored all the gazes around him.
He held the struggling A-Train in mid-air, tilted his head slightly, and his cold eyes beneath the gold-rimmed glasses calmly stared at the other.
His voice wasn't loud, yet through the still-active on-site microphone, it clearly spread throughout all of Times Square and every screen in the world watching the live broadcast.
"Doping, speeding, killing someone, and now you want to silence witnesses in public?"
After saying this.
He raised his right foot.
The movement wasn't fast, even somewhat casual, just like kicking away a stone blocking the path while walking.
Then, he ruthlessly stomped down on A-Train's right knee, which was suspended in mid-air.
"Crack!!!!!"
A bone-shattering sound, crisp enough to make one's teeth ache to the marrow, was amplified dozens of times through the high-fidelity sound system, ruthlessly hammering into the eardrums of everyone present!
"Aaaaaaaahhh—!!!"
In the next second, a horrific howl erupted from A-Train's face, which was twisted by extreme pain.
His right leg bent backward at an angle completely contrary to human anatomy.
White bone shards mixed with flesh pierced through his red tight-fitting combat suit, exposed to the air.
Leon let go.
A-Train fell to the ground like a pile of mud, clutching his right leg, which had turned into a twist, rolling and wailing frantically.
The sound was so shrill that it didn't sound like it came from a human, filled with endless pain and despair.
On stage, the six security guards froze in place, unaware that the stun batons in their hands had fallen to the ground.
Off-stage, thousands of fans were silent, the fanaticism on their faces replaced by horror and dullness.
The entire Times Square, except for A-Train's pig-like screams, fell into a deathly silence.
Everyone widened their eyes, looking at the man standing in the center of the stage who had just broken the superhero's leg with one stomp.
The man slowly retracted his foot, looked down at his spotless leather shoes, and then pushed up the black-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose.
As if he had just done something trivial.
On the side of the stage, the C-class superhuman security captain with the codename "Iron Wall" finally reacted from the shock. He looked at A-Train rolling on the ground, his eyes instantly turning red.
"You... what did you do to him?!"
Chapter 19 The Whole World Is Watching! Crushed by a Single Finger!
"You... what did you do to him?!"
The security captain, codenamed "Iron Wall," with muscles bulging all over his body, let out a roar with bloodshot eyes.
Beneath his custom tactical vest lay bones and muscles reinforced by compound v, which gave him the confidence to face any superhuman other than The Seven.
However, Leon did not even turn around.
He remained standing where he was, as if the roar behind him were nothing more than the croak of a frog on a summer night, not even worthy of a glance.
This extreme indifference was more capable of igniting a person's rage than any insulting words.
"I'm talking to you! You bastard!"
Iron Wall roared, the stage floor beneath his feet shattered by his stomp, and his entire body, like an out-of-control heavy truck, surged forward with a violent gust of wind, his massive fist aimed directly at the back of Leon's head!
With this punch, he intended to smash the skull of this insolent Asian man into pieces, just like crushing a watermelon!
A flash of cruel gratification crossed the eyes of Ashley Barrett below the stage.
Although Iron Wall was only C-Class, his strength was enough to overturn an armored vehicle, more than enough to deal with a frail-looking ordinary person!
Just at the moment when that fist, capable of shattering steel plates, was about to touch the back of Leon's head.
Leon moved.
No, he didn't even move.
He simply reached his left hand—the same one that had just choked A-Train—backward, casually spreading his fingers as if swatting away an annoying fly.
Bang!!!!
A dull, extreme sound, like a giant hammer striking a cotton bale, echoed out.
Iron Wall's violent momentum came to an abrupt halt.
His iron fist, which he prided himself on, collided solidly with Leon's palm.
Then, under the close-up lenses of countless high-definition cameras around the world, an unforgettable scene unfolded.
Centered at the point of impact, the hard phalanges in Iron Wall's fist emitted a rapid series of "crackling" sounds, like dry firewood thrown into a fire!
Immediately after, the fracturing spread upward at a speed visible to the naked eye!
Wrist! Forearm bones! Elbow joint!
"Snap—crackle—"
Amid a series of hair-raising bone-cracking sounds, the bones of Iron Wall's entire right arm were shattered inch by inch within a single second, from fist to shoulder, by a terrifying, incomprehensible recoil force!
"Ah..."
Iron Wall couldn't even let out a complete scream; the intense pain had completely destroyed his central nervous system.
His eyes bulged, his mouth hung wide open, and he slumped down along Leon's arm like a mollusk whose spine had been removed, collapsing to the ground, twitching as blood foam mixed with visceral fragments surged from his mouth.
From beginning to end, Leon did not turn his head to look at him once.
All of Times Square once again fell into a dead silence, even more thorough and terrifying than before.
If subduing A-Train earlier could be explained as some kind of special restraining technique.
Then now, this scene of effortlessly crippling another superhuman had completely transcended everyone's cognitive limits.
That was not a fight.
That was a punishment meted out by a god upon a mortal.
Leon slowly lowered his head, his gaze finally falling upon A-Train, who was still on the ground clutching his broken leg and wailing frantically.
His eyes were cold, indifferent, devoid of a shred of human emotion.
"Do you know? Noise is also a form of pollution."
He lifted his left foot and slowly stepped down onto A-Train's intact left knee.
The movement was very slow, slow enough for A-Train to see the tread on his sole, slow enough for A-Train to feel how the shadow of death was inch by inch enveloping his entire body.
Fear!
An unprecedented, bone-deep fear instantly overwhelmed A-Train's brain, which was already chaotic from the intense pain.
He finally realized that the man before him was not some fame-seeking lunatic, nor was he some partner of justice.
He was a devil! A devil who had truly come to claim his life!
"No... don't! Please! Let me go! I was wrong! I was really wrong!"
A-Train was streaming with snot and tears, babbling incoherently as he began to beg for mercy.
The speed he prided himself on, his dignity as a member of The Seven, were crushed to pieces at this moment.
He was like a dog waiting to be slaughtered, wagging its tail and begging for pity, only hoping to save his other leg.
"I'll give you money! Lots of money! I'll give you whatever you want! Forty-five thousand isn't enough? Four hundred thousand! Four million! Please..."
Leon's foot stopped just one centimeter away from his knee.
He crouched down, his gaze behind his gold-rimmed glasses dissecting A-Train's face, which was twisted with fear, snot, and tears, like a scalpel.
His voice was very soft, soft enough that only the two of them could hear it, yet it was more bone-chilling than the Siberian wind.
"Do you still remember Robin Ward?"
The pleading expression on A-Train's face instantly froze.
Robin... Ward?
This name passed through his brain, which was filled with compound v and terror, but left nothing behind.
He had run over too many people.
To make it to a party, to test a new dosage of V, for the simple thrill of racing... those ordinary people who had turned into blood mist under his high-speed dashes were, to him, not even worth as much as the ants on the side of the road.
How could he possibly remember the name of an ant?
Watching the fleeting confusion and bewilderment on A-Train's face, Leon smiled.
It was a smile that was cold to the extreme, devoid of any warmth.
"See, you really don't remember."
Leon stood up, no longer wasting any words.
His raised left foot, with the resolve to end everything, stepped down heavily!
"Snap!!!!!!!"
A bone-cracking sound, even crisper and louder than before, accompanied by A-Train's inhuman, desperate, and shrill scream, once again echoed throughout all of Times Square!
It echoed throughout the whole world!
Leon snapped his second leg, then kicked him aside like garbage.
He turned around, facing the thousands of spectators in the square who had completely turned to stone, and facing the countless cameras still broadcasting live.
He adjusted the black-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, a corner of his mouth curling into an elegant yet cruel arc, and said calmly in a voice that was not loud but audible to everyone:
"Now, does anyone else have any questions about Vought's PR statement?"
Chapter 20: What I am doesn't matter, what matters is that you have no choice
"Now, does anyone else have any questions about the Vought International PR statement?"
Leon's voice, amplified by the on-site sound system, rang out clearly in every corner.
The entire Times Square was deathly silent.
No one answered.
Everyone seemed to have been hit by a paralysis spell; their minds went blank, and they could only instinctively and fearfully look up at the figure on the stage, who looked like a god or a demon.
Ashley Barrett slumped in a chair backstage, trembling like a sieve, unaware that the walkie-talkie in her hand had fallen.
The PR skills she prided herself on were as fragile as paper in the face of absolute, unreasonable violence.
Leon didn't say another word.
He turned and walked off the stage.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea, automatically clearing a path for him. No one dared to approach, no one dared to block his way, and no one even dared to meet his gaze.
He walked step by step, the "clack, clack" sound of his leather shoes hitting the solid ground echoing through the deathly silent square like a tolling funeral bell.
When he reached the edge of the crowd, he seemingly casually raised his hand to adjust his collar.
At that very moment, an invisible, microscopic cyclone centered on his body spread outwards.
Within that hundredth of a second, the image on every mobile phone and camera lens pointed at him distorted and blurred violently, as if suffering from signal interference.
When the image returned to normal, the man's retreating figure had already disappeared into the crowded streets of New York.
Ten minutes later.
Police cars from the New York Police Department and the rapid response team from Vought International finally arrived with sirens wailing, sealing off the entire Times Square.
What they saw was a scene like hell on earth.
In the center of the stage, two members of The Seven—A-Train and Iron Wall—lay there; one had both legs broken and was unconscious, while the other had a shattered arm and was dying.
Several security guards slumped on the ground, soiling themselves in terror.
And the "mysterious Asian man" who caused all of this had long since vanished into thin air, leaving no trace.
Vought International's technicians immediately pulled all surveillance and live broadcast footage from the scene.
The results made them shudder.
No matter which angle it was filmed from, and no matter how high-definition the equipment was, the man's face always appeared as if it had a natural mosaic applied to it, remaining a blur.
No fingerprints, hair, or DNA traces were left at the scene.
This person was like a ghost.
He arrived with a bang and left without a trace.
...
In a back alley three blocks away.
Leon found Hughie curled up behind a dumpster.
Two of Hughie's ribs had broken when he was thrown by A-Train, and there was blood on the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were unusually bright—bright enough to be frightening.
He was shocked by Leon's god-like power and felt a shudder of mixed fear and extreme pleasure at A-Train's miserable end.
"You..."
Seeing Leon, Hughie struggled to stand up, but pulled his wound, causing him to gasp in pain.
Leon didn't help him, just looked down at him with a flat tone.
"Can you still walk?"
"Yes..."
"Keep up."
Leon turned and walked away, and Hughie gritted his teeth and limped behind him.
Half an hour later, in Leon's simple apartment in Brooklyn.
A strong smell of disinfectant permeated the air.
Leon tossed a simple first-aid kit onto the table, took off his trench coat by himself, and began to slowly undo the cuffs of his shirt.
Hughie sat on the shabby sofa, watching Leon wipe the blood that wasn't his off his hands with an alcohol pad, and finally couldn't help but ask:
"Who exactly... are you? Are you also... a Superhuman?"
This question had been swirling in his mind countless times since Times Square.
Blocking A-Train's full-speed sprint with one hand, breaking his leg with a single stomp, and disabling another Superhuman with a backhand... All of this had completely exceeded his understanding of the word "Superhuman."
Could Homelander do that? He didn't know.
But he knew that the man in front of him was a hundred times more terrifying than any superhero he had ever seen on television.
Leon did not answer his question.
He walked into the kitchen, took a bottle of ice water from the refrigerator, poured a glass for himself and one for Hughie, then walked back and sat down in the chair opposite Hughie.
The apartment lights were off, and the neon lights of Manhattan outside the window shone in, casting long shadows of the two men.
"What I am is not important."
Leon took a sip of water, the cold liquid sliding down his throat, making his voice sound even colder.
"What is important is that from today on, Vought International will be looking for me all over the world like a mad dog."
He paused, his gaze falling on Hughie's pale face.
"And you, as the person who read that report in Times Square in front of the whole world, have also been marked by them."
Hughie's body trembled uncontrollably.
He remembered the cold look in the Vought lawyer's eyes when he left, and the threatening non-disclosure agreement.
"You have two choices."
Leon held up one finger.
"First, you walk out that door now, go back to your little apartment, cry to your father, and then wait for Vought International's legal team, or more directly, their assassins, to come to your door. They will make you and your family disappear from this world completely, just like Robin Ward."
He held up a second finger.
"Second, stay by my side."
Hughie's breathing became rapid.
He looked at the terrifyingly calm man in front of him, his brain racing.
Stay?
Stay with a monster who had just crippled two Superhumans in the most brutal way in front of the whole world?
This didn't sound any better than the first choice.
But...
He remembered the scene where Robin turned into a mist of blood, and A-Train's face full of confusion and disdain.
The flames of hatred burned in his heart once again.
He didn't want to go back to that powerless, vulnerable life.
He wanted power.
Even if this power came from the devil.
Hughie was silent for a long time, so long that the air seemed to solidify.
Finally, he raised his head, and in those eyes that originally belonged to an ordinary, slightly cowardly person, a sense of desperate determination emerged for the first time.
He looked at Leon and said word by word:
"I'll stay."
The moment Hughie finished speaking, a cold system notification tone suddenly rang out in Leon's consciousness!
[First hunt mission "The Final Sprint" completed!]
[Mission evaluation: Perfect!]
[Reward obtained: Divine Might Points x 500!]
[New ability unlocked: Quantum Perception!]
Leon's fingers holding the water glass moved slightly, and a subtle, imperceptible arc curled at the corner of his mouth.
Very good.
The first chess piece is in place.
And a new game is about to begin.
He looked at the young man in front of him, whose eyes had completely changed, and asked calmly:
"Very good, so now, as my first follower, do you want to see... something more interesting?"
Chapter 21: Vought's Earthquake! Homelander's Excitement!
"Very well. Now, as my first follower, would you like to see something... more interesting?"
Before Hughie could even begin to process the meaning of those words, Leon had already stood up and walked to the window.
Meanwhile, at the top floor of the Vought International Building in Midtown Manhattan, a dozen kilometers away from Brooklyn.
An emergency executive meeting with an incredibly oppressive atmosphere had been going on for a full hour.
Around the massive circular conference table sat the most powerful people at Vought International. But at this moment, these corporate titans who usually controlled the fates of countless people all had faces so grim they could drip water.
On the holographic projection in the center of the conference room, the video from Times Square, which netizens worldwide had already dubbed the "Times Square Execution," was playing on a loop.
The image froze on the scene where Leon was choking A-Train with one hand; that deliberately blurred face hung over every Vought executive like a massive, silent mockery.
"Twelve hours."
Vought International CEO Stan Edgar, a black man who always wore dark suits and maintained an eternally calm expression, spoke in his signature, emotionless, steady tone.
"Twelve hours since the incident occurred. Vought International's stock price has evaporated by 7.3 percent, equivalent to 32 billion dollars."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone present.
"Our PR hotlines have been blown up with over 20 million calls, demanding we explain A-Train's drug use and the identity of that 'mysterious person'."
"On Twitter, the two hashtags #VoughtLies and #ThePunisherOfTimesSquare have occupied the top two spots on the global trending list for over ten hours, with views exceeding two billion and still growing at a rate of millions per minute."
"Most importantly, that video of the medical report can no longer be deleted. It has spread like a virus, appearing on every video site, every social media platform, and every private cloud storage worldwide. For every one we delete, ten thousand more pop up the next second."
With every word Edgar spoke, the air pressure in the conference room dropped a little further.
Madelyn Stillwell, the vice president in charge of The Seven's operations—that always glamorous and iron-fisted blonde woman—was currently as pale as a sheet of A4 paper.
She steeled herself, stood up, and began to report the investigation results.
"We... we utilized all of Vought's facial recognition systems and SkyEye satellites to perform a frame-by-frame analysis of over 5,000 hours of video footage from the scene... The result is zero."
"What do you mean by zero?" an executive with a receding hairline couldn't help but ask.
"It means we were unable to identify any of his facial features," Madelyn Stillwell said, her voice a bit dry. "Every time the camera captured his face, an inexplicable image distortion occurred. Our technical experts believe this might be a... a superpower beyond our understanding, capable of disrupting light or electromagnetic signals at a microscopic level."
"What about the scene? DNA? Fingerprints? Footprints?" Edgar pressed.
"Nothing at all." Madelyn Stillwell shook her head, a trace of frustration and fear appearing on her face. "He's like a ghost. The NYPD forensics team pried up the stage floor and took it back to the lab for top-level analysis, but they found absolutely nothing. The places he stepped on were cleaner than an operating room scrubbed with disinfectant."
There was a collective gasp in the conference room.
"So, our conclusion is..." Madelyn Stillwell took a deep breath and stated the speculation that sent shivers down everyone's spines. "The attacker is, one hundred percent, a super-powered individual. An unknown super-powered individual with extremely high counter-reconnaissance awareness and a strength level at least A-rank, if not... perhaps even higher."
Edgar listened to the report expressionlessly, then clasped his hands on the table and remained silent for a moment.
"What's A-Train's condition?"
"Shattered fractures in both legs, from the knee joints down. Not broken, shattered." Madelyn Stillwell spoke quickly. "Our medical team's conclusion is that even with immediate treatment using the highest concentration of compound v, it will take at least six months just to barely stand up. The possibility of him returning to his previous speed... is zero."
"What value does A-Train have to Vought if he can't run?" an executive said coldly.
"His value is to show everyone the consequences of provoking Vought!" another executive retorted.
"Enough."
Edgar cut off the argument.
"Now is not the time to discuss A-Train's pension. Our top priority is to find that 'ghost' and then make him disappear from this world. Madelyn Stillwell, use all resources. I want to see the first effective report on his identity within 24 hours."
"Yes, sir."
Just as the atmosphere in the conference room reached a breaking point, a figure who had remained silent finally moved.
Homelander.
He had been leaning against the far end of the conference table the entire time, his stars-and-stripes suit standing out starkly in the dim light. He hadn't participated in any of the discussion; instead, like an outsider, he was watching the video playing on loop on the holographic projection with keen interest, a faint, imperceptible smile even playing on his face.
At this moment, he finally spoke slowly. His voice wasn't loud, but it instantly drowned out all the noise in the conference room.
"One person."
He extended a finger and tapped at Leon's blurred figure on the projection.
"One hand, stopping A-Train's full-speed sprint of over seven hundred kilometers per hour head-on."
His gaze slowly swept across the faces of Edgar, Madelyn Stillwell, and the other executives. In those blue eyes, a disturbing light flickered.
"Do you know what this means?"
The conference room instantly fell silent.
Everyone held their breath, watching this most powerful—and most unstable—"asset" of Vought Corporation.
Homelander smiled.
There was no fear or anger in that smile; instead, it was a kind of... morbid excitement at meeting a worthy opponent.
"It means that his defensive capabilities, strength, reaction speed... all of this person's physical stats are far superior to A-Train."
He stood up, walked to the holographic projection, and reached out as if to touch that blurred figure.
"You bunch of idiots who only know how to look at stock prices and reports are still discussing how to put out fires and handle PR."
His voice was filled with condescending contempt and a hint of irrepressible trembling.
"But what I see is something else entirely."
Homelander turned around, a raging fire already ignited in those blue eyes.
It was a childlike cruelty and fanaticism, like discovering a new toy.
"In this world," he said, enunciating every word, his face filled with irrepressible ecstasy, "there has finally appeared someone... who might be worth me dealing with personally!"
Chapter 22: I Am an Archivist, This Is Just My Job
"Finally, there is someone in this world... who might be worth me taking action myself!"
Homelander's declaration, filled with fighting spirit, echoed like a thunderclap in the Vought Tower top-floor conference room.
However, everything was transmitted, word for word, through Super Hearing into the ears of Leon, who was far away in his Brooklyn apartment.
"Interesting."
Leon set down his water cup, the smile on his lips deepening.
"It seems that the world's number one man-child is already dying to come deliver himself to death."
Opposite him, Hughie had absolutely no idea what was happening, but just seeing the change in Leon's expression made him feel a sudden, inexplicable palpitation.
"What... what do we do next?" Hughie asked cautiously.
"You?" Leon glanced at him. "You will stay here, recover from your injuries, watch TV, and adapt to your new identity as 'deceased.' Vought will soon erase all your social connections and announce to the public that you died in the attack or committed suicide to escape punishment."
"Then what about you?"
"Me?" Leon put his gold-rimmed glasses back on, his entire demeanor returning to that gentle and refined air. "As for me, I will obviously continue to go to work at Vought Tower tomorrow."
"What?!" Hughie nearly jumped off the sofa. "Are you crazy? They are searching the whole world for you, and you still dare to go back to Vought Tower?"
"The most dangerous place is the safest place," Leon said indifferently. "Besides, why should a god care about the thoughts of a group of ants?"
The next day, 8:30 AM.
Leon, wearing a neatly pressed black suit, appeared on time at the Archives on the B2 level of Vought Tower.
He calmly swiped his card and walked into the office, which was filled with the smell of mold and old paper, as if the "The Punisher" who had stirred up a huge storm at Times Square yesterday had nothing to do with him.
In fact, it really had nothing to do with him.
After fusing with Kryptonian genes, his height, bone structure, muscle lines, and even his facial contours had undergone subtle but fundamental changes. Unless DNA comparison was used, no one could connect this handsome, aloof archivist to the skinny, cowardly "LeonLi" of the past.
Furthermore, at the scene yesterday, he had worn a different pair of black-rimmed glasses from start to finish and used airflow to disturb his facial features.
The atmosphere in the Archives had undergone a subtle change.
The supervisor, Mark, who used to be bossy, had applied for an indefinite leave of absence on the grounds of "psychological trauma." It was said that he would now lose control of his bladder whenever he saw an Asian man in a suit.
The entire Archives was now run by Leon.
"Leon!" Jessica walked over carrying two cups of coffee, her face filled with irrepressible excitement. She placed one of the cups on Leon's desk and lowered her voice, as if sharing a shocking secret.
"Did you watch the news yesterday? Times Square! My god! It was just so cool!"
She handed her phone to Leon; the screen displayed that "execution" video which had already gone viral globally.
"Did you see this? This man! He is simply a god! One-handed! He disabled that jerk A-Train with just one hand! And that one called Iron Wall, he shattered at a single touch! It was so satisfying!"
Jessica gestured wildly, her face flushed with excitement.
"People online are calling him 'The Punisher,' and some are calling him the 'Eastern Savior'! Who do you think he is? Is he also a superhuman? Why did he do that?"
Leon looked calmly at his own blurred figure in the video, took a sip of coffee, and responded indifferently.
"Yeah, he's pretty impressive."
"More than just impressive!" Jessica didn't notice Leon's perfunctory attitude at all. "Someone finally stood up and taught those lawless jerks at Vought a lesson! I was so excited last night I didn't sleep a wink! Do you know that the whole company is in an uproar right now? It's said that the stock price dropped by over 30 billion overnight!"
Leon smiled without responding, lowering his head to start organizing a stack of new files that had arrived today.
His calm demeanor, instead, made Jessica feel a bit strange.
"Hey, Leon, this is huge news. How come you're not excited at all?"
"Is being excited useful?" Leon said while flipping through files without looking up. "Will being excited increase my salary by even a dime?"
"You..." Jessica was rendered speechless by his retort and could only roll her eyes. "You really are a boring guy."
She sulkily carried her coffee back to her workstation.
Leon's fingertips brushed over the dull reports, but his Super Hearing acted like an invisible radar, covering the entire Vought Tower.
He could hear that the security level inside the building had been raised by at least three tiers compared to yesterday.
In the corridors, there were many more tactical patrol teams armed with live ammunition and vigilant eyes.
Every elevator had been equipped with iris scanners that required Level 3 or higher clearance to pass.
He could even hear that in the IT department on the 36th floor, dozens of technical experts were frantically trying to restore the video data he had disturbed.
In the Legal Department on the 42nd floor, Richard Webbwas in his office, lying to his wife on the phone, saying he had to work overtime again tonight, when in fact he was waiting for Leon's next instruction.
On the 99th floor, Madelyn Stillwell was psychologically comforting Homelander, urging him not to act impulsively, but Homelander was just absent-mindedly looking out the window, searching for that figure "worth him taking action."
Everything was under control.
Just then, a conversation transmitted over the building's security channel caught Leon's attention.
"...The special investigation team has been established, led personally by Vice President Madelyn Stillwell. Homelander is temporarily restricted from action and is not allowed to intervene on his own."
"Then who's going to investigate? We can't have us regular security guards go catch a monster that can crush A-Trainwith one hand, right?"
"Don't worry, the higher-ups have arrangements. I heard that The Deep has been sent to be responsible for investigating all areas around water, as well as clues related to superhumans with his abilities. They suspect that guy might also be a water-based ability user, which is why he was so clean and left no traces."
"The Deep? Ha, let him go talk to the dolphins and see if he can ask any clues out of them."
Hearing this, Leon's hand, which was organizing the files, paused slightly.
The Deep.
That disgusting fish who once tried to sexually coerce Starlight in The Seven's conference room.
A cold arc curled up on the corner of Leon's lips.
He hadn't gone to look for trouble with this fish yet, and now this fish was going to investigate him instead?
Very good.
Saves him from having to make a special trip.
He picked up the desk phone and dialed the extension for Richard Webb, the senior executive of the Legal Department.
The phone was answered after one ring, the voice on the other end filled with awe and nervousness.
"Sir... what are your orders?"
Leon leaned back in his chair, twirling the pen in his hand, his tone as calm as if he were assigning a routine task.
"I need the full itinerary for The Deep for the past week, including his private schedule. The more detailed, the better. Send it to my encrypted email within half an hour."
"The... The Deep?" Richard's voice clearly trembled.
"Yes, The Deep." Leon's tone carried a hint of unquestionable command. "What, is there a problem?"
"No... no problem! Sir! I'll get it done right away!"
Hanging up the phone, Leon looked out the window.
Although this was the second underground level, he felt as if he could see that disgusting fish in some aquarium, feeling smug in front of a group of dolphins, thinking he had received some important mission.
A glint of mockery and cruelty flashed in Leon's eyes.
"I hope you like the'surprise' I've prepared for you, The Deep."
Chapter 23: It's Not Me Helping You, It's You Working For Me!
"Sir... I'll get right on it!"
After Richard Webb hung up on his end, Leon tossed his phone casually onto the desk; the Archives were filled with the stale smell of paper and cheap instant coffee.
Jessica was still at her workstation, wearing headphones and secretly using the company computer to browse forum posts about "The Punisher of Times Square," letting out the occasional suppressed exclamation.
To her, this was a heroic tale worth celebrating.
To Leon, this was just the beginning of work.
Just then, another prepaid phone kept in the drawer, used only for special communications, gave a short vibration.
It was an encrypted text message, containing only an address and a time.
Queens, 7th Avenue, 134 Abandoned Appliance Warehouse. Nine o'clock tonight.
Sender: B.
Butcher.
There was not a trace of surprise in Leon's eyes. This mad dog, whom he had beaten down, had finally lost his patience after witnessing the "performance" in Times Square and was coming with his shabby crew to seek a real "collaboration."
At nine o'clock in the evening, the wind in Queens carried the scent of rust from the industrial district.
Leon, wearing a black trench coat, walked into the dilapidated appliance warehouse alone. There were no lights on in the warehouse; only a few rays of moonlight shone through the cracks in the damaged metal roof, casting mottled shadows on the floor piled with discarded appliances.
In the air, besides dust, there were three distinct scents mixed in. One person's heartbeat was steady and powerful, another carried a hint of alcohol and gunpowder, and the last was, naturally, the never-extinguished restlessness of Butcher, mixed with hatred and nicotine.
"You actually dared to come alone."
Butcher's voice came from the shadows deep within the warehouse, and he stepped out from behind a pile of discarded refrigerators.
Immediately after, two more people walked out from behind him.
One was a burly African-American man, his frame as massive as a wall, wearing a work jacket. His eyes were sharp and cautious, staring fixedly at Leon, as if trying to assess the strength of every muscle with his gaze. It was Mother's Milk.
The other was a medium-built white man with a messy beard, his eyes filled with a hint of madness and neurosis, and he smelled faintly of machine oil. It was Frenchie.
"Let me introduce you," Butcher grinned, but there was no friendliness in that smile. "This is Mother's Milk, our logistics and tactical planner. This is Frenchie, our weapons and engineering expert. Guys, this is the man... who made Vought's stock price evaporate by thirty billion."
The gazes of Mother's Milk and Frenchie were filled with undisguised shock and scrutiny.
They clearly couldn't reconcile the man before them—dressed impeccably, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, and looking like a Wall Street elite—with the demon god in Times Square who had crushed a super-human's leg bone with one hand.
"He looks... not like he did in the video..." Mother's Milk's words trailed off, as if he were searching for the right word.
"Not like a monster, right?" Butcher finished the sentence for him. "That's exactly what makes it interesting."
Frenchie didn't speak, merely pulling a small flask from his pocket and taking a swig, though his eyes never left Leonfor a second.
"Speak up. You didn't bring me here just to let me tour your team." Leon said, his hands in his trench coat pockets, his tone calm.
"Of course not." Butcher walked over to a dusty table and dragged out a military-grade metal case from underneath it. "Let me show you something."
He opened the case, inside of which lay several strangely shaped weapons. There was a prototype that looked like a Gauss rifle, a few EMP grenades flickering with a ghostly blue light, and a syringe filled with some kind of viscous green liquid.
"Anti-superhuman weapon prototypes." Butcher's tone carried a hint of pride. "Treasures we scavenged from the Pentagon's trash heap. They can't handle someone on Homelander's level, but they are enough to take down some thick-skinned B-tier trash."
He paused, looking at Leon with burning intensity. "We have intelligence, we have weapons, we have professional logistics. But we are missing one thing."
"A monster capable of going head-to-head with those spandex-wearing bastards." Butcher pointed at Leon. "We need your power. You are like a nuclear bomb, and we are the launch system that can guide you to your target."
He finally laid out his terms.
"Join us, Leon. Let's tear that damn Vought building down, layer by layer, from top to bottom! You handle the heavy lifting, we'll handle handing you the wrench and hammer, and we'll take care of all the trouble."
Mother's Milk and Frenchie both looked at Leon, waiting for his answer. In their view, this was an offer that couldn't be refused. A lone wolf with immense power and an experienced anti-hero team—this was a match made in heaven.
However, after listening, Leon simply shook his head gently.
"Butcher, you've been wrong about one thing from the very beginning."
"What?" Butcher frowned.
Leon didn't answer him, instead walking toward the center of the warehouse, where a steel load-bearing column supporting the roof stood. The column was as thick as an adult's arm and covered in rust.
He stopped in front of the column, and then, under the horrified gaze of the three men, reached out his right hand.
His index and middle fingers.
Just like that, nonchalantly, he pinched the cold steel pipe.
He didn't exert force, didn't wind up, and his expression didn't even change in the slightest.
Then, as if snapping a dry chopstick, he gave a gentle twist.
"Creak... screech... snap!!!"
A sound of metal twisting and snapping that made one's teeth ache to the depths of their soul suddenly exploded in the empty warehouse!
That incredibly hard steel load-bearing column had been snapped into two pieces by his two fingers, with absolute ease!
At the break, twisted steel fibers were exposed to the air, looking vicious like sugarcane torn apart by immense force.
"..."
The warehouse fell into a deathly silence.
Mother's Milk and Frenchie, almost simultaneously, uncontrollably took a large step backward. The scrutiny and shock on their faces had been completely replaced by a primitive, deep-seated fear.
The flask in Frenchie's hand hit the floor with a "clatter," spilling liquor everywhere, yet he didn't even notice.
Butcher's pupils shrank to the size of pinpricks. He stared fixedly at the broken steel column, then looked at Leon's two spotless fingers, his Adam's apple bobbing uncontrollably.
He had seen Homelander's power—a ferocity capable of smashing through airplanes.
But the scene before him was something else entirely.
It was a kind of... unreasonable, physics-defying, absolute "conceptual" power.
Breaking a steel column and "pinching" a steel column in two with two fingers were concepts from two different dimensions!
Leon casually tossed the twisted piece of steel pipe in his hand; the sound of the metal hitting the concrete floor struck the three men's hearts like a heavy hammer.
He turned around and looked back at the pale-faced Butcher, pushing up the gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose that reflected a cold light in the darkness.
"Now, let's talk about this collaboration again."
His voice remained calm, but every word carried an unquestionable, god-like authority.
"It's not me helping you, nor is it me joining you."
"It is you, working for me."
He walked to the table and looked down at Butcher, his tone as indifferent as if he were announcing an established fact.
"Intelligence, logistics, weapons, clean-up—you are responsible for all of it."
"Action plans, decision-making power, and the distribution of spoils all belong to me."
Leon's gaze swept over the completely frozen Mother's Milk and Frenchie, finally landing back on Butcher's face.
"I am not discussing this with you."
"I am informing you."
He extended a finger and tapped lightly on the tabletop.
"Now, tell me your decision, Butcher."
"Do you accept, or do you not?"