Ian took the document and opened it.
Personal Management and Development Agreement.
“This is a separate contract,” Brink’s voice carried a devilish temptation.
“It bypasses the school, bypasses that old bureaucrat Shetty.
I will use my personal resources to arrange the best tactical trainers for you, the best PR team, even help plan your future hero persona.
In return…”
Ian glanced at the profit-sharing clause.
Ninety-ten split.
Brink ninety, him ten.
Duration, twenty years.
He really dares to ask.
Even a capitalist would shed tears of shame.
Twenty years—this was meant to suck him dry, leaving not even a scrap behind.
By the time the contract expired in two decades, the prime years of a superhero would be long gone.
“Professor, this profit-sharing ratio…” Ian deliberately made his voice sound dry, his brow tightly furrowed.
“Ian, think long-term,” Brink interrupted him, his tone earnest and weighty, like a deeply concerned father.
“You have nothing right now.
Ten percent of millions, or one hundred percent of zero—which do you choose?”
He tapped the table.
“I’m investing in you.
Investment carries risk.
This contract buys your future class leap.
If you don’t sign, guess how far a background-less Asian kid can go in this dog-eat-dog school?
Maybe after graduation, you could work as a security guard at some third-tier city supermarket?”
Ian fell silent.
He lowered his head, staring fixedly at the numbers on the contract.
His hands clenched into fists, veins bulging on the back.
Brink didn’t rush him, taking a sip of his coffee, confident of victory.
He understood these poor kids clawing their way up from the bottom all too well.
Their hunger for money and status was like a starving wild dog seeing meat.
As long as they were offered a ladder to climb into high society, they wouldn’t hesitate to press their thumbprint even on a contract selling themselves, let alone a ninety-ten split.
Ian laughed wildly in his heart.
A separate contract?
Bypassing the school?
Perfect.
Vought’s legal department was a behemoth.
If he signed the school’s official contract, it would be extremely troublesome to break free or cause trouble later—pulling one hair would move the whole body.
But this old greedy devil Brink, in order to monopolize the profits, actually arranged a private signing.
As long as it was private, once he had drained all the value from Brink, absorbed all his abilities, connections, and resources, and finished off this old bastard, it wouldn’t immediately trigger Vought’s official alarms.
This was practically meat delivered to his doorstep.
“I’ll sign it,” Ian looked up, his eyes filled with the ambition and resolve of someone pushed to the brink.
He picked up the pen on the table and, without the slightest hesitation, swiftly signed his name.
He quickly snatched the contract, glanced at the signature, and carefully locked it in the safe.
“Starting tomorrow, you won’t need to attend those boring basic theory classes anymore.
Report to my private training room at eight in the morning.
I’ll arrange the first phase of your special training.” Brink sat back in his chair, adopting the posture of an elder.
“Thank you, Professor.” Ian stood up and gave a slight bow.
“Go on, get some rest.
Your good days are just beginning.”
Ian turned and walked out of the office.
The door clicked shut behind him.
At that moment, the awkwardness, gratitude, and humiliation on his face vanished without a trace.
Replacing them was a cold, mocking sneer.
Ninety-one split?
Old man, even if you have the life to take it, you’d better have the life to spend it.
Ever since signing the contract, Ian had spent every day of the following week in Brink’s private training room.
Superpowers were good, but combat skills were equally important—he didn’t want to end up throwing wild punches like an amateur when facing opponents of the same level in the future.
Just as he was pondering which combat technique to focus on, a new punching bag arrived.
This guy was named Marcus, with a Level 2 “Partial Metallization” ability.
Brink had specifically brought him in from the senior class as an advanced sparring partner to help Ian quickly adapt to high-intensity combat.
The old man was really going all out.
After their clash, Ian gasped for breath.
He couldn’t appear too relaxed; he had to make Brink feel that this “investment” was worthwhile and entirely under his control.
“Again.” Ian gritted his teeth and charged forward, deliberately leaving an opening.
Marcus struck Ian’s shoulder with a knife-hand chop.
Intense pain shot through him.
Ian used the momentum to roll away and create distance, as a familiar mechanical voice echoed in his mind.
[Superpower: Partial Metallization LV2.]
[Duplication successful]
A strange, warm current spread along his spine.
He could feel his bones and muscles undergoing a subtle, mysterious restructuring.
This was already the third ability he had duplicated this week.
Brink’s private training room was practically a treasure trove.
Every day, different types of Supes were arranged to spar with him—speed types, strength types, defense types.
Although most were low-level abilities around LV2, for Ian, they were the best puzzle pieces.
Once he fused and upgraded these foundational abilities, his physical strength would reach a new level.
“That’s enough for today.” Brink’s voice came from the control room on the second floor.
The old fox walked down, holding a cup of coffee, his face full of benevolence.
“You’re progressing quickly, Ian.
At this rate, you’ll definitely secure a good ranking in next month’s selection tournament.”
“All thanks to your guidance, Professor.” Ian grabbed a towel to wipe off his sweat, his tone respectful.
“Go take a shower.
Take this access card.” Brink handed over a black magnetic card.
Watch more combat footage of your predecessors—it’ll benefit you.”
Ian accepted the card with both hands.
This was what he truly wanted.
With this card, he could access more of Vought’s hidden resources within the school and even look up the files of those with special abilities.
Ninety-one split?
Old man, I’ll be swiping your card for everything.
Meanwhile.
New York Bay Area, near a foul-smelling sewage outlet.
Deep pinched his nose, staring at the murky, greenish water beneath his feet, his face filled with reluctance.
“Are you sure it’s around here?” he complained into the communicator.
“The signal disappeared in that exact area of the sea,” came the icy voice of Vought’s security director over the communicator.
“Be careful, Kevin.
That box contains Translucent’s tracking chip.”
“I am the Lord of the Ocean!
Not a fucking sewer cleaner!” Deep gritted his teeth.
There was a two-second silence on the other end of the communicator.
“This is a direct order from Madelyn.
If you don’t want to do it, I can send someone else.”
Deep immediately shut up.
Holding his breath, he dove into the water.
The visibility underwater was extremely poor, with plastic bags and unidentified waste floating everywhere.
Deep closed his eyes and emitted low-frequency sound waves.
Several mutated sea bass with tumors swam over.
“Have you seen a glowing metal box?” Deep asked in his mind.
The sea bass blew a few bubbles, transmitting a jumble of chaotic images: massive iron-hulled ships, foul-smelling rotten meat, and Deep’s own shimmering scales.
A bunch of idiots.
Deep irritably waved his hand to shoo the fish away.
Progress was too slow.
That damn box seemed to have vanished into thin air.
What frustrated him even more was that the company hardly had anyone who genuinely cared about Translucent’s fate anymore.
He surfaced, climbed ashore, and pulled out his waterproof phone.
The top trending topic on Twitter was still that glaring headline: Starlight Abuses Violence.
In the video, that country bumpkin who had just joined The Seven, dressed in civilian clothes, was in a dirty Brooklyn alley, using intense light to nearly blind two thugs who had attempted to rape a girl.
The video, edited out of context, had been uploaded online, driving netizens into a frenzy.
They were ranting about Supe abuse of power and questioning whether America was still safe.
Vought’s higher-ups were furious.
Because Starlight hadn’t reported her actions beforehand and hadn’t brought a camera crew, they were now trying to get the girl to clarify the situation, but she refused to appear on camera.
Madelyn was now pouring all her energy into handling this PR crisis.
As for Translucent?
The fate of an invisible pervert couldn’t compare to the commercial value of The Seven’s rising star.
Deep kicked a soda can at his feet.
He laughed—this was the only good news he’d had in days.