At the heart of Hero Headquarters, deep within the Headquarters of glass and steel, lay a chamber few dared to enter. The Meeting Room.
Eleven thrones stood in a circle, each carved from dark stone veined with silver. Ten of them were large, but one—positioned at the center—was massive, raised slightly higher than the rest. It belonged to the chairman of the Hero Council.
On this day, the seats were filled with people of great age and greater power. The youngest among them was well over seventy, and the weight of decades hung in the air like an invisible fog.
"It may be time," said the man in the central throne, his voice low but steady, "to launch a full assault on the alien threat."
A few heads nodded gravely.
"Indeed," murmured one of the council members, a woman with silver hair bound into an elegant knot.
Another leaned forward, fingers laced. "What if we send all the Lights of Justice along with fifty S-class heroes? That should be enough to strike a decisive blow."
The chairman frowned, stroking his long beard. "Risky. If we lose even half of them, our strength will be gutted. Earth's defenses would crumble."
A third member, thin and sharp-eyed, spoke with an unsettling smile. "Then why not send every hero we have? Many of the weaker ones will perish, yes—but in the end, the aliens will fall."
The chairman's expression darkened for a moment. Then he gave a slow nod. "A bold idea."
A ripple of uneasy laughter spread through the chamber, cold and hollow.
Meanwhile in Adrian's home...
The skies above the city were bright and calm, a rare moment of peace after weeks of chaos. For Adrian, it was a welcome break—though not without its drawbacks.
He lay sprawled on the grass behind his home, staring up at the clouds. His muscles still ached from training, and the memory of his first mission lingered in his mind. Saving civilians, dodging lasers, nearly being crushed… it was exhausting.
But boredom gnawed at him.
There has to be more to my powers, he thought.
All he could do so far was fly—a useful skill, but hardly exciting when compared to teleportation, telekinesis, super strength, or lightning speed. Determined, he began experimenting. He imagined himself vanishing, shouted "Teleportation!" at the sky, even tried forming hand signs he'd seen in movies.
Nothing happened.
From the porch, David watched with a raised brow. Finally, curiosity won. "Adrian, what exactly are you doing?"
Adrian sat up, brushing grass from his sleeves. "Trying to figure out my special ability. Every hero has one, right?"
David chuckled, a warm but weary sound. "You think you'll discover it in a day? Most heroes take months—some a full year—to unlock their unique talent. Mastering it takes even longer."
Adrian grinned. "Maybe I'll be faster."
Shaking his head, David muttered something about youthful impatience and went back inside.
Not long after, David's communicator buzzed. He glanced at the message, and his face hardened.
"Report to Headquarters immediately."
Without hesitation, he donned his uniform and departed, soaring through the clouds toward the tower.
When David entered the grand hall, six figures were already waiting—the other Lights of Justice, Earth's most formidable protectors.
The CEO of Hero Headquarters stood near a vast circular table, swirling a glass of wine as if the fate of humanity were merely a chess match.
"Welcome, David," the CEO said smoothly. "You're just in time."
He set the glass down with deliberate care. "The Council has reached a decision. Tomorrow, we will launch an attack on the alien planet. Every hero, from D-rank to S-class, will participate."
The room went still.
Falcon, a tall man draped in silver armor, slammed his hand on the table. "That's madness! Most of those heroes can barely hold their ground in minor skirmishes. Sending them all is a death sentence."
The CEO shrugged, as though discussing weather rather than war. "The order comes from the Council. I don't have the authority to refuse."
Murmurs of discontent rose among the Lights of justice, but none dared challenge the Council directly. Their power over Earth was absolute.
Over the next several days, thousands of heroes arrived at Headquarters. The main assembly hall, vast enough to house an army, echoed with restless footsteps and nervous whispers.
When the CEO finally addressed them, his tone was calm, almost indifferent. "Tomorrow, we march. The aliens will fall, and Earth will stand victorious."
The words offered little comfort to the lower-ranked heroes, who exchanged anxious glances but remained silent.
Later that night, in a dimly lit lounge, the CEO sat across from an old friend, a man whose loyalty had survived decades of battles and political storms.
"Doesn't this weigh on you?" the friend asked quietly.
The CEO sighed, swirling the last of his wine. "Of course it does. I hate sending them to their deaths. But if I defy the Council, they'll hang me before sunrise."
The friend leaned in. "I have connections—people willing to challenge the Council's grip. We could act after the assault, maybe topple them for good."
The CEO's eyes flickered with something—hope, or perhaps fear. "It's dangerous," he admitted, "but maybe worth the risk. For now, we focus on the mission."
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken plans pressing down on them.
At dawn, the fate of Earth's heroes would be sealed.