19 advance chapters on Patreon.com/Saintbarbido.
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The chamber was heavy with silence. The five spectral figures on the screens said nothing, their white-cloaked outlines frozen in faint, flickering distortion. Even Lex Luthor—never a man to enjoy waiting—remained still, his brow furrowed as he tried to calculate what Mark could possibly offer in place of serving the Light as their mercenary.
Mark finally broke the stillness. His voice was calm, but there was iron under it.
"I'll give you something of precious value," he said. "But in return… I want my father back."
The words were direct—too direct for Luthor's liking. He stepped in immediately, cutting across the conversation like a blade.
"No." His tone was sharp, absolute. "That cannot be the deal. Your father is the lead scientist on our key cyborg creation project. He's far too valuable to be released."
The central figure on the largest screen leaned forward slightly, his voice deep and measured. "Mmm. Luthor makes a valid point. Your father is a critical asset, overseeing one of our most ambitious projects. What could you possibly offer us that would outweigh his contributions?"
Mark was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his words came out slow, deliberate.
"How about power?" He let the word hang in the air, heavy with meaning. "Power that can equal—no, surpass—any of your ambitions."
The room shifted. Though the figures on the screens said nothing, their stillness carried a subtle change—interest.
Mark took their pause as his moment to strike. He raised his right hand slowly. A faint glow began to emanate from his skin, golden light blooming brighter and brighter until it seemed to pour from his very bones.
Luthor's eyes narrowed, his analytical mind already dissecting what he saw. He hadn't had the chance to study Mark's abilities in full detail yet, but he wasn't ignorant.
The readings from earlier tests had already hinted that the boy's power was rooted in magic—and not just a small trickle. Mark carried an ocean of mana within him. Luthor had been considering ways to leverage this for the Light, perhaps by trading him to sorcerers like Felix Faust or Klarion the Witch Boy to siphon his magic for their ends. But what Mark was revealing now… was far beyond anything he'd expected.
The light condensed into a shape in Mark's palm. Slowly, it solidified—taking the form of a golden chalice, its surface etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly as if alive. The cup radiated a warm, almost divine light.
"This," Mark said evenly, "is the Holy Grail."
The name dropped like a stone into the silence. Luthor's eyes narrowed, calculating. The figures on the screens gave no immediate response.
"I imagine some of you know of its existence," Mark continued.
No one spoke. The quiet stretched, until at last, the central figure broke it.
"A golden cup doesn't prove anything."
Mark's expression didn't change. "I thought you'd say that."
Luthor, however, was already running silent scans. His devices hummed as readings came in,readings that defied every limit his instruments could measure. The cup was a font of magical energy on a scale that made even Luthor's mind reel. In the hands of a skilled sorcerer, it would be… unlimited. He knew Faust would crawl through broken glass to get his hands on it. And Faust wasn't the only one.
"The Grail," Mark said, his voice carrying just enough weight to pull every ear in the room toward him, "is the Cup of True Power. It can grant any wish—manifest it into reality itself."
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then the central figure scoffed. "You must be joking. How do we know this isn't some elaborate fraud?"
Before Mark could answer, Luthor spoke. "It's real."
Every head turned slightly toward him. He stepped forward, his curiosity overriding his usual reserve, and reached toward the Grail. His fingers met nothing—the chalice simply passed through his hand as if it were made of light.
Mark's lips twitched into the faintest of smirks. "Did I mention… it only works if I grant it to you personally?"
Luthor's hand withdrew, the implications already churning in his mind.
Inside Mark's mental link, the Kings were exploding in protest.
[Gilgamesh: What in the hell are you doing, boy? Offering my treasure to these imbeciles?]
[Artoria: The Grail was ours to wield. This was our agreement.]
[Iskandar: If you go through with this, you can count me out.]
[Mark: Relax. I'm not handing it over. And I sure as hell wouldn't waste something this powerful on them without a reason.]
[Ozymandias: Let us hope your gamble pays off.]
[Solomon: You're growing more cunning by the day… perhaps my influence is rubbing off on you.]
[Mark: Oh, please. Did you all really have such little faith in me?]
He wasn't lying—the Grail was bound to him and the Kings. No one else could wield it, not truly. But its presence, its promise… that was a weapon in itself.
The chamber remained deathly still. Even the faint hum of the machinery seemed to have quieted. Then, the man on the central screen finally spoke again.
"Very well. Your father will be returned to you. What will you require from us in exchange?"
The Grail shimmered briefly before fading back into nothingness, vanishing into the hammerspace bound to Mark. His eyes lifted to meet the shadowy figures.
"What I want," he said, "is something far greater than any one man."
The air seemed to tighten.
"I want the Light… dissolved."
That earned a stir—minute shifts of posture among the silhouettes, a ripple of murmurs almost too faint to hear.
Mark's tone stayed calm, almost casual. "If you want the Grail, you'll have to compete for it. And you're not the only ones who'll want their wishes granted. The best contender will win it. The rest… won't."
He knew the offer would seed chaos among them. They weren't a true alliance—just a nest of vipers tied together by overlapping ambitions. Put a true prize in the center, and they'd turn on each other in an instant.
Another voice spoke from the screens, sharp with disdain. "You think we'd throw away everything we've built for a gamble? The Light can fulfill its own wishes without your trinket."
Mark's smirk returned. "Maybe. But does everyone here agree with you?"
That landed like a dart. He saw it in the slight turn of heads, the subtle shift in body language. Some of them had joined the Light because it was the fastest path to their desires. But if there was a faster one—an absolute one—they'd take it.
That was human nature.
The screens winked out one by one, the conversation over.
Mark turned toward the door, intent on leaving. Luthor stayed where he was, staring at the space where the Grail had been. His mind was already working at full speed, recalculating every plan. He'd felt it—not just seen it, but felt the Grail's power resonate through the air like a deep, ancient heartbeat.
And now… he wanted it.
No—he needed it.
In his mind, Mark was no longer just a boy with unusual powers. He was a key. A gateway to something that could reshape reality itself.
And Lex Luthor never forgot the location of a key.