Chapter 186: The Master’s Reason.
"Hexi." The Master’s voice was quiet against the heavy crackle of the burning street. "Bind them. All of them. I don’t want a single hero leaving this dome on their feet."
"With pleasure, Master."
Hexi’s fingers were already dancing in the air like a twisted conductor’s. Long, sickly threads of dark miasma spilled out across the ruined asphalt, slithering over the cracked stone. One by one, the powerless heroes felt their own bodies turn against them. Their muscles locked, their limbs went unnaturally stiff, and dozens of the strongest people on Earth were forced slowly to their knees in the rubble. Nectron. Mercury. Vixen. Walküre. Down they went, every single one of them, held helplessly in place by nothing but a giggling man’s dark will.
They did not go quietly. They gritted their teeth, veins bulging against their necks as they fought the invisible force, but down they went regardless.
And it was Eric, kneeling at the very front of the line, his great hulking frame trembling against invisible strings he could not break, who finally forced the words out.
"Why?" His voice was raw and ragged with rage. "Just tell me why. Whatever we did to you, whatever you think we are—all these innocent people, the whole world out there—WHY are you doing this?"
The Master paused in his tracks.
For a long, heavy moment, he said nothing. He kept his back to them, silently watching the bright flames climb the hollow shell of a nearby apartment building. Then, slowly, he turned around to face his captives. There was a dry, humorless chuckle resting on his lips—a smile that never reached his cold eyes.
"You’re asking me why?" he said softly. "Why won’t I?"
He took a slow step toward Eric.
"You call yourselves heroes. And what are you, truly? You farm fame. You farm money. You do it all in the name of heroism, and you tell yourselves it makes you clean." His voice was calm, and that was the most terrible part about it—completely calm all the way through. "You wear your suits and you walk the streets carrying a dignity that is stained through with filth, and you have worn it so long you’ve forgotten the filth is even there."
He stopped directly in front of the kneeling manager.
"I watched my family die in front of me," the Master said quietly, "while one of you stood and waited. Waited for the cameras. Waited for the media to arrive so they could get the shot. I watched my house burn down to the ground while a hero posed in front of it like it was a trophy, angling for the best light, and by the time anyone raised a hand to help, there was no one left inside to save."
He fell quiet for a moment, looking down at his own hands. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped even lower, and for the first time, his calm composure frayed at the edges.
"Do you know what the worst part was? The footage went out that night. The hero who let them burn made the evening broadcast, standing in front of my home with the flames behind him, and the world called him brave. They gave him an award, later. I watched a man receive a medal for standing still while my mother screamed." He drew a slow, ragged breath. "He never even knew my name. To him it was a good night. Good coverage. A career-making fire."
The heavy words fell over the ruined street like ash.
And not a single hero present could form an answer.
Because they all knew the truth behind it. Maybe not that exact fire, and maybe not that specific hero, but they all recognized the shape of it—the ugly, open secret sitting at the very center of the profession they had all bled for. The staged rescues. The news cameras that arrived before the water hoses. The good camera angles chosen over the fastest response times. It was not all of them, and it was not the entire truth, but there was enough truth in his words that no throat on that ruined street could form a defense. The silence itself was a heavy confession.
"You call yourselves heroes," the Master continued, his voice hardening as something old and raw bled up through his calm demeanor. "You are no better than the impures. You are simply monsters with a better sense of lying, and a better sense of when to smile for the camera. I cannot stand the sight of you. Hypocrites, every one, in your bright costumes and your flashing teeth."
He spread his hands wide, taking in the kneeling heroes, the burning city streets, and the whole watching world beyond the translucent dome.
"They told us we didn’t need to be afraid of the plague," he said. "They told us it gave us heroes as well as monsters, that for every impure it made, it gave us a saviour to stand against them. A gift. A balance. They lied. The plague never made a single hero. All it ever made were monsters, and some of those monsters learned to put on a costume and a smile and call themselves something prettier." His cold, certain eyes swept across the helpless line of fighters. "Ask me to define hypocrisy, and I will point you to the Hero Association in all its grace."
He let the heavy silence stretch over the ruined district.
"So I will wait," he said, softer now, almost gentle again. "I will wait until every last hero this world has left comes walking into this city to save you. And then I will purge them. All of them. Every hero, every impure, every wannabe saviour, and anything and anyone that could ever give rise to another. I will scrub this world clean of the entire sickness, and when I am done, no child will ever again watch their family burn while a monster in a cape smiles for the camera."
The fire crackled loudly nearby. The heroes knelt in the dirt. No one spoke a word.
And then, from the back of the group, someone laughed.
It was a lazy, amused sound, entirely out of place in the grim atmosphere, cutting through the heavy silence like a thrown rock through a glass window. The Master’s shoulders instantly tensed. A flicker of genuine irritation crossed his face—the very first crack in his composure all night. He drew a slow breath, regaining his master authority before turning around.
"...Something funny, Sniper?"
Sniper was still lounging casually against a large chunk of broken concrete wall, his long rifle resting across his lap. A half-lit cigarette hung from his lips, and he held his smartphone up in one hand. He didn’t look up from the bright screen right away, far too busy chuckling at whatever video was playing on it. Only after another second did he push himself off the wall and amble forward toward the Master, holding the phone out.
"Sorry, sorry." He didn’t sound remotely sorry. "Just, you gotta see this. I can’t stop watching her streams, honestly. She’s stupidly hilarious." He turned the phone around so the Master could see the display.
On the screen was Julie’s live broadcast. Her bright pink hair filled half the frame, her tinny, breathless voice coming through the phone’s small speaker. And right behind her, completely unmistakable despite the damage, was a battered, dark-coated figure.
"We’ve got the almighty Phantom coming," Sniper said, taking a slow, calm drag from his cigarette, entirely unbothered by the tragedy playing out around them. "The tournament champ himself. Man beat a god a few hours ago, and apparently he’s on his way to crash your little party." He tilted his head, faintly curious. "So. Think he’s gonna be an issue?"
The Master did not answer right away.
His gaze settled quietly on the small screen—on the worn, bloody face of the man moving in the background of the livestream.
"Let’s give Phantom a warm welcome"