Inside the teor base control room.
Levi stared at the projection before him. A list of coordinates sent by Loki floated midair—over a dozen universes, each with annotations.
His gaze settled on one entry.
Universe B-7 — "Superpowers comrcialized. Social structure distorted. Recomnd prioritizing anchor establishnt."
Levi opened the detailed file.
The source of power in this universe ca from an artificial substance called Compound V.
After injection, there was a chance of gaining superpowers. These individuals were called Superheroes.
But in reality, they were controlled by a corporation—Vought International.
Heroes didn't protect anyone.
They were celebrities. Commodities.
Levi narrowed his eyes.
The energy fluctuations in this universe were strange. Not as pure as Marvel's cosmic energy, nor as intricate as the mutant genetics of the X-n universe.
It felt… artificially distorted. Forced into human genes, creating malford power.
He pulled up more data.
Vought had a team called The Seven, the strongest superhero group in this universe.
Their leader was Holander. Abilities: flight, super strength, heat vision, super hearing.
Very similar to Superman.
But there was an extra note:
"Extrely unstable ntal state. Antisocial tendencies. Threat level: SSS."
Levi stared at that line for a few seconds.
He had seen many powerful beings. And many lunatics.
But very few were labeled "extrely unstable" by the Ti Variance Authority.
This Holander was a problem.
Levi turned and walked toward the energy core. Golden light floated there—the dinsional clone template he had refined after returning from the X-n universe.
The last clone had only been early Skyfather level. This ti, he would raise the standard.
Holander's true strength was unknown—but anything that put the TVA on alert wouldn't be weak.
Levi raised his hand. Ten laws surged out, weaving together into a humanoid form.
The Law of Space ford the skeleton.
The Law of Power filled the flesh.
The Law of Life infused vitality.
The Law of Mind shaped consciousness.
Minutes later, a figure identical to Levi stood in the center of the control room.
The clone opened its eyes—colder than the original.
"Your mission is to establish an anchor, find the root of this universe's power, and copy the most valuable abilities," Levi said.
"If possible, recruit or eliminate Holander."
"Do not expose the original body. Do not clash head-on with cosmic overlord-level entities."
"Understood?"
The clone nodded.
Levi raised his hand. Space split open.
A crack ford beneath the clone's feet, golden light pouring out.
A passage to Universe B-7.
The clone leapt in without hesitation.
Light swallowed him. The rift closed.
The control room returned to silence.
Levi walked to the window, gazing out at the stars.
This second clone carried the goal of establishing more anchors—and cultivating more allies.
But not every universe would be as cooperative as the X-n one.
…
New York, Manhattan — 3:00 PM
A spatial rift tore open atop an abandoned building. The clone stepped out.
He landed. His super hearing activated automatically.
Sound flooded in.
Car engines. Conversations. Electrical hum from billboards. Subway rumbles.
Just like New York in the Marvel universe.
But mixed within it was sothing else.
Lies.
Lies everywhere.
The clone frowned, closed his eyes, and adjusted his auditory filters—cutting through noise, focusing on human speech.
"The Seven saved another plane today. Holander is amazing."
"Amazing my ass. It's all staged."
"You're crazy—talking like that about Holander?"
"So what? Vought's a bunch of frauds. These 'heroes' are just celebrities."
"Keep your voice down. You want to die?"
The clone opened his eyes.
People in this universe fell into two categories:
Those who worshipped superheroes as gods.
And those who hated them as monsters.
No middle ground.
He turned toward a distant skyscraper.
That was Vought Tower. Its glass exterior displayed a massive poster—the seven mbers standing together.
At the center: a blond man in a star-spangled suit, smiling brightly.
Holander.
The clone stared at the image and activated telepathy.
His ntal force spread across the city like a net.
He sought Holander—his location, his mind.
But the mont he touched the edge of that consciousness, he stopped.
Sothing was wrong.
Holander wasn't just unstable.
He was completely twisted.
Deep within his mind was a black mass.
It churned, scread, hungered for destruction.
On the surface, his conscious mind struggled to suppress it—masking it with a fabricated smile and heroic persona.
The split was obvious.
He could snap at any mont.
The clone withdrew his ntal force.
He needed more information.
Telepathy alone wasn't enough. He needed to understand this universe—how powers worked, what Compound V really was, what Vought was hiding.
He jumped from the rooftop, adjusted midair, and landed silently in the shadows.
Blending into the crowd, he altered his appearance with reality distortion—becoming an average white man in his thirties.
Then he entered a nearby internet café, sat in a corner, and turned on a computer.
The internet was flooded with content about The Seven.
News. Interviews. Ads. Movies. rchandise.
Vought had turned superheroes into an entertainnt industry.
Each hero had fan clubs, endorsents, branding.
Holander had the most fans—over 300 million.
But in underground forums, the clone found another voice.
He clicked a post titled: "Vought's Dark History EXPOSED."
The poster: TruthSeeker.
Banned seventeen tis. Always returned.
The post contained extensive evidence.
Compound V clinical trials—70% mortality or mutation rate.
True backgrounds of The Seven—Holander wasn't an alien, but a lab-created artificial human.
Dozens of covered-up incidents—heroes losing control, thousands dead.
The most shocking piece was a video.
The clone clicked it.
Shaky footage. Clearly recorded in secret.
A passenger plane out of control midair. Two mbers of The Seven arrived—Holander and Queen Maeve.
Holander cut open the cockpit door with heat vision.
But his control was crude. The laser destroyed the control panel. The plane beca unrecoverable.
Maeve rushed in to save people.
Holander stopped her.
"Can't be saved. It's going down," he said calmly.
"We can still save them!" Maeve shouted.
"Save who? You carry one, I carry one—what about the other two hundred?" Holander sneered.
"And if people see we can't save everyone, what do you think tomorrow's headlines will be?"
"'The Seven failed'? 'Holander is useless'?"
Maeve froze.
Holander turned and flew away.
Maeve hesitated… then followed.
The plane crashed.
128 dead.
The next day's headline:
"The Seven Fights Bravely, Tragic Loss—Holander Speaks Through Tears."
The video ended.
The clone stared at the black screen in silence.
He had seen darkness before.
Thanos wiping out half the universe. The TVA pruning tilines. The Anti-Monitor devouring worlds.
But those acts—however brutal—served so grander purpose.
This universe was different.
Its darkness ca from sothing far smaller.
Human ugliness. Corporate greed.
Vought turned superhumans into products—and human lives into statistics.
And those called "heroes" were either puppets… or monsters.
Holander was both.
The clone closed the page and stood up.
He needed to et this universe's "hero."
Not through telepathy.
Face to face.
He wanted to see what Holander really was.
…
Vought Tower — 99th Floor
The clone stood across the street, looking up at the towering building.
The glass facade reflected the sunset, bathing it in gold.
Magnificent on the outside.
Rotten within.
He activated telepathy again, extending his senses into the tower.
Floor 99—The Seven's domain.
Six minds.
The Deep in the gym.
Black Noir reviewing scripts.
A-Train asleep in the lounge.
Queen Maeve smoking on the balcony.
Starlight in training.
And one more.
At the rooftop.
That presence was overwhelmingly powerful—and utterly chaotic.
Like a volcano ready to erupt.
Holander.
The clone narrowed his eyes and deepened his perception.
He saw him.
Holander stood at the edge, hands behind his back, overlooking New York.
Blond hair in the wind. Cape fluttering.
Perfect posture. Like a statue.
But his eyes were red.
Not from heat vision—bloodshot.
The clone heard his thoughts.
Not coherent.
Fragnts. Screams. Overlapping voices.
"They love …"
"They're all liars…"
"I'm a hero…"
"I want to kill them…"
"Madelyn will be proud…"
"She hates …"
"I'm a god…"
"I'm nothing…"
His mind fractured between identities every second.
Then the clone saw deeper.
Holander's childhood.
No parents. No friends. No sunlight.
Only white laboratory walls. Scientists in hazmat suits. Endless testing.
Strength. Speed. Durability.
And punishnt.
Every ti he showed emotion, he was locked in total isolation.
No light. No sound. Nothing.
For days.
They wanted a perfect weapon.
No feelings. Only obedience.
But human genes carry a need for love.
The more it was denied, the more it twisted.
He learned to fake it.
To smile on cara. To say heroic lines.
But deep down—he wanted to destroy everything.
Vought. The people who worshipped him. The world that treated him as a product.
The only thing holding him back… was his own illusion.
He imagined himself a hero.
Imagined people truly loved him.
Imagined Madelyn was his mother.
As long as those illusions held, the darkness stayed contained.
But they were cracking.
The clone withdrew his ntal force and took a slow breath.
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