◇ I'll be dropping one bonus chapters for every 10 reviews. comment
◇ One bonus chapter will be released for every 100 Power Stones.
◇ You can read 50 chapter ahead on P@treon of which 10 are free Chapters. if you're interested: patreon.com/Heroicverse
------------------------------------------------
The tycoons caught sight of the Homelander and instantly changed their tune.
"Oh! Of course! Certainly, Mr. Starr—please, go ahead!"
They scattered with practiced tact.
Jessica exhaled, shoulders sagging. "Fuck… thanks."
"Don't thank me," Anthony murmured, a warning in his voice.
"Straighten your spine, Queen. You're one of the Seven, not some streetwalker drumming up trade."
The gratitude that had just flickered inside her flared into irritation.
"Can you ever say anything that doesn't sound like it crawled out of a sewer?"
"I'm teaching you." He swirled his glass, gaze sweeping the room.
"Look at them, Jessica. Money, power—yet they still bow to me."
"Why?"
"Because I have strength. And I've turned that strength… into the very product they crave."
He nodded toward Ashley, who was laughing with a four-star general.
"See? We're not just heroes—we're power."
"I don't need any of this." Jessica's voice was cold.
"I just want—"
"What? Go back to Hell's Kitchen and collar muggers?" He snorted.
"But—"
"No buts." He cut her off. "Starting tomorrow, your training doubles."
"What?!"
"Your fighting style is garbage," he said, sipping.
"All brute force. Meet a real opponent—say, the Hulk, or Thor—and you'll be paste."
"I'll teach you myself."
Jessica froze.
Him? Personally?
She studied the sharp line of his profile, inches away, and—though she'd never admit it—felt not revulsion but a flicker of anticipation.
"…Just don't cry when I knock you flat," she muttered.
He laughed, as if she'd told a joke.
A commotion rippled through the entrance.
The crowd parted like curtains.
A black trench-coat, an eye-patch, a gleaming bald head—he strode in.
Even in this gilded hall, the agent's lethal aura dropped the temperature several degrees.
Nick Fury.
Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.
He wasn't alone. Behind him: Hawkeye, Clint Barton, and—face like thunder—Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff.
Anthony's eyes narrowed.
"Well. Look what the cat dragged in."
He set down his glass, straightened his cuffs, and advanced.
"Director Fury!" His voice carried across the hall.
"What brings you here? Come to toast my box-office billions?"
Fury stopped inches away, single eye locked on him.
"Good flick, Starr," he said flatly.
"Loved the ending. Very… creative."
"Art imitates life, Director."
"We're not here to talk cinema," Fury replied.
"We're here about your 'Seven.'"
Anthony raised an eyebrow.
"Trade secrets."
"National security," Fury countered.
"You're building an unsupervised metahuman army. The Council is… concerned."
"Unsupervised?"
Anthony smiled.
He turned and waved toward President Matthew Ellis, who was chatting with senators nearby.
"Mr. President! A little misunderstanding—perhaps you could clarify things for the Director?"
Ellis ambled over, buoyant; the Homelander's endorsement had lifted his polls.
"Nick," the President said, faintly annoyed, "this is a private function. And Mr. Starr's team has direct White House authorization."
"Direct authorization?" Fury's face hardened.
"Sir, this is a matter of national—"
"Nick!" Ellis cut him off.
"We need options. S.H.I.E.L.D. seems rather… preoccupied these days."
The jab landed squarely.
The Rising Tide leaks had left S.H.I.E.L.D. scrambling, internal audits shredding morale.
Fury looked from the President to Anthony.
He understood.
The tide had turned.
Politically, the Homelander was untouchable—for now.
"Fine." Fury nodded. "If that's the President's wish."
He turned back to Anthony.
"But hear me, Starr."
Fury stepped close, voice dropped to a whisper only they could hear.
"You play the press, you wine pols, you even recruited that hacker kid."
"You think you own the board."
But this world... is far more complicated than you think. Some things hide in the shadows—ancient, and dangerous.
Anthony simply smiled at that single eye.
He leaned to Fury's ear and whispered back:
"Nick."
"Do you know why I'm not afraid of the shadows?"
"Because..."
A dangerous red glint flickered to life in Anthony's eyes.
"...I am the sun."
Fury's pupils shrank in a heartbeat.
The two locked eyes for three seconds; the air seemed to freeze.
"Let's go."
With a sweep of his sleeve, Fury turned and walked away.
Natasha gave Anthony a look, words on the tip of her tongue, but in the end she only sighed and followed Fury out.
Watching the dejected backs of the S.H.I.E.L.D. group, Anthony's smile deepened.
Christmas was still weeks away, snow hadn't fallen on New York, yet the city felt as if someone had tossed it into a giant microwave.
Not because of the holidays—because of that damned reality show: "Who's the Next Superhero?"
Vought International's publicity machine was running at full tilt, like a turbine fueled with weapons-grade uranium.
From Sunset Boulevard in L.A. to Millennium Park in Chicago, from Miami's beaches to Seattle's rainy nights, you couldn't hide, even if you tried.
Even if you stuck your head in a toilet, as long as there was water, the reflection would probably show Homelander's gleaming face.
This was Vought International's "saturation bombing."
Every screen, the side of every bus, the back of every subway seat.
Red-white-and-blue posters spread like a virus across the city—and across America.
In the center of each poster, Homelander pointed straight at you, his sapphire eyes seeming to see the humblest desire buried in your soul.
Below, fiery letters blazed:
"WHO IS THE NEXT?"
"No matter who you are, no matter where you come from."
"If you've got talent, Vought gives you wings."
On giant screens the promo ran on a 24-hour loop.
Homelander and Queen Maeve led the charge, five black silhouettes waiting in the rear.
A deep male voice intoned, "This isn't just a show—it's a ticket to Olympus. Ten-million-dollar prize? That's the starting bid. Global endorsements? That's standard. Most important... you'll fight side-by-side with Homelander."
"Application window: December 24, 2012 – January 1, 2013. Don't let your talent rot in the sewer."
...Somewhere on a no-name farm in Kansas.
Old John spat a wad of chewing tobacco and watched his youngest, Billy, standing on the barn roof.
"Watch this, Dad!" Billy roared.
He jumped.
He didn't break a leg.
Instead, three feet off the ground, he bounced—like his soles hid some invisible super-spring.
"I'm Bounce-Boy!" Billy whooped, tumbling through the air like a runaway rubber ball. "I'm going to New York! I'm joining The Seven!"
Old John sighed and shouted, "Get down, you idiot, and feed the pigs first."
But a spark of hope flickered in his eyes. Maybe... the kid could do it? That was millions of dollars...
...A high school in Ohio.
The nerd the football captain stuffed into lockers every week now cowered in a toilet stall.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
"Come out, four-eyes! I know you're in there!" the bully yelled, kicking the door.
The nerd adjusted his glasses and stared at himself in the mirror.
He took them off; his body turned transparent and vanished completely.
"You're all dead," a whisper drifted from thin air.
"Wait till I get to Vought... wait till I'm in The Seven... I'll hang every one of your underwear from the flagpole!"
...Miami, Florida.
Backstage at a cheap nightclub.
"Hurry up! Next is 'Scarlet Flame'! Don't keep the customers waiting!"
In the dressing room Angela studied her reflection. She had brilliant red hair, but the real marvel was how liquid-fire light dripped from her fingertips whenever her emotions surged.
"I'm out of here," she said suddenly, tossing the skimpy costume into the trash.
"What? Are you nuts? You still owe the boss money!" her agent screeched.
"Tell that fat bastard—" Angela opened her hand; a searing orb of flame gathered, melting a fist-sized hole through the vanity mirror in an instant, "—I quit."
She stared at the firelight in the glass, her gaze turning razor-sharp.
"I'm going to New York. I'm going... to Vought."