After the brief test, Mark had to admit it—having power felt different.
Not just strength or destruction. It was a constant presence sitting behind his eyes, like something waiting to be used at any moment. Even when inactive, it didn’t disappear.
[Now you can be considered a novice protagonist. Go and entertain.]
Mark didn’t respond with words. He raised both hands, showed the panel two middle fingers, held it there for a second, then turned away like that was all it deserved.
He began walking out of the alley. The space outside felt wider, more open, but not safer. Knowing what kind of world this was made everything feel slightly off—like the normal parts of it were just a thin cover over something worse.
"By the way," he said, tone casual but more focused, "why can’t I see any status or stats? No levels, no numbers—nothing?"
[This system does not operate on visible status interfaces. However, you do have a popularity metric.]
A brief pause.
[Popularity Poll: 0]
Mark slowed his pace. "...What does that do?"
[Popularity is the primary scaling mechanism of this system. Your actions increase recognition. Recognition increases popularity. Popularity strengthens this system.]
"And then?"
[With sufficient popularity, you can acquire additional templates.]
Mark stopped walking.
"...So I get stronger based on how many people notice me."
[Correct.]
He let that sit for a moment.
"You’re basically telling me to become a hero."
[No.]
[You only need to become popular. Heroes gain popularity. Villains also gain popularity. The method is irrelevant. As long as people talk about you, you are progressing.]
Mark looked ahead at the street, his expression calmer but heavier.
"...So it doesn’t matter what I do. As long as people remember me."
[Correct.]
***
Mark stepped out of the alley and stopped.
A man stood a short distance away, frozen—arms still slightly raised, like the moment hadn’t fully ended for him yet. In his hands, there was still something left.
Hands.
He was holding them like nothing had changed. Like if he just didn’t move, reality might correct itself. But everything else was gone.
Blood spread across the pavement in a violent pattern, pieces scattered far wider than they should have been, fragments of what used to be a person reduced to something unrecognizable. Bits of clothing clung to the ground, stained deep red.
He didn’t scream. Didn’t drop what he was holding. Just stood there staring at the hands in his grip, like his mind hadn’t caught up to what his eyes were seeing.
Mark felt his stomach twist hard. He turned and pressed his hand into the wall behind him, forcing himself to breathe. The image refused to leave, replaying in flashes no matter how hard he tried to focus on anything else.
"What the fuck?" he muttered, low and strained.
He swallowed hard and spoke through clenched teeth.
"Did you anticipate this? Because I step out of one alley and walk straight into that."
[Yes. A strong protagonist must possess a strong mind and a strong heart.]
Mark let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a laugh and anger.
"Throw me straight into it. No warning, no buildup—just see if I break." He shook his head. "Next time, at least warn me."
He stayed against the wall a moment longer, forcing the reaction down instead of letting it take over. What he’d just seen wasn’t an exception here. It was normal. And if that was the baseline, then whatever came next wouldn’t be easier.
His jaw tightened.
"...So this is the starting point." He said quietly.
[Yes.]
"So hey, do I get a house or anything?" Mark said, already turning away from the wreckage. "I feel like I definitely need something to get this image out of my brain."
He started walking and didn’t look back.
He wasn’t getting involved with any of this. Butcher and his crew were a mess, and getting near Butcher meant getting used—the man treated everyone around him like ammunition.
Mark would sooner walk into traffic than go anywhere near that psychopath.
Homelander wasn’t better. If anything he was worse.
The thing about both of them was how similar they actually were. Homelander grew up in Vought International as a child—no family, no warmth, just a lab and conditioning until the approval of strangers became the only thing holding him together.
Butcher shaped by a father who treated cruelty like parenting. Two people built wrong from the start, both absolutely certain they were right about everything.
Prime examples of what happens when nobody raises you properly.
"So what about basic necessities?" asked Mark.
[A protagonist should survive on his own. Do it yourself.]
"You know what, you made me homeless on the first day," Mark said. "How am I supposed to earn any money? I’m an illegal resident in this world—nobody’s going to give me a job."
[There is always the option of robbing.]
Mark stared at the panel.
"Why are you suggesting that? You’re a template system, not a villain system."
[What is wrong with robbing people who have excess amounts of things and treating yourself when you have nothing.]
Mark stared at it for a long second.
"...I genuinely cannot tell if you’re being logical or just evil."
[Both are not mutually exclusive.]
Mark opened his mouth, closed it, then pointed at the panel.
"You know what, I’m not doing this. I’m not becoming a street criminal on day one." He paused. "There has to be another way."
[There is.]
Mark waited.
[You could busk.]
"...Busk."
[Yes.]
"You want me to perform on a street corner for loose change."
[It is legal. It requires no documentation. And it generates income.]