In front of Vought Tower, the streets were packed.
Over three hundred media outlets had arrived, satellite vans lining an entire block. Reporters held up microphones, cameramen carried heavy rigs, and beyond the barricades, tens of thousands of people waved signs. Some shouted slogans. Some cried.
More than a dozen drones hovered overhead, all cameras fixed on the stage.
Four billion people were watching the livestream.
Queen Maeve stood on the left side of the podium, dressed in a dark blue uniform. The Vought logo on her chest was gone—replaced by a silver shield emblem. Starlight stood beside her in the same uniform, bruises from last night's battle still visible on her face.
Behind them stood Benjamin, clad in black tactical gear, hands behind his back. Butcher, Hughie, Frenchie, and Mother's Milk stood below the steps, similarly dressed, weapons at their waists.
Maeve stepped forward to the microphone.
The square fell silent.
"My name is Maeve, former leader of the Seven." She looked directly into the cameras. "For the past twelve years, I've done a lot of wrong. I helped Vought lie. I helped stage performances. I helped turn superhumans into gods."
The crowd stirred. Reporters raised their microphones.
"Yesterday, Homelander died. Not at the hands of aliens. Not by a supervillain." She paused. "He was killed by ordinary people."
A ripple swept through the crowd.
"That proves one thing—superhumans are not gods. We are just people with abilities. We can be hurt. We bleed. We die."
Cheers and curses erupted simultaneously.
Starlight stepped forward.
"Starting today, Vought International will be reorganized into the Superhuman Affairs Administration." She held up a document to the cameras. "These are the new regulations. All superhumans must register within twenty-four hours, wear energy-suppression restraints, and undergo ability assessment."
The square exploded.
Reporters shouted over each other. The crowd surged against the barricades.
Starlight raised her voice.
"Those who refuse registration will be classified as terrorists and eliminated. This is not a suggestion. This is an order."
---
Washington, D.C. – The White House, Oval Office
The President stared at the television, face dark.
His Chief of Staff stood nearby, sweating.
"Who gave her the authority to issue orders?" the President snapped, slamming the desk. "This is the United States!"
"Sir… the problem is…" The Chief of Staff swallowed. "She has backing."
"From who?"
"The one who killed Homelander." He pulled up satellite footage. "The Department of Defense captured this—he appeared out of nowhere at the top of Vought Tower. Teleportation. Energy analysis suggests… he's at least ten times stronger than Homelander."
Silence.
"The Joint Chiefs recommend we observe for now," he continued. "If this new administration can control superhumans, it works in our favor. If not—we intervene."
"Observe?" The President's voice dropped. "You're telling me the federal government can't control its own citizens?"
"Sir… we can't." The answer came quietly. "For thirty years, Vought handled superhumans. Now Vought is gone. We don't have the infrastructure, personnel, or systems."
He hesitated.
"And there's more. Thirty-seven special forces soldiers injected with Compound V have gone AWOL. The moment they heard Homelander was dead—they fled."
The President's expression darkened further.
---
New York – Abandoned Warehouse, East Brooklyn
Seven men sat around a steel table, covered with guns, ammo, and whiskey. The leader, a bearded brute with military tattoos, slammed a bottle to the ground.
"Register? The hell we registering for?" he snarled. "I served twelve years, and now I gotta sign up under those two women?"
A lanky man nodded. "Vought's gone. Perfect timing. With our powers, robbing banks is easy."
"Exactly. Homelander's dead—who's gonna stop us? That 'administration' is just for show."
The brute stood, flexing. His skin turned metallic—the gift of Compound V.
"Tonight, we hit Manhattan Central Bank. Three tons of gold. Grab it and we're out of the country—"
The door exploded open.
Butcher walked in, followed by Hughie, Frenchie, and Mother's Milk.
Black tactical gear. Weapons gleaming.
The brute narrowed his eyes. "Who the hell are you?"
"Special Operations Unit." Butcher held up a tablet showing their profiles. "You're all on the registration list. Two choices—come with us, or die here."
The lanky man laughed. "Just the four of you?"
He vanished.
Super-speed—too fast to track.
He reappeared behind Butcher, knife aimed at his neck.
Hughie vanished too.
The knife froze midair.
Hughie gripped his wrist—both reappearing three meters away. The speedster's eyes widened.
Hughie's knee slammed into his abdomen.
The man folded, gasping. Hughie snapped his wrist, kicked him across the room. He hit the wall—and didn't get up.
The brute roared, charging, his metallic fist cracking the air.
Butcher raised his arm. Golden patterns flared beneath his skin.
Impact.
A shockwave rippled outward.
The brute staggered back two steps.
Butcher didn't move.
"That it?" Butcher rolled his wrist. "I killed Homelander yesterday. You're nothing."
The brute charged again.
Butcher sidestepped—then drove a punch into his ribs.
Crack.
Three ribs shattered.
The brute collapsed, metal skin fracturing.
The others reacted—fire, lasers, a giant swelling to three meters tall.
Frenchie slammed his hands to the ground.
Concrete exploded. Steel rebar twisted upward, binding the fire-user in a cage of metal.
The giant charged.
Mother's Milk closed his eyes, veins bulging.
"Right knee. Old injury. Load limit—four hundred kilos."
Butcher moved.
One kick.
The giant screamed, collapsing into the ground.
A laser blast swept toward Hughie—he blinked behind the attacker, knocking him out instantly.
Two men remained.
"I surrender!" one shouted.
Butcher punched him flat.
"Too late."
The last tried to run.
Rebar speared his leg.
Butcher cuffed him—special restraints suppressing Compound V.
"Take him in," Butcher said. "The rest—dispose of them."
Hughie injected them one by one.
Silence.
Mother's Milk confirmed: "All dead."
Butcher didn't react.
Thirty years ago, he might've hesitated.
Now? Just rules.
He keyed his comms. "Targets eliminated. Next."
"Copy. The Deep located—Miami coastline. Attempting escape." Maeve's voice came through.
Butcher turned. "Move out. Thirteen left. Finish before sunrise."
They left.
Seven bodies behind.
---
Vought Tower – Top Floor
The clone stood before the glass windows, overlooking New York.
The city stretched endlessly. Times Square screens replayed Maeve's speech. Sirens echoed through the streets.
He closed his eyes.
His perception spread.
Across all continents, over 1,700 superhumans flickered in his mind—some registering, some hiding, some fleeing.
And something else.
Faith.
Billions watching. Reacting. Hoping.
Fear. Anger. Expectation.
That expectation became a subtle force—flowing toward him.
Weak—but endless.
He opened his eyes, looking at his hand.
Golden patterns of the Law of Alchemy glowed brighter than before.
He could feel it—faith pushing him forward, from early Skyfather level toward mid-tier.
But no further.
There was a limit.
He was only a dimensional clone.
No matter how much he absorbed, he couldn't break into true cosmic overlord status.
The door opened.
Starlight stepped in, now in casual clothes.
She hesitated—then approached.
"…Are you leaving?"
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