The Shadowverse seemed to be a place designed to break humans.
A dark, lightless void where sight was meaningless, and danger lingered just beyond perception. Sometimes, there was ground beneath your feet, and other times, it gave way to nothingness—sending you into a free fall that could last minutes, hours, or days until you hit something. The impact always hurt, always surprised, and always reminded you that the rules of the Shadowverse didn't belong to you.
Time didn't exist here, not in any way that mattered. Hunger gnawed at him, but energy pulsed through his limbs. Sleep offered little refuge. Sometimes, you'd wake up in the exact spot you'd closed your eyes. Other times, you'd wake up somewhere else entirely, cold, lost, and confused. Worse, the voices were always there—whispering in the dark, calling out names, sometimes his own. They screamed from places unseen, and sometimes, they whispered right behind his ear.
It was a place meant to break men like Darkwing, men who still clung to sanity.
But for him?
For a man with Viltrumite blood in his veins, with the strength of Grand Regent Thragg condensed into a lean, unassuming package?
It was paradise.
There were monsters here, ancient and terrible things that didn't abide by the rules of the real world. Shadows that roamed without shape, beasts that moved in silence, and titans that shook the unseen ground. He couldn't always see them. Sometimes, he couldn't even hear them. But they were there, watching, waiting, hunting.
And they were old.
Even with Thragg's power, with strength and speed that rivaled the greatest warriors in his bloodline, the Shadowverse tested him. He fought blind, punching into the dark, hearing only the wet crunch of bone, the rip of flesh, and the terrifying silence when he missed.
Sometimes, he was victorious. Or, at least, he thought he was. The creatures would fall silent, and he would feel the hot spray of something on his skin—blood, maybe, though it never stayed. He'd stumble out into the real world later, his body bruised, his knuckles raw, but his uniform pristine, untouched by whatever horror he had faced in the dark.
And when he fought, when he pushed back against the endless black, something in him thrived.
The Shadowverse tore at him, forced him to evolve, to grow stronger, faster, sharper. His senses, already superior, grew beyond anything he had imagined. His strength, formidable to begin with, was multiplied into something monstrous. He learned to move through the dark, to fight by instinct, to sense without seeing. He learned to feel the shifts in the air, to hear the faintest ripple of movement. He learned to react to whispers, to flex his strength, to crush the dark and whatever it sent against him.
It wasn't clean fighting. It wasn't refined. He wasn't a warrior forged by tradition or trained with precision.
He was a brawler, raw and savage, crushing and tearing and surviving.
And in the Shadowverse, that was all that mattered.
Here, technique didn't save you. Skill didn't win battles.
Only brutality. Only hunger.
And that, he had in spades.
So, he fought. He bled. He learned.
And every time he stepped back into the real world, into Earth Bet, he stepped out stronger.
Sharper.
Faster.
Being reborn on Earth Bet had been… strange.
There were no memories of how it happened. No visions of death. No great reveal. Just darkness, and then waking up on the cracked, bloodstained earth of Canberra, Australia—his eyes opening to a sky filled with chaos. Above him, the Simurgh had hovered like an omen, her pale wings unfurled, her silver eyes glowing with inscrutable purpose as she ascended into the clouds.
For three days, he lived in fear, convinced he was one of her puppets. That somewhere deep in his mind, her whispers coiled like vipers, waiting to strike.
But as far as he could tell, he was fine.
No strange impulses. No voices. No missing time.
It seemed like he'd arrived at the end of the battle, after the carnage had settled, after her song had faded. And if he had been exposed… well, there was no way of knowing.
Not yet.
It took a week to figure out exactly where he was. Not just the place, but the world.
The world of Worm.
A world of monsters and gods. Of capes and Endbringers. A place where people like him didn't survive long, unless they were lucky—or powerful.
And had he been weaker, he would have been very, very displeased.
But he wasn't weak.
He discovered it within hours of his arrival—an ache in his muscles that wasn't pain but potential. A strength that surged beneath his skin, coiling like a spring, ready to be unleashed.
It started with the basics.
Speed. Strength. Flight. Senses sharper than any blade.
He could hear the faintest flutter of wings a mile away, feel the pulse of heartbeats through concrete walls. He could fly higher and faster than any plane, and when he punched, it shattered steel like glass.
And then came the other gifts. The ones that made him… something else.
Green portals that opened like eyes, taking him to desolate, empty Earths—abandoned landscapes of ice, fire, and endless desert.
Atom manipulation, the power to shape matter and energy into constructs, weapons, and shields.
The terrifying ability to slip into the Shadowverse, to move unseen, untouchable, through a realm of darkness and monsters.
Intangibility, the power to pass through walls, bullets, and attacks like mist.
Schematics of machines, robotic drones, and advanced weaponry embedded in his mind. Inventions he didn't recognize, but instinctively knew how to build.
Speed that could tear the earth beneath his feet. Reflexes that caught bullets like lazy flies.
The power to absorb kinetic energy, feeding strength into his muscles with every blow taken.
Electricity, raw and lethal, that danced along his skin and could twist his body into pure energy.
The power to teleport himself—and others—with a simple twist of green rings conjured around his wrists.
And deeper, something darker. A dragon that lived inside him. A massive, ancient beast of fire and shadow. He could summon it, command it, but in doing so, his body would fall limp, defenseless. A terrible power, and a dangerous weakness.
And finally, there was the cloning.
A power he hated to use.
Each clone felt wrong. Diluted. Like a copy of a copy—each one weaker than the last. They could replace him, yes, but at a cost. A cost he wasn't sure he was willing to pay. So he kept it in reserve, using it only when absolutely necessary.
Twelve powers. Twelve echoes that lived inside him.
Twelve names.
Grand Regent Thragg. Angstrom Levy. Atom Eve. Darkwing II. Green Ghost. Robot. Red Rush. Bulletproof. Kursk. Isotope. Mr. Liu. Multipaul.
He didn't know why they were the ones that lingered in his head when he used his powers. Maybe it was the SI bleeding through. Maybe it was something else. Maybe it was just the story writing itself.
The Viltrumite strength? It could've come from someone else. Maybe Nolan. Maybe Mark. The cloning? It could've come from Kate, but it didn't feel like it.
When his fists shattered concrete, he saw Thragg.
When he tore open portals to new, desolate worlds, he heard Levy's voice.
When his hands shaped green energy, it was Eve's laughter in his ears.
When the shadows swallowed him whole, it was Darkwing's rage that roared in his heart.
When he first realized what he was—what he could become—he had thought about being a hero.
The idea had appealed to him. A pillar of justice, truth, and honor. A protector, a figure that people could believe in. He could have stood with the Protectorate, fought for humanity, saved cities, saved lives. Built a legacy.
He had also thought about being a villain.
It would be so easy. To take what he wanted. To eat, drink, and indulge in whatever desires struck him. To steal, to rule, to conquer. If he wanted a country, he could take it. If he wanted a city, it would be his. If he wanted the world...
Well, the world would fall if he so desired.
And then there was the in-between. The Rogue. The outsider. He didn't need to be anything special. He could use Atom Eve's power to create gold, diamonds, or any resource he wanted. He could build an empire of influence and wealth overnight. Live a comfortable life, untouched by war and violence. Let the rest of the world burn, so long as it didn't touch him.
He could have picked any of these paths.
But when he thought about settling down, about submitting himself to humanity's systems, it was Thragg's voice that hissed in his ear.
Oddly enough, it was Mr. Liu's voice too.
"That is beneath us."
And when he heard it, he understood.
Why should he follow their rules? Why should he chain himself to laws, governments, or the red tape of bureaucracy? Why bind himself to organizations that would try to leash him? They would try to measure him, categorize him, put him in a box and tell him what was acceptable.
But he wasn't made for their boxes.
Why should he bother fighting criminals who might as well be insects beneath his heel? Men and women with guns and petty powers? They were nothing. Ants playing in a sandbox, blind to the storms looming overhead.
And crime? Why bother? Why break their laws just for wealth or influence? He didn't need their money. He didn't need food. A Viltrumite could go weeks without eating, and when they did, they could consume anything—living or dead, fresh or rotten. Shelter was pointless when he could sleep among the stars.
And if he wanted to survive among humanity? He could step into the Shadowverse, fade from their sight, and let the world spin on without him.
There was no need to antagonize the little heroes. No need to attract their attention. Why play with them? Why pretend to be one of them?
"Why pretend to be human at all?" asked Thragg curiously.
He was more than human now. He felt it. Every day, every moment, with every breath, he could feel it beneath his skin. The crackling power that hummed through his body. Calling himself a god was arrogant, perhaps, but… what else could he be? He wasn't human anymore. Not with these powers. Not with this strength.
There were only a few things that could challenge him now. A few beings on this entire planet who could offer him a fight worth having.
And wasn't that what this was about?
The fight?
The Faerie Queen.
She was a monster trapped in a child's body. A woman wrapped in delusions and ghosts of her past enemies. One of the strongest beings alive. If she chose to face him, it would be a true battle.
Good.
Eidolon.
The man of infinite power. The pinnacle of Cauldron's experiments. His strength was shifting, fluid, but terrifying. Eidolon could be his equal—or greater. Facing him would be a test of adaptability. Strength against strength. Might against might.
Perfect.
Crawler.
A monster that could adapt to anything. Every blow, every strike, every injury would make him stronger. Faster. More dangerous. A living nightmare that existed solely to evolve into something greater. He wanted to fight that. He wanted to force evolution.
Alexandria.
Strong. Durable. Immovable. A woman who carried the weight of the world on her shoulders and refused to break. If he could shatter her, if he could prove himself greater than the indomitable… then maybe, just maybe, he could claim the title of invincible.
Heh.
The Endbringers.
Leviathan. Behemoth. Simurgh. Tohu. Bohu. Khonsu.
They were cataclysms given flesh. Storms that walked, earthquakes that thought, gods of destruction who had carved scars into the world with every appearance. They were the inevitable death that loomed over Earth Bet.
And he would challenge them all.
He would fly to Leviathan and break him across the ocean floor. He would wade through Behemoth's lightning and tear him apart with his bare hands. He would face the Simurgh and shatter her song.
And if Tohu and Bohu came, if Khonsu came, he would meet them, too.
And he would win.
And then… there was the end.
Scion.
The final enemy. The walking apocalypse. The god of annihilation.
The ultimate battle.
The one that would tell him, definitively, whether he was truly a god… or just another insect waiting to be crushed beneath a golden hand.
These were the only beings that mattered.
The only ones worthy of his strength.
He would train. He would hunt. He would prepare.
Because if there was one truth in this world, it was that gods were forged in battle.
He meticulously kept track of time in the only way he could. The Shadowverse twisted time in a way that made days stretch and hours collapse. Sometimes, he'd emerge only to find mere minutes had passed. Other times, it was weeks, entire swathes of the world moving on without him. But he always made it a habit to check. A quick theft from a corner store for rations, a glance at a newsstand for the date, and a sprint back to his dimension of darkness.
And now, May 15th loomed ever closer.
Leviathan.
The first real battle. The first test that mattered.
His blood thrummed at the thought. It wasn't fear that quickened his pulse but excitement, raw and primal. The anticipation of battle, of testing his strength against a creature that could drown cities and tear nations apart.
A creature worthy of him.
Leviathan wasn't just a monster. The Endbringer was a force of nature, a walking apocalypse. He could control water in quantities that could wipe continents clean. His strength alone rivaled the Triumvirate. And that was when the creature was holding back.
What would it look like when it wasn't?
Would Leviathan rise to the occasion? Would it unleash its true strength when faced with death? If he hurled the creature into space, would it abandon its restraint in a desperate attempt to survive? The thought sent a thrill down his spine. The idea of provoking the Endbringer, forcing it to show its true colors, it was intoxicating.
Because for all the fear Leviathan inspired in this world, the creature was just another opponent. Another Titan to break. Another myth to crush.
And wasn't that what Viltrumites lived for?
He grinned, the excitement bubbling up inside him. It felt almost obscene to be this happy, to relish the thought of fighting a creature that had ended millions of lives. But it wasn't about bloodshed. It wasn't about the destruction.
It was about the test.
About proving his strength.
About seeing something ancient and terrible and knowing that he could stand against it and win.
And if he couldn't? Then it was an honorable death. A warrior's death. But oh, how he doubted that outcome.
He was stronger now. Sharper. Faster. Every battle in the Shadowverse had honed him like a blade, carving him into a weapon meant for one thing—victory. And Leviathan would be the first real test.
He'd make it a battle to remember.
He had even rehearsed his backstory, perfected the lies that would slip so easily from his tongue.
He would tell them that he was a Viltrumite. Because, really, what else could he call himself now? Human? That was a lie, and one not even he could believe anymore.
No, he'd take the story Nolan Grayson had used on Earth, repurpose it for his own ends. He would say that the World Betterment Committee had sent him—an envoy, a warrior tasked with aiding Earth in its hour of need. It was a half-truth. The best kind of lie.
And his entrance would be flawless.
He'd make sure his first appearance was in the atmosphere, descending from the stars like some divine savior. He'd exit the Shadowverse high above the planet, fall like a meteor into the battle below. Dragon had satellites, right? She'd see him. Cauldron would see him. Everyone would.
They would watch as he fell from the heavens like a god of war.
Cauldron would be suspicious. The Protectorate would have questions. But what could they do? Realistically? His existence alone was an enigma. An anomaly. And as far as records were concerned, he was a ghost.
No fingerprints.
No identity.
No paper trail.
He hadn't spent more than five minutes on Earth these past few months. Every time he emerged, it was for a few moments, a blur of motion, stealing rations for his training. If someone had been fast enough to see him, they would have seen nothing but a streak of white, a whisper of wind, a shadow vanishing into nothing.
He wasn't even sure if they'd connected those thefts to him yet. Likely not.
And even if they had, what could they do about it?
No cameras had captured his face. No alarms had been triggered that he hadn't silenced. No one could pin down a shadow.
And that's exactly what he would be to them. A shadow. A myth.
Until he wasn't. Until he dropped from the sky, hammering Leviathan into the dirt.
Then they would have no choice but to see him.
No choice but to believe.
And that belief? That would be the real weapon. The real tool to reshape this world.
Because humans were predictable.
If they saw power, they'd fall in line. They'd flock to him, ask him for protection, seek his guidance. They wouldn't care where he came from if he kept them safe. He could be from the stars, from another dimension, from Hell itself.
It wouldn't matter.
All that would matter was that he could win.
And oh, how he planned to win.
By May 10th, tension crept into his thoughts. The Shadowverse warped time, twisting hours into days, days into seconds. What if he miscalculated? What if Leviathan struck while he was submerged in darkness, oblivious to the world's screams? The thought gnawed at him. To appear after the battle, after the slaughter, would be a humiliation he would not endure.
No, it had to be perfect.
His arrival had to be monumental—like a god descending from the heavens to crush an ancient titan. He couldn't afford to miss a single step. Every detail, every second, had to be flawless.
So, when May 13th arrived, he decided not to take the risk. He'd step away from the Shadowverse, step somewhere where time was still predictable. Somewhere safe.
He called upon Angstrom's power.
"A flick of the wrist. That's all you need."
The voice echoed in his ear, Angstrom's reedy whisper, both mocking and instructive.
Green energy curled around his hand, swirling like smoke caught in a whirlwind. Then it expanded, stretching into a pulsing ring of light that hummed with strange power. A gateway. A door to another world.
Without hesitation, he stepped through.
Blinding light.
After so long in shadow, it struck him like a hammer. He squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes, but it didn't help. The light seemed to pierce his skin, sear into his bones.
And when his eyes adjusted, he saw water.
Endless water.
The world was an ocean. Buildings and skyscrapers jutted up from beneath the waves, silent and broken beneath hundreds of feet of saltwater. Entire cities swallowed, submerged like corpses at the bottom of the sea.
A drowned Earth.
He floated above the waves, staring down. The sea stretched forever, gray and rippling. Here and there, black silhouettes jutted from the depths—what remained of human civilization.
Intrigued, he pushed off, soaring above the surface. He flew over continents that had become oceans, scanning for land, for life. But there was none. No trees. No cities. Just salt, waves, and ruins.
The entire world had been swallowed.
And yet, it wasn't lifeless.
The creatures here were massive. Titans born of the depths. Sharks as long as apartment buildings, with skin as black and thick as steel. Their eyes glinted with primal hunger as they tore through the depths, the rulers of this new world. Predators that swam through the ruins of humanity.
He fought them.
He had to.
They were strong, powerful, born of ancient waters and endless struggle. But they were still animals. They tore through the water like living torpedoes, but he was faster. Stronger. When they came for him, he caught them, tore them from the depths, broke them apart with his bare hands.
And when hunger gnawed at his gut, he ate.
The meat was tough, salty. Like chicken soaked in ammonia. But it was food. Real food. And he didn't waste it.
He flew deeper, hunting larger prey. The biggest ones were in the deeper waters—silent, enormous things that moved like shadows beneath the surface. He killed them too. Ate until the hunger faded.
But water—fresh water—that was harder to find.
He had to fly south. To Antarctica. It was larger here, more jagged and broken, the ice dark and sharp. There were animals too—penguins, seals, massive whales that loomed beneath the ice.
The penguins were easy to catch.
They tasted better than the sharks.
And as he stood on that ice, staring out at the endless horizon, his mind turned to darker thoughts.
What happened to this world?
What catastrophe had drowned it? Had Leviathan destroyed this place? Or had something worse come from the depths?
And why was every world he visited… empty?
It wasn't like Angstrom's power in the comics. There, every portal had led to people, civilizations, entire societies. But his powers only showed him wastelands.
Oppressive deserts where the sand never stopped blowing. Frozen worlds locked in endless ice. Dead cities beneath black clouds. This waterlogged Earth.
And one world that made him pause.
A cracked moon, broken like an eggshell, drifting too close to the Earth. It loomed large in the sky, like a god watching over a dying world. The oceans were rising there too, the tides swelling higher than they should. Strange storms ripped across the land, and the Earth seemed to groan beneath its weight.
No people.
No animals.
Just… silence.
Why?
Why was it only dead worlds?
Was this an error in his powers? Or was Angstrom's gift leading him somewhere, to some deeper understanding he couldn't grasp yet? Were these worlds a warning? Or a glimpse of what Earth Bet could become?
Why was Angstrom's power taking him to these places? These barren, dead worlds? Where was Aleph? Where was Shin? Shouldn't he have encountered them first, the most prominent alternate Earths of this multiverse?
It gnawed at him.
It was strange, unsettling.
Had his version of Angstrom's ability been tampered with? Was it only granting him access to a select type of multiverse? Only the dead worlds, the abandoned, the cursed. Only places where no one could help him, or stop him, or even recognize him.
Had his power been designed like this for a reason?
Maybe it was a safety net. An unspoken rule.
If he had full access to Angstrom's original power, he could have escaped Earth Bet easily. Hopped from world to world until he landed somewhere better—Marvel, DC, some softer universe where powers were given away like candy and every threat could be solved with a good speech or a magic McGuffin.
But this?
This wasn't a gift.
This was a challenge.
He wasn't meant to run. Wasn't meant to escape. This multiverse—the broken, cracked, empty remnants of it—was his prison. Or his crucible.
He guessed that was fair.
If he could just leave, just teleport his way to an easier world, then what was the point? It would be too easy. No growth. No progress. Just weakness hidden behind convenience.
And he wasn't weak.
No, he was made for Earth Bet.
This was the hardest world, the cruelest one. If he could survive here, if he could beat back the monsters, if he could stand tall in this world, then there wouldn't be a place in the multiverse that could challenge him.
And the dead worlds? The ones with no life, no hope? They were reminders of what could be.
They were warnings.
Because this world, Earth Bet, could become just like them.
If Leviathan won.
If Behemoth burned it.
If the Simurgh twisted it.
If Scion erased it.
He didn't know why these were the only worlds he could visit, but maybe that was the point. Maybe it was the multiverse's way of saying: This is what happens if you fail.
And honestly?
He wouldn't want to escape in the first place.
He wasn't running. Not now. Not ever.
He took the day to rest.
Slept. Ate. Recharged.
Maybe he should have spent the time training. Pushing himself harder. Testing his limits. After all, in the Shadowverse, he'd been surviving off brute force and speed—abusing Thragg, Red Rush, and Bulletproof's powers to push through. Occasionally, he'd use Atom Eve's abilities to craft a crude fire or light, but nothing more complex.
He wasn't mastering his abilities. He was surviving. Barely.
He'd only used Mr. Liu's power once, hesitant to risk leaving himself vulnerable. Summoning the dragon meant his body would be defenseless, but with the strength of Thragg, it wasn't like anyone could hurt him… right?
Well, maybe not anyone.
Flechette. Eidolon. Damsel. Skitter.
Yeah. Skitter. The thought of dying to bugs was enough to make his skin crawl. If he died getting choked out by insects, he'd never forgive himself.
A voice, low and disgusted, sneered in his mind.
"A disgrace," Thragg said, his words sharp as razors. "A being on par with a full-blooded Viltrumite, falling to something as pathetic as vermin? I'd throw your corpse into the nearest star for a death so humiliating."
That made his blood run cold.
But another voice—softer, ancient—followed.
"Do not underestimate any opponent," Mr. Liu warned, calm and measured. "You are a dragon now, inside and out. But dragons fall to spears, to arrows, to sharpened metal. There are hundreds of stories that end that way. The greatest beasts can still bleed."
"I swear to everything I love," Isotope growled, "if you lose to some no-name little shit who gets a lucky shot, I'm making Liu eat you. You hear me? I'll personally watch it happen."
The energy of the group shifted, but then Atom Eve's voice drifted in, soft and light, like a breeze cutting through tension.
"Oh, ignore those idiots," she said warmly. "We can't tell you how to live. We can't chart your course. These powers may have been ours, but this is your turn with them. Do your best. Help when you can. Fight when you must. You'll be fine."
A pause.
"...How the hell does that stop him from dying a stupid death?" Bulletproof demanded, his voice hard, cutting. "That's why we're having this conversation, Eve. So he doesn't get killed with every power under the sun in his back pocket. Alexandria died to bugs. Indestructible, and still dead. You wanna tell me how 'do your best' keeps him from going out the same way?"
Eve was silent.
Red Rush chuckled. "It should be impossible for him to die like that. Not with my powers. I could react to people like Omni-Man. With my speed, combined with Bulletproof's durability and Thragg's strength? The only ones he should be dying to are the giant monsters and the golden god. Those deaths?"
He chuckled, humorless.
"Those, I can accept."
"Actually," Robot interjected, his voice clinical, logical, and detached. "There's no need for him to be in any danger at all. He has the schematics of everything I've ever built. Drones, weaponry, defense systems. Unlike me, he isn't starting with a deformed body and limited resources. If he creates an army of drones, he could attack from a distance without ever endangering himself.
"Efficient. Tactical. Safe."
"Yeah, but that's boring," Kursk argued, his tone rough and electric. "What's the point of world-breaking strength if you're sitting behind a screen all day? You're a Viltrumite, one of the strongest people in the universe. You should be up close, fists flying, smashing through enemies. You're built for it. Why play coward?"
The words hung in the cold air like smoke, until he broke the silence.
"…Are you all real?" he asked, his voice low and tight.
He didn't know why he said it. Maybe because it had been gnawing at him, a quiet thought that refused to leave. The voices. The whispers. He'd heard them before, in the Shadowverse. There, where the world itself whispered, screamed, and roared in his ear, it had been easy to believe that hearing them was some effect of that twisted realm.
But here? In the real world? In the biting cold of the Arctic, with the wind slashing across his face and the sky stretched out above him, empty and endless?
No. He shouldn't be hearing anything but his own thoughts.
But they were still here. Still speaking. Still advising. Still judging.
Had he finally cracked?
Had the Shadowverse broken him?
"Would it matter?" Multi-Paul said quietly, his voice like a soft echo in the back of his mind. "If we're real or not? If you're crazy or sane? What difference does it make?"
He said nothing, his hands clenching.
"You're not in a position where it matters anymore," Multi-Paul continued. "You're more than human. You can move mountains. Shatter cities. Break gods, if you push yourself. You're something else now. Something higher. You can destroy the world if you choose. Or save it. What difference does it make if you're sane or mad?"
There was a pause, heavy and suffocating.
"We're useful to you," Multi-Paul finished. "That's all that should matter."
And wasn't that the truth?
Real or not, they gave him guidance. Insight. Perspective. They sharpened him, challenged him. Maybe it was his mind playing tricks. Maybe the Shadowverse had twisted him. Or maybe something else was at work.
But did it matter?
If they helped him survive, win, conquer—wasn't that enough?
He flexed his fingers, feeling the power beneath his skin, the strength in his blood.
"Useful," he repeated quietly, as if testing the word.
And in the silence that followed, he knew the answer.
It didn't matter if he was mad.
What mattered was what he did with these voices of guidance. Actions mattered.
In the end, they always trumped words.
Space was as beautiful as it was cold and vast.
A cosmic canvas stretched out before him, speckled with millions of stars that glittered like diamonds in an endless sea of black. They twinkled at him as if whispering promises of distant worlds, of adventures yet to come, of places untouched by the chaos of Earth Bet. It was a temptation, that siren call of the stars. To leave the mess of humanity behind, to forget about their petty squabbles and wars, and instead set his sights on the unknown.
From the Moon, Earth looked so small—just a blue marble hanging in the void. Was it really worth it? Was fighting for that world, against monsters like Leviathan and Scion, really worth his time and strength? Why not answer the call of the stars? Who knew what awaited him out there? Creatures like Scion existed; perhaps other beings did too, ones not as powerful, but still worthy of a fight. Perhaps entire empires were waiting to be challenged. Waiting to be conquered.
"It's the Viltrumite blood in you," Thragg said, his voice a satisfied rumble in his mind. "You are meant to conquer the stars. To shape them beneath your hands. Your blood sings its purpose to you. And since you have inherited my power, its voice is nearly siren-like."
He chuckled under his breath. The sheer arrogance in Thragg's tone could probably be heard across galaxies.
"Oh my god, every word out of your mouth is either you jerking yourself off or jerking off the Viltrumite race," Eve sighed, her voice exasperated. "We get it. You guys are strong, you like punching things, and you're great at conquering stuff. Move on. We've got a city to save!"
He was about to agree when Robot's cold, analytical voice cut through the banter.
"I apologize for interrupting," Robot said, "but is anyone else concerned about that?"
And then the chill set in.
He turned his head slowly, following Robot's implied gaze.
Simurgh.
She hovered on the far side of the planet, her wings stretched out like shards of frozen moonlight. Even at this distance, even with the world between them, he could feel her gaze. She didn't move. Didn't tilt her head. But it felt like her silver eyes were boring straight through him.
Watching. Analyzing.
Plotting.
A shiver ran down his spine despite the vacuum of space.
"Relax, big guy," Isotope said, though his voice carried a faint thread of unease. "If Big Bird makes a move, we'll clip her wings so bad she won't even be able to think about flying again."
"Do all villains just make shitty puns?" Bulletproof muttered. "With Thragg, it's always about conquering stuff. Kursk keeps making electricity puns. Liu can't say anything without dragging a dragon into it—"
"Enough." The command left his lips as a snarl, though in the vast silence of space, it sounded more like a defiant whisper.
He stared back at Simurgh, his jaw tight.
He hated her.
Not for what she had done. Not yet. No, this hate was instinctive. Primal. Because even now, she was trying to unnerve him. Testing his patience. Testing his sanity.
"I'm going to be the one to kill you," he swore. The words were a vow, cold and sure.
Simurgh didn't react. No shift in posture. No sudden move. But the way the light from the sun hit her silver eyes—it almost looked like she winked.
Mocking him.
Baiting him.
And, oh, did it work. His hands clenched, his muscles coiling tight. The promise of battle sang in his blood. He would kill Leviathan. And when that corpse was cooling at his feet, Simurgh would be next.
"First, kill her brother," Multi-Paul said calmly. "Then throw his corpse at her. That'll make your threat more convincing."
He steadied himself,looking to the Earth. Robot's calculations were already flashing through his head. He could make it—straight down, full speed, a meteor falling through Earth's atmosphere. He'd land right in the Boat Graveyard of Brockton Bay.
The perfect place to meet the Endbringer.
The perfect place for a god to descend.
"Let's do this," Darkwing said, his voice low and eager.
And then he was gone.
He kicked off from the Moon, his body slicing through the emptiness of space like a bullet. He moved fast enough to break the sound barrier, and when he hit Earth's atmosphere, the sky burned around him, a corona of fire and light marking his descent.
A shooting star.
A god of war.
Falling straight into the heart of the fight.
He landed with a thunderous boom, the impact so fierce that it shattered the road beneath his feet, sending cracks spider-webbing across the concrete and shaking the nearby buildings. The force of his landing sent a shockwave rippling through the air, windows trembling in their frames.
"You were off, cripple," Thragg sneered, his voice a low growl of disapproval. "We were supposed to land in the ocean, near the beast. Instead, we are here, in some random part of the city."
Rudy's voice was sharp, laced with condescension. "I apologize for my calculations being slightly off in a city I've never been/ in, on a version of Earth that didn't exist in my world. On another note, how would you have found Brockton Bay, considering you've never set foot on any Earth Earth?"
"No more arguing," he cut in sharply, eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings.
Rain poured in heavy sheets, drenching the broken pavement and slick streets. He had landed in the middle of a bustling intersection, his impact creating a crater surrounded by the chaotic aftermath of cars veering off course. Somehow—by sheer luck or perhaps instinct—he'd found the one open gap between the packed vehicles. A miracle that no one had died.
But their luck wouldn't last.
Dozens of people stood frozen on the sidewalks, their faces masks of shock and awe. Phones were raised, flashes of cameras bright even in the gloom of the rain. Whispers rippled through the crowd, voices low and urgent.
Who is he? What is he?
He stiffened under their gazes, discomfort crawling beneath his skin. It had been too long since he'd stood among regular people, and their attention felt alien—like they were dissecting him with their eyes. He didn't like it.
Movement caught his eye.
A man pushed through the growing crowd, his uniform unfamiliar—a hybrid of SWAT gear and riot armor. Broad-shouldered, helmeted, face stern beneath the shadow of his visor. His chest bore a bold insignia.
PRT.
Ah. That made sense.
'He must think I'm a cape,' he mused, watching the man approach. 'Probably wants me to report to the PRT headquarters, maybe coordinate with the other heroes.'
He almost chuckled at the thought. As if he were one of them.
"A waste," Mr. Liu's voice hissed in his ear, coiling with dark certainty. "The beast awaits us. They have only a handful of fighters who can even challenge him. It is best to strike now, when none can hinder us."
"I can't believe I'm agreeing with him, but he's not wrong," Darkwing said, his voice grudging. "Dealing with the monster now would be smarter. You don't wait around when there's something you can crush. You only work with a team when there are things you can't handle alone. And let's be honest—Omni-Man only worked with the Guardians when it was convenient. When they got to the fight first."
That… was a good point.
He looked back at the advancing PRT agent, the man still forcing his way through the crowd.
What was the point of talking? What was the point of waiting?
The Enbringer truce was a lie—a blood sacrifice to monsters that devoured cities. There was no coordination, no real unity among Earth Bet's so-called defenders. There was only pain, only death, and the best most could hope for was surviving until the next nightmare.
But he wasn't most people.
He didn't need to confer with humans. Didn't need their permission. Didn't need their plans.
He was strength. He was speed. He was power.
And Leviathan awaited.
"No," he said, stepping away from the crater, eyes sharp and predatory. "This is my fight. Alone."
He knelt, one knee pressing into the fractured ground. Then, with a surge of power that shattered the air itself, he launched into the sky. The world became a blur beneath him, raindrops slicing across his skin like tiny knives. The wind howled in his ears as he soared above Brockton Bay, the city lights smearing beneath him like streaks of dull color.
The scent of salt hung heavy in the air, carried by the storm winds. The chill of the rain didn't bother him; it was almost refreshing, a reminder that he was alive, that his blood was hot and his body stronger than anything this world could throw at him.
The docks appeared below, rusted boats swaying as the storm grew fiercer. The waves were monstrous now—towering walls of water that clawed toward the city. The sea roared as if Leviathan himself was calling it to battle.
It was here. It had to be. The tsunamis weren't random; they were a herald, a declaration that the beast was near.
But… where?
His eyes scanned the horizon, sharp and searching. Was it already inside the city? Had he arrived too late?
A flash of movement caught his eye. Something massive, moving beneath the water, larger than any ship that had ever graced these docks. His lips curled into a slow, predatory smile.
There it was.
Leviathan.
The monster surged from the depths like an ancient god, casting off salt and foam as it rose. Thirty feet tall, it loomed with a grotesque grace. Its skin gleamed, slick and green, armor-like scales glistening beneath the storm clouds. Thick cords of muscle stood out on its hunched shoulders and neck, rippling with impossible strength.
Its forearms and calves were leaner, the muscle compact and deadly, ending in jagged claws that could tear through steel. A whip-like tail, easily forty feet long, lashed behind it with lethal intent. And its face… if it could even be called that. No mouth. No nose. No ears. Only four glowing orbs of green light, asymmetrically set in its grotesque head. Three on the left, one on the right. Watching. Waiting.
It was a nightmare made flesh.
And it would die today.
He hovered above it, feeling the raw pulse of adrenaline in his veins. His grin stretched wider, wild and fierce, his heart hammering in his chest. This was it. This was what he lived for.
A moment of silence passed, tension humming in the air.
Now was the perfect time to say something.
"To stake your claim," Thragg's voice echoed in his mind, smug and amused. "In this world, it would fit far better than when Conquest said it."
He chuckled, low and dangerous, his eyes burning as they locked onto the Endbringer.
This was his moment. His challenge.
"Stand ready for my arrival, Worm!" he roared, the words splitting the air like thunder.
And then he shot forward, faster than lightning, a living missile of destruction, ready to carve his name into legend.