As the political world sensed the incoming storm, senators and officials began stepping forward one after another, loudly declaring their support for Sebastian's "Justice of Order."
Naturally—this stance served their interests perfectly.
The louder and more polarized the debate grew, the more virtuous and authoritative Sebastian's supporters appeared. Even several U.S. congressmen publicly affirmed Sebastian and his vision of Order and Justice.
Those at the top understood better than anyone the terrifying reality of superheroes. For years they had tried every method—overt or covert—to keep superheroes restrained.
They had even quietly upheld the principle of "sacrificing a few to protect the many," just to ensure the continued stability of their own positions.
And yet, even after all that, they still lived in fear:
What if one day a deranged superhero decided to knock on their door?
In truth, the ones truly oppressed by capital were the weaker, lower-tier supes. No corporation had ever dared push a top-tier superhuman to the brink.
Before Sebastian and Homelander, ideological clashes weren't unheard of.
There had been superheroes who, like Sebastian, "betrayed their own kind" and argued from a mortal's perspective—calling for supers to be bound by the laws of ordinary humans.
But none of them were strong enough. Their words made no waves, and no one cared to listen.
Sebastian and Homelander, however, were different. Their power eclipsed all others—divine forces walking among mortals.
Their words carried more weight for superheroes than any government decree.
After all, supers knew mortals couldn't do anything to them.
But Sebastian and Homelander?
They could dismantle a superhero with a flick of their wrist.
Sebastian's philosophy hit the political elite right in their sweet spot.
What could possibly be more satisfying than seeing once-untamable gods finally put under their control?
Naturally, politicians flocked to him, and even members of Congress began publicly promoting Sebastian's ideals and urging the adoption of "Justice of Order."
But the force behind "Absolute Justice" was just as formidable.
Standing behind it were all superhumans—and their massive, fanatical fanbases.
Some people even declared:
"The more politicians support something, the less we should trust it. Oppose it to avoid getting caught in their schemes."
With that mindset circulating, the supporters of "Absolute Justice" vastly outnumbered those backing "Orderly Justice."
After all, when Captain and Homelander fought one-on-one, neither could beat the other.
Without the pressure of political authority, the people felt free to choose sides and speak their minds.
Why worry about consequences when a literal god stood behind them?
While the world was passionately tearing itself apart in the greatest ideological clash of the century, behind the scenes… Vought had already won.
Every time a massive public debate erupted, no matter which side won, Vought always soared on the final headlines.
The company's stock price skyrocketed like a rocket with each cycle of public frenzy.
Vought's valuation climbed from its original 100 billion all the way to 300 billion—tripling outright.
Even after such soaring growth, the stock was still impossible to get. Investors lined up in endless queues, eager to buy even a sliver.
Capital giants waved blank checks, desperate to join Vought, even for the smallest share.
Everyone knew it—Vought was truly ascending this time.
No matter which ideology prevailed, Vought would be the ultimate victor.
Its top heroes would stand at the pinnacle of the world, no longer just superheroes…
but the ones shaping the future code of conduct and the laws governing superheroes themselves.
Their status would rise to honorary members of Congress, with voting rights on policy.
Only this could quell the escalating conflict; otherwise, America itself risked splitting apart under the influence of the two great titans.
And no matter who eventually won the congressional vote, Vought's rise was inevitable. Anyone joining now was guaranteed profit.
Sebastian, however, took no part in the new round of angel investment discussions.
In fact—he had no say in any of it.
His shares were dividend only—he could take money, but he couldn't buy or sell them. He held no real equity at all.
So his attitude was simply:
Do whatever you want. Just don't expect me to work overtime.
Besides, Sebastian was irritated.
Vought's soaring stock price didn't mean the company itself earned more money. Only the shareholders got rich—not workers like him.
Every Vought shareholder made a killing… yet he hadn't received a cent.
Why should he be the one doing all the hard work?
Sebastian complained that financial laws didn't protect the distribution of profits from stock value growth.
So, he made his own rule:
Since the market value soared because of him, he deserved proportional dividends.
If the valuation doubled—they owed him the equivalent in cash.
If it tripled—twice the payout.
Thus, Sebastian named his price:
20 billion USD.
He didn't care who paid it, how they raised it, or how they divided it.
The money simply needed to appear—in his family foundation's account—within one month.
(PS: I'm still too young to open my own account o(╥﹏╥)o)
The board was furious at Sebastian's shameless, unreasonable demand.
But in the end, they clenched their teeth and accepted it.
Shareholders who made fortunes had no choice but to hand some over.
Sebastian's request was legal and justified. He wasn't even asking for too much—just what he was owed.
Money mattered, but compared to their lives? Money meant nothing.
Not to mention Captain and Homelander had achieved a feat Vought had failed to do for decades—cleanly settling the genealogy problem.
Before this, Vought was merely a business; it couldn't interfere in government power.
But now, even Congress had to consider what Sebastian and Homelander thought.
With those two golden idols backing them, money became the weakest currency before power.
Now, capital sought wealth only as a means to gain more power.
When Homelander saw Sebastian name his price and Vought reluctantly pay it, he found the whole thing amusing.
So he walked into the boardroom himself and named his price:
"Forty billion dollars. Next week."
The directors couldn't even be bothered to speak.
They simply tossed him the Centurion Black Gold Card they'd prepared long ago and told him to get lost.
They scoffed immediately he left.
"What level do you think you're at? You want more than the Captain?"
"Besides… Vought raised you. We fed you, clothed you, housed you. You don't even have dividend shares."
"You're company property. Of course there's no contract."
Walking out with the super-premium black card, Homelander sighed deeply:
"…This is what I get for not getting a proper education."
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