When the supes in the United States were preening for the masses, something sinister was going on across the Atlantic, on a large island nestled between France and Germany, Britain, or Albion, if one wanted to get old fashioned. A terrorist organization, known for years as the Men of Albion, staged a takeover in the capital city of London, along the way—in the middle of the chaos—murdering anyone whom they believed did not belong in the British Isles; minorities were the victims of MOA (Men of Albion) terrorists and rioters alike, often being beaten, stabbed, or immolated by the rioters as apposed to being gunned down on the spot by the Men of Albion, the former having no access to automatic weapons due to Britain and, by extension, the European Union's gun regulations. Only the terrorist had access to automatic weaponry which, to everyone's shock and horror, was far more advanced than any known terrorist faction, even terrorists in the Middle East and Africa; however, these men combined the complexity of modern military equipment with the brutality of Africa, as one could note by the use of machetes for their hand-to-hand weapons, possibly to terrorize unarmed non-White Britons who cannot fight back against them. One thing was for certain that day: Brexit was happening, it just was not happening through the political process, but through violence and genocide at the hands of a faction of north Londoners whose humble beginnings were a disorganized group of terrorist cells that brutalized non-native Britons, Jews, gypsies, homosexuals, and transgenders.

The whole city of London at night was alight with flame. The fires of the rioting sent the whole city into chaos, to such a severe degree that not even the mighty British army could contain the chaos, on account of dealing with riots all the way on the other side of the country, their forces stretched too thinly to deal with a bunch of barbarians armed with G36 assault rifles and machetes, supplied to them by an unknown foreign benefactor from across the Atlantic. Too much of the army's resources were dedicated to quelling unrest from ordinary citizens who, dealing with food shortages, looted stores to feed themselves and their families after the long, two-week black out that wiped out all refrigeration units, leaving the entire country in darkness for several months until, lau and behold, the rioting started.

Around Parliament, the army was massing outside, ready to kill every elected official who had supposedly betrayed their people, according to their leader, Adamantine, a powerful supe floating above his army—just ten feet in the air above—almost as if he was sent down by God or the Gods to protect the British people; that was what his army believed anyway.

At the very peak of the Big Ben clock tower, the British Prime Minister lay dead, impaled by the sharp spike at the very top of the Elizabeth Tower, his ropy, crimson entrails covering the tip; Adamantine could see his handiwork with his telescopic vision. Around Parliament and floating around in the River Thames were the bodies of the soldiers who defended the current elite. While Adamantine respected their valor, well the ones whom he deemed to be endemic to Britain, he saw the others, however, as being mercenaries sent from foreign continents to oppress Europeans and, by extension, the United Kingdom. Thusly, he sought their removal from the British Isles; they did not belong in his land or his realm, as he put it. Britain belonged to him and the people he deemed worthy to tread the land and not a damn thing was going to stop him in his crusade of building his new kingdom over the ashes of the liberal, British democracy that had stood in place of monarchy for more than a century, outliving even him by many decades; it mattered not. He was going to rule the land, and there was not a damned thing that could stop him now.

The armed forces of Britain's mightiest soldiers could not even stop his lackeys, back when it was just ordinary men with knives and guns committing random acts of terror in the name of some god, Adamantine himself. Why, the police were even more pitiful. By the time they showed up, the hoodlum who shot up some Kebab shop was gone, almost as if they vanished into thin air, in the highly secure police state that was the United Kingdom. The soldiers were gone, the Prime Minister was gone, and the only thing standing in his way were some flabby bureaucrats, who care not of ideals, but getting elected for the second to third time in a row. To Adamantine and his terrorist group, the Men of Albion, those people and that whole system of democracy needed to go, its impetus of Britain's survival too much to bear for the common people—in their minds—at least.

Adamantine changed his position, gently levitating to the ground below just in front of his army, and turned to face them. He collected himself, excited with the anticipation of finally conquering his own country from his supposed enemies and naming himself the supreme ruler of his nation for over a thousand years which, coincidently, was how long his new Empire was going to last, assuming he never got any women pregnant; that was if they never inherited any of his powers. If they had, this empire could last until the end of time. He collected himself, to focus on giving a rousing speech for his army, the army that had conquered Britain in just eight years, starting as a mere gaggle of loosely organized neo-nazi street gangs back in 2008.

"Well lads, this is it! This is the day we take back our nation from those odious, perverted, psychopathic kikes who have wrought nothing but destruction and bastardization of our people for millenia. Ancient Egypt, Persia, the Western Roman Empire and Ancient Greece, all White, Aryan civilizations mongrelized and destroyed by Jewish subversion. Today represents the breaking of this cycle and the Jewish people—root and branch—swapped into the trash heap of history, where Hadrian and the Kraut failed by showing these oriental parasites mercy. The Anglo-Saxon White man shan't show any quarter to Jews and their collaborators who, in exchange for wealth, send their sons die in wars for Israel, their daughters to be brainwashed into mindless feminist drones, and mutilating their children into genderbending freaks, all in the name of what the kikes consider progress," Adamantine ranted, pointing his finger, then directing it to Parliament.

"Charge!"

With that rousing speech, his men charged Parliament unopposed by the dead soldiers that laid dead on the streets. What few soldiers remained were trampled under the feet of many soldiers, what was left of their skeletons shattering from the torrents of hundreds of jack-booted feet stomping on them. They did not even want to waste the ammo; it was what they were taught since ammo for insurgents was rather scarce, the sources of which thin, as Britain did not sell rounds for the rifles those men used. Those were outlawed as 'assault ammo'. Instead, they all used ammo that was supplied by their leader, or more specifically, stolen from other countries to supply his small army of insurgents which, being only discovered when it was too late, gave the Men of Albion access to military grade weapons and explosives, all stolen from various first-world militaries across the globe. Having flight and vast superhuman speed made that task easy; the countries always suspect criminals raided their armories to sell to various black-market arms dealers whose arms and ordinance winded up in the hands of Men of Albion terrorists in the UK.

Outside, machine gun fire could be heard, followed by the screams of politicians. Adamantine could hear them from all the way outside, their screams and thuds to the ground travelling almost a hundred meters to reach where he turned to watch, his victory over the British government assured. He was winning, not by swaying the masses to his side, but by fighting: his war was a spectator's sport, just like politics. The masses cared not of the morals of the two sides but only of the victor of this war, and that victor was a far-right extremist, backed by groups of racists, nationalists, and rogue British military elements, all wanting to see Adamantine, a god-like being from Asgard, become king of England, just as he would rightly so in the days of yore where might made right.

In fact, he even looked like he had descended down from the heavens, his appearance giving everyone the impression of a Norse diety—of someone sent down by the All father of Norse legend to guard the existence of the greatest experiment of the Gods—the White race. His face was sharp and angular while still maintaining the masculine rugged quality that was almost never present in someone with a narrow face; his eyes were emeralds, perfectly green, almost glowing green when light reflected off of them, though they were obscured, hooded, giving him a more menacing, warrior-like appearance often seen in the kings and nobility of old. Speaking of which, he stood at almost six and a half feet tall, built with muscles that were tight rocks—hard as stone—on his body. Like the rest of his body and face, his nose was no exception, thin and sharp, though perfectly straight. He looked like he was bred over many generations for form and function, or depending on people who have seen him, carved by the Gods in their image from marble, brought to life in the form of a man.

To compliment his appearance further, he wore a helmet, modeled after the Sutton Hoo helm, worn by Anglo-Saxon invaders in the fourth and fifth century back when Britain was born. Gold flowed from the back. He wore chainmail to further enhance that aesthetic, his arms still exposed to reveal his rock like muscles. His cuirass and bracers were made out of hardened leather that was dark, created from dry animal hide hunted from the forests, mahogany in color. On his chest, he bore a sun wheel cross tooled into the leather, often used by people in his movement to distance themselves from the Nazis in WWII, though it did not matter since the media would call him a super Nazi anyway in the months to come. Similar tooling could be seen on his shin guards, this time an Elhaz rune; however, it was obscured in the cover of night.

When the Men of Albion had finished their sweep of the British Parliament building, they brought out many to execute. The survivors wounded, often bearing the injuries of shrapnel, spalling, or just straight up blunt force trauma from his men beating them. Some of the politicians' heads were so badly swollen their heads may as well have been misshapen potatoes, the fluids from all of the bruising causing their heads to swell in all of the wrong places. Some of them did not even have eyes, their cheekbones shattered from getting punched or bludgeoned with the butt of a FAMAS or a G36. Some bled to death. Others died from brain trauma. They did not even have the energy to resist being dragged over to face Adamantine's wrath, the result of being beaten so thoroughly, or in some cases, mutilated, as was the case of Simeon Levine, founder of Open Nations.

Simeon Levin was a humanitarian, often helping refugees or other unfortunate people into places like Europe or the United States of America, usually people fleeing oppression or poverty in the third world. However, because of what he promotes, and the fact that pissed off the most powerful man in existence, he was now on the chopping block, facing death from a racist, homophobic, transphobic superhuman who wanted nothing more than to see people like him exterminated—root and branch—as he stated in his rousing speech earlier to all of his men, just before they stormed parliament ready to slaughter all of the elected officials in Britain. He was Jewish and, to his misfortune, was seen as part of a Jewish global conspiracy to replace White people by the Men of Albion terrorist group.

"All this power and ya choose to live out some sadistic Turner Diaries fantasy of wiping out all minorities in yer country, ya vicious antisemitic, meshuga putz!" yelled Simeon "Why, you could've left, joined Vought, and made millions of dollars as a B-list supe, as yer Caucasian appearance reduces yer chances of gettin' into da Seven, and the light eyes and hair ya sport ain't helpin' neither, goy."

With those words said, Adamantine's face contorted in disgust at such a prospect; he hated Hollywood and people like Simeon and, to people like Adamantine who view people like Simeon as vermin to be cleansed from Western Civilization, never wanted anything to with what he saw as their biggest and greatest weapon for brainwashing Western populations into self-destruction. Hollywood was AIDs to him, a sickness that destroyed the hosts immune system, allowing for weaker, less potent diseases, or as how he interpreted it, invaders to enter and destroy Western society. He was going to put a stop to it. Starting from that fateful day when he finally won and conquered England, he was going to control the flow of information, in and out of Britain, to protect it from the so-called poisonous influence of Vought and liberal Hollywood. However, firstly, he was going to deal with a pest—Jewish-German Billionaire, humanitarian—Simeon Levin.

"Well, since you've asked for the reason—and no—I normally do not reason with such vermin who claim to be some kind of chosen people, I see no point in it. Why would I, one of if not the most powerful beings on this hellscape your kind have turned the world into, help people like you brainwash gentiles, or as you call them, cattle? What I will do is excise the tumerous masses of this world, namely the populations you have imported who, like an invading army without weapons, gobble up welfare, buy up housing, and rape or kidnap our women and children, often selling them as sex slaves to Israel where your kind rapes them; you rape little young White girls in Israel and in Russia, all to sell videos of your deeds to rich perverts in the West. And of course, the media never talk about it, Western Media in question being owned by your kind, thus covering up everything to protect pedophiles. I know most Jews are nothing like you. However, the ones that aren't involved cover for the ones that do. The thought of use rebelling and throwing off the gilded chains you use to enslave the goyim fills your kind with such dread. I mean, how can cattle destined for slaughter rebel against God's Chosen? I will send you to your God, Yahweh; however, I am going to chop your family tree down first—branch by perfidious branch. You will beg for death. Then I, the merciful White man, will oblige your request, slowly and painfully," Adamantine ranted as he craned his down to Simeon, smiling at what he was going to do with him.

"Oh no. Fuck you! FUCK YOU!,"

"Screaming obscenities is not going to save your family. Know that their deaths are your fault; you could've prevented this had you stayed out of the affairs of Albion. Now you leave me no choice," remarked Adamantine, his Emerald eyes almost glowing with glee.

"Bring in his family!" ordered Adamantine with a walkie talkie.

"Yes me lord," the walkie crackled.

Just right to the River Thames, Men of Albion soldiers dragged out Simeone's family, just on the other side of the Parliament building. As far as that was, Adamantine could see it perfectly, his telescoping vision allowing him to zoom in close to where they were being dragged, a few hundred meters away from where Adamantine was ordering the execution of the political elite, near the front entrance. That was where their execution was going to take place.

Looking at Simeon's family, Adamantine tossed the walkie with such a force that, as soon as it left his fingers, formed a vapor trail around it, sending it flying at immense speed, faster than an SR71 Blackbird from the US Airforce. It picked up speed, the friction of the air molecules engulfing it in orange heat, its transformation complete; it was a meteor, traveling at many factors the speed of sound, and one might imagine how devastating an impact from a hypersonic object would be to a human body when one factors in the kinetic energy equation, they would learn in High school class. Predictably, such a projectile would be devastating, the effect on a human body completely indescribable to the layman.

The walkie turned into a beam of light in those brief moments, impacting Simeon's wife with the force of a grenade, the sheer kinetic energy, combined with the friction, ripped apart his wife and children, reducing them to a dusk, void on the cobblestone path, flecked with bits of bone that was not completely carbonized by the immense kinetic energy and heat, the blast a miniature nuclear bomb created from the sheer kinetic force. Any faster and the walkie would have triggered a nuclear fusion reaction that would have probably killed all except for Adamantine and some of London.

"Wow! Impressive stuff that was," yelled one of Adamantine's followers, still recovering from the blast, his ears leaking crimson from the immense blast wave. His face was flushed and dry from the light, the bright brilliant light giving him a sunburn.

Simeon was not doing too good, the light from the explosion charring his face, his eyelids sealed shut from the immense thermal release, a consequence of having been closer to the blast than Adamantine's comrades. Not only was he burned, he was cut up and pretty badly, glass shards from the explosion rending his body, covering it with crimson and pus. As he got up after all of that pain, he realized, to his horror, that he could not see.

"I can't see!" he cried

What have you done to my family, ya limey bastid," he yelled in a weak, high pitched, nasally, feminine voice at the top of his lungs.

"Do not feel too bad! You will soon be joining them. In hell!" Adamantine proclaimed, his mouth changing from as stoic as stone to a sadistic, predatory grin.

With those words, Adamantine flew over to him, then proceeded to rocket into the sky, Simeon in his left hand, grabbed by the throat. He picked up speed until he was engulfed by a vapor cone, the perspirant of his body turning to vapor from the friction. Then a cone of flame engulfed his body, having no effect on Adamantine; however, it did have a nasty effect on Simeon, the heat and force of the air sheering the skin off his body like some brutal sandstorm in the middle east. Simeon would have screamed had his nerve endings not been seared shut from the explosion previously.

Within seconds, Adamantine had exited the Earth's atmosphere, Great Britain and Europe in full view from the cold dark of space and in his left hand were the ashes of Simeon Levine, glowing orange at thousands of degrees centigrade, the heat of his remains not even burning through the leather gloves of Adamantine's costume. Ashes floated from his palm, no longer bound by the force of gravity in the vacuum of the ether.

The view in space was prepossessing; he could see London, Europe, and parts of the Middle East, all outline by the teal, neon hue of Earths atmosphere, outlining the planet's spherical shape from orbit. The lights of the countries, lit up from the electricity, elucidated Western Europe like a Christmas tree from the orbital cycle he was viewing Europe from. England, in contrast, was dark, the result of the sabotage of the power grid by the Men of Albion terrorist organization. Within a year, however, it will be lit up, as brilliantly as its neighbors, once the country was rebuilt from all of the death and destruction Adamantine's revolution had caused. Sadly, for Adamantine, he could not admire the view for long, the lack of oxygen already creeping up on him; he felt dizzy. He still admired the view of his new country, even though it was hard to make out as most of the country was a spectacle for the ages, even though he needed to descend back down to earth to get some much-needed air—probably in the sky—so he did not die.

The very next day was tense in the United States. Outside of Vought, The Capitol Building, and the White house, people were protesting—minority groups mainly—angry at the fact the United States was stopping terrorism in the Middle East; however, as far as Europe was concerned, they were a non-issue. They were not sitting on billions of barrels of oil, and thus, did not need to be bombed into accepting democracy. As far as the current administration was concerned, the new nation, Albion, ruled over by a racist, genocidal tyrant, was nothing more than a European North Korea, a nation that wanted to isolate itself from the rest of the world, left alone to its own devices, the elite of it deciding its destiny. For it was they who conquered the country over the past ten years; they who will shape public opinion of the masses; they who will control the destiny of the Anglo-Sphere, not the US, its supes, its nukes, or even its soldiers, but Adamantine and his army abroad.

Even worse was the protesting outside of Vought Tower in New York City. There, thousands of people gathered around, protesting the company for not including its supes in the United States army. To their lament, the US still was not authorising the use of superheroes in the US army, their supes being deemed substandard. After all, what were a bunch of soft, pampered celebrities going to do against a hardened military dictator with powers on par with Homelander's, possibly better as Israeli satellites took pictures of him, hovering in orbit overlooking Europe as if it was land to conquer like an empowered Alexander the Great or Emperor Hadrian, for he, just as the Romans, had a nasty habit of cleansing land of undesirables while conquering it.

Stan Edgar was one such person, terrified of the future geopolitical implications of the fall of the United Kingdom into some fascist dictatorship, ruled over by a modern-day Oswald Mosley with superpowers very similar to that of the best supe, Homelander, albeit minus the heat vision. The only thing that helped Edgar keep calm was the fact the terrorist was British, as he could determine by his features and overall accent—that being the aristocratic Queen's English dialect that gave him an aura of nobility and divinity, and those that followed him believed he was a Norse God, sent down from Asgard to protect Western Civilization, as a new book was published about him called The Destroyer, published by White Supremacist author, Arthur Luther Pierce II, in 2009 before his death. It was real. The author was a prophet, foretelling Edgar's doom. Adamantine was a Norse God as far as Edger knew; he knew not how The Men of Albion created him, and as far as he knew, they lacked the sophistication to create such a compound that would bring about such power in some mere terrorist; it was unfathomable. They did not have access to Compound V. Maybe the British Government developed their own variant back in WWII.

The thought of there being other superpower serums in existence sent shivers down Stan's spine, cold as interstellar space, right as the neurons fired to come to that conclusion. There were other supes, probably predating the experiments at Dachau, and Vought hypothesized that in his journals before moving to the States, in 1944, certain of Germany's defeat in WWII. In some of his notes, the information pried from the shrieking wreck of a Soviet soldier, stated that there were supes, made by Britain, smashing up factories in the Soviet Union. Lenin, Trotsky, and many of the Jewish members of the Russian Revolution met grisly fates. Trotsky met his fate, his head crushed into a chunky, crimson paste, almost as if crushed by two immortal hands with Divine strength; Lenin, meanwhile, was hewn limb from limb by a blunt object the width of Human fingers, almost as if he was Karate chopped to death. After that, it was still strange, as if some hand was engineering the fall of the Soviet Union. Nuclear bombs were taken away from the Soviets, handed over to terrorists, who then held Israel ransom for hundreds of billions of dollars, the equivalent of a trillion in US dollars in the current year—2016's money; the US and UK were more than happy to pay their ransom demands, even going so far as to get the country indebted for an entire decade. From then onward, Soviet officials were killed in seemingly mysterious ways, all of them Jewish, often dying from falling thousands of feet from the sky, as if that mystery supe in Frederick's journals carried them into the sky for defenestration. The mystery supervillain may have been Captain Albion, a super villain from one of the Payback cartoons, the arch nemesis of Lady Liberty. He was real, the mastermind behind the Soviet Union's fall, now the conquest of the UK, all executed by Captain Albion between 1933 and 2016. He knew of only one person who would have been impressed by such feats; however, she was kept in the dark, at the request of her husband, for fear she would unwittingly interfere with a potential failsafe plan.

All around the outer perimeter of the building, protestors were picketing, their signs from various groups. There were MAPs (minor attracted person), so called victims of societal oppression, their oppression often compared to the treatment of homosexuals under the various bible belt states back in the 2000s to early 2010s. Then there were groups like Black Lives Matter, B'Nai B'rith, various black and Jewish advocacy groups hellbent on getting Vought into the military, even going so far as have the Fed print money for the monumentality of such a feat, a massive herculean order that would bankrupt the United States the same way Weimar Germany's economy collapsed after WWI. He sympathized with them, Black Lives Matter especially. He knew that once Europe was conquered, ripped from the European Union's yoke of power by the Second Empire of Albion—the nation state that Adamantine built over the ashes of the United Kingdom—that he was coming for America just as the Germans were going to after they dealt with the Soviets. He could almost feel the noose tighten around his neck at the thought of it, hung by British soldiers as they reclaimed New England. And as far as he knew, a revitalized Imperial Britain would have a casus belli on that region of the United States just as Nazi Germany had a casus belli on Poland. The British were coming and they were not making him pay taxes this time, only his destruction to purify their claimed territory of undesirables.

Looking behind him, he saw the anxious faces of the Seven, the news of various journalists from various stations playing behind them in unison, all with the headline: England Falls to Fascism all From a Single Man. Even Homelander, sat in the middle, was probably soiling his costume in fear at the terrifying horror of such a man, a man so powerful he may as well have been the Norse god the book described, The Destroyer, written to be like The Book of Revelations for White Supremacists; however, unlike The Book of Revelations, this story ends with most of the world cleansed in flame, the only Arks of Humanity being Europe and North America, with much of their populations killed from war, pestilence, and famine. The only populations that had survived were the strongest of the native European population, the strong men forged in the hard, fast economic collapses that followed inheriting the Earth. The meek liberal White men had their women taken away, cucked out of the gene-pool by the mightiest European men, the natural order of things: might makes right. All of this was fate, and Homelander knew it. The meek shan't inherit nothing, not even the air of this world. Nature had always favored the strong.

Maeve, meanwhile, cared little of what had happened in England. She knew that nothing was going to be done of it in the first place; thus, she was not concerned, her only concern being of how much time this meeting was going to take before she can get back to downing liquor like Peter Griffin from Family Guy, only with a little more class. She was an addict, an alcoholic fiend, but it did not interfere with her ability to make the company billions, and thus, was allowed to remain on the Seven in spite of her habit.

A-Train, however, was furious, his breath rapid, trying to stay composed in the face of the events that had happened and would continue to happen in the UK. He was about to smash something, enraged at the fact he could not kill Adamantine in the same way Homelander was terrified of Adamantine killing him with his vastly higher superhuman strength. Sadly for him, however, the United States government, and by extension Vought, wanted to stay out of it, for fear it might enrage Adamantine into firing the entire nuclear arsenal at all non-White nations across the globe, starting with Israel; most people in the meeting, Homelander included, thought of it as nothing more than a bluff to cause an American civil war. The fact that his country would not intervene against a country that not only excluded people of his skin color but killed them where ever and whenever they were found sent him into a mixture of despondence and rage, visible in his shaking posture, ants crawling all over his skin, nipping at him, driving him mad. Edgar almost admired the balls of A-Train, willing to take on a being of immense power, knowing full well Adamantine would surely claim his life in such a battle.

"Today was the Day of The Rope, a grim and bloody day, but an unavoidable one. From tens of thousands of lampposts, power poles, and trees throughout this vast Island, their grisly forms hanging from a few hundred meters from where I stand, each with a printed ledger," said Adamantine in clip, his tone stoic and cold, unaffected by the atrocities he had ordered his men to commit.

The cameras on the various news stations panned to images of the various people Adamantine had ordered to be lynched, their grisly forms hanging from bridges, overpasses, lampposts, and trees, all bearing the ledger "I betrayed my race" in printed lettering. That was what happened to not just the British elite, but Britons who engaged in behavior Adamantine had not approved of. Blacks, Arabs, Jewish people, all lynched, paired with their white partners to show the world, a twisted preview of thing to come in the greater Western World, not unlike the hangings of blacks in 1880s US, in the Southern. Now this was happening, in England, once known as one of the most liberal countries on Earth, now becoming a back water as Brexit happened, violently severing the UK from the EU like the American Revolution, only with Oswald Mosley instead of George Washington leading the revolt.

Enraged, A-Train grabbed his chair, tossing it at the TVs with the fury of a child throwing a meltdown, his mind unable to process the fact he was completely hopeless to stop Adamantine, in contrast to Edgar's cool and calculated demeanor; the latter was as cool as a man playing poker, though cracks were showing. Maeve on the other hand just rolled her eyes like an apathetic teenage girl, caring little of what goes on outside the United States, the chances of the events in Britain having very little chance of spilling over into the US, causing social upheavals other than the occasional protest, like the one outside of Vought Tower, for instance. Homelander just shrugged his shoulders; he knew there was nothing he could do. Lamplighter tried to control his breathing, not wanting to get between a furious A-Train, the problems in Britain affecting him no more than the usual tragic news one would hear on television, aside from the fact the major historical implications for Western Civilization, a great turning, a change from the trend of progress, a stark, brutal gut-wrenching reminder that history was cyclic as apposed to linear, turning back and forth as the pendulum swung one extreme to another. A-Train unfortunately lived long enough to learn that harsh fact about Civilizations: they did not last. The civilization he was living in was about to collapse, and with any collapses a new civilization arises—like a phoenix—from the ashes. Just as Albion arose from the ashes of the UK, the Anglo-Saxon civilization reborn anew, regressed to the more natural Human instincts.

"Calm down, Reginald. I, just as you do, do not like the idea of some genocidal Englishman running roughshod over Europe, committing genocide like some superpowered Adolf, as you can tell by looking at me; however, unlike you, I realize that getting angry over it will not deal with it. All what I can do is wait for the US Government. The EU might be offering us contracts. Don't worry! You will be able to fight him. One way or another," lied Edgar through his teeth, knowing that the Seven were no match for Adamantine—fodder for a nigh-invincible demigod who managed to subdue a nuclear world power, possibly only using his army of followers to keep the White population alive to rule over like a king.

Arthur Luther Pierce III was the wealthiest man on Earth, his net worth estimated at four hundred and fifty billion dollars, even more than the other titans of industry of the past, such as J.D Rockefeller, who only attained such vast wealth due to the United States' lax laws on monopolies back then. He had it all money, fame, women, and a whole fleet of cars, and a penthouse just inside of Providence, Rhode Island, where he took up residence and work. He was a pioneering man, the first man to mass-produce electric cars and develop private space travel, with plans for his company, Pierce Holdings, to pioneer a manned mission to Mars, beating out his competitor, Singh Galactic, though that competition ended when Adamantine had the CEO liquidated, killed by a sniper upon leaving work, his only crime choosing East Indians over White Britons. All of this filled his heart with glee, making him wealthier, as he was the only company offering trips to space, with no one left to fill the vacancy, the barrier of entry too high, almost as high as being Vought.

He was a handsome man, looking like a dead wringer for Adamantine, the resemblance uncanny, the same eyes, face shape. The only difference between him and Adamantine were the cheekbones, the only trait he inherited from his mother, his genes overriding any woman he chose to mate with, the effects of a serum his father developed after WWI, in the roaring twenties. He received tactile telekinetic powers that mimicked superhuman strength, speed, invulnerability, and flight, all from a telekinetic aura his body emitted like the forcefield of a spaceship. He also gained an unnaturally long life, his telomeres shrinking at a tenth the rate of a normal Human, giving him the age and appearance of a thirty-two-year-old man, despite being over a hundred and ten and a veteran of both World Wars. He disguised his immortality and powers by faking his death in numerus car accidents, disappearing like a ghost from the spotlight when he was older than forty, and playing the role of the mild-mannered, elitist businessman, or writer for the American far-Right in every persona, which of course was just his regular routine, each Roman numeral representing how many times he faked his own death. He could live for over a thousand years, only showing any signs of aging on to his middle age by his five hundredth year while he still remained in his physical prime.

Him and his son were not the only two with that same exact powerset; there were eight other men before him, sat around a large, wooden boardroom table, dressed in business suites, discussing their plans for the future going forward from what had happened in the UK not more than a day prior to the events of this meeting. They could have done this meeting while flying, high in the sky, away from potential prying eyes, but the 199th floor of Pierce Tower proved to be an excellent spot to hold their meeting, hidden away from potential aircraft or spy satellites, used by the forces of justice to watch their every move. These men were test subjects, crippled soldiers experimented on by his father with his gene therapy, used at first to regenerate damaged tissue; the results, however, enhanced the subject as well, unknowingly—very much like an unintended side-effect of a drug or treatment—only positive. These men were executives, CEOs of Pierce's various fronts used to fund his schemes, namely the insurrection that had occurred, his son his henchmen acting as king of the new nation, Albion. He was a Bond villain with his shell companies, his henchmen, and his operation as Captain Albion. No, he was a superpowered Bond villain, stronger than any of Vought's supes, combined with a brain that would put Einstein to shame, the result of generations of eugenic breeding centuries ago from his Aristocratic family in the old country where he fled from in the 1940s. The men in this room, along with him, were members of the British Union of Fascists, a fascist organization that blamed Jews and other non-European ethnic minorities for the economic calamities in Europe.

The room they were in was very unconventional for what one would expect from a corporate boardroom. The room had a very Victorian Era feel, from the style of the furnishings, all the way to the gilding of the paintings, a little too traditional for modern, corporate board rooms at any time in history, except for the 1800s, during the industrial revolution, when offices, in particular, the lofty offices of the rich, sported this style. This style further emphasized their English origin, not in just in the corporate offices in the top floor, but also the entire architecture of the building itself, in spite of the immense size and height of the building, the Burj Khalifa smaller by comparison, and looking more advanced with its size and its blend of modern and traditional architecture, almost like something from a retro themed science fiction story, set in an alternate universe where the cultural norms had not changed at all.

However, the secretaries knew the board was in a meeting, not to be disturbed by their meddling in affairs too far above their paygrade; thus, they never so much as knocked on the door behind Arthur, afraid of disturbing the men who signed their checks. Hell, they were probably too focused on arranging their schedules to care of what they spoke, too burned out at the end to remember so much as a peep that escapes the Italian Maple double door.

"Gentleman, I have summoned you here today to speak of the situation in the UK, what we have been working for all this time, ever since I have founded the British Union of Fascists with the late Oswald Mosley. We have conquered England, the heartland of our people. With that secured, we should now be focused on grabbing more territory—perhaps parts of the United States, namely New England first, the collection of states we had chose to hide in. Perhaps we might consider taking Africa as well, after we have extirpated the shaved gorillas polluting the land, ruining a future breadbasket for our new empire. Then we take New Zealand and Australia, those regions serving as more land for the UK's soon to be growing population in the Second Empire, built to last a thousand years as the rest of the cowardly, timid White world falls to Jewish subversion, mongrelized out of existence even as we plan to put the Jews into the dust bin of history, as we should have thousands of years before, back when the Roman Empire was the international court. Now the Second Empire will be the ruling superpower. With it, our path is clear, the White man's ascendancy over the lower forms of Humanity guaranteed. The final victory is nigh, my brothers! And nothing, not even Vought's supes can stop us," said Arthur Pierce, confidently smiling as several decades of planning, the fruits of all his labor finally paying off after many years, his plan stretching back many decades.

"There is just one 'ole in your plan, sir. That is, 'ow do we even get the quantity of Serum-22 required? Over such amounts of territory, the distances will be vast, our forces stretched thin trying to protect our fledgling little empire from incursions by both the EU and the JewSA. How in the fuck are we goin' to start producin' such a vast quantity with the Mossad breathing down our bloody backs? They 'ave been huntin' us for years, and when one of them bumblin' sheenies finds us out, we 'ave to set up an elaborate story as to why their throats get torn out, often endin' with us fabricatin' an escaped chimp, to explain 'ow their neck got torn out by a bloody human hand," scowled Yockey, CEO of Pierce Pharmaceuticals.

Pierce straightened his posture, his above-average six-feet, five inches in height giving him an air of dominance over his more timid henchmen. He relaxed, steepled his fingers, and smiled as he thought of a reply to Yockey's naysaying over his global conquest plan.

"Well, that is the thing, you see, Mossad and the Jews behind them are not even a relevant threat to us anymore. In fact, they are too paralyzed with fear, voiding their bowls at the prospect that their age has ended, and we, as we have done time and again, are kicking them out, not out of the West, but from this mortal coil itself. Failure after failure in England trying pitifully to stop Men of Albion terrorists has set them too far back to spy on us. Why, I remember the times when I fed Mossad agents to sharks, back in the 1960s, when I held Israel hostage from my private island, using a nuclear weapon I stole from the Soviets, lined it with Cobalt, and placed it in Tel Aviv, right in the railway system. I only gave them the disarm code when the United State government paid over one-hundred and fifty billion dollars into an anonymous bank account in Switzerland, the contents of which were used for the start-up capital used to build our corporations, manufacture more doses of Serum-22, and propel us from mere terrorists—motivated by anti-Communism—all the way to the empire we are now. It is through my leadership we have gotten to this point; do not doubt my resolve, not even for a single second," scoffed Arthur, leaning further back into his chair.

"If Britain has taught us one thing is that you do not have to be some kind of superman who could shoot lasers from his eyes to conquer a nation. The racial wars in the UK were not fought with supermen but ordinary men with guns and knives, a tale old as time itself, an inferior force harassing a superior force until said superior force capitulates due to failing supply and a demoralized army. That is how the UK fell. My son only revealed himself once his guerilla fighters have totally rendered the UK ungovernable, and only the bravest of non-Whites even remained by that point. The rest had packed their bags, heading for greener pastures in Germany, Sweden, and in the case of the Jews, Israel. Most of the minorities were the celebrities, the types who could hire armed mercenaries to protect themselves from a lone wolf terror attack, just as I do, not because I am scared of a terrorist, but to give the public the impression I am a mortal man even though I am not; the last thing we want is to have Vought claim ownership over us. Going back on topic, we are going to start by having lone wolves, fans of Adamantine who are going to pose as Stormchasers converting into Disciples. That way, we draw the White members of Stormfront's toxic, liberal fanbase into our ranks, in particular the straight White males who follow her. That superpowered Joe Rogan wannabe has been a thorn in my side for far too long, same with her half-caste boss, Stan Edger."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the US, Stormfront was in her study, addressing her fanbase—the Stormchasers—through an Instagram stream about the events that have occurred in the UK just recently. The opinions of her fans were mixed on the whole, many denouncing it, and many, being the right-wing extremists they were, were praising Adamantine, some even going so far as to say they were know fans of Adamantine instead; in fact, many, like BombsAwayMrMcVeigh and Earl Turner1488, came onto the stream worshipping Adamantine as if he were some God sent down from the heavens to save Western Civilization from the global Jewish cabal they ranted about—in her stream—dragging her name through the dirt like hatchet men. Little did she know, they were political hatchet man, just not of the conventional kind.

"Er… I don't think it is a good idea to praise a genocidal man because he has blonde hair, ladies! By the way, who the fuck are you guys referring to with "BombsAwayMrMcVeigh and EarlTurner1488? I have no idea who they are, aside from the fact one of the characters you two seem to be referencing is a terrorist from the nineties—you know—the one who bombed a federal building over Ruby Ridge. That was an inside job and he was a government agent, used by the federal government to put the United States Constitution into a paper shredder," responded Stormfront to their posts, her face showing visible signs of irritation at their supposed stupidity.

"Bimbo, do you think I give a half-ounce of fried shit about the cohenstitution? I do not. It is a piece of paper that says the population has rights; however, what really determines whether a population has rights is by how armed they are. Today, I will demonstrate that by launching an IRL effort post on a synagogue, a hive of parasites, corruptors of civilization who should have been exterminated by my ancient ancestors long ago, back when Hadrian and his twelve legions only treated the cancer as apposed to removing it, cutting it from this Earth as they should. Here is the link to my manifesto. You will find that it is in PDF format. Finally, here is the link to my livestream, for you to witness the slaughter of the parasites like the vermin they are," wrote EarlTurner1488.

Stormfront, curious as to what all the fuss was about when all the user names disappeared, clicked on the link, feeling a tenebrous sense of fear of what was going to become of her reputation when her suspicions over what she thought that link was, a livestreamed mass shooting, carried out by a right-wing nut job. She was old enough to understand the wordplay he was using, his thinly disguised antisemitic rants hidden under coded metaphors too complex for the layman to understand. Not that she was offended; some of her fans were definitely offended. She thought of him as an amateur, militia type wannabe, thinking he can overthrow the government with knives and guns, the UK's transformation back into a white supremacist monarchy being a testament to the power of a few men armed with knives and guns. George Washington was reborn in the eyes of straight White male Americans, and that revolution was only supported by a tiny fraction of the population, while an even tinier fraction participated in it. History has shown that a minority of highly motivated, highly intelligent men decided history, not the masses that vanished, eating, shitting, and fucking without a trace, their only legacy from the accounts of prominent individuals throughout history, only caring of their comforts and security. The masses were nothing more than sheep, their only cares being the food on their plate and the entertainment they are provided; thus, they are loyal to any state who provide them with such.

Of course, Adamantine knew this and so did his followers, which is why, unlike her, they cared little of what the general population thought of them, outside of luring angry straight White men, pissed off with the supposed state of their countries. He was a barbarian, a bloody conqueror concerned only with his means of conquering a nation, not what the outside world thought of him, much like Attila the Hun and Alaric. The only the optics he, and by extension the Men of Albion cared of, was that of strength, the people who were strong won; the weak perished, as was the case since time and memoriam, when the weaker tribesmen were beaten out of the gene pool by the stronger tribesmen, killed off before they could spread their seed among the female population, mother nature herself having differing ideals of which should pass on his genes. Modern society has inverted this trend. Instead of the strongest, smartest and most well-bred passing on his genes, it was now decided by whomever controlled the mass media deemed as the ideal, a system that led to the degeneration of the Human gene pool over time as the stronger, smarter men were selected against in favor of the weaker more docile men, to breed the perfect slaves for an elite to rule over. That was communism, creating equality by rendering Humanity equally bland, dumb, and weak, cretinous cattle perfect for a small wealthy minority to dominate, free of the fears of a revolt changing the course of history

The livestream before her showed her the video feed of a man in real time, a view of his helmet cam, dressed in black military fatigues with European runes painted on, in a fashion very similar to Adamantine, the person whom he was really a fan of, using Stormfront's fanbase as a farm of recruits, scything them away onto his side like wheat. He was a handsome man, with that English charm to him that a lot of handsome men in New England had, the product of English migration into that region exclusively until the 1960s. His blond hair was shaven in a crew cut, giving him a military appearance, someone who, from what Stormfront could surmise, probably served in the military based on his stony facial expression, the face of a regular man to keep composed as he got ready to gun down a large group of people. Speaking of that, there was a firearm right next to him, an AK-47 with runes crudely drawn on with a white sharpie. Other than that, he was in a Suberu car, the skyline from the outside shown her he was in Providence, with Pierce Tower, in all of its retro-Victorian glory dwarfing every other tower in existence, just as he put his helmet on and started driving.

She wanted to warn him, tell him that his attack would be folly; however, she did not want to risk her reputation, not that it mattered anymore, as all her fans, the ones that mattered to her anyway, were jumping on the Adamantine bandwagon. Besides, even if she wanted to do something, he was all the way out in Providence, Rhode Island, the entire country away from her; in addition to that, supes from Vought had a nasty habit of winding up dead trying to enforce the law there, often winding up with their throats torn out, their deaths blamed on runaway chimpanzees, leaving the Providence Police Department baffled. Even the mighty Homelander never dared to tread in the states of New England, appearing bloody and beaten after a visit, too afraid to mention the name of the person who beat him up. New England was to superheroes what the Bermuda Triangle was to airplanes; strangely, it was also the Bermuda Triangle for Mossad and KGB agents, especially during the 1980s, when she noted that they ended up dead, found dismembered in dumpsters, their injuries inflicted pre-mortem, almost as if some supe or group of supes took refuge since the day her and her husband arrived. The strangest part of it all was that they were after Arthur, not her and her husband, in spit of the fact that the Mossad was formed with the idea of hunting Nazis; bits and pieces of their bodies were found, from time to time, in dumpsters spread around Pierce's various businesses and properties, their limbs ripped not cut, as if either a man or a primate did it. That was why she was terrified of heading into the New England area; she was much safer to plot from the relative safety of the Pacific Northwest.

"Remember lads, subscribe to Pewdiepie," he said boldly as he reached the Synagogue, pulling out a semi-automatic shotgun from the back of his car, then proceeded to the Synagogue, armed with a shotgun in hand and a Kalashnikov strapped to his back.

Upon walking around the sidewalk then turning to the entrance of the building, there was a rabbi, blissfully unaware, paid in hot lead from the anonymous man armed with a shotgun. The rabbi and two worshippers died, sprawled across the entrance of the building, face down, in a pool of their own blood. With the clapping of gunfire, people were screaming, the beating of feet heard through the livestream as the mysterious guy walked, emptying what was left of his shotgun tube into a man running through a hallway, the three twelve gauges splitting him open as if his body was full of blood squibs, spattering crimson on the hallways, the rounds as devastating as a glance from the Homelander when he was angry.

His shotgun now empty, he switched to an AK47, a seventy-five round drum slammed into the mag well, each round a potential kill. Whence he reached the main area, with the menorahs and the ceremonial paraphernalia, he found many to slaughter, popping 7.62 hollow point rounds into the various worshippers, the lead pumped into their major organs with laser-like precision, blowing them out in cones with large thirty-degree arcs, the result of hollow point rounds designed to kill large game loaded into a sporting rifle designed for a gun range. The effects were devastating, even more so than the blood and gore caused by her punches. Limbs were torn off. Heads exploded like melons filled with compressed air, the cavitating effects of high velocity, soft lead projectiles smashing into flesh at many times the speed of sound. They were small meteorites hitting flesh instead of celestial bodies, only crimson flying up instead of dust and debris. She did not envy the doctor who had the unfortunate task of informing the maimed survivors they were lucky to be alive; that was what she thought when she saw the woman with the missing jaw, shot to crimson chunks, a small bomb exploding in her face.

Knowing this could blow up in her face, she closed the laptop, exited the study, sat down on the couch in her penthouse, and switched to the Vought News Network. There, terrorist attacks in the United States were making the headlines, the shooting at the Providence Synagogue was but a tiny blip on the radar compared to what Adamantine's desciples, his fans, were doing. They were bombing police stations, flooding gay bars with nerve gas, killing everyone inside, and to top it all off, they bombed the headquarters of the ADL, B'nai B'rith, in Washington DC, the bombers vanishing like Houdini before law enforcement and one of the Seven even had a clue; there were no survivors, the bomb destroying the building being a small, tactical nuclear device with a yield of fourteen tons of TNT. New England was becoming a gangrenous limb, a cancerous mass on the right side of Americas face that needed to be amputated if the country was to survive, as the diverse nation the masses wanted it to be. Stormfront was more than happy to advocate for its secession.