Wilson finally understood.
So this was the other man's real ability.
The realization didn't just confuse him—it shook him. He had assumed brute strength was all he was dealing with. Something straightforward. Something predictable. But what stood in front of him now was something else entirely.
Ethan watched Wilson retreat a few steps and felt a flicker of relief. At first, he'd been worried. The raw power, the purple-tinged skin, the explosive muscle mass—it all screamed Hulk. If this guy grew stronger the angrier he got, the fight would spiral out of control fast.
But that didn't seem to be the case.
The more Wilson raged, the more reckless he became—but not stronger.
Good.
That made him manageable.
At best, this guy was just another Queen Maeve-tier bruiser. Impressive durability. Strong. Maybe even extremely strong. But not limitless.
A purple giant, sure.
Not a monster.
Ethan narrowed his eyes at the massive figure. The man's muscles bulged unnaturally beneath torn fabric, veins standing out like cables. Heat shimmered faintly in the air between them. Ethan's gaze burned with something sharper than anger.
Anticipation.
His fist clenched.
His calf dug into the ground.
The concrete beneath his foot cracked under the sudden pressure. Muscles coiled tight along his frame, stretching to their peak. Then—
He vanished.
Only a blur remained where he had stood.
In the next instant, Ethan was directly in front of Wilson.
His fist drove forward.
Impact.
The explosion of force ripped through the air. The sound alone was enough to rattle nearby windows.
Wilson's massive body launched backward like a missile. He tore across the ground, gouging trenches into the pavement before slamming into a half-splintered tree. The trunk cracked under the collision.
"Damn it!"
Wilson wasn't critically injured—but humiliation burned hotter than pain. His face twisted, jaw clenched hard enough to grind.
He charged again.
"Good," Ethan said, a cold smile tugging at his lips.
They closed the distance in a blink.
Two fists swung at the same time.
Twin airbursts detonated between them.
This wasn't strategy. It wasn't finesse. It was raw strength colliding head-on. Primal. Brutal. Every blow carried enough force to shatter bone.
They traded punch after punch. The ground beneath them fractured under the strain. Dust and debris erupted upward, swallowing the battlefield in a choking haze.
For a heartbeat, everything went quiet.
Then—
Another explosion shattered the silence.
A beam of scorching heat tore across the plaza.
It carved a violent arc through the air, forcing Wilson to twist aside—but not fast enough.
A second, hotter ray followed, angling upward.
It sliced across his chest.
Burned flesh hissed. The smell of char filled the air.
Wilson staggered.
The cars parked behind him didn't stand a chance. The beams swept through them effortlessly. Metal split like butter under a hot knife. Steel liquefied. Molten fragments splashed outward in glowing sprays.
The earth trembled.
Birds erupted from the trees in frantic waves. Some didn't make it far enough.
Vehicles ignited. Trees caught fire. Flames surged outward, turning the square into a boiling sea of orange and black smoke.
And at the center of it all—
Ethan kept attacking.
It wasn't often he found someone with decent durability. He'd almost missed this feeling.
Wilson pressed a hand against the charred streak across his chest. The beam hadn't cleaved him in two—but his body was striped with brutal burn marks. They looked like whip lashes carved into flesh.
Pain radiated outward in savage pulses.
Ethan was already charging again.
Wilson's thoughts scrambled.
Wasn't I supposed to be comparable to Queen Maeve? Didn't they say her body could tank artillery rounds?
Does this guy not have a ceiling?
Before the thought could settle, a fist filled his vision.
Heat beams carved furrows across his torso again.
Boom.
Wilson's body flew more than thirty feet before crashing down. A surge of force tore through his arm during the exchange. His left arm now hung uselessly at his side.
Rage boiled over.
Humiliation made it worse.
Then Ethan's voice cut through the smoke.
"Did you skip breakfast?"
"Where's that big strength you were bragging about?"
"Come out here after your milk and cookies?"
"That all you've got?"
"Who exactly are you trying to intimidate?"
The taunts landed harder than the punches.
Ethan grinned openly, deliberately fanning the flames. If anger made this guy stronger, now was the time to find out.
He'd hoped for something like the Hulk.
Instead, he got a discount knockoff.
Aside from the opening exchange, he hadn't managed to break through Ethan's real threshold. No meaningful damage. No trigger. No evolution.
What kind of giant was this?
Wilson's breathing turned ragged.
He had considered retreating. Asking Dr. Carlton for additional injections. Boost the dosage. Escalate.
But now—
His vision tinted red.
All he could see was Ethan's figure, standing there like a mocking phantom.
Beat him.
Kill him.
Kill him!
Wilson grabbed his limp arm and wrenched the joint back into place with a sickening pop. He roared through the pain. Blood seeped from reopened wounds. He scooped ash from the ground and smeared it across the burns as a crude seal.
If the right hand failed, use the left.
If the hands failed, use the body.
If the body failed, use the head.
Even if it killed him—he'd take Ethan down.
He lunged forward again.
Each punch tore through the air with enough force to whip nearby trees sideways. Leaves ripped free and spiraled into the smoke.
They locked eyes mid-charge.
Wilson saw killing intent in Ethan's gaze.
He thought it was mutual.
It wasn't.
Ethan had no desire to fight anymore.
He only wanted one thing.
Damage.
Real damage.
Under that misunderstanding, Wilson fought harder. Desperate. Reckless. As if this were a death match.
Ethan grew more disappointed with every exchange.
Plenty of anger.
Not enough power.
A budget giant.
"Your usefulness ends here."
In a brief opening, Ethan slipped inside Wilson's guard. His hand shot upward and clamped around the larger man's skull.
Wilson's movements froze.
Crimson light ignited in Ethan's eyes.
The beam didn't sweep this time.
It focused.
It drove forward, piercing through the soft vulnerability of Wilson's eyeballs.
The energy speared inward—straight into his brain.
.....
Vought Tower.
Eighty-seventh floor.
The President's office.
The call ended.
The line dissolved into a flat, mechanical tone.
Stan Edgar lowered the receiver slowly. His expression darkened, anger simmering beneath practiced restraint.
Ever since Homelander discovered Becca and her son days ago, events had spiraled.
Madelyn had claimed terrorists killed the presidential candidate in a bombing. A convenient story. Too convenient.
Then she pushed Ashley forward to take control of superhero affairs at Vought.
The surveillance footage was sloppy. The autopsy report had been altered. It wasn't even subtle.
Edgar noticed everything.
Homelander needed to be reminded how things worked.
He rose from his desk and moved toward the window. The city sprawled below in neat, glittering lines. His reflection stared back at him in the glass.
He breathed slowly.
Control was survival.
In a country where prejudice still lingered beneath polished smiles, he had learned long ago that open rage was a luxury others could afford—not him.
A knock sounded at the door.
Three quiet taps.
The interruption steadied him.
His pulse returned to its normal rhythm.
"Come in."