---
Inside a house—one that served as shelter for rebels against Zod—many people lived.
One of the many men who resided there walked down the hallway toward one of the rooms.
He knocked on the door, then stepped inside.
"You have a visitor," the man said.
"Mhm," the other man grunted, sharpening a sword by the fire.
"I think you should see her. She seems serious," the man added before leaving.
Moments later, a woman entered.
She wore a long hooded robe. Her dark brown hair flowed down her shoulders—she looked like a sorceress.
She walked slowly toward the fireplace, its flames casting shadows on the walls lined with weapons.
Valen watched her closely. He was a tall, wise, and experienced man.
The woman turned to him and asked,
"Do you know who I am?"
She was strikingly beautiful, her face contrasting with the mysterious outfit she wore.
"I do, sorceress," Valen replied. "I see you in my dreams."
"Then you know why I'm here," she said.
"I do. You will be his mentor," Valen replied.
"And I will need your help," the sorceress added.
---
[Arena]
"Hurry up," barked a guard, shoving Henry through the corridors. The guard kept his distance, careful not to be affected by the kryptonite restraints Henry wore.
Henry could already hear the roar of the crowd—and with each step, the noise grew louder.
They were chanting for blood. For a battle. For his death.
He kept walking until he reached the gates.
Someone was waiting for him.
Zod.
Beside Zod, a servant helped him into his armor, piece by piece.
The guard pushed Henry closer to Zod.
"There's a massive crowd out there," Zod said. "They came more for you than for me."
He stepped forward.
"I will show them power. Strength. Honor. You will show them lies, weakness, and shame. They may have come for you, but they will leave remembering me. They may even hate me—but I welcome their hate, so long as they fear me. When you're truly feared… it's the most intoxicating feeling a man can experience."
As Zod spoke, another guard dragged in a woman—one of the rebels.
The guard shoved her to her knees.
"When her head falls," Zod continued, "the legend you've become will end just as quickly. And their reverence for me will only grow. For that, I salute you."
"You're probably wondering why she's here," Zod said coldly. "She helped spread your name. Tried to inspire rebellion. My men found her. I brought her here to show you what happens to the rest."
Zod gave a subtle nod to the guard, who held a knife to the woman's throat.
Henry's eyes widened in panic.
"No!" Henry shouted, thrashing violently.
The woman screamed.
Henry tried to break free, lunging toward her. Several guards had to hold him back—despite the kryptonite affecting them all.
Henry glared at Zod with fury in his eyes, a promise in his look: One day, you'll pay.
"Take him away," Zod ordered. "Unfortunately, I won't be able to watch. I have matters to attend to… on Earth."
The guards shoved Henry forward, guiding him down a dark corridor.
His thoughts were consumed by one thing—I need to escape. I need revenge. I need to go home.
He reached the gates to the arena. With one final push, they threw him inside.
Henry dropped to his knees.
The light was dim, but he could tell immediately where he was.
A massive, circular arena surrounded him. Towering walls rose around the pit, with stands overflowing with people above.
The ground was dry, like sand. It was late in the day.
The crowd roared.
Thousands watched.
A high-ranking official of Zod's army, clad in armor and holding a sword, spoke from the stands through a device that projected his voice across the arena.
"Behold the born king! The man who defies his emperor! You wanted prophecy? Here it is! So, King… what do you have to say to your people?"
Henry stayed silent, burning with anger toward Zod.
"If you won't speak, then let the sword speak for you," the announcer said, tossing a blade down into the arena. It landed near Henry's feet.
"Pick it up. Show your people your power."
Henry didn't reach for it right away.
"I said pick it up, King! Raise the sword!" the man shouted again.
"Just as I thought. So be it," the announcer muttered, glancing toward the gatekeepers.
"This man cannot bring prosperity to our people. Let's see what he's capable of," he declared.
The far gate of the arena began to creak open.
"How will he fare against someone who's willing to do whatever it takes to get out of here?" the announcer continued.
Out stepped a tall, muscular man wielding a massive sword.
Henry exhaled slowly. He knew what was coming. He didn't want to kill—but if he didn't fight, he'd die.
A single look told Henry this was a slave, promised freedom if he succeeded in killing him.
Still weakened, Henry crouched and grabbed the sword with his remaining hand, lifting it.
The crowd roared—some cheered, others booed.
But Henry didn't care. All that mattered was surviving.
His opponent marched toward him, sword in hand.
Henry mirrored him, moving slowly, studying him.
They neared each other.
The man shouted and swung down with a powerful strike.
Henry dodged, and the blade slammed into the ground, kicking up dust.
Henry countered with a thrust to the man's gut, but he dodged—Henry was too slow.
The man swung again, a powerful horizontal slash.
The force of it stirred the air.
Henry jumped back just in time—but lost his footing and fell.
Now seated on the ground, the man advanced and tried to stab downward.
Henry blocked the attack with his own sword.
They traded blows.
Henry's arm trembled with each impact.
The man didn't let up, keeping Henry down.
Finally, Henry's grip failed—the sword flew from his hand.
The crowd went wild.
The man saw an opening and attacked again.
Henry, now unarmed, blocked the strike with his kryptonite shackle.
The blow staggered the man, caught off guard.
Henry stood quickly and brought the shackle close to the man's face.
The man weakened immediately—too close to the kryptonite.
Henry felt the same drain… but he was more used to it.
He kicked the man back.
Before the man could hit the ground, Henry grabbed his sword by the blade—ignoring the pain—and drove it into his chest.
The man collapsed, dead, the blade buried in him.
Henry's hand bled from the cut—but he was alive.
The crowd erupted again.
Just as Henry thought he might catch his breath, the arena gates began to open once more.
Another enemy stepped forward.
Henry looked toward the gate, breathing heavily.
He wiped the sweat from his brow.
He'd never felt so exhausted.