The moment Homelander issued his seventy-two-hour ultimatum, the world exploded into chaos.
On CNN's live broadcast, the scorched mark on the White House lawn was still smoking. The anchor's voice trembled as footage of Homelander hovering midair played on repeat.
Wall Street crashed by forty percent. Major European exchanges shut down entirely. Tokyo went into full lockdown.
Outside Vought's New York headquarters, thousands of people blocked every exit. Protest signs read: Give us back our children and Vought executives belong in hell.
Several black sedans sped out of the underground garage—only to be swarmed. Windows shattered. Executives in suits were dragged out and beaten.
Police set up barricades—but no one intervened.
The UN Security Council convened an emergency meeting. Representatives of the five permanent members sat around the table, faces grim.
Russia proposed nuclear strikes. The U.S. rejected it outright.
China demanded full disclosure of Compound V research. The UK suggested negotiations.
They argued for four hours—accomplishing nothing. Everyone knew conventional weapons couldn't kill Homelander. Nuclear weapons would level New York along with him.
---
In the underground base, Butcher stared at Homelander's face on the screen, hands buried in his coat pockets. Hughie monitored public sentiment on his laptop. Frenchie cleaned his crossbow. Mother's Milk leaned against the wall, eyes closed.
Levi's clone stepped out of the lab, holding a silver metal case. Runes etched across its surface glowed faintly gold. Benjamin followed behind him.
Butcher turned. "That it?"
"That's it."
The clone set the case on the table and opened it.
Inside were eight syringes, neatly arranged. Each contained a pale golden liquid that shimmered as it flowed.
Hughie stopped typing and leaned in, adjusting his glasses. Frenchie and Mother's Milk gathered closer.
"That's not Compound V."
The clone picked up a syringe.
"Compound V forcibly activates genes using external energy—low success rate, severe side effects, and addictive. I reconstructed it using alchemical laws. Removed instability, preserved the core energy-conversion mechanism."
He held the syringe up.
"This is Alchemical Serum. After injection, it generates abilities best suited to your body and mind. No loss of control. No genetic collapse. No turning into monsters."
Butcher reached out—only for the clone to grab his wrist.
"One condition," the clone said. "Your life essence will change. You won't be purely human anymore—something in between. It's irreversible."
Butcher shook him off and grabbed a syringe.
"I stopped wanting to be human a long time ago."
He twisted the cap and jabbed it into his neck.
Golden liquid flowed into his veins.
His body locked up.
Pupils dilated. Veins bulged beneath his skin, glowing dark gold. The pattern spread from the injection site, crawling across his face and down to his fingertips. His body trembled violently. Muscles expanded and contracted. Bones cracked audibly.
Hughie moved to help—but the clone stopped him.
"Don't touch him. The serum is restructuring his body. Interruption will destabilize the energy."
Butcher dropped to his knees, hands braced on the ground. Sweat dripped onto the floor. He gritted his teeth, growling low. The golden patterns intensified, converging at his chest into a glowing sigil.
Thirty seconds later, the light faded.
Butcher lifted his head, breathing heavily. His eyes had turned pale gold.
He stood, flexing his fingers. Power flowed inside him—not the chaotic surge of Compound V, but something stable, like it belonged.
He clenched his fist and punched a steel support pillar.
Golden energy erupted.
The pillar caved inward, metal twisting with a screech. The entire base shook.
Butcher lowered his hand, staring at his uninjured skin.
"Not bad."
He rolled his shoulders and looked at the clone.
"This enough to beat that bastard?"
"No."
The answer was immediate.
"Homelander was cultivated with ten times the purified Compound V. His body and output far exceed yours. This serum gives you the right to fight him—not a guarantee to win."
Butcher's face darkened.
"Then what's the point?"
"Coordination."
The clone looked at Benjamin. "Go."
Benjamin stepped forward, assuming a combat stance.
Butcher smirked. "Alright then. Come on, big guy."
Benjamin answered with a punch straight at his face.
The air cracked.
Butcher dodged, sweeping low. Benjamin stepped back, grabbed his ankle, and slammed him down. Butcher twisted midair, rolled free, and lunged back in.
Their fists collided with a dull boom.
Butcher staggered back three steps. Benjamin didn't move.
"Still a gap in strength," the clone commented. "But your reaction speed and instincts are enhanced. Try again."
Butcher circled this time, moving faster—twice as fast as before. He struck from a blind spot, fist slamming into Benjamin's lower back.
Too late to react.
The hit landed. Golden energy burst.
Benjamin stumbled forward.
Butcher pressed the attack—three consecutive blows to the same spot. Each carried explosive force. The final strike sent Benjamin flying into the wall, cracking concrete.
Benjamin stood up moments later, brushing off dust. A bruise formed beneath his skin.
Butcher panted, fists still raised. The golden patterns beneath his skin flickered, then dimmed.
Hughie stared, stunned.
A normal man had just injured a super-soldier.
"Enough," the clone said.
Benjamin immediately stepped back.
Butcher straightened, chest heaving.
"Your ability is energy amplification," the clone explained. "Convert life force into explosive power. High output—but short duration. Full power lasts five minutes."
Butcher clenched his fist.
Five minutes.
Enough.
---
Hughie swallowed, picking up another syringe.
"Does it hurt?"
"Like hell," Butcher said, grinning. "Worth it."
Hughie injected himself.
His reaction was worse.
He collapsed instantly, clutching his head, body convulsing. Veins pulsed violently. His face shifted from pale to red to purple. Golden patterns spread slower—but denser—converging along his spine.
A minute later, he gasped on the ground.
He tried to stand—
—and vanished.
Reappearing three meters away.
Hughie stared at his hands.
"Short-range teleportation," the clone said. "Range: fifty meters. Cooldown: three seconds. Consumes mental energy."
Hughie tested it—jumping across the room, onto platforms, back again. Each movement precise.
Frenchie and Mother's Milk exchanged a glance—and took their syringes.
Frenchie gained material manipulation—twisting steel pipes, repairing broken bolts.
Mother's Milk gained enhanced perception—tracking all life within a kilometer like a living radar.
Soon, four ordinary men stood transformed.
---
The clone observed them, satisfied.
"You now have the means to fight monsters. Not to defeat them."
He pulled up a 3D map of New York.
"Homelander is stronger and more experienced. Direct confrontation—you last thirty seconds. So we use tactics."
The map zoomed in on an abandoned building.
"This is the trap. I'll set an alchemical field to suppress his output. Starlight and Maeve lure him in. Benjamin holds him. You four harass from the perimeter."
Butcher studied the escape routes.
"Sounds like suicide."
"It is," the clone said plainly. "But it's the only chance. He's mentally unstable right now—judgment impaired. Wait longer, and he either destroys the city or regains control. Then he'll be even harder to kill."
Mother's Milk spoke. "What if he just lasers the building?"
"He won't."
The clone pulled up combat data.
"His behavior is conditioned—display power first, then crush opponents. Vought ingrained it. He needs to prove dominance. He'll come in."
Hughie adjusted his glasses. "What about you?"
"I won't intervene," the clone said. "If I do, he dies in three seconds."
He turned away.
"This is your fight. I build the stage—you perform."
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