The burning pain would not subside. As Five-Oh lay heavily on the ground, consciousness sinking, warm yellow lights and the aroma of potatoes filled the air. His mother called him "Little Tommy," his father laughed with a paper bag in hand, dust motes dancing gently in the sunlight.
Five-Oh's heart jolted. He couldn't remember how many years it had been since he'd heard that name.
It seemed that name had been ground to dust along with his childhood the day Godolkin forcibly took him.
But the moment the word "Godolkin" crossed his mind, his parents' smiles dissolved into blurred blocks of color. The warm scent of potatoes was abruptly torn apart by the sharp smell of disinfectant.
The warm yellow light instantly dissolved into the pale, cold fluorescence of a laboratory, freezing him to the bone. He couldn't help but shiver.
John Godolkin's sickly sweet voice lingered quietly in his ears, speaking the words that had tormented him for a lifetime:
"Your mother gave you to me."
Five-Oh's pupils contracted sharply. Godolkin's large, filthy hands immediately slid between his legs. Five-Oh trembled, writhing, and collided head-on with those eyes—eyes filled with the endless terror of his childhood.
"From now on... let's get along~"
Godolkin's sticky coda was still tangled in his ears when Five-Oh suddenly sat up, a heart-wrenching roar tearing from his throat:
"Aaah—!"
Cold sweat streamed down his forehead. His chest heaved violently. His chaotic consciousness slowly returned—the nightmare of the past should have ended long ago.
Today, he was a superhero, bathed in glory and wealth that others desired. He enjoyed a lofty status, had never been able to stand up for himself.
But the next second, the sticky sensation in his palm made him freeze.
Suddenly, a familiar yet unfamiliar smell of rust invaded his nostrils. In the dim light, he subconsciously raised his hand to his nose—it was the smell of blood!
On his hands, under his body, beside him... it was all sticky blood!
He scrambled to his feet and looked around. Everywhere he turned, there were grotesque corpses, as well as quasi-corpses still writhing and howling.
At this moment, the dance floor was already covered in blood.
Originally, over 120 superhumans had gathered here. Now, more than 50 bodies lay piled, over 30 were seriously injured and dying, and the remaining were huddled together in the center of the dance floor, forming a dense human wall.
Five-Oh was first stunned by the tragic scene before him, then suddenly snapped back to reality. He forced himself to press against the wall and roared:
"Have you lost your mind?! What the hell are you doing?!"
But when he saw the figure blocked in the center of the wall, the fury on his face instantly froze, his roar caught in his throat.
It was a man drenched in blood. His torn black training suit was ripped in several places, exposing horrific gashes that nearly reached the bone. Scars curled beneath the wounds, deep and ragged. Dark red beads of blood still bubbled up from them.
Burn crusts, frostbitten bruises, hollows from blunt force trauma, deep slashes from sharp blades, and toxins faintly visible beneath the texture of his skin—all manner of merciless superhuman attacks had been inflicted upon him.
But his back remained straight, without the slightest hint of decline.
His fists were clenched tightly, knuckles white, veins bulging like dragons beneath the skin.
In his eyes, mostly obscured by blood, a fierce light still burned undimmed. Like a lone wolf, dying but refusing to sheathe its fangs, he held everyone around him in his gaze.
This was not the desperate survival of a cornered beast. This was the merciless determination to drag everyone around him into the abyss.
Anyone could see that the man was at the end of his rope. Bloody foam bubbled from his lungs with every breath, and his body trembled uncontrollably.
But the fear of being killed by him had long been etched into the bone marrow of every superhero present. No one dared take half a step, let alone step forward to finish him off.
They clenched their fists, their Adam's apples bobbing uncontrollably, cold sweat streaming down their foreheads. Yet they didn't even dare to breathe heavily. Everyone was terrified that this dying monster would struggle with his last ounce of strength. So they could only freeze in place, watching the man's bleeding wounds, secretly praying that he would soon bleed out and fall, extinguishing that blazing light that could pierce a man's heart.
The shock in Five-Oh's chest nearly tore through his throat. And the surrounding heroes who had survived this bloody storm were even more shaken—some even with a hint of hidden fear.
This was just a man with enhanced physical conditioning, combined with impact resistance barely better than nothing. He didn't even have serious superhuman regeneration.
A third-rate individual, thrown into a crowd of superhumans unworthy of even being remembered, had actually single-handedly taken more than fifty lives while being surrounded and smothered by over a hundred superhumans.
At this moment, those who could still stand in this pool of blood were either ruthless characters with overwhelming abilities, or seasoned veterans who were cunning and knew how to read the wind, or simply lucky ones like Five-Oh who hadn't dared to enter the center of the battlefield from start to finish.
The dead silence was like sticky blood, thickly enveloping everyone.
The leader of Young America, his Adam's apple bobbing heavily, managed to swallow his saliva and took the initiative to break this suffocating silence:
"Where the hell did this madman come from?"
Locke, in the center of the battlefield, heard this sound. A hoarse laugh escaped his throat, like sand and stone grinding against rusted iron.
"Madman?" He slowly repeated the two words, drawing out the ending, tinged with a hint of self-mocking coldness. "You're right. I don't remember when I went mad."
He slowly lowered his fighting stance, raised his head, and his eyes, mostly covered in blood crust, now blazed with a crimson light—a burning, almost searing madness.
His gaze swept over every glamorous "hero," like a poisoned blade that made their scalps tingle, causing many to subconsciously straighten their backs.
"Have you ever tasted what it's like to be imprisoned?" His voice dropped sharply, carrying a bone-deep chill. "Deprived of freedom, crushed dignity, even the last traces of your identity trampled into the mud."
"In a cage where I never saw daylight, I was cut open like an animal. Even crying was a luxury. Looking back now, I really managed to survive those days... amazing."
As he spoke, he raised his hand and sharply snapped his dislocated wrist back into place.
The crisp sound of the joint resetting was so sharp it set people's teeth on edge, but he didn't even flinch. Suddenly, he spat out a mouthful of purple-black blood.
The blood droplets splattered onto the charred ground, sizzling, sending up sharp wisps of white smoke—the residual toxins leaving his body.
"Sometimes I really want to kill everything I see." His voice suddenly rose, carrying long-suppressed hysteria: "Why? Why should I be so humiliated while you get to wear the skin of heroes and live glamorous lives?!"
The roar stopped abruptly. His chest heaved violently, but the madness beneath his eyes gradually condensed into a cold, hard light.
He made his hoarse voice speak, word by word, as if chewing on something filthy:
"You think you deserve to be in the spotlight, to enjoy the adoration of mortals? The world is full of weeping and suffering. The streets are full of injustices that are swallowed up. But you—you wear your shiny skin, lick your glory and wealth, trample on those wounds, and then call it something else—some tragedy, some pain."
"Yes, I know some of you cry about being helpless. You say you couldn't help it. You say you were forced." Suddenly, he burst into loud laughter, his laughter full of piercing mockery. "But who the hell hasn't survived like that? Is that your excuse for being evil?"
"Seeing your faces makes me sick!" He suddenly raised his voice, making the ears of those around him ring. "When you're caught in the rain, you tear up other people's umbrellas. When you feel pain, you block other people's paths."
His voice suddenly dropped, as if his throat was clogged with bloody foam. Each word carried a chill: "It was only when I saw your pathetic faces that I fully understood—the suffering I went through wasn't in vain."
"It was to constantly remind myself: don't lose your way. Don't become like you bastards. Don't live in anyone's shadow!" He clenched his fists, knuckles white, his wounds cracking open, blood seeping out unconsciously. "I want to become stronger. I want to hold my own life in my hands."
"Not a 'hero' like you, who steps on others. But a strong man who answers only to himself!"
As he finished, he suddenly threw his head back and laughed loudly. His laugh was foolish and mad, but it was the laugh of someone smashing their cage—it shook the ears of those nearby.
Some people backed away in fear. Some clenched their weapons, their faces pale.
In his blood-soaked eyes, he caught a glimpse of Garou at the edge of the crowd, standing with arms crossed, quietly watching him. There was no emotion in his eyes, but neither was there the fear that others showed.
The laughter gradually faded. The wind was thick with blood. His voice was cold as ice, striking everyone in the face:
"Don't wait for anyone to save you. There's no such thing as a good person in this world. Only you can save yourself!"
The grievances and discomfort that had weighed on his heart for a whole year followed these words, like a stone lodged in his chest finally being dislodged, leaving only a hard, relentless strength.
Garou watched him, this madman, but a flash of clarity still flickered in his eyes. Almost inexplicably, he nodded. Then he turned, and his figure quietly disappeared into the shadows in the distance.
[Recognized]
[Character Compatibility +24%]
[Current Compatibility: 75%]
[Character Breakthrough Reached Phase 2]
[Popularity Gain Efficiency +50%]
[Popularity Points +600]
[1456 → 2056]
[Character Trait Slot Unlocked]
[Character Trait Acquired: Protagonist Halo (Pseudo) Gold]
[Character Trait Acquired: Martial Arts Genius]
[Character Trait Acquired: Limiter Release (10%)]
[Character Card Upgrading...]
[Young Garou (50%) → Young Garou (100%)]
[You may spend Popularity Points to continue upgrading]
[Next Stage: Red-Haired Garou (Semi-Monster)]
Under the horrified gazes of the superhumans, Locke's wounds healed at a dizzying speed.
Bleeding wounds crusted over. Torn flesh instantly reattached itself. Even the toxins deep in his muscles turned into wisps of fishy black smoke that wafted from his pores and dissipated.
In just a few breaths, the man who had been on the verge of death was fully restored, reaching his peak.
His figure sank, resuming his starting combat stance. Dark, blackish-purple lightning suddenly crackled beneath his eyes, accompanied by a killing intent that seemed to tear heaven and earth apart, stabbing into people's eyes until they hurt.
The next second, he sharply raised his head and let out a roar. The sound exploded like thunder across the silent, dead battlefield:
"Come on——! Phase 2! Let's fight to the last! No end in sight!"