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Chapter 198: Ch.197 Hero

The Human Torch had escaped from his underground prison, turning the sealed container into a massive bomb.

The professor had tampered with it slightly. Although he couldn\'t stop the government from taking away his "child"—since the project was funded by the government, and the "product" naturally belonged to them—he saw the Human Torch as his own offspring. He felt that leaving the Torch alone underground was too cruel, so he left him a special headset that allowed them to communicate via bone-conduction sound waves.

In the days that followed, the professor told him many things about the outside world, about people, and about the state of the world.

The Human Torch possessed the intelligence of a human, but his mind was still immature.

After learning these things, he became eager to see for himself everything the professor had described.

The outside world seemed beautiful—there were animals, plants, blue skies, and white clouds. He wanted to see it all.

As his awareness of the world grew, so did his sense of self.

Neither the professor nor President Roosevelt realized that the Torch\'s true ability wasn\'t just fire, but radiation energy.

Fire and heat were merely external manifestations of this energy. After all, bursting into flames didn\'t explain his ability to fly through the sky.

The Human Torch knew he had power within him, power that could help him escape the darkness. So, without hesitation, he unleashed it.

The massive energy burst within the confined space, and the surrounding area paid the price. He was essentially a bunker-busting bomb, encased in a shell of concrete.

Large chunks of debris and burning embers swept through the area like a fiery storm, obliterating everything within a radius of several kilometers.

The Human Torch had broken free.

He looked around at the crying, fallen people, feeling confused and lost.

Everything around him was red, and above him, the sky was black.

It was nothing like what the professor had described.

The people groaned in agony, their eyes filled with hatred and fear as they looked at him. He had never imagined that his emergence would cause such devastation.

Panicked, he fled, transforming into a streak of fire that shot across the sky, flying aimlessly.

The professor had never taught him what to do in this situation, and the headset had been damaged by the flames. He could only act on instinct, hiding from the gaze of others.

Minutes later, Dr. Thomas Holloway arrived at the site of the explosion in his car.

He couldn\'t sleep.

He had picked up the two revolvers, only to put them down again. A deep sense of duty urged him to fight for justice, but the reality of life held him back.

As he hesitated, the explosion echoed outside his window. Turning to look, he saw that the sky had turned red with flames.

Driven by his sense of duty as a doctor, he grabbed his coat and rushed to the scene of the disaster.

He was stunned by what he saw.

Corpses, severed limbs, and raging fires.

The entire street looked as if it had been bombed, and the survivors were in a state of panic. In the cold night, thick with choking smoke, they cried out helplessly, their screams unlike anything he had heard before.

In the past, those who needed his help would lie quietly in hospital beds, with nurses briefing him on the situation.

"Doctor, please begin. The patient is experiencing acute internal bleeding. We\'ve administered such-and-such medication..."

But this was different. The people who needed help now rolled in the dirt, screaming with simple, desperate words.

"Help!"

Dr. Holloway threw off his coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and charged into the flames.

He navigated through debris and embers, pushing through the smoke to find those in need. His expression became resolute and calm.

He rescued people trapped beneath collapsed buildings, administered first aid to those poisoned by the smoke, and even defended a mother and daughter from looters who tried to take advantage of the chaos.

Holloway\'s father had once been a warden in a New York state prison, where some prisoners—hoping to curry favor—had taught young Thomas how to fight. Holloway had always admired the heroes of the Wild West and was keenly interested in combat techniques.

But his father didn\'t need to repay those prisoners. Young Holloway quickly studied the law and the prisoners\' cases, helping many of them get their wrongful convictions overturned. He even appealed some contested cases.

In truth, he was a brilliant lawyer and detective, talents that had emerged long before his medical skills.

The prisoners liked him, calling him the "Little Avenging Angel" because he truly helped them get their sentences reduced.

Now, however, more than twenty years had passed since he had last fought anyone, and dealing with a few street thugs left him with minor injuries, including a small knife wound in his side.

He didn\'t know how much time had passed, but he knew he couldn\'t stop. Fatigue and pain didn\'t matter. He understood these were just normal reactions of the body.

By dawn, the smoke, flames, and fighting had left him looking like a wreck. His shirt was in tatters, but the people were saved.

Not all of them, but he had done his best.

Those who survived called him a—hero.

After the National Guard took over the scene, he quietly left and returned home.

Covered in soot and smelling of smoke, he walked straight into his study, dirty feet trampling the luxurious carpet. He picked up the wooden box the Two-Gun Kid had left him and took out the mask. He had made up his mind.

The next day\'s newspapers, as Su Ming expected, all had Captain America on the front page.

Steve Rogers, originally just a private, had been promoted to captain after the successful experiment—a title with no real command authority, just a name.

From now on, he would be known as Captain America.

However, Steve wasn\'t in a good mood.

Dr. Erskine had been kidnapped, and all the serum was gone. Even as a super-soldier, he had been easily evaded by Deathstroke. What the hell were those glowing balls?

Steve analyzed his opponent. Deathstroke\'s mask had only one eyehole, which made him suspect that the man might have only one eye. His first thought was of Mr. Wilson.

But soon, guilt overwhelmed him. There were plenty of one-eyed people in New York alone. Even beggars on the street were missing eyes, and many sailors were one-eyed too.

If New York had so many, then what about the rest of America? And who\'s to say Deathstroke was even American? It was quite possible that the missing eye on the mask was just a trick to mislead others.

Besides, Mr. Wilson was a saint blessed by God—his ageless appearance was proof enough. Everything he had done in the past showed that he was a good man. Both Steve and Bucky owed him too much.

Steve felt deeply ashamed for doubting him and silently prayed to God for forgiveness, chastising himself.

The next time he saw Mr. Wilson, he would confess his doubts and sincerely apologize. Otherwise, even God would frown upon him.

In addition to his guilt, Steve felt disheartened by the fact that he wouldn\'t be going to the battlefield. Not even Peggy\'s comforting words could lift his spirits.

He knew the experiment\'s purpose had failed, and Colonel Phillips wouldn\'t allow him to fight.

Phillips and the military had indeed decided the same.

What they wanted was an army of super soldiers—tens or hundreds of thousands, if possible. Steve was just the first prototype.

With that army, America could defeat Hitler, crush Japan, and take on any enemy on Earth, making America the sole global power.

But now, that dream was shattered.

Steve was just one man, and the abilities he had demonstrated weren\'t enough to influence a war involving millions.

The military wouldn\'t stop because of a setback, and so the SSS program was shelved. They began preparations for "Weapon II," possibly involving ancient Native American magic to enhance humans or something like that.

But that had nothing to do with the Strategic Scientific Reserve anymore. Steve, like other prototypes, would be indefinitely shelved.

If Steve had been a weapon instead of a man, they would have put him in a crate with a secret serial number, storing him away in a Washington warehouse forever.

And as for Deathstroke, there wasn\'t a single clue. Each time he appeared, it was as if he had materialized out of nowhere, only to vanish just as quickly.

Deathstroke was indeed a fully formed super soldier, but he had also demonstrated that even he didn\'t have the power to tip the scales in a war.

Perhaps the SSS program had been a mistake from the start. Maybe America should never have competed with Germany in this field.

Steve\'s request to go to war was denied by Colonel Phillips, and he found himself adrift. But just then, Senator Brandt, driven by his own survival instincts, stepped in.

To distance himself from the scandal involving the German spy, Brandt needed Captain America to help sell war bonds, using this as a way to rehabilitate his image.

But after only a few days, an elderly man with a Russian-sounding name showed up with a massive team of lawyers. Representing Wilson Enterprises, they announced a lawsuit against him and the New York state government for infringement, armed with a complete set of legal documents.

"What do you want?" the senator asked in frustration. This was his last chance to save his political career.

The old man smiled and stroked his hair. "Simple. Let\'s discuss a joint promotional campaign between Captain America and Wilson products."