CHAPTER 29: CHAPTER 29: SUPERSOLDIERS

Inside the presidential house, the long conference table stretched nearly the length of the room.

Around it sat a collection of older men, most of whom had clung to power far beyond their time.

Their expressions carried nothing warm, only sharp, calculating eyes that betrayed greed, ambition, and a hunger for control.

At the head of the table sat President Razel. His posture was relaxed, but there was a weight in his gaze that kept even the boldest from speaking too carelessly.

One of the men leaned forward, voice sharp. "President Razel, this new discovery is dangerous. I believe it’s best we act swiftly and send the National Defenders to hunt these—"

Another cut in. "You don’t know if there’s more of them."

"And you don’t know if there’s only one," a third countered.

"I think we raise taxes," another added without hesitation, earning a few nods.

"I think—"

"I think—"

The voices overlapped, each man trying to talk over the other, the room quickly devolving into a loud mess of opinions, arguments, and half-baked solutions.

Razel didn’t join the noise. He simply glanced down at his watch, a faint flicker of boredom crossing his face. Then he lifted his hand and tapped the table once.

It was a light tap, almost lazy, yet the sound cut through the chaos like a gavel. The noise died instantly, and every pair of eyes turned to him.

"We will do nothing at the moment."

President Razel’s words cut through the room, halting the heated arguments for only a second before the murmurs started.

"But Mr. President, this is a global crisis," one of the men pressed. "From what I’ve heard, America isn’t the only one experiencing this monster outbreak. We need to act now, launch a coordinated sweep, eradicate any unknown life before it spreads. No hesitation."

Another chimed in, "Sir, I still suggest we raise taxes—"

"Increase gas prices," a third added.

"With the infrastructure damage, we need to address repairs immediately," said another.

Razel stood slowly, the chair legs scraping lightly against the floor.

He looked at them, not with anger, but with a faint smirk, as though he was about to explain something they were too simple to understand.

"I hear all your concerns. Valid as they may be, I fear you all miss the light in this situation." He let his words settle before continuing. "I’ve known about the existence of aliens long before I entered this office."

That stopped them cold.

"Aliens?" one repeated.

"Yes," Razel said plainly. "Aliens. The agency was built on that discovery. Do you think our technology advanced this far on human brilliance alone? I’ll grant you, human ingenuity has played its part. But the leaps we’ve made? The breakthroughs? They came with alien assistance. Alien technology."

"But sir, they are hostile," one man said.

"Then we put them down," Razel replied without a flicker of doubt. "But we will not throw away the opportunity to rise above, to advance further than any nation has before."

"Sir—"

"How many metahumans have been recorded in history?" Razel interrupted.

One of the men straightened. "Roughly ten million registered. If we include unregistered cases, estimates push it closer to twenty million."

Razel snapped his fingers. "Exactly. Twenty million metahumans among nine billion humans. Twenty million who can defend themselves, and even then, not every ability is meant for combat."

He began to pace slowly around the head of the table, his voice calm but sharper now. "Now tell me, do you like those odds? I don’t. And we have no idea how many aliens are out there. Which is why we’ll prepare... and when we act, it won’t be with blind panic. It will be decisive."

The room fell silent.

"With the heroes we have, if this turns into a full-blown invasion, we might not survive," Razel said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Out of an estimated twenty million metahumans, only ten million are registered. And out of that ten million... less than a hundred are publicly recognized heroes in their own countries."

A few of the men shifted in their seats, but none interrupted.

"Which is why," Razel continued, his voice lowering just enough to force them to lean in, "I’d like to begin a project. We will use alien DNA to advance our own and create an army of super soldiers. Stronger, faster, better than anything walking the Earth right now. Many of them will be assigned to protect all of you personally."

The moment the words super soldiers left his mouth, something shifted in the room. The dull, tired expressions of the old men sharpened.

Their eyes, once clouded by years of power and complacency, lit with something far darker, greed.

It wasn’t fleeting. It rooted itself there, gleaming in the silence, the kind of look that turned dangerous the longer it lingered.

Razel saw it. He didn’t smile, but there was a glint in his own gaze that said this was exactly the reaction he had expected.

As Razel watched them murmur among themselves, their greed still burning in their eyes, a voice suddenly echoed in his head.

[Lord Ra’Zel, I’ve managed to catch a trace of the energy from the Serakai.]

For the briefest moment, his eyes shifted, pure blue, glowing faintly, before fading back to their usual color. None of the men at the table noticed.

"I’m on my way," he said, though only the voice in his head could hear it.

He straightened, sweeping his gaze across the table. "Alright, gentlemen," he said aloud, his tone returning to the composed authority they knew. "I’ve left you with plenty to think over. In our next meeting, we will finalize everything."

Chairs scraped back as the old men stood, still murmuring to each other about super soldiers and influence.

Razel walked out without another word, his mind already far from the room.

The Serakai’s energy signature had been found, and nothing else mattered more.

Razel left the presidential office with quick, purposeful strides, his security detail struggling to match his pace.

The marble corridors blurred past as his mind stayed locked on the voice in his head.

"Where did you trace it?" he asked without moving his lips.

[In Grayson City. The site where that large alien brute attacked. There are no heroes stationed there, but the monster was killed.]

A slow smirk crept across Razel’s face. "Then it’s time to end an era..." His tone was low, more like a vow than a statement. "...an end to the empirical races."