The old man let the silence settle before he spoke again.

"This year’s International Hero Summit marks the fourteenth consecutive gathering of our six nations." His voice carried without effort, unhurried, filling the room from wall to wall.

"For those attending for the first time, welcome. For those returning... You already know what this means. For everyone, I’ll remind you of what we’re here to do."

He moved to the display behind him. A map of the arena appeared—the ring-shaped dome, the central field, the subsidiary chambers branching off it.

"As usual, there’ll be three events, each spread across the three days of the convention, and the final award...."

The Emblem appeared on the display beside the map. A circular piece, gold and white, the six nations’ symbols arranged around its outer edge. Simple. Understated for something that carried as much institutional weight as it did.

Nicholas had looked it up before they arrived.

The Emblem wasn’t just ceremonial, and it wasn’t as simple as he’d thought it to be at the time.

The country that won it held the chair position at the International Hero Council for the following two years—the body that coordinated cross-border hero operations, treaty negotiations between associations, and resource allocation during global-level threats.

Winning the tournament wasn’t about pride. It was about leverage.

’That explains the hostility,’ he thought, glancing around.

While it looked like a convention for strengthening international ties, the gathering felt more like predators sharing the same hunting ground, waiting to see who would emerge as the apex.

"The first event," the president continued. "Will be the Race. Each country fields two representatives. The course runs through Sector C of this facility — a purpose-built urban environment across nine stages. You will be scored by the combined placement of both your runners. First through tenth place receive descending point allocations. Your national Race score is the sum of both runners’ individual placements."

He paused.

"The course is designed to be resistant to single-ability dominance. So just speed won’t be an advantage."

Nicholas had read the course specifications the night before. Nine stages.

The first three rewarded raw movement. Stages four through six shifted. Spatial reasoning, obstacle navigation, decision points where the wrong choice added time regardless of how fast you moved through them.

The final three were endurance-based, which meant the race wasn’t decided in the first minute. It was decided in the end.

’So they must’ve picked him over Bolt for some reason, what makes him different?’ Nicholas thought, his gaze drifting to Light who was staring at the display screen with rapt attention.

His gaze drifted through the crowd, trying to pinpoint the other racers for each country. It was a bit hard to tell with just looks, but the German speedster stood out.

His costume had a peculiar design, a long white loincloth draped from his waist with metallic lightning-bolt ornaments hanging from either side.

"The second event" the president said. "The Crucible."

A murmur moved through the room. Not surprise — most of the returning attendees had heard the name.

But the Crucible had a reputation.

"Each country fields three representatives for this event. You will enter a shared mental simulation, a constructed environment modeled on a real-world crisis scenario. The simulation is not disclosed in advance. You will have no preparation time once inside. The environment will be partially shared, your team’s decisions affect the space other teams occupy."

He let that land.

"Your objective is not survival. Survival is the baseline assumption. Your objective is to identify the cause of the crisis within the simulation, formulate a viable solution, and implement it before the simulation reaches critical collapse. The first team to achieve full resolution wins the Crucible. Partial resolution with correct diagnosis earns partial credit. Partial resolution without correct diagnosis earns less. No resolution earns nothing."

’Three from each country... So they weren’t looking for the strongest heroes. They needed people who could think under pressure and work together. Raw power alone would be useless.’

’His ability must be something tactical... I wonder what it does.’ Nicholas thought, his eyes turning towards Thinker, whose interest seemed to be locked on the President’s presentation.

"Event Three," the president said. "Combat. The Mark System."

The room shifted. It was subtle, but Nicholas noticed it.

Postures straightening, attention sharpening.

"Each country receives four hundred and fifty points to distribute across their three combat participants as they see fit. Minimum allocation per fighter is fifty points. Maximum is three hundred. Your distribution must be submitted before the first bout and cannot be changed."

He paused again. Longer this time.

"When a fighter wins a bout, they claim the mark of the defeated fighter. Those points transfer. When a fighter carrying accumulated marks is then defeated, all points they carry transfer to the winner."

The implication settled over the room.

’A fighter who wins early becomes a target. A fighter who wins repeatedly becomes a walking point accumulation that every remaining participant wants to take down... That’s why combat matters most. It’s the fastest way to get points and make up for all points lost in the other events’

’The more dominant you are, the more dangerous you become as a prize.’

It was elegant in the way that truly dangerous systems were elegant — it punished passivity and rewarded aggression but then punished unmanaged aggression by making successful fighters progressively more valuable to defeat. Every decision had a cost. Every win had a consequence.

’Which means the distribution decision isn’t just tactical,’ Nicholas thought. ’It’s psychological. How you distribute tells the other countries something about how you intend to fight. And some countries will distribute deceptively.’

The more he thought about it, the more interested he got in the tournament.

His eyes shifted to Mercury, who stood with her arms folded beneath her chest, and then to Tianzun.

The man hadn’t moved since they entered. Large beads in his hands, turning slowly. Eyes still closed.

"Point allocations toward national standings are as follows," the president continued. "Combat is weighted highest. The country accumulating the most marks across the full event earns the standing bonus. Combined with Race and Crucible scores, your national total determines final placement."

He straightened slightly.

"The Emblem goes to the highest combined total across all three events. A country that dominates combat but neglects the other two events can still lose. A country with consistent performance across all three can win without dominating any single one." He looked across the room. "This is intentional."

’It rewards complete delegations,’ Nicholas thought. ’Not specialists.’

"Questions about the format will be addressed by your delegation coordinators. The schedule for day one will be distributed to your rooms by this evening." The president looked across the room one final time. "Perform well. Represent your associations with distinction. And remember—"

He paused.

"The world is watching." The room grew tense at his words, but he immediately let out a chuckle.

"And lest I forget, the main reason behind this convention. The first three days will be used to allow y’all to bond and get together! The association wishes to strengthen bonds between countries and the growth of hero society. So make sure to bond and connect. The dining hall has been prepared already, and we’ll await your wonderful presence," Humphrey said with a chuckle as he stepped back from the stage.

The tension dissolved almost instantly beneath his laughter.

’Now we know where Eric got his act from’ Nicholas thought, his gaze lingering on the president for a while longer.

The room exhaled.

Chatter resumed almost immediately.

"Damn! This is so awesome. So many notable heroes. My fans would definitely love to see this. What should I start with..." Julie immediately produced her camera.

"Okay, okay, I need footage of the room right now, this is peak content, the atmosphere alone—"

"Put it away," Selena said without looking at her.

"C’mon—"

"Julie."

The camera went away, "Tsk, such a kill joy" she muttered.

Selena turned to Nicholas. "So will you be going to the dinning?"

"I don’t have any interest in going, I’ll just go check out my room"

"Phantom is always uptight. Wind down a bit! The tournament is starting three days from now. You can’t spend it all in your room," Julie chipped in, her eyes fixed on him. ’I can’t let him go. Most of my audience only wants Phantom! He needs screen time.’

Nicholas looked at Julie, his expression edging towards disgust. He could clearly tell what was in her mind.

Selena smiled faintly. "Julie isn’t wrong tho, I feel you should actually unwind a bit with the days we’ve got."

"No I’ll be fine in my room" Nicholas replied bluntly.

"Whatever, you can do what you want. I’ll reach out to you on the third day so we can go through our plans for the tournament." She couldn’t argue with him. It was pointless.

But Julie couldn’t let him off easily, not today.

"Wait! Please don’t go!" Julie jumped on him, holding onto him.

Nicholas wanted to release his hands, but her grip was surprisingly strong. ’How is she strong now but useless when it comes to a fight?’ Nicholas thought, genuinely surprised.

Selena quickly approached to help him take Julie who latched onto him. "We should—"

"Phantom."

The voice came from behind them.

Nicholas felt all the hairs on his body stand as he turned.

Tianzun stood three meters away.

’He got close and I didn’t notice?’ Nicholas gaze sharpened as he looked at Tianzun.

Tianzun slowly opened his eyes a smile cutting across his face and the next words that left his mouth left sent a ripple of shock through the crowd.