Is Your Publishing Department Only Capable of Thinking About Spandex and Masks?

Ever since that drop of blood had merged into his chest, Lynn felt that his world had changed completely.

Early that morning, rhythmic metallic clanging came from the underground base's gym.

Wearing a gray workout tank top, Lynn lay on a bench press, steadily raising and lowering a two-hundred-kilogram barbell with both hands.

His breathing was somewhat heavy, but his muscles showed none of that tearing soreness.

A month ago, never mind two hundred kilograms-even a fifty-kilogram empty bar crashing down would have sent him straight to meet Vought's ancestors.

"Whew-"

Lynn returned the barbell to its rack, wiped the hot sweat from his forehead, and sat up.

He could clearly feel the Yasakani Blood Jade lying quietly near his heart, delivering gentle, sustained energy throughout his body with every heartbeat.

Not only had it greatly increased his bone density and the strength of his muscle fibers, it had even cured the cervical spine trouble he had developed from staying up late writing reports.

"Lynn, your strength has increased by four hundred percent."

On a mat nearby, John held Buddy, the little golden retriever, his azure eyes shining with undisguised happiness.

He had been using his super vision to observe the changes in Lynn's muscles.

"Yeah, I'm a strong working stiff now."

Lynn walked to the rest area and picked up a towel to wipe his face.

That sense of security finally allowed the nerves Lynn had kept taut lately a little genuine relief.

"Come on, little champ. Take a shower and get ready for class. This morning, we're doing history and basic social knowledge."

Lynn tossed the towel into a hamper and beckoned to John.

An hour later, Lynn and John had just sat down in the apartment's living room and had yet to open their books when the doorbell rang.

Outside stood Madelyn and a shriveled old man with thinning hair, wearing a garish Hawaiian shirt and clenching a thick cigar between his teeth.

"Director Madelyn, who's this?"

Lynn frowned slightly. The residential section of Area B was top secret even among top secrets. Normally, no outsiders were allowed near it except Jimmy, who delivered supplies.

"This is Legend," Madelyn said, stepping aside to introduce him. "Vice president of Vought International's publishing department, and the chief content officer responsible for creating the backstories and comic-book personas of all the company's superheroes."

The old man called Legend unceremoniously squeezed into the apartment. His cloudy but shrewd eyes scanned the room before fixing firmly on John, who was sitting on the carpet.

"Oh, my God."

Legend took the cigar out of his mouth and blew a thick smoke ring. "That old bastard Edgar wasn't lying to me. This is a perfect work of art God has bestowed upon the United States. Look at that blond hair, those blue eyes. He's a fucking walking money printer, the American dream in the flesh!"

John frowned as the acrid smoke caught in his throat.

He instinctively glanced at Lynn.

Lynn's rules stated that smoking indoors was rude.

Lynn quickly gave John a look that said, "Stay calm," then walked up to Legend, unceremoniously plucked the cigar from his mouth, and tossed it into a half-finished glass of water nearby.

Hiss-

The cigar went out.

Legend's eyes widened. "Hey! Kid, do you know how much that Cohiba cost?"

"No, but I do know that if you expose my student to secondhand smoke again, he won't even have to lift a finger. The big boss will stuff you into a paper shredder."

Lynn brushed the ash off his hands, his tone calm.

Legend froze for a moment, then glanced at Madelyn. To his surprise, she did not contradict Lynn, tacitly accepting his words instead.

Only then did he realize that this refined-looking young man before him held anything but an ordinary position in the company.

"All right, all right. Follow the rules, protect the nation's budding flowers."

Legend shrugged, took a thick stack of sketches from his briefcase, and spread them directly across the coffee table.

"The president sent me here to launch the 'Phase Two' plan."

Madelyn sat on the sofa, her expression serious. "John's metrics have all reached maturity. The company has decided to start building his public image ahead of schedule. We need the public to begin subconsciously accepting this future Chosen One."

"He's only six and a half, Madelyn," Lynn said with a frown.

"He doesn't need to go flying over the streets right now. We'll introduce his image through comics, cartoons, and internal promotional films first. By the time he turns eighteen, he'll already be a superstar with all eyes on him."

Madelyn pointed at the sketches on the table. "Legend has already designed his codename and several preliminary costumes. Lynn, you have full responsibility for him. President Edgar requires your approval."

Lynn lowered his head and looked at the sketches.

He had to admit that the aesthetic of American comics in the eighties was rather exaggerated.

The first sketch depicted a muscular man in spandex, with a pair of enormous white eagle wings on his back and a shield bearing the Stars and Stripes in his hand.

Codename: American Eagle.

Lynn nearly burst out laughing. If John actually went out wearing that Frankenstein's monster of a design, Marvel's legal team next door would probably sue him into bankruptcy.

"No. Too flashy, and it'll hamper his flying speed." Lynn rejected it outright.

Legend pursed his lips and flipped to the second sketch.

This one certainly wasn't flashy. It was black from head to toe, with a mask covering half the face and leaving only those signature blue eyes exposed.

Codename: God of the Night Sky.

"He's supposed to be a hero who saves ordinary people in broad daylight, not some bat monster hiding in the sewers. Scrap this one too." Lynn rubbed his temples.

They went through more than a dozen sketches in succession, all either garish or steeped in dark aesthetics. Not one conveyed that regal presence that reassured people at first glance while carrying an absolutely overwhelming sense of pressure.

"Is your publishing department only capable of thinking about spandex and masks?"

Lynn sighed, picked up a pen, and pulled out a blank sheet of drawing paper.

"Listen. I don't want a street vigilante. I want a symbol."

As Lynn spoke, he began rapidly sketching on the paper.

Though his drawing skills were mediocre, his vivid memories from his previous life of that classic suit in The Boys allowed him to quickly sketch an outline.