Another muscular hero murmured, running a large hand through his hair, his jaw tight.
"What should we do next?" The desperate question hung in the air, directed at no one and everyone.
Elbawar remained completely silent, clearly realizing that the caller’s brazen threat about exposing the lab experints—and their dark, twisted truths—would violently tip public opinion even further against them.
He looked at the others.
They looked back.
No one dared to speak.
"I will personally pay him an intimate visit," Elbawar finally stated, the deep, forced baritone of his voice terrifyingly firm. Clenching his fists tightly, he stared at the smoking phone, knowing he had to reach that man at any cost—especially since the bastard possessed a highly sensitive physical secret no one else ever should.
"But... why use a massive gun to crush a tiny cockroach?" a stunning female superhero slowly rose from her seat. She arched her back in a long, deliberate stretch, the fluid movent pushing her heavy breasts prominently against the tight, frictionless material of her hero suit, the cool air of the room teasing her peaks into tight points.
She caught a sharp, cold gaze from Elbawar—a look filled with dark, unmistakable killing intent. That alone was enough for her to decide: this ssy matter needed handling now.
If an apex hero like Elbawar, the very face of the Hero Association, were to make a violent move and cause massive collateral damage, the financial backlash from their wealthy funders could be absolutely catastrophic.
The greedy shareholders would not tolerate chaos. Their massive support could vanish overnight.
So she confidently resolved to eliminate the problem at its root before things spiraled any further—especially after that highly controversial, dominating interview from the handso Blac family heir, which had already caused the panicked board to seriously consider implenting degrading tracking thods on their bodies.
To them, superheroes were still dangerous, untad anomalies. And ever since one rogue, contract-based hero attempted a bloody murder, the association had been under constant, suffocating scrutiny—cornered, heavily watched, and deeply feared.
If the shareholders aggressively pushed that invasive surveillance thod, they might actually be forced to submit to that foolish, degrading idea.
With a confident nod, her voluptuous body smoothly dispersed into a thick, seductive mist, vanishing completely on the spot. She hurtled toward the Intelligence Departnt, fully intent on retrieving the exact location data of that arrogant call.
After that, she would handle the cocky man entirely herself—his dark, mocking voice already intimately etched into her mory.
--
"...Announce the total, bloody eradication of the Villain Syndicate’s Zone 7," Elbawar commanded calmly, watching the exact spot where the female hero’s curves had vanished into mist. His eyes closed, his strong fingers drumming a slow, thodical rhythm on the table—deeply thinking, ruthlessly calculating—before issuing the heavy command.
"But, Elbawar, what if—" one of the muscular heroes began, his voice tight with genuine concern, desperately trying to voice his dark doubts about—
"What are you doing here?"
Within the dimly lit hospital room, filled with the sharp sll of dicines and sterility, Ytrisia glanced once more toward the bed—where she, the patient, should have been resting.
But instead, Cruxius was lying there, his broad, muscular shoulders sinking casually into the mattress. His handso head was tilted back, dark eyes lazily fixed on the ceiling, completely nonchalant—as if utterly unconcerned about using his massive influence to aggressively push the butler of the Blac family into convincing her to arrange an intimate date.
"...I was worried about you," Cruxius stated smoothly, lounging on the sheets with the relaxed, sprawling grace of an apex predator.
His sharp mind, however, was elsewhere—coldly calculating the fallout of the dominating press conference he had just given.
He knew the self-righteous Hero Association would likely convene a panicked eting to address it, as they always did at such tis when they felt threatened to have their pristine public image sullied.
The timing of his dark ssage had been absolutely perfect. It would be played before all of them.
When the strongest heroes heard it—especially since it was clearly aid right at their most powerful, untouchable figure—their massive egos would be stung.
They would undoubtedly launch a desperate investigation into the source of the voice and launch a violent attack on Zone 7, both out of bruised pride and sheer desperation.
After all, Cruxius never bet on just one outco.
First, he made them desperate—by publicly exposing the rot at the first half of the press conference.
That way, his heavy words about collateral damage, untad power, unethical treatnt, and considering normal, fragile humans as re cockroaches would resonate deeply as public sentint.
This would make the Hero Association desperate to take so big, flashy action to forcefully clean their public image—and he just served them a perfect, bloody target.
It was like first cornering soone into the pitch dark and then using a single candle to slowly, manipulatively lead them out of it.
He would fulfill his grand cao show by using the Hero Association as highly powered puppets who were absolutely desperate to clear the superheroes’ nas.
And the second half of the press conference was about how superheroes also have a very positive, necessary side.
Yes, superheroes definitely saved lives—so even bled and died doing so—but the masses had incredibly short mories.
They forgot their saviors as easily as yesterday’s lunch.
So he smoothly suggested that the heroes would desperately need those taphorical collars.
Naturally, the invasive tracking devices would beco inevitable—not because of the people’s questioning—after all, who truly cares about people who forget things so soon?
But because the greedy higher-ups would eagerly use this golden chance to firmly leash the heroes.
Fear of raw power was universal.
Even the filthy wealthy felt deeply inferior to those who could effortlessly fly and lift mountains.
Shareholders would aggressively demand action, and the Blac family would ensure it happened with ruthless intensity.
In conclusion, since no major heroic event had recently boosted their sagging image, he kept the entire conference sharply focused on discrediting them.
Then, in the second half, he proposed the tracking devices—as a highly necessary safety asure.
There’s a saying: Turn a setback into a coback.
The brutal attack on Volta was specifically designed to violently prove the need for those devices. She had fought two dangerous villains, and he made sure of it—just to perfectly showcase their absolute necessity.
A tragic portrayal of a beautiful hero without tracking devices, barely surviving the assault of two A-rank villains—
But then, the perfect plan hit a snag. She died.
Though her voluptuous body was alive and breathing now, he would seamlessly pivot—make her the very first superhero to publicly, formally receive a tracking device.
If heavy reinforcents arrived at the exact right ti, it would firmly reinforce the idea that such tech ensured hero safety—tech that, conveniently, would be exclusively manufactured by the Blac Corporation.
After all, he could casually claim to have saved Volta’s life simply because of the tracking device.
Of course, there was no such device.
But the naive public didn’t need to know that.
He would simply say it prompted him to act instantly after miraculously reviving her body, hitting a limit that, with the reluctant help of Sugar, allowed him to provide heavy reinforcents against the sudden, cowardly attack from the villains.
Using Volta’s highly marketable public image, he’d turn untouchable superheroes into luxury cars with advanced GPS—always strictly under his watchful, predatory eye.
"You could have just asked Darithi. After all, isn’t she the one keeping an eye on ?"
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