On the ninety-fourth floor of Vought Tower, as the battle drew to a close, even the thick reinforced concrete slabs had been smashed into a terrifying chasm.
Stumps and severed limbs from the ninety-fifth floor had flowed down through the massive hole, piled horizontally and vertically around Locke. Shattered bones, pale and sharp, pierced through blood-soaked clothing.
Thick, dark red blood pooled around Locke's ankles, forming a winding river of blood that bubbled at the edge of the pit, wrapped in shredded flesh, organ fragments, and pale bones, merging into a horrifying waterfall of blood cascading downward.
Locke's entire body was soaked in blood. Sticky, clotted crusts matted in his hair. Standing in the middle of the blood-soaked ground, he looked like a demon from hell.
He was seen choking Five-Oh's neck with one hand, his knuckles blue-white from exertion, his five fingers deeply embedded in the man's flesh.
Locke casually tossed Five-Oh's body onto the nearby pile of corpses, the dull thud instantly swallowed by the sound of dripping blood.
He lowered his eyes, surveying the stumps and severed limbs scattered everywhere. His nose was filled with the thick, sweet smell of blood. Gazing at this hellish scene, a nearly inaudible sigh escaped his throat—a sigh tinged with something inexplicable.
To be honest, at most a dozen people had died directly by his hand. Apart from the seven he had personally killed, the remaining five had been killed indirectly by the other superhumans.
In other words, the rest of the hundred or so had effectively died by their own hands.
These so-called heroes, who spent their days partying and having fun, unwilling to improve themselves, completely subservient to Vought—they had never truly fought seriously. They had no sense of restraint, no regard for the lives of their teammates.
This had also made the whole affair much easier than Locke had anticipated. He had been prepared to use all his popularity points, but in the end, he hadn't needed to use that plan, and had unexpectedly unlocked a new form.
Speaking of which, Locke glanced at the nearly 3,005 popularity points in his possession. In an instant, a new form had emerged.
After paying off all debts, he still had almost a thousand popularity points left. How should he spend them?
Locke turned his head, looking up at the ninety-ninth floor—the floor where the Seven resided—a smile curling on his lips.
The ninety-ninth floor, once the exclusive territory of the Seven, was now in chaos. The walls were covered with scorched laser furrows, the ground cracked, the air filled with smoke and dust, and the strong smell of burning and blood.
Starlight and Queen Maeve were paralyzed in a corner, covered in wounds, their armor shattered, blood trickling from the corners of their mouths, their breathing shallow, barely able to lift their hands.
In the center of the battlefield, Homelander and Soldier Boy were locked in an inseparable fight.
No one had expected that Homelander, fighting two against one, would not only hold his own but would use overwhelming strength and speed to suppress them both.
He shook off their powerful attacks with ease, his chest only slightly heaving. His eyes locked on Butcher, who had momentarily lost focus. In an instant, Homelander raised his leg and delivered a brutal kick. With a muffled thud, Butcher flew out like a kite with a snapped string, crashing through the floor-to-ceiling window and disappearing into the sky.
With one opponent dealt with, Homelander immediately spun and launched a storm of punches at Soldier Boy. Dense, heavy blows rained down on his skin, forcing Soldier Boy to stagger. His sternum made a deafening muffled sound with each hit. He had no room to breathe, could only raise his arms clumsily to block, blood constantly streaming from the corners of his mouth.
With every punch, Homelander seemed to be beating out all the grievances pent up inside him.
His eyes were red, tears mixed with blood streaming down his face. His roar shook the entire floor, each word punctuated by a blow, sobbing with blood:
"I'm—! Not—! A—! Disappointment!"
The final deafening blow landed with a crash, smashing the reinforced concrete floor between the ninety-ninth and ninety-eighth floors into a massive hole.
Soldier Boy fell like a kite with a broken string, his body crashing heavily onto the floor below, completely unconscious, plunged into a coma.
Homelander panted heavily, his chest heaving violently. Then he suddenly threw his head back and let out a deafening howl at the ceiling. His voice was wrapped in paranoid ecstasy and mad roars:
"Yes! An improved version of you! I am the perfect you!!"
At the same time, Hughie, who had settled the injured Mother's Milk, Frenchie, and Kimiko, appeared on the ninety-ninth floor, shirtless, still showing signs of fatigue from the teleportation.
He ignored the dust and scrapes covering his body, walking straight through the chaotic battlefield to quickly evacuate Starlight and Queen Maeve.
The group hurried to the nearby medical bay.
After treating his own wounds, Mother's Milk pulled two white coats from a cabinet and draped them over Starlight and Maeve respectively, then turned to get a first aid kit and began treating their injuries.
Starlight noticed Hughie was about to lean in to help, and quickly reached out to grab him, her voice filled with undisguised anxiety: "Don't go, Hughie. You can't help with this."
He looked up, and there was no trace of impulse in his eyes—only a seriousness and determination that had grown within him.
"Before, I always hid behind you. I let you worry about me, let you deal with all the messes I was too afraid to face." His voice was calm and steady, every word honest. "But now it's different. We said we'd do this together, didn't we? It's not about who protects who. It's about standing together."
With that, Hughie gently released Starlight's hand, running his fingertips along the back of her palm as if to comfort her. He looked up, giving her a look of particular determination—no trace of impulsiveness, only a heavy sense of responsibility.
Before she could respond, his figure suddenly flickered, accompanied by a slight ripple in the air, and vanished.
Downstairs at Vought Tower, the journalists were in chaos.
Some frantically called the police and ambulances, shouting at the top of their lungs. Others refused to let go of this explosive photo opportunity, even with blood pooling under their feet, still gripping their cameras, shutters clicking, lenses focused on the superhero bodies raining from the sky.
In the midst of the chaos, a muffled thud sounded, and another body, wrapped in a black coat, crashed heavily to the ground, kicking up dust. The reporters cried out in fear and backed away. When they looked closer, the coat was soaked in blood and torn.
After a brief moment of unconsciousness, Butcher violently convulsed. He tried to prop himself up, a sharp pain in his chest, and coughed up a mouthful of black blood as soon as he opened his mouth.
He wiped the bloody foam from the corner of his lips, his blurry eyes fixed on the towering roof of Vought Tower, a relentless ruthlessness blazing in his eyes. Veins bulged on his arms, and he tried to stand, to keep climbing.
"Billy!"
A shout rang out. Shirtless Hughie appeared out of nowhere, landing firmly beside him.
Butcher, as if grabbing a lifeline, suddenly seized Hughie's wrist, his knuckles white from exertion, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping, carrying an undeniable urgency:
"Quick! Find that bastard Locke! Get him to come help! This is our only chance to wipe out Homelander!"
"But..." Hughie frowned, looking at his bloodied state, his eyes full of worry.
"Less talk! Go!" Butcher roared, shaking off his hand. His chest heaved violently, but he still managed to force out: "I can't die!"
Hughie gritted his teeth, knowing there was no arguing with him now. He cast one last look at Butcher's resolute face, then his figure vanished.
The next second, Hughie's form flickered through the corridors of Vought Tower floor by floor. He frantically teleported through the building, glass shards grazing his skin, leaving small bloody marks, but he didn't notice. His eyes anxiously scanned every corner, feverishly searching for any trace of Locke.
And at that moment—on the rooftop of Vought Tower.
Homelander grabbed Soldier Boy by the collar and threw him onto the cold ground. He stood over him, looking down at his so-called "father." The wind blew his bloodstained cape. On the horizon, an unnatural blood-red color had appeared, so oppressive it took one's breath away.
After a long moment, Homelander slowly raised his head. His chest still heaved slightly from the exertion of his rage. He looked at the clouds on the horizon, stained by the bloody sunset. His eyes were first vacant, then suddenly contracted with almost mad fervor.
His voice started low and hoarse, like a whisper torn from the depths of his throat, then grew louder and louder, more piercing, echoing across the empty rooftop with undeniable paranoia and fanaticism:
"I am the strongest... I am perfect..."
He suddenly raised his hand, his fingertips almost touching the reddish sky. The madness in his voice completely broke free of its restraints, his roar ringing out across the heavens:
"I am God! I am GOD!!"
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