Brink's Questions

Cold water in the locker room washed the sweat off Lucian. He turned off the faucet, grabbed a towel, and dried his hair.

The noise from the combat demonstration arena was shut out behind the heavy soundproof door. The locker room reeked of sweat and medicinal liniment. Lucian looked up at himself in the mirror.

His breathing was steady, his heartbeat normal. That fight had barely even counted as a warm-up.

But he had put on a good show. A display of strength a little above LV2, coupled with precise tactical counters, was enough to catch the eyes of those old foxes sitting in the Second-Floor Observation Gallery without dazzling them too much.

The door hinges let out a piercing squeal.

A man wearing glasses and a teaching assistant's badge on his chest walked in. Without looking at the other students changing their clothes, he went straight to Lucian's locker.

"Lucian." The teaching assistant pushed up his glasses, his tone stiff. "Get dressed. Professor Richard Brink is waiting for you in his office. Now."

Several freshmen nearby who had been bragging instantly fell silent, turning in unison to look over.

Professor Brink?

He was a man with real power at Godolkin University, the dean of the Crimefighting College, and the mentor of several superstars in The Seven. What an invitation to his office meant went without saying.

Several jealous gazes stabbed into Lucian's back like needles.

Lucian ignored them. He grabbed his hoodie, pulled it on, and zipped it up.

"Lead the way."

The fish had taken the bait. And it was a big one.

Meanwhile.

The office of the dean of the Crimefighting College.

Richard Brink leaned back in his broad leather chair, holding a thin paper file. The tablet in front of him was playing the surveillance footage of the combat demonstration on a loop.

On the screen, Lucian took a punch from Walsh head-on, then blasted the six-foot-three giant out of bounds with two precise shockwaves.

Brink pressed pause, freezing the image at the instant Lucian struck.

He stroked his neatly trimmed beard, his gaze appraising a commodity waiting for the right price.

This card was rather interesting.

He looked down at the file.

Looks: nine out of ten. Sharp features, fitting the cool, stern aesthetic young girls were so infatuated with these days. With a little packaging and a few promotional photo shoots, he could absolutely have those teenage girls screaming as they emptied their allowances.

Asian. That was a good label.

Vought International had spent the past few years struggling to figure out how to tap into the new immigrant market. Those people found traditional white heroes hard to identify with. If Vought introduced an Asian superhero, those immigrants working from dawn to dusk in laundromats, Chinese restaurants, and nail salons would go wild buying his merchandise, digging the last pennies out of their pockets to support their fellow countryman.

Political correctness combined with ethnic sentiment. This was practically an untapped gold mine.

More importantly, there was his background.

An orphan, abandoned in Queens eighteen years ago, raised in a Vought orphanage. No connections, no attachments, and desperately short of money.

People like this were the easiest to control. Toss them a few bones, and they would obey like dogs. If he dared resist, any excuse would do to ruin his reputation and send him crawling back to that piss-reeking slum.

Brink tapped his fingers lightly against the desk, making a soft clicking sound.

The only problem was his ability.

The entrance test results were clearly recorded: Super Physique LV1, Shockwave LV2. Utterly worthless stats. Under normal circumstances, someone at that level could not even reach the threshold of the Crimefighting College.

But today, he had knocked Walsh, a junior, out of bounds. Walsh had a genuine LV3 physique. He might not have been very bright, but his physical toughness was undeniable.

That did not make sense.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in." Brink put away the tablet and swiftly adopted his trademark kindly smile, brimming with fatherly affection.

Lucian pushed the door open and entered.

The office was spacious, its walls covered with photographs of Brink alongside various superheroes. A-Train, Queen Maeve, The Deep... Every photograph silently proclaimed the old man's formidable influence within Vought's ranks.

"Sit, son." Brink pointed to the chair across the desk.

Lucian pulled out the chair and sat down. He kept his back perfectly straight and his hands on his knees, letting his eyes show just the right mixture: three parts wariness, three parts unease, and four parts hunger for power.

He had to play a poor kid desperate to get ahead. He knew all too well what an old fox like Brink wanted to see.

"A splendid match." Brink handed him a glass of sparkling water. "That boy Walsh has gotten used to throwing his weight around, bullying freshmen with that brute strength of his. Today, he finally met his match. However..."

Brink paused and leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk, his gaze fixed firmly on Lucian's eyes.

"There's something I'm very curious about. In last month's entrance assessment, your stats were an LV1 physique and an LV2 Shockwave. With stats like that, one punch from Walsh could have broken three of your ribs."

Brink smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "Yet today, you took his punch and even sent him flying. Lu, were you holding back during the entrance test?"

Lucian's grip on the glass tightened slightly.

The old bastard had a sharp eye.

"I wasn't holding back, Professor." Lucian looked at Brink, his earnest tone carrying just the right trace of humiliation. "I used to live in a run-down apartment in Queens, working at a convenience store until the early hours every day. I ate sandwiches that were about to expire and drank discounted milk. I'd never had any structured training. I couldn't even afford the cheapest gym membership."

Lucian drew a deep breath, as though suppressing some surge of emotion. "But since coming here, I've had enough to eat every day. High-protein Nutritional Meals, professional training equipment. I feel... I feel like I'm getting stronger every day. My muscles are growing, my bones are getting harder, and I can feel strength constantly welling up inside me."

Brink narrowed his eyes.

No structured training? His powers had started surging once he got proper nutrition?

A rare late-developing growth type?

A wave of wild delight swept through Brink. Superhuman abilities were usually fixed upon awakening after an injection of Compound V. Only a tiny handful of freaks continued to grow as their bodies developed and they experienced extreme stimulation later in life.

If this kid really was a late-developing growth type, his commercial potential went far beyond being an Asian pretty face. His upper limit was completely unknown.

He could become the next top star.

"I see. Hardship truly is the finest whetstone." Brink's smile deepened, his voice turning exceedingly gentle. "Lu, you're a gifted boy. But talent is like an uncut diamond. Without a skilled craftsman, it will end up as nothing more than a stepping stone."

"I understand, Professor." Lucian nodded.

"Godolkin University has many students. Dean Shetty is a good person, but she's a politician. She only looks at the overall numbers. What she cares about is how to give the board a satisfactory report." Brink stood, walked around the broad desk, and came to Lucian's side, giving his shoulder a heavy pat.

"But I'm different. I trained A-Train, Queen Maeve, and The Deep. I know how to turn a poor kid with potential into an idol for all of America. I know how to make those lofty billionaires beg you to endorse their products."

The old bastard was starting to make empty promises. Lucian sneered inwardly.

"I'd like to invite you to join the Crimefighting College." Brink returned behind his desk, opened a drawer, took out a thick document, and pushed it in front of Lucian. "And I intend to mentor you personally."