Above the 95th floor of Vought Tower, it was no longer a glamorous party venue, but had transformed into a purgatory of unchecked desires.
The deafening electronic music couldn't mask the roars echoing through the space. Laser beams cut through scenes of unbearable chaos—crumpled powder paper strewn across the carpet, foil stained with residue, and crushed syringes scattered on the floor.
In the shadows of the corridors, several pairs of men and women were entangled without care, hero costumes torn to shreds, wine bottles and accessories scattered across the floor.
Near the bar, two superpowered individuals fought over the last small packet of "powder." One unleashed an energy shockwave that toppled a wine cabinet, sending shattered glass mixed with wine spraying over the surrounding crowd—who responded not with reprimands, but with even more frenzied encouragement.
Even more striking, at the terrace entrance, three men in unconventional hero costumes were tormenting a young waiter caught in the middle.
One of them burned the waiter's arm with sparks from his fingertips, watching the young man tremble in pain as all three laughed uproariously.
The waiter's cries were completely drowned out by the music, yet no "hero" stepped forward to stop it—only a few pulled out their phones to take pictures, shouting "harder" at the top of their lungs.
The Golden Boy of Godolkin University stood in his intern uniform, his restraints freshly pressed.
He had long since lost all illusions about the so-called "heroes," and now he no longer cared about appearances. His mind was consumed with one thought: getting his classmates out of this filthy place.
He had used drugs, drunk alcohol, and endured psychological burdens, yet even so, he was still more "human" than the pack of beasts wrapped in hero suits before him.
Before coming today, he had harbored some futile hopes.
But when he witnessed these so-called heroes with his own eyes—treating wild debauchery as style, tormenting ordinary people as entertainment—the last shred of respect he had for the word "hero" shattered completely, leaving only a seething disgust.
"Let him go!"
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried.
The three misfit heroes squinted at him, sneering. One reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, his fingertips still stained with white powder.
The Golden Boy's disgust at their touch burned to his very bones. Almost instinctively, he activated his powers. In the next second, golden-red flames erupted across his body, a wave of heat instantly dispelling the chill.
The hero's screams nearly blew the roof off.
He howled and cried, raising his scorched hand and shaking it furiously. His companion beside him panicked, grabbed a bottle of champagne from the table, and poured it over the burnt hand.
The result was predictable.
Alcohol met open flame—the fire on the ground flared higher. The man's hand burned even worse, and he writhed on the floor in agony.
The commotion near the bar grew louder, the surrounding noise dying down slightly as countless eyes turned toward the scene.
Only then did the Golden Boy realize he was in trouble. The flames died down with a muffled thud, leaving only the scorched remnants of his uniform.
He didn't care about the shame. Tearing off his coat, he wrapped it around his body, clenched the fabric, and turned to flee through the crowd, desperate to gather his classmates and escape this nightmare.
His retreat was blocked by a tall figure.
Five-Oh leaned against the doorframe of the fire escape, arms crossed, his gaze sweeping over the Golden Boy and the panicked classmates behind him. A contemptuous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Godolkin's star pupil, running away in disgrace?" His voice was low but cut through the surrounding noise, carrying the characteristic arrogance of a veteran superpower. "At least you're still a seedling they want to put in the Seven's reserve. Causing a scene like this—aren't you embarrassed?"
The Golden Boy tightened the coat wrapped around his body, shielding his classmates behind him, and gritted his teeth: "Get out of the way. We don't want any trouble."
"Trouble?" Five-Oh sneered, taking two steps forward. His gaze fell on the superpowered individual still writhing and howling nearby. "You burned someone, ruined Vought's party, and now you want to leave without trouble?" He reached out and tapped the Golden Boy's chest with his fingertip. "I'm Five-Oh of G-Cop. You Godolkin brats should be calling me senior."
At these words, the faces of the classmates behind the Golden Boy grew even paler.
The name G-Cop carried immense weight in superpower circles—Vought's elite after the Seven, veterans. And the man before them was its first leader.
Five-Oh was clearly pleased with the reaction. He slowly rolled his wrist, joints cracking softly—a deterrent born from years on the battlefield, far more intimidating than the brute force of some earth-tossing hero.
"Listen, kid." He lowered his voice, a sudden pressure building in his tone. "Vought's party isn't a place you can come and go as you please. It's in nobody's interest to make a fuss about today."
"Your student status, your qualifications as a superpower, even your future connections in this circle—all of it rests on my word."
He stepped forward, his heavy shadow enveloping the Golden Boy. The oppressive force in his voice nearly condensed into substance:
"Now, take your people, clean up this mess, and apologize to the man you just burned. We'll call it even. Otherwise…"
Before the words could land, a terrifying red light flared before Five-Oh's eyes. The laser beams behind his goggles were primed and ready, a subtle energy humming in the air, even the surrounding chaos seeming to pause for half a beat.
But this standoff lasted only half a second.
A dark shadow flashed through the air like a gust of wind. With a sharp sound, a precise and merciless blade slashed across the carotid artery of Five-Oh's neck. His body suddenly stiffened, the red light behind his goggles instantly fading. Without even a grunt, he collapsed straight to the ground, unconscious.
The commotion near the bar seemed to hit a pause button. Everyone stood frozen, mouths agape, eyes locked on the man who had suddenly appeared. He was dressed in a clean black training suit, his figure tall, his brows and eyes cold, as if forged from ice.
"Endless noise."
Locke patted his palm as if brushing off dust, making no unnecessary movements. He turned his head and glanced at the Golden Boy and his group, still frozen in place, his tone impatient.
"What are you standing there for? Cat got your tongue?"
The Golden Boy and his classmates exchanged bewildered glances. "Huh?"
"I said get out. Don't you understand English?"
The words hit them like a thunderclap. The Golden Boy reacted first, immediately dragging his classmates toward the fire escape. As he passed Locke, he stopped, lowered his voice, and quickly said:
"Thank you."
At that moment, the cold, hard fury in Locke's eyes softened for just an instant.
Because in the shadows that others couldn't see, he noticed something entirely unexpected.
[Innocent Bystander Rescued]
[Character Compatibility +6%]
[Current Compatibility: 51%]
[Character Breakthrough Reached Phase 1]
[Popularity Gain Efficiency +20%]
[Popularity Points +100]
[128 → 228]
"Who the hell are you?"
Five-Oh's second-in-command suddenly stepped forward, his voice a cold blast of air. He stared at Locke, brow furrowed—he had memorized the "do not engage" blacklist circulating in G-Cop, and was shocked to find a face matching the one before him.
Locke ignored his question, forcefully suppressing the strange sensation of the sudden system change in his mind.
He raised his eyes, sweeping them over the group of guys in garish battle suits who looked utterly hideous. A sneer appeared in his eyes.
Whether they were heroes signed to Vought or various affiliates, he knew their dirty laundry by heart.
Backgrounds, scandals, blackmail, shady deals—all of it was laid bare before him.
The madness and depravity on display today—how much of it was inseparable from Vought's deliberate cultivation, its compliance, its support? He knew it all too well.
Some of them might have once dreamed of "becoming heroes," but under Vought's pervasive pressure and the lure of its gilded cage, they had long since turned into monsters who had lost even the slightest trace of humanity.
Locke pulled at the corners of his mouth and laughed softly.
These are their superheroes?
Ridiculous.
Seeing that Locke hadn't said a word for a long time, the man's patience ran out completely.
He roared, stepped forward, and reached out to grab Locke by the collar, questions bursting from his mouth.
But before his hand could touch Locke's clothes, a crisp crack came from his wrist.
His whole body froze. The fury on his face instantly gave way to searing pain.
He looked down at his wrist, now bent at a grotesque ninety-degree angle. His brain took a moment to process before he let out a pig-like squeal, collapsing to the ground and clutching his arm, writhing in agony.
The people around him were thrown into chaos. When they looked up again, Locke's figure had vanished without a trace, as if he had never been there.
The next second, a muffled noise came from the DJ booth at the center of the party.
Everyone followed the sound and saw Locke stepping on the back of a hero—a part-time DJ—who had already been knocked out cold on the mixer.
Locke reached out and cut the deafening electronic music. The entire ninety-fifth floor plunged into dead silence.
He grabbed the microphone, ran his thumb over it, and swept his gaze over the frozen superheroes in the hall. His tone was casual, but laced with piercing mockery:
"You lot. Look here—yes, right here. Everyone look at me nicely."
When all eyes were fixed on him, the words Locke had prepared suddenly lost their appeal. He snorted, too lazy to beat around the bush, and said directly:
"Forget it. I can't be bothered with small talk. I'll tell you something."
The moment the words left his mouth, a piercing siren blared through the floor.
Boom—Boom—
Heavy alloy gates slammed down from the ceiling, sealing off every exit. Emergency lights switched to a blinding red, illuminating the terrified faces below.
Locke looked at the scene before him and could no longer contain the excitement rising in his chest. He raised the microphone, threw his head back, and let out a wild, mad laugh. His voice echoed through every corner in stereo, carrying a madness that threatened to tear everything apart:
"Listen up, heroes. Today, either you beat me to death—or I kill you, one by one, one after another—"
"EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!!"