The resistance to the Superpower Rating Bill did not come out of nowhere.
At its core, a superhero's ability to attract fans relied on two things:
Power.
And mystery.
The fastest way to inflate popularity had never been heroic deeds—it was manufactured conflict.
The method was simple.
Two heroes would be arranged to "accidentally" clash. Nothing serious—just enough friction to spark rumors. Then the agencies behind them would quietly fan the flames, guiding their respective fanbases into open hostility.
Fans insulted one another.
Passersby got dragged in.
Arguments spread.
And once someone wanted to argue properly, they had to understand the hero first.
Understanding led to attachment.
Attachment led to fandom.
How many new fans a hero gained depended entirely on their team's operational skill.
But once ability ratings were made public?
All of that collapsed.
There would be no need for arguments.
One sentence would end everything:
"Your hero is weaker than mine."
Discussion over.
Interest gone.
Traffic dead.
And in this industry, no traffic meant no profit.
No profit meant being abandoned.
That was the real reason every hero—and every company behind them—united in absolute opposition to the Rating Bill.
Naturally, this truth could never be spoken aloud.
So the narrative was repackaged.
Publicly, the argument became:
"If ability levels are disclosed, hostile forces could exploit that information, setting traps and assassinations tailored to specific heroes."
This reasoning was immediately accepted.
Letters poured in.
Petitions flooded the Council.
Public opinion surged against the bill.
In the end, members of the Superhero Council had no choice but to approach Sebastian and formally withdraw the proposal.
But everyone understood the subtext.
This wasn't just opposition.
It was a test.
They wanted to know whether Sebastian and Homelander intended to turn the Superhero Council into a personal dictatorship.
If the two pushed the bill through regardless of opposition, the Council would be exposed as nothing more than a tool for centralized power.
Trust would collapse.
Support would vanish.
The newborn Council might disintegrate overnight.
But if the bill was withdrawn?
Then Sebastian and Homelander were one of them—leaders who listened, not tyrants.
As for whether the bill was actually good for society?
No one cared.
What mattered was self-interest.
Sebastian saw through this clearly.
And truthfully—
He had never intended to force the Rating Bill through in the first place.
The bill itself was merely a signal:
I am not here to rule arbitrarily. Invest without fear.
So Sebastian accepted the Council's request, labeled the Rating Bill as "temporarily reserved", and shelved it for future use.
The result was immediate.
The working enthusiasm of the entire Superhero Council surged.
Everyone threw themselves into protecting this fragile new institution with unprecedented dedication.
Then Sebastian made his next move.
He proposed a dramatic increase in superhero compensation and welfare.
"Those who carry firewood for the public should not be frozen by wind and snow,"
"Those who carve paths for freedom should not bleed among thorns."
Superheroes were still human.
They worried about rent.
About food.
About survival.
This world was filled with nameless heroes—people without fame or power, silently standing watch in the dark.
Some couldn't afford hot meals.
Some slept in cold rooms.
Some were evicted for unpaid rent.
Justice, sustained by hunger, was a lie.
If heroes were to protect society wholeheartedly, society had to protect them.
Sebastian proposed a system:
Every registered superhero would receive baseline compensation.
Cases would be graded.
Upon completion, heroes would receive corresponding monetary rewards.
As for funding?
In the early stages, Sebastian would cover the costs himself.
Later, once credibility was established, the Council would open itself to public commissions.
Meet a hero.
Escort dangerous cargo.
Handle high-risk jobs.
As long as the task was legal and properly compensated, the Council would accept it.
Heroes earned money.
The Council took a commission.
The system sustained itself.
Centralized management.
Optimized resources.
Long-term stability.
A virtuous cycle.
The proposal passed almost overnight.
Not because of justice—
—but because every council member smelled enormous profit.
After all, even the weakest superhuman possessed physical abilities several times greater than an ordinary human.
Put them to work, and efficiency skyrocketed.
Unfortunately—
Most superhumans were trapped in fantasies of heroism.
They scoffed at ordinary labor.
They dreamed of applause—
Not realizing that true power often lay in service, not spectacle.
And that realization—
Would come later.
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