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Received! Consuming 30,000 Special Popularity Points... Initiating "Superhero Lottery Box" draw... Drawing... Ding! Draw complete!
Congratulations, Host! You have obtained a rare item (consumable): A Small Bottle of Superman Serum (Red Sorghum Edition)!
Item Description: From a certain red Kryptonian orphan. After consumption, you will gain 30 minutes of magic immunity. Note: Spicy taste.
Anthony: "...Red Sorghum? Seriously?"
He felt like he had drawn a "joke" item.
"magic immunity? It's not completely useless... In this Universe, magic is quite flashy."
..."Boom——!!!"
In Harlem, on the fifth floor of an old apartment building, flames shot to the sky.
In the thick smoke, a mother holding her child was desperately huddled in the window frame.
"Help! Someone help us!!"
Just a second before she was about to suffocate.
"Whoosh——!"
A blue afterimage smashed through the wall, ignoring the flames. Anthony appeared before her like a God descending to Earth.
"Don't be afraid." He showed his signature smile that could melt all of the U.S., "I've got you."
He held the mother and child, one in each arm, and rushed out of the sea of fire like a meteor, slowly descending next to the police car below.
"Oh, God! It's Homelander!"
"He saved them!"
"I love you!! Homelander!!"
Flashbulbs, cheers, screams. Everything was as usual.
Anthony elegantly handed the mother and child to the medical personnel, waved to the camera, and struck his most classic "hands-on-hips" pose, his Stars and Stripes cape fluttering behind him in the wind.
[Ding! Gained Popularity Value +55!]
[Ding! Gained Popularity Value +41!]
[Ding! Gained Popularity Value +63!]
Anthony's smile remained unchanged, but he cursed inwardly.
"fuck——!"
His smile stiffened for 0.01 seconds.
"...63? What a joke?" He snorted coldly in his heart, "The last time I saved that damn cat in Queens, I got more popularity than this. These commoners..."
He realized a serious problem.
The dividends from the "daily hero game" path were almost completely consumed by him.
New York citizens were already used to it.
They were used to Homelander coming during fires, and used to Homelander coming during bank robberies.
He had transformed from a "miracle" into a... high-level firefighter.
This wouldn't do.
His popularity had hit a bottleneck; he needed to open up a new path!
...Vought International Media Headquarters
This glass skyscraper in Midtown Manhattan had become a new landmark in New York within just one month.
It was a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Starr Group and Homelander's only official management company.
Top floor conference room.
Anthony, or rather, Anthony Starr, sat at the head of the table, legs crossed, wearing a tailored high-end suit. His handsome face no longer held the gentle warmth he showed the public; instead, it exuded the oppressive aura of a superior.
"Data, I only look at data." He tapped the table with his finger. "Over the past week, Homelander's Global Search Index has dropped by five percent, and public engagement and social media discussion heat... have dropped by 14%."
"Why? Tell me why! Look me in the eye! Tell me the fuck why!"
A room full of public relations elites and media executives were all silent with fear.
"Mr. Starr..." The head of the public relations department, a sharp blonde woman, spoke tremblingly, "This is normal; the Battle of New York's popularity will eventually fade. Our strategy is to..."
"Your strategy is bullshit!"
Anthony interrupted her directly, his tone calm but chilling.
"What you are doing is 'reporting.' You are telling people who I saved today. Wrong!"
He stood up and walked to the huge floor-to-ceiling window.
"Vought's existence is not to report on heroes. It is to define heroes!"
He turned around, his azure eyes sweeping over everyone present.
"What I want is not people's gratitude. What I want is for every damn corner of their lives to be me!"
The conference room was dead silent.
"Documentary?" A young executive asked tentatively.
"fuck, documentary." Anthony sneered, "Documentaries are for losers who can't control the narrative."
He held up a finger.
"And I, what we are going to do is mythology."
"We're going to make a movie."
"A movie... about me!"
...Hollywood, Beverly Hills
A week later, a secluded private club.
—The golden scriptwriter who wrote "Star Trek" and grossed three billion at the global box office.
—The genius who specialized in black humor and won an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay.
—And the... wordsmith who worked on a certain superhero movie, which, though the film was terrible, had incredibly pretentious lines.
There were also screenwriters who had participated in globally top-grossing films.
These greatest minds of Hollywood were gathered here, brought by money.
Anthony, as producer, investor, and... the sole male lead, sat opposite them.
"Gentlemen, ladies." Anthony held a glass of Bourbon Whiskey. "You are good at writing blockbusters. And I am the blockbuster."
He took a sip of his drink, his acting aura fully unleashed.
"I want my story. But bigger, sexier, more... U.S."
"I don't want sermons. I want visual spectacle, I want hormones, I want every man who walks out of the cinema to want to be me, and every woman to want to... you know."
The screenwriters were excited; this was what they were best at!
"Okay, Mr. Homelander... we have a few brilliant ideas for your movie."
Screenwriter A began: "Idea one! Alien! You are an orphan from a dying Planet, launched to Earth, landing in a cornfield in Kansas..."
Anthony looked at him expressionlessly.
"...Uh," Screenwriter A felt the chill, "Okay, that... that's a bit cliché. Then Idea two! Mythical Awakening!"
Screenwriter B immediately got excited: "Exactly! You are actually... Odin's illegitimate son! Thor Odinson's blood brother! You only awakened your divine power during the Battle of New York..."
"Get out." Anthony said succinctly.
"..."
"I've got it! Anthony!" Golden Screenwriter C slapped his thigh, "Opening! Hamptons! Yacht! Bikinis! You, Anthony Starr, a billionaire playboy, you have everything, but you're... empty. You have a heart of gold!"
"Then, tragedy!" Genius Screenwriter D picked up, "A storm! Damn it! An unprecedented storm! You fall into the water!"
"You didn't die!" Screenwriter A lowered his voice, his eyes feverish, "You were rescued by a mysterious terrorist organization... They... we'll call them... Chaos!"