Number 1 had been found at the construction site.
When Number 7 had gone to collect the group, he'd discovered the eldest of the seven in the middle of standard training: relocating structural support beams from one end of the expansion zone to the other, one in each hand, at a pace that suggested this was roughly as taxing as a light jog. Number 7 had flagged him down, Number 1 had set the beams down with the unhurried care of a man who respected load-bearing materials, and they'd both arrived at the training area at approximately the same time by very different routes.
Jordan gave Number 1's chest a firm double-pat. The sound it produced—solid, resonant, the acoustic signature of hitting something that was not quite flesh and not quite stone—was deeply satisfying.
Number 1 received this assessment with the frozen composure of someone who had decided that the appropriate response to the nominal owner of the facility testing his structural density was to stand very still and allow it to happen.
Exactly like the eldest brother bearing the weight of the younger ones' behavior, Jordan thought, stepping back. He's already working on behalf of the group before anyone's asked him to.
The ability overview didn't take long.
Jordan had already gotten the shape of it from Dr. Genus's briefing en route, but seeing it in person was different. Seven individuals stood in a line and produced, between them, a cross-section of superpower types that could have been assembled for variety on purpose.
On the structural ends sat Number 1 and Number 7: strength and speed, the pure mono-stat builds. Both maximized for their respective attribute to the point where the attribute itself became a weapon system. Number 7 topped out above Mach 3 in open space, which put him above A-Train's documented ceiling from The Boys—a comparison Jordan made privately and found satisfying. When a single attribute reaches sufficient magnitude, it stops being a trait and becomes a tactical reality all its own.
And when you stack both in one person, Jordan thought, you get Homelander.
He decided not to voice this.
Numbers 2 through 6 had gone in other directions entirely. Standing in the line, each one read differently: red uniform on Number 2, relaxed posture carrying a quiet heat even at rest; Number 3 with a stillness that sat differently than the others, a density in the air around him; Number 4 with the matte-surface quality of someone whose skin didn't catch light quite normally; Number 5 nearly imperceptible at the edge even without activating anything, the kind of presence that slipped past attention naturally; and Number 6 in a navy blue robe at the end of the line, with the expression of someone mentally reviewing where they ranked.
Number 2: Fire Control. Offensive ceiling comparable to Genos's Incineration Cannon—which was not a small data point. The standard attack output sat at Dragon-level heat generation. Beyond that, he could execute Flame Transformation: full-body conversion to a fire-state, elementalized in effect if not quite in mechanism—he remained vulnerable to physical damage in that form, unlike a true elemental, but the practical applications of being a person-sized column of directed flame were significant regardless.
Number 3: Telekinesis. Starting at twice Fubuki's current output, which put him solidly above the B-Class ceiling on raw psychic force and approaching the lower tier of S-Class range.
Fubuki would hate hearing that, Jordan noted internally. Or possibly appreciate the benchmark. Hard to say.
Number 4: Diamond Skin. Passive defensive hardening that reached the threshold for withstanding large-caliber armor-piercing fire. Not invulnerability, but the kind of toughness that made most conventional weapons irrelevant as a category.
Number 5: Optical Invisibility. Full-body light-refraction camouflage, including anything in contact with the skin. Jordan noted this distinction with appreciation—unlike the Translucent he'd encountered in The Boys, Number 5's clothing disappeared with him. The tactical applications of a stealth ability that didn't require field-stripping before use were considerably broader.
Translucent had to operate naked, Jordan recalled. Number 5 does not. This is an improvement on the template in every meaningful way.
Then Number 6.
He stood at the end of the line in his navy robe, and Jordan had saved him for last on purpose, because Number 6 was the one that had his full attention.
Plant Manipulation. Seed acceleration, growth induction, morphological control of plant matter for offensive, defensive, or control applications. Weakest of the seven by raw combat output—Number 5, whose specialty was stealth, could break his bindings without excessive effort. In any standard power-ranking assessment, Number 6 sat at the bottom.
Jordan was not conducting a standard power-ranking assessment.
Hashirama Senju, he thought. Wood Release. The First Hokage's signature ability. Two years searching for it and the closest I've gotten is this.
He'd gotten Hashirama's Sage Body through Element Pickup—that particular negotiation had involved teaching the man to skip stones, which Jordan continued to classify as a trade rather than a gift for reasons of personal dignity. But the Wood Release itself, the technique that had reshaped battlefields and grown forests in an afternoon, had remained stubbornly out of reach.
Plant Manipulation wasn't Wood Release.
But it was a one. And the gap between zero and one was infinitely larger than the gap between one and infinity, particularly when you had a Limiter Breakthrough mechanism sitting in your deck.
Jordan didn't bother suppressing the interest.
Beside him, F-boy adjusted his cuffs.
The Element Pickup activated without ceremony—the range on it had improved substantially, and the cooldown had come down to approximately one hour now, a historical low that reflected the natural consequence of Jordan having spent a year surrounded by Dragon Ball fighters. The card crystallized in F-boy's palm with clean efficiency.
[Fantasy Card: Plant Manipulation] Type: Ability Card • Rarity: R (Blue)
Plant Growth: Accelerate seed germination and growth; mass-produce plant matter on demand; rate scales with energy inputPlant Manipulation: Control morphology and movement of plant material for offense, control, or defense; effective against unprotected targets; vulnerable to fire
R rank. Exactly where Dr. Genus's baseline data had predicted. The growth-induction aspect had natural ceiling problems—without the ability to enhance the structural properties of the plants themselves, a sufficiently strong opponent simply broke through them. That was the architectural limit of the card as it stood.
As it stands.
Jordan filed the card and returned his attention to the line.
"Number 2." He pointed. "Number 6." He pointed again. "Practice match. I want to see how it runs."
Number 2's expression did exactly what Jordan expected: the particular brightening of someone who had heard their name called for a favorable assignment. Two spheres of orange flame materialized in his palms, roughly the size of tangerines, rotating with the casual ease of a man who had been doing this since he woke up and found it entirely natural. He stepped forward with the unhurried confidence of a man who knew the matchup.
Number 6's expression did the other thing.
He knew his own matchup. He knew it extremely well. He had, presumably, reviewed it from multiple angles and arrived at the same conclusion each time. The naval robe, the careful posture, the specific quality of a man who was trying to look prepared and was primarily achieving resigned—all of it communicated the full picture without requiring words.
Jordan caught this and adjusted accordingly.
"It's fine," he said. "Do what you can. I'll make sure you come out of it intact."
Number 6's expression cycled through something complicated.
I guarantee you won't die was what Jordan had meant. What Number 6 appeared to have heard was I've already assessed you as the certain loser and am making injury-prevention arrangements. The distinction was significant to him.
Jordan processed this.
"That wasn't—"
Number 6 squared his shoulders with the dignity of a man who had accepted his situation and was going to demonstrate something worthwhile anyway.
Jordan stopped explaining.
Dr. Genus moved to the workbench at the field's edge and ran a sequence of inputs. The alloy floor of the training area shuddered—a deep mechanical exhale, like the building drawing a breath—and then the central section split apart in two halves, retracting sideways.
From below, a terrain platform rose.
Grass. A full, dense lawn of it, vibrant green, rising to floor level and locking into place with the precision of purpose-built engineering. The air changed immediately: humidity, chlorophyll, the clean-cut smell of plant matter that had been growing in artificial sunlight underground and was perfectly healthy.
Jordan stared at it.
They built a terrain-swap system into the floor.
He looked at Dr. Genus.
Dr. Genus pushed his glasses up, allowing the practical explanation to speak for itself.
Of course they did, Jordan thought. He built a city underneath a mountain in his spare time. A modular combat terrain is a Tuesday.
He thought of the Pokemon Battle Stadium from King's gaming collection. He thought of Grass-type terrain advantages and how they specifically interacted with Fire-type offense. He did not say any of this aloud.
I'm watching a Pokémon battle.
In a secret underground base.
In the One-Punch Man universe.
With seven superpowered Dr. Genus clones.
He found his seat at the observation line.
Number 6 stepped onto the grass with the care of someone walking onto familiar ground. His posture settled—not relaxed exactly, but present in a way that hadn't been there before. This was the terrain where his ability had teeth.
Number 2 stepped on after him, and the temperature in his immediate vicinity rose noticeably within about three seconds. Orange light pulsed across his skin. The Flame Transformation engaged in a clean upward surge—his body converting, the sharp edges of his silhouette blurring into heat distortion as the fire-state took hold—and then he simply lifted, riding the superheated convection column his own existence was generating, until he hung in the air above the center of the field.
The pose was genuinely impressive. One knee slightly bent, arms wide, fire spiraling in both palms with the easy command of someone who had spent significant time finding exactly the angle that worked best. He looked like the opening splash page of a hero debut issue.
He raised one hand toward Number 6—after you—
Number 6 did not waste the courtesy.
He dropped into a wide stance, pressed both palms flat against the grass, and the green light bled outward from his hands in a slow, steady pulse.
The lawn listened.
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