Ever since that drop of blood merged into his chest, Leon felt his whole world had changed.
In the morning, a rhythmic clanging of metal came from the underground base’s internal gym.
Leon, in a gray workout tank top, was lying on the bench press, both hands steadily lifting a two-hundred-kilogram barbell up and down.
His breathing was a little heavy, but his muscles weren’t showing that tearing, sore ache.
A month ago, forget two hundred kilos, even a fifty-kilo empty bar dropping on him would have been enough to put him in an early grave.
He let out a long breath, set the barbell back on the rack, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and sat up.
He could clearly feel that the Yasakani Blood Jade was lying quietly dormant near his heart, sending out gentle, steady energy to every part of his body with each beat.
The thing hadn’t just massively boosted his bone density and the strength of his muscle fibers, it had even cured the neck problems left over from his old days pulling all-nighters to write reports.
“Leon, your strength has gone up by four hundred percent.”
On the padded mat not far off, John was holding little Buddy the golden retriever, his deep blue eyes shining with undisguised happiness.
He’d been using his super vision the whole time to watch the changes in Leon’s muscles.
“That’s right, I’m a strong wage worker now.”
Leon walked to the rest area and picked up a towel to wipe his face.
This sense of security had finally given Leon’s nerves, taut for so long now, a touch of real relief.
“Come on, little champ, go take a shower and get ready for class.
This morning is history and general social studies.”
Leon tossed the towel into the laundry basket and waved John over.
An hour later, Leon and John had just sat down in the apartment’s living room, and before they could even open a book, the doorbell rang.
Outside stood Madelyn, along with a wizened, balding old man in a loud Hawaiian shirt with a thick cigar clamped in his mouth.
“Madelyn, and this is…?”
Leon frowned slightly.
The Sector B living quarters were the most top-secret of the top-secret.
Normally, apart from Jimmy bringing supplies, no outsiders were allowed anywhere near.
“This is the Legend.” Madelyn stepped aside and introduced him.
“Vice President of Vought’s Publishing Department, and the Chief Content Officer in charge of building the backstories and comic images for all the company’s superheroes.”
The old man called the Legend shoved his way into the apartment without ceremony, a pair of cloudy but shrewd eyes sizing the place up, until they fixed hard on John sitting on the carpet.
The Legend took the cigar out of his mouth and blew out a thick ring of smoke.
“That old bastard Edgar wasn’t lying to me.
This is a perfect work of art God gave to America.
Look at that blond hair, look at those blue eyes, this is a goddamn walking money printer, a living American Dream!”
John frowned, choking on the acrid smell of the smoke.
He instinctively glanced at Leon.
Leon’s rules said that smoking indoors was rude.
Leon quickly shot John a “hold on, easy now” look, then walked over to the Legend, plucked the cigar out of his mouth without ceremony, and dropped it into the half-glass of leftover water beside them.
A hiss, and the cigar went out.
The Legend’s eyes went wide.
“Hey!
Kid, you know how much that Cohiba costs?”
“I don’t, but I do know that if you let your secondhand smoke get to my student again, he won’t even have to lift a finger, the big boss will stuff you into a paper shredder himself.”
Leon brushed the ash off his hands, his tone calm.
The Legend was taken aback, then glanced at Madelyn and found that she hadn’t contradicted Leon at all, that she’d let his words stand by default.
Only then did he realize that this refined-looking young man held a position in the company that was anything but ordinary.
“All right, all right, follow the rules, protect the nation’s little darlings.”
The Legend shrugged, pulled a thick stack of drawings out of his briefcase, and spread them straight across the coffee table.
“The President sent me to kick off the ‘Phase Two’ plan.”
Madelyn sat down on the couch, her expression serious.
“John’s various metrics are already mature, and the company has decided to start building his public image ahead of schedule.
We need the public to start accepting this future savior on a subconscious level.”
“He’s only six and a half, Madelyn,” Leon said with a frown.
“We don’t need him out flying around the streets right now.
By the time he turns eighteen, he’ll be a superstar with all eyes on him.”
Madelyn pointed at the drawings on the table.
“The Legend has already designed his codename and several first-draft versions of the suit.
Leon, you’re the one with full authority over him, and President Edgar requires that everything go through your approval.”
Leon lowered his head and looked at the drawings.
He had to admit, eighties American comic aesthetics really were a bit over the top.
The first drawing was of a muscleman in a bodysuit with a huge pair of white eagle wings sprouting from his back, holding a shield painted with the Stars and Stripes.
Codename: American Eagle.
Leon nearly couldn’t hold back his laughter.
This Frankenstein of a getup, if he actually let John go out in it, the lawyers over at Marvel next door would probably sue them into bankruptcy.
“No, too flashy, and it’ll get in the way of his flight speed.” Leon vetoed it firmly.
The Legend made a face and flipped to the second one.
This one wasn’t flashy.
All black from head to toe, with a mask covering half the face, leaving only those signature blue eyes.
Codename: God of the Night Sky.
“He’s a hero who’s going to save ordinary people in the sunlight, not some bat-monster hiding in the sewers.
This one’s killed too.” Leon rubbed his temples.
He flipped through a dozen in a row, all of them either gaudy or full of a dark, grim style, not one of them showing that kingly presence that puts you at ease the moment you see it while still carrying an absolute, commanding pressure.
“Is there nothing in your Publishing Department’s heads but bodysuits and masks?”
Leon sighed, picked up a pen, and pulled out a blank sheet of drawing paper.
“Listen, I don’t want a street vigilante, I want an icon.”
As he spoke, Leon began sketching quickly on the paper.
His drawing skills were nothing special, but drawing on his deep memory from his past life of that classic suit from The Boys, he soon had an outline down.