Outside the villa, the once-lively party had descended into complete chaos. Deafening explosions shook the air without pause, and the ground itself trembled violently.
Through the collapsing windows, bombs could be seen dropping onto the grounds, each blast scattering torn limbs in every direction.
Before the terror of modern weaponry, the elites of society proved no less fragile than ordinary people. In an instant, the mountaintop villa outside New York had turned into a battlefield.
"Pepper!"
Tony Stark's visor snapped shut over his face. Flames burst from his palms and boots, propelling him skyward.
He still didn't know who was behind the attack, but seeing such horror unfold, his first instinct was to find the woman he loved.
"We're here!"
Pepper and Rhodes had barely managed to dive behind cover, narrowly avoiding the carnage. Both were pale with fear at the sudden disaster.
As an Air Force colonel, Rhodes had reacted quickly—without him, Pepper would already have been among the mangled corpses.
"Jarvis! Lock onto their position!"
Guided by his AI, Tony darted toward Pepper and Rhodes, scooping them up before flying them far from the danger zone.
"Save the others! Oh my God, Jenny was just blown apart!"
Pepper's face was streaked with dirt. She could hardly believe what was happening—the entire mountaintop estate was under bombardment.
"I'll call for Air Force support!"
Rhodes pulled out his communicator, but in the chaos it slipped from his grip, shattering against the ground. His face tightened in embarrassment.
"I'll get you both somewhere safe first. Then I'll come back to deal with this."
Tony's mind was fixed on protecting his friends and the woman he loved. He might have been Iron Man, but at this moment, he wasn't thinking about the world—only about keeping the people he cared for alive.
BOOM!
Behind him, the villa collapsed.
"What the hell?!"
Herman, too, was caught off guard by the sudden assault. He wasn't concerned about collapsing walls or falling missiles, but he understood the situation immediately.
Bursting through the roof of the crumbling villa, he shot into the sky.
There, hulking war machines—larger than Tony Stark's Iron Man suits—were swarming overhead, raining bombs onto the ground.
Several of them streaked past Herman, their metallic forms gleaming. These automated suits were the true culprits behind the destruction.
No human pilots were inside; they were entirely remote-controlled. Herman sensed no trace of human thought within them.
"Whiplash's Iron Legion?!"
At a glance, Herman recognized their origin. These machines were Whiplash's creations, built to exact revenge on Tony Stark—villains who weren't supposed to appear until Iron Man 2.
Whiplash was a man who believed his life had been stolen by Tony Stark.
His hatred stemmed from his father's past partnership with Howard Stark. For reasons lost to time, his father had been forced out, left with nothing—no money, no resources—and wasted away in obscurity.
Because of that, Whiplash grew up in a broken home, enduring decades of poverty in the frozen land of Russia.
Meanwhile, Howard Stark had it all—technology, wealth, and influence. Whiplash believed those should have been his inheritance.
Thus, in the events of Iron Man 2, he had crossed the ocean to the U.S., plotting his vengeance against Tony Stark.
"And now he's come for revenge early."
Herman wasn't surprised. He had already altered history in countless ways; naturally, the butterfly effect would ripple outward.
Whiplash had probably seen Tony's arrogant face on television recently. Stark had been all over domestic and international broadcasts.
Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh!
The war machines screamed past at terrifying speed, bombing the crowds below without pause.
Luxury cars lay in burning wrecks. Human bodies were torn apart, blasted into the air with every strike. Those who tried to escape in cars didn't stand a chance—the machines locked on and blew each vehicle to pieces.
Herman had no time to save them all.
With wave after wave of war machines swarming the skies, the only way he could protect the people below was to destroy the attackers.
"Too many!"
Herman ripped apart a war mech that streaked past him, then seized two more with both hands, smashing them together. Since no humans or living beings were inside, he had no efficient way of wiping out the entire steel legion at once.
"Shit! My kidneys!"
Another mech rammed straight into his back—whether it was a glitch in the control system or just a fondness for brute force, he didn't know.
Either way, the blow landed hard. Herman yanked the twisted mech backward and snapped it clean in half over his knee.
More than a dozen mechs darted through the sky. Herman's telekinesis spread outward, crushing them into fragments in an instant.
His pace was already lightning fast, but the sheer number of machines was overwhelming. He couldn't possibly destroy them all at once.
On the ground, people were still being bombarded—just like in Avengers: Age of Ultron, when superheroes and villains clashed while civilians suffered the fallout.
Herman couldn't spare the focus to save anyone else. And truth be told, he wasn't a true superhero.
He wouldn't risk everything to save strangers. He'd help where he could, but he had no intention of becoming the kind of hero shackled by moral obligation.
"My God! What the hell is happening?!"
"Is America under attack?!"
"Is this the end of the world?!"
Countless screams rose around him.
People were unable—or unwilling—to accept this apocalyptic reality.
Everywhere, bodies were being torn apart. Those who tried to flee were either blown to pieces by missiles or shredded by the mechs' heavy artillery.
To Whiplash, there were no innocents in America.
Cries of despair echoed across land blanketed in smoke and fire. The number of mechs only grew. Herman could see in the distance a swarm of tiny dots gathering in the sky, swelling larger and denser until they resembled a plague of locusts descending.
All of them were war mechs, swarming around a single massive unit that loomed above the rest, more formidable than any of its kin.
Inside that colossal mech was Whiplash himself.
"Whiplash showing up isn't surprising. But where the hell did he get the resources for this?" Herman muttered, staring at the endless steel army.
From what he remembered, Whiplash and his Iron Legion weren't supposed to appear until the Hammer Industries expo.
Yet here he was.
Whiplash hadn't even staged the Monaco racetrack attack, hadn't been arrested, and already he had assembled an entire army of mechs on American soil.
It made no sense. Even with the butterfly effect altering events, even if Whiplash had discovered Tony Stark—the "culprit"—earlier than expected...
Justin Hammer, who should have bankrolled him, was already dead at the hands of Cross. Hammer Industries was busy tearing itself apart in a power struggle.
Without Hammer's help, how could Whiplash possibly have amassed this kind of arsenal? You don't scrape together a steel army by growing potatoes and fixing clocks in Siberia.
"Target acquired!"
From afar, Whiplash must have noticed Herman hovering in the sky, tearing through his army. Instantly, the swarm of mechs redirected their weapons, designating Herman as their top-priority target.
These units carried far heavier payloads. Locking onto Herman's life signs, their shoulder-mounted cannons roared to life.
"Rat-tat-tat-tat!"
The barrage was ferocious. Each bullet could have ripped through steel walls with ease, and now thousands of them poured toward Herman like a golden rain.
But his telekinesis caught them all. Not a single round reached him.
"I don't think that was a wise decision."
Surrounded by firepower capable of leveling a town, Herman floated calmly in the air, as if out for a casual stroll. The dark mass of mechs pressing in from the horizon didn't trouble him in the least.
"Rat-tat-tat!"
Relentless, the machines filled the sky with a dense golden barrage.
With a casual flick of his hand, Herman drained every bullet of momentum. They tumbled harmlessly to the ground like raindrops.
BOOM!
When bullets failed, the mechs' eyes glowed crimson. A moment later, they launched a storm of missiles.
Dozens of warheads crisscrossed the sky, streaking straight for Herman.
"Heh."
Herman's telekinesis surged, splitting his focus across dozens of missiles. He redirected them one by one into the swarming mechs.
The result—
The night sky bloomed into a dazzling field of fireworks.
"I take back what I said earlier—the fireworks from exploding armor aren't half bad."
Herman stood amidst the chain of detonating war mechs, calmly watching the blasts erupt around him.
Shards of shrapnel scattered through the air, but none could touch him.
Clatter—
After all, New York was the heart of America.
Even though the military hadn't received Rhodey's transmission in time, they still reacted quickly. More than a dozen advanced fighter jets streaked in from the distance.
However—
Compared to the Iron Legion, a dozen jets were hardly worth mentioning.
"U.S. military?"
Whiplash detected the incoming aircraft and immediately dispatched a squadron of mechs.
In the sky, neat rows of war machines spread into formation, sealing the fighters' paths from every angle.
From their shoulders extended launchers shaped like wings.
Boom—
With a thunderous roar, hundreds of small homing missiles launched at once. Exhaust trails crisscrossed through the sky, choking half the heavens in smoke.
The U.S. fighters tried evasive maneuvers, but supersonic missiles with tracking systems caught up with them almost instantly.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
One after another, explosions lit the sky.
Those costly, cutting-edge jets—feared by militaries around the world—fell and exploded like toys, completely outclassed.
The difference in power was as great as America's invasion of Iraq: not even close to the same level.
This was why the military wanted Stark's armor technology so badly.
After wiping out the fighters, the war mechs all shifted their weapons toward Herman.
Whiplash was still some distance away, but the hundred-plus mechs at the vanguard unleashed their assault first.
Flames burst to life as bullets and missiles poured down on him.
"Flashy, but that's all."
Herman raised his hand lightly.
Every bullet, every missile froze mid-air, as if time itself had stopped. They all hung there in perfect unison.
In the distance—
"Hello everyone! I'm Lois, reporting live from New York Television! It looks like the home of famed playboy Tony Stark has just come under aerial attack!"
"Could this be retaliation from terrorists?"
The reporters, responding to urgent calls, had arrived almost simultaneously, though they kept a safe distance from the battlefield. That distance spared them the same fate as the fallen jets.
From their helicopter, the crew had just set their cameras rolling when they captured the impossible—an entire battlefield frozen in time.
"My God! What is that?!"
The beautiful reporter gasped, hastily zooming in on the explosion-filled sky. Through the dust and fire, the scene finally came into focus.
Countless missiles hung motionless in the air.
And at the very center—
Herman stood, unmoving.
Like a god. Like a demon.
"It's him!"
"Is that even human?!"
The live broadcast stunned every viewer watching.
Inside the helicopter, the news crew wore the same expression—pure shock.
"God! The world's gone insane!"
The cameraman stared in disbelief, eyes wide with terror.
"It's him! It's the Homelander! Oh my God, I knew it! I knew he was a real superhuman!" Reporter Lois was nearly trembling with excitement.
She was clearly a fan of Homelander from The Boys. Unlike her horrified colleagues, her face shone with exhilaration.
In front of televisions across the city, countless citizens covered their mouths in shock.
The man in the sky.
Facing down a horde of war machines yet standing invincible—could he really be the same actor who played Homelander in the show?
"It's confirmed! Herman Chu from China! And you said you couldn't fly! You said The Boys wasn't your autobiography?!"
Fans of The Boys watching at home erupted into frenzy.
Unaware that he had been "exposed" yet again, Herman floated calmly in mid-air, his eyes fixed on the steel legion closing in.
Through the live camera's lens, it looked like a lone human standing against an endless tide of iron, blotting out the sky.
The oppressive mass of war mechs loomed, their cannons and barrels protruding from shoulders and backs—every one aimed at Herman.
"You've made a grave mistake."
He whispered softly, brushing a finger against his ring.
In an instant, black armor wrapped his body, its powerful design enhancing his already imposing frame.
Behind him, a black cloak snapped sharply in the wind.
Even with a torrent of steel bearing down on him, reporters and viewers alike could feel it—an aura of sheer, lethal intent radiating from Herman.
...
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