The short-haired youth was much shorter than Herman, his build frail and slight.
Standing before Herman's tall, perfectly proportioned frame, all sharp lines and quiet strength, the youth looked like a scrawny little monkey. He couldn't even reach Herman's shoulder.
Herman's flawless physique made the young man feel both ashamed and intimidated. Still, he gathered his courage and stammered,
"Sir... I just saw you coming from over there... and thought... maybe... something happened."
He swallowed hard, scrambling to explain himself, his mind filled with envy for Herman's height and strength.
If only I were that tall... he thought wistfully. Being small and thin had made him a target of bullies for as long as he could remember.
"What do you think happened over there?" Herman asked, raising an eyebrow. He already knew exactly who this young man was.
"Ah..."
The youth froze, caught off guard by the question.
After a moment's hesitation, he ventured, "Maybe... it was those thugs who rob people at night? They must've tried to mug you and ended up learning their lesson, right, sir?"
His tone carried uncertainty, but the guess was logical. Judging by Herman's build alone, he clearly wasn't someone street punks could handle. A counterattack seemed inevitable.
"You're right," Herman said, smiling brightly. "They learned a very deep lesson."
That easy, radiant smile made the young man pause for a moment. He didn't catch the underlying meaning at all, thinking instead that he had guessed correctly. A trace of admiration crossed his bruised face.
"Sir, you're incredible... Not like me. I got beat up earlier today. They locked me inside a dumpster for hours."
He sighed. "If I hadn't found a knife in there and pried the lid open, I'd probably still be waiting for the garbage men to find me tomorrow."
Relief flickered in his eyes. From his story alone, it wasn't hard to guess why he was still wandering the streets at this hour.
A closer look revealed the truth—faint bruises marred his cheeks and arms, while a dark scab stretched across his shin, the size of a palm.
"You live nearby?"
Herman looked down at him, a faint smile touching his lips. This poor kid really was far too small.
"Over there, by the trash bin."
The youth pointed toward a dark alley. Herman glanced over and saw the dented dumpster, its lid pried open.
"I actually heard the noise from that direction earlier," the boy continued sheepishly. "I was going to come help, but by the time I got out, it sounded like you'd already taken care of it."
He scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. Herman could tell his words were genuine. He wasn't saying it to impress anyone—he truly would have tried to help.
Even trapped in a trash bin, he still thinks about saving others...
Herman chuckled softly. "You really are something else, Steve Rogers."
"You can't even protect yourself, and you were planning to help me?"
His teasing tone made the young man flush in embarrassment, but Steve still lifted his chin and said earnestly,
"I might not be as strong as you, but I can still fight. And when you're up against thugs, one more person can make a difference."
"They love sneaking up on people from behind, you know," Steve added seriously.
The name fit him perfectly.
Many people would recognize him instantly.
That's right—the short-haired young man standing before Herman was none other than Steve Rogers, the Marvel Universe's "fifty-fifty fighter," a man who always seemed evenly matched with anyone he faced.
Only this version of Steve was far from the super-soldier history would remember.
He hadn't yet been enhanced by the serum; at this moment, he was still a frail, undersized youth. Barely five-foot-four, he might have stood tall among the short-statured crowds of Japan, but in America—where height was plentiful—he was considered small, even mocked by some as a dwarf.
Still, like Naruto Uzumaki—someone destined to bear others' burdens—Steve Rogers possessed a heart of pure kindness despite the misery around him. The fact that he wanted to help Herman, even when he could barely protect himself, said it all.
Whether or not Steve could actually be of help didn't matter. That kind of courage and passion was rare anywhere in the world. Though in the future he'd show a few double standards when it came to Bucky, at this stage, Steve Rogers was still the very definition of a selfless idealist.
Compared to the mature, composed Captain America he'd one day become, this young Steve was naive and straightforward—a hot-blooded kid with zero guile and a heart too big for his world.
I remember before I transmigrated, the internet loved to bash Captain America, Herman thought to himself. But honestly, his character is still leagues better than that of "Tang San" from Douluo Dalu.
Steve Rogers wasn't perfect, but at least he had decency and a sense of responsibility—he wasn't the type to curse others just for liking the same thing he did.
"Sir... why are you staring at me like that?" Steve asked, shifting uneasily under Herman's gaze. The intensity of the look made his skin prickle.
Could it be... this man had certain interests?
The thought made Steve's stomach twist.
Growing up among the poor and downtrodden, he'd seen all kinds of people—especially the rich and powerful. They always seemed to have eccentric, sometimes downright twisted hobbies.
He glanced over Herman's clean, expensive outfit and confident bearing. There was no mistaking it—this man had money, and not just that. He exuded the quiet authority of someone used to being obeyed.
It was that unshakable presence that made Steve instinctively speak with respect.
"I was just thinking," Herman said with a faint smile, "there aren't many people as warmhearted as you. Don't worry, those thugs won't be coming after me again."
He smiled wider.
Herman could see every passing thought flickering across the young man's mind—ordinary thoughts, unguarded and honest, sitting right there on the surface.
"Then... you must've really given them a beating," Steve said after a moment, nodding thoughtfully.
He still hadn't realized the truth—that Herman hadn't beaten anyone so much as erased them. Perhaps it was because Steve's world, chaotic as it was during wartime, still had laws and order. Even gang fights rarely touched civilians.
"Mm. Let's just say they'll remember it for the rest of their lives," Herman replied calmly.
The vampires, soulless as they were, had gotten off easy. At least death spared them from the eternal torment of his [Realm of the Dead], unlike the followers of Apocalypse.
"Your strength is incredible, sir," Steve said earnestly. "Have you ever thought about joining the army? With skills like yours, you could really make a difference out there."
That was Steve Rogers—his dream, his obsession, his purpose: to serve.
To him, a man strong enough to crush a gang single-handedly was someone who belonged on the front lines. With that physique, that power, Herman would surely be unstoppable against the Nazis and the forces of evil.
Young Steve's mind was simple, maybe even naive—but it was sincere, through and through.
He had never truly seen a battlefield, nor realized how completely modern warfare had transformed.
Individual bravery meant nothing before the tide of steel and fire—though if Herman himself were to step onto the field, he would indeed sweep through it like a storm. But for ordinary soldiers, no matter how strong, a single bullet was enough to end them.
Even Captain America's future legend was never built on front-line combat.
Most of his exploits came from small-scale missions and precision strikes—direct assaults on enemy bases and decapitation operations. In truth, he was among the earliest examples of a supernatural special operative.
If Steve Rogers were actually deployed to the front lines, his effect wouldn't be much greater than that of any other trained soldier.
People rarely understood the true horror of modern warfare. On a large-scale battlefield, every cubic meter of air could be filled with dozens of bullets.
Forget flesh and blood—even a heavy armored vehicle wouldn't last long under such conditions. Only mass-producing super soldiers could ever make them strategically decisive. That, in fact, was why the U.S. military had originally shelved Captain America.
Back then, the very concept of "special operations" didn't even exist.
"I'm not American, so I won't be fighting for America in this war," Herman said calmly. "Joining the army should be left to those with ideals and ambition."
He'd put it politely, but the young Steve Rogers didn't quite have the tact to pick up on the tone.
"The Nazis threaten the entire world," Steve said firmly. "Everyone has a duty to stand against them. You shouldn't waste your talent and strength."
"Oh?"
Herman didn't like saints, but he didn't hate them either. The world was complicated enough that, perhaps, it needed a few saints to balance it.
He looked at Steve with an unreadable expression, his gaze calm and distant. He said nothing more, yet that quiet, downward stare carried a weight that pressed heavily on Steve's chest.
The chirping of insects and the faint noises of the city alley grew unnaturally sharp. Herman's deep, abyssal eyes seemed to swirl like vortices, radiating an invisible, crushing presence. Just meeting that gaze made Steve's heart pound violently.
"Sir... you..."
Sweat beaded on Steve's forehead. A cold dread crawled up his spine—the feeling that the man before him wasn't human at all, but some vast, predatory beast. The sheer danger emanating from him stirred a primal fear he couldn't control.
He had never felt anything like this before. Not even the highest-ranking generals he'd met in his life had radiated such raw, commanding pressure.
What kind of person could carry such overwhelming authority?
As a man from the very bottom of society, Steve couldn't even begin to imagine the answer. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to falter.
Minutes dragged on.
The suffocating pressure gradually began to fade.
To Steve, it felt as though a century had passed. His clothes were completely drenched in sweat.
"Your willpower is impressive."
Herman spoke softly, a trace of admiration in his voice.
"What... what did you do, sir?"
Steve Rogers stared at him in disbelief. The suffocating pressure and sheer terror he'd just experienced still clung to him like a nightmare. Everything felt unreal.
He looked at Herman, completely at a loss.
"Honestly," Herman said, "you shouldn't be here trying to convince me to enlist. That's meaningless. You should be over there—in that building."
On a whim, Herman had decided to test Steve Rogers. And sure enough, he found within him a will truly made of steel.
The oppressive force he'd released just moments ago would've brought most people to their knees. Some would've even fainted—or worse.
But Steve Rogers had endured it. Despite his frail body, he hadn't collapsed once.
His legs had trembled, yes—but that was only natural.
Herman nodded toward a nondescript building in the distance. It was the very place where Steve Rogers would one day receive the Super Soldier Serum and be reborn as Captain America.
Of course, at this point, Steve had no idea.
"Huh?"
He blinked in confusion, trying to make sense of Herman's words.
"Are you... saying I should go enlist myself?" he asked hesitantly, piecing together what he thought Herman meant.
He assumed the building Herman pointed to was a recruitment office.
"What's wrong? You don't want to?"
Herman arched an eyebrow, his tone light with amusement as he watched the young man's face shift from confusion to conflicted frustration.
"I do... but I'm not tall enough," Steve admitted with a sigh. "If only I were a few inches taller..."
If that were the case, maybe he wouldn't have been rejected so many times by the enlistment board.
Sometimes, he even caught himself thinking—half-seriously, half in frustration—that he'd trade his manhood for height. Not like it was doing him much good anyway.
"..."
Herman, reading the young man's surface thoughts, nearly froze.
Trade his manhood for height... huh. Incredible.
He couldn't help but think, Selfless and fearless as ever, Captain. That kind of sacrifice puts even the most patriotic soldiers to shame.
"Sir, do you... have any connections?" Steve suddenly asked, eyes lighting up. "I mean, to get me into the army?"
He was certain Herman had to be someone important—someone powerful. A man like this, with that presence, surely had the means to pull a few strings.
"That wouldn't be difficult..." Herman began, but then paused.
He'd already changed parts of history, yet he dared not interfere with Captain America's past too drastically.
"Believe me," he said after a moment, his tone firm but encouraging. "As long as you hold onto your ideals, it won't be long before you make it on your own. You'll get there through your own strength."
The sincerity in his words hit Steve like a jolt. His cheeks flushed with emotion.
"I... I hope so!"
He wanted nothing more than to become a soldier. Hearing Herman's words made him ashamed that he'd even considered relying on favors. Becoming a soldier was a sacred duty—how could he think about shortcuts? If Bucky ever found out, he'd never hear the end of it.
"Keep at it, Soldier Boy. You've got this."
Herman smiled faintly as he said it, amused by his own private joke—one his future fans would definitely appreciate.
"Soldier Boy!? Yes! That's right! I'll become a Soldier Boy!"
Steve's eyes shone with excitement. He completely missed the teasing undertone, taking the phrase to heart with full sincerity.
The title "Soldier Boy" sounded absolutely awesome in Steve Rogers' eyes.