The cold water in the locker room washed away the sweat from Ian’s body.
He turned off the faucet and grabbed a towel to dry his hair.
The clamor from the practical demonstration arena was blocked behind the thick soundproof door.
The locker room was filled with the pungent smell of sweat and medicated liniment.
Ian looked up at his reflection in the mirror.
His breathing was steady, his heartbeat normal.
That earlier duel hadn’t even counted as a warm-up.
But the act had been convincing.
A display of power slightly above LV2, combined with precise tactical counterattacks, was enough to catch the attention of the old foxes sitting in the second-floor observation gallery—bright enough to be noticed, but not so dazzling as to blind them.
The door hinges let out a harsh, grating sound.
A man wearing glasses and a teaching assistant badge on his chest walked in.
Without glancing at the other students changing clothes, he headed straight for Ian’s locker.
“Ian.” The assistant adjusted his glasses, his tone stiff.
“Get dressed.
Professor Richard Brinkerhoff wants to see you in his office.
Now.”
Several freshmen nearby who had been bragging instantly fell silent, turning their heads in unison to look in their direction.
Professor Brinkerhoff?
That was a figure of real authority at Godolkin University, the dean of the College of Crimefighting, and the mentor to several of the biggest stars in The Seven.
Being summoned to his office spoke volumes.
A few envious gazes pricked at Ian’s back like needles.
Ian ignored them.
He pulled on his hoodie and zipped it up.
“Lead the way.”
The fish had taken the bait.
And it was a big one.
Meanwhile.
Office of the Dean, College of Crimefighting.
Richard Brinkerhoff leaned back in his wide leather chair, holding a thin paper file in his hand.
On the tablet in front of him, surveillance footage from the earlier practical demonstration played on a loop.
On the screen, Ian withstood a punch from Walsh, then blasted the six-foot-three giant out of bounds with two precise Shockwaves.
Brink paused the video, freezing the frame at the moment Ian struck.
He stroked his neatly trimmed beard, his eyes appraising like a merchant sizing up a commodity for sale.
This card… was interesting.
He looked down at the file.
Appearance: nine out of ten.
Sharp features, fitting the cold, handsome aesthetic that young girls were obsessed with these days.
With a bit of packaging and a few photoshoots, he could absolutely make teenage girls scream and empty their allowances.
Asian.
Vought had been struggling for years to break into the new immigrant market.
Traditional white heroes lacked relatability for those groups.
If they promoted an Asian Superhero, immigrants toiling away in laundromats, Chinese restaurants, and nail salons would go crazy buying his merchandise, digging out their last pennies to support one of their own.
Political correctness, combined with ethnic sentiment—it was an untapped goldmine.
More importantly, his background.
Orphan, abandoned in Queens eighteen years ago, raised in a Vought orphanage.
No connections, no attachments, desperately in need of money.
That kind of person was easiest to control.
Give him a bone, and he’d obey like a dog.
If he dared resist, a simple excuse could ruin him, sending him right back to that urine-stenched slum.
Brink’s fingers tapped lightly on the desk, producing a rhythmic tap-tap sound.
The only problem was his ability.
The enrollment test data was clearly recorded: Super Physique LV1, Shockwave LV2.
Trash-tier stats.
With this level, under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t even be able to touch the threshold of the Crime-Fighting Academy.
But today, he knocked the third-year student Walsh out of bounds.
Walsh was a solid LV3 physique—though not the brightest, his physical strength was undeniable.
This didn’t make sense.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in.” Brink put away his tablet, quickly replacing his expression with his trademark, paternal, benevolent smile.
Ian pushed the door open and entered.
The office was spacious, its walls covered with photos of Brink alongside various superheroes.
A-Train, Queen Maeve, Deep…
each photo silently showcased the terrifying influence this old man wielded within the Vought system.
“Sit, son.” Brink gestured to the chair opposite the desk.
Ian pulled out the chair and sat down.
He straightened his back, placed his hands on his knees, and let just the right amount of wariness, awkwardness, and hunger for power show in his eyes.
He had to play the part of a poor kid desperate to rise above his station.
He knew all too well what an old fox like Brink wanted to see.
“A very impressive match.” Brink handed him a glass of sparkling water.
“That Walsh kid is usually too arrogant for his own good, bullying freshmen with his brute strength.
Today, he finally hit a wall.
However…”
Brink paused, leaning forward, hands clasped on the desk, his gaze fixed intently on Ian’s eyes.
“There’s one thing I’m very curious about.
Last month’s enrollment assessment showed your stats as LV1 physique and LV2 Shockwave.
With those numbers, Walsh could’ve broken three of your ribs with one punch.”
Brink smiled, but the warmth didn’t reach his eyes.
“Yet today, you took his punch and sent him flying.
Ian’s grip on the glass tightened slightly.
The old man’s eyes were sharp.
“I wasn’t holding back, Professor.” Ian looked at Brink, his tone sincere with just the right touch of humiliation.
“I used to live in a rundown apartment in Queens, working at a convenience store until midnight every day.
I ate expired sandwiches and drank discounted milk.
I never had any systematic training—I couldn’t even afford the cheapest gym membership.”
Ian took a deep breath, as if suppressing some emotion.
“But since coming here, I’ve been able to eat my fill.
High-protein meals, professional training equipment.
I feel…
I feel like I’m getting stronger every day.
My muscles are growing, my bones are hardening, and I can feel the power inside me surging.”
Brink narrowed his eyes.
No systematic training?
A sudden burst of growth after proper nutrition?
A rare late-bloomer?
A wave of excitement surged within Brink.
A Supe’s abilities were usually fixed upon awakening after the injection of Compound V.
Only a handful of freaks continued to grow as their bodies developed or under extreme external stimulation.
If this kid really was a late-bloomer, his commercial potential wouldn’t be limited to just being an Asian pretty face.
His current ceiling was completely unknown.
He could become the next top-tier star.
“I see.
Suffering truly is the best whetstone.” Brink’s smile deepened, his tone becoming exceptionally gentle.
“Ian, you’re a talented young man.
But talent is like an uncut diamond—without a skilled craftsman, it ends up as nothing more than a stepping stone.”
“I understand, Professor.” Ian nodded.
“Goddard University has many students.
Chancellor Shetty is a good person, but she’s a politician.
She only looks at the overall data.
What she cares about is how to report to the board of directors.” Brink stood up, walked around his large desk, and approached Ian, giving his shoulder a firm pat.
“But I’m different.
I’ve trained A-Train, I’ve trained Queen Maeve, I’ve trained Deep.
I know how to turn a promising kid from humble beginnings into an idol for all of America.
I know how to make those high-and-mighty billionaires beg you to endorse their products.”
The old man is starting to spin his tales.
Ian sneered inwardly.
“I’d like to invite you to join the College of Crime-Fighting.” Brink walked back behind his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a thick document, sliding it across to Ian.
“And I plan to mentor you personally.”