Hath-Set hit the ground like a sack of angry bricks and let out a grunt that could've cracked a normal man's ribs from the inside. Too bad he wasn't normal. Nope. He was a walking, talking necromantic nightmare with more lives than a particularly stubborn cat.
Blood smeared across his face like war paint, the ancient warlock pushed himself upright with that same smug, cryptic grin he always wore—the kind that screamed, "I know something you don't and I'm about to monologue about it." And if you've ever met a villain with facial hair that sharp, you know nothing good follows.
"Stay down, you dollar-store Anubis!" Mera shouted. She spun her trident like she was auditioning for Poseidon's halftime show. Her crimson hair—drenched in sweat, seawater, and maybe some of Hath-Set's ego—whipped around as she sent a cannon-blast of pressurized water into his chest. "Seriously. You're going to max out your resurrection copay."
Wonder Woman dropped beside her like a goddess with a vendetta. The pavement cracked beneath her heels. Her dark hair snapped like silk in a hurricane, framing her in golden fury. "For the love of Hera, you are tenacity wrapped in a bad haircut."
"Immortal," Hath-Set growled, rising again. His teeth gleamed like someone had bedazzled a jackal. "I've lived a thousand lives. I will end yours in each one."
Eidolon, aka Harry, strolled through the dust and chaos like a man who'd just finished a nice sandwich and found out someone insulted his favorite band. His armor—black and crimson, glowing like a dying sun—hummed with energy. "Oh great. He monologues and multitasks. Kill me now."
Mera glanced sideways, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Only if you ask nicely, handsome."
Diana's gaze flicked toward Harry too. Her expression didn't change, but her hand lingered on his arm for just a second too long. "He's got a point. I've fought Minotaurs with more stage presence."
"You mock what you do not understand," Hath-Set snapped, summoning his magic into snarling, spectral jackals. "This is destiny! We are entwined. Forever!"
Cue Hawkman, stage left.
Carter stumbled into view, looking like he'd been through a blender set to "ancient warrior." His wings were torn, his armor scorched, and he was holding Shiera like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the planet. His mace dragged across the floor, flaring sparks.
"I was hoping you'd say that," Carter said, his voice like gravel soaked in regret. He met Hath-Set's eyes with a look that could melt iron. "Because maybe it's finally time we told them the truth."
Hath-Set's grin faltered. Just a twitch. Just enough.
"You wouldn't," the warlock hissed.
"Try me."
Harry raised a brow. "This is where someone drops a plot twist, right? Because I'm getting real 'season finale' vibes."
Carter nodded. "It wasn't just reincarnation. At least, not originally. When Chay-Ara and I bonded, it was sacred. Soul-forged. Eternal. Until Hath-Set twisted it. He was obsessed with her. So when she chose me, he used blood magic to hijack the spell. He bound himself to us. Now, every time we return... so does he."
Shiera's voice was barely a whisper. "He turned our love into a curse."
Harry frowned. "So he third-wheeled a magical soulmate pact. With murder. Honestly, I've read bad fanfiction with better judgment."
Carter's jaw tightened. "He can't be killed permanently. Not unless one of us stays dead. Forever."
"And I assume," Harry said, already grimacing, "we're not talking metaphorical death. Like moving to the suburbs and getting a mortgage."
"No magical CPR. No phoenix feathers. No last-minute retcons."
The silence stretched.
Then Harry clapped his hands. "Okay, solidly stupid spell, gotta give it a 10 for drama, 3 for logic. Look, I once watched Constantine seduce a demon with a limerick and that made more sense."
Mera blinked. "Did it work?"
"Unfortunately."
Hath-Set stood again, taller this time, like he was gathering every inch of menace his WWE physique could muster. "So what will it be? Who dies for the others to live?"
Shiera stepped forward. "I will."
"No," Carter snapped. "It's me. It always has been."
"I'm the better fighter."
"You're the better everything."
"I won't let you!"
Weapons clashed. Emotions flared. It was like a Hallmark movie, if Hallmark movies featured cursed maces and existential doom.
Harry sighed and stepped between them. "Okay, okay, your tragic star-crossed vibes are adorable, but maybe we don't default to noble self-sacrifice just yet? There might be a workaround. I once met a guy who soul-swapped with a fish to break a curse."
Mera winced. "Did the fish survive?"
"Not emotionally."
Diana stepped closer, her hand grazing Harry's gauntlet. Her eyes searched his like she was looking for a future in them. "If there's another way, we'll find it. Together. But if this is the price..."
Mera moved beside him too, her gaze warm and fierce. "We stand with you, Harry. Always."
Harry didn't respond. His armor flared with crimson light, pulsing with a beat only he could hear. He reached into the air like he was drawing a curtain—and pulled a blade of living shadow from the ether. Then another. They hissed like devouring fire.
He turned to Hath-Set with a lazy, terrifying smile. "You know what your problem is, Sethy? You've had a thousand lifetimes, and you still haven't figured out how to die with dignity."
He pointed a sword straight at the warlock's smug chest.
"Let's fix that."
—
The ground cracked open like it had just heard Hath-Set's evil monologue and decided to nope right out of existence. From the molten split came spectral jackals—drooling, snarling, and looking like they'd missed both breakfast and anger management class.
Hath-Set, all obsidian armor and doom vibes, raised his arms with theatrical flair. The man really looked like he practiced intimidation in a villain-themed CrossFit gym. "I was hoping you'd fight this time," he hissed. "I want to remember killing you."
A gust of conjured wind whipped around Eidolon as he stepped forward—black cloak billowing, red-veined armor pulsing like a heartbeat from hell. His helmet covered his face entirely, but those glowing crimson eyes? They were doing all the talking.
He twirled a shadow-blade between his fingers, the weapon humming with barely-leashed violence. "Cute line. Lemme guess—you practiced that in front of a mirror?"
"Two mirrors," Mera muttered dryly, spinning her trident and squaring her shoulders. Her sea-green armor shimmered like bioluminescent coral, her eyes dancing with mischief. "And a dramatic spotlight."
"He probably narrated it too," Diana added, lasso in hand, jaw clenched like she was prepping to punch destiny itself. Her Amazonian armor hugged every powerful curve, and her eyes—ice-blue and electric with purpose—glanced toward Eidolon. "We hold the line. Harry—"
Eidolon nodded. Voice low. Calm. Too calm. "I've got him."
Then he moved.
No quip. No wink. Just a blur of black, steel, and fury. Shadow-blades flared in both hands, and the air bent around him like reality was trying to keep up.
Hath-Set roared and slammed a death sigil into the ground. Necrotic tendrils shot upward, reaching for Eidolon's legs—
Too slow.
The first blade sliced through the tendrils like they owed him money. The second—
CLANG.
Steel met steel, the clash ringing through the battlefield like a bell tolling for someone's last mistake. Sparks flew. So did sarcasm.
"You're really going all out, huh?" Eidolon grunted between strikes. "Big magic, big dogs, big ego. Overcompensating for something, Hath-Set?"
"Your death will fuel the spell that ends your cycle!" Hath-Set bellowed.
"Yeah, yeah, kill me, break the cycle, yada yada. You ancient Egyptian types really need new material."
They moved like hurricanes fighting with knives. Every blow, every dodge, every flick of Eidolon's wrist was poetry in ultra-violent motion.
Mera, grinning despite the chaos, vaulted into the fray with a yell, her trident dancing through the spectral jackals. "Hey! You get to have all the fun while I play dog-sitter? Rude."
"I'll make it up to you," Eidolon shouted back.
"You better," she called, stabbing a jackal mid-leap. "And I'm cashing in with dinner and shoulder rubs."
Diana spun into a kick that sent another jackal soaring. "You both are insufferable."
"You love it," Eidolon said, his blade slamming into Hath-Set's shoulder.
She smirked. "Unfortunately."
Then—
BANG.
Carter slammed into Hath-Set from the sky, wings tattered, armor cracked, but eyes blazing like twin suns. He hit with the force of a divine meteor, pinning Hath-Set to the ground.
"NOW!" he roared.
Eidolon blinked. "Wait—what do you mean now?"
Shiera was already moving, hands shaking as she tore the talisman from her chest. Her voice cracked. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," Carter said, smiling through blood and dust. "This time, we end it."
The light exploded.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't divine. It was raw. Unforgiving. It burned like truth.
Eidolon threw up a shield of black flame, shielding Mera and Diana with his body as the blast washed over them like a supernova.
When the light died—
Carter was gone.
So was Hath-Set.
Shiera dropped to her knees, trembling. Diana caught her just before she hit the ground, holding her like a sister.
Mera looked around, eyes wide. "Is it over?"
Eidolon stared at the smoking crater. His swords dissolved into mist. The red glow of his armor faded to a slow pulse.
"No," he said softly. "It's just beginning."
Diana placed a hand on his arm. "You did what you could."
"That's the problem," he replied, voice rough. "He did what we couldn't."
Mera stepped in front of him, fingers gently forcing him to look at her. "You're not alone, Harry. Not in this life. Not ever."
He looked at her, then at Diana. Two warrior goddesses who could flatten kingdoms but chose to stand beside him. With him.
He smiled. Just a little. Just enough. "Then let's make sure his sacrifice means something."
Shiera stood on shaking legs, tears in her eyes. "It already does."
Together, they turned from the wreckage. Eidolon gave the sky one last glance.
The storm had passed.
But another was coming.
And this time? They'd face it together.
With blades.
With banter.
And maybe—just maybe—a little bit of love in the firelight.
—
The air was doing that eerie, "I'm-about-to-drop-some-existential-weight-on-you" thing. You know the one—where it goes still, like the whole universe collectively forgot how to breathe. The fires had dwindled to embers. The ancient tomb looked like it had hosted a very angry metal concert. And in the center of it all: three very dead guys who had it coming.
Harry—okay, technically Eidolon, Master of the Savage Burn, Death's On-Call Problem Solver, and Part-Time Heartthrob—stood over the corpses of Felix Faust, Hath-Set, and Carter Hall. His sword pulsed faintly with residual magic, blood steaming off the blade like it was trying to make a dramatic exit.
"She's coming," Harry said. Not dramatically, just... like it was a fact. Like gravity or taxes.
A wind stirred the ruined scrolls and charred feathers littering the floor. Something shifted in the air. And then she walked in.
Death.
Not the scythe-wielding skeleton from Halloween decorations. No. This Death had combat boots, black jeans, and a blazer that probably cost more than a S.T.A.R. Labs particle accelerator. Her black hair curled around her shoulders like it had opinions. Her eyeliner was deadly. Her smirk? Deadlier.
She stopped in front of Harry, flipping open her clipboard like a very goth IRS auditor.
"Three souls?" she asked, arching one finely-shaped eyebrow. "Harry, I sent you for one. Did you get bored or just decide to treat yourself to a soul sampler?"
Harry grinned like the world's sexiest chaos gremlin. "Well, Faust was overdue. Hath-Set showed up like an unwanted sequel. Carter... wasn't on the menu."
Death clicked her pen—snick-snack—like it was the final nail in someone's cosmic tax return.
"Felix Faust. Two-time cheat. Thought he could outwit the girl with the clipboard. Poof, gone." She made a flicking motion, and Faust's corpse turned to ash. "Hath-Set? Reincarnation addict. Broke more soul laws than Constantine on tequila. Ugh, thank you for ending that mess."
With a casual wave, she summoned a spectral wind that swirled around the bodies. Faust and Hath-Set disintegrated like bad CGI. Carter Hall's body remained untouched.
"Efficient, as always," she muttered, but there was an odd warmth beneath the sarcasm. Pride? Maybe. It was hard to tell with Death.
Behind Harry, Shiera stood frozen. Which, considering she'd just gotten free of a thousand-year murder cycle, was fair.
"You're... Death?" she whispered.
Death turned and gave her a smile. "Mmhmm. And you, Shiera, are finally off the carousel. Next time you reincarnate, no more curses, no more Egyptian drama. Just you, Carter, and maybe a beach house if you're lucky."
Tears spilled down Shiera's cheeks. "Thank you," she said softly.
Death gestured lazily at Harry. "Don't thank me. He's my Champion. Reluctant. Frequently dramatic. Completely unmanageable. But... very, very good at his job."
Harry gave a flourishing bow. "I live to serve. And occasionally blow things up with ghost fire."
Shiera looked at him like he was made of moonlight and revenge, which, to be fair, wasn't entirely inaccurate.
"Quick question," Harry said, glancing at Death. "Reincarnation—how does that not break your whole system? I thought the dead were supposed to stay... you know, dead."
Death sighed like she'd explained this at too many orientation seminars. "Reincarnation's technically legal. Pain in the cosmic butt, but legal. They die. I process them. They get filed under Pending Return. Think of it like celestial jury duty. Only with more bird wings and less free coffee."
From the shadows, a voice drawled, "That explains so much."
Harry turned—and there she was.
Diana.
Tall, radiant, and somehow managing to look both lethal and like she just stepped off the cover of Greek Warrior Vogue.
And next to her?
Mera.
Flame-haired, sharp-eyed, dressed in armor that looked sculpted by Poseidon's private tailor. If sass were a weapon, she'd be a nuclear warhead. Basically: dangerous in the best way.
Death perked up. "Ah. The Amazon and the Atlantean. I've heard the stories."
Mera sauntered forward, offering a hand. "He talks about you. A lot."
Death took it, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Good things?"
Diana smirked. "Depends. Are you planning to take him today?"
"If I were," Death said, returning the smile, "I'd expect a very strongly worded sword to the chest."
"You'd get one," Diana said, crossing her arms over her chest. "With feeling."
Harry coughed. "Ladies, I'm flattered. But maybe save the death threats for someone not technically working for Death?"
"I don't do death threats," Death muttered. "I do billing."
She turned and traced a sigil into the stone with the toe of her boot. The floor glowed briefly, then faded.
"My work here is done. Try not to cause another metaphysical paperwork storm this week, Harry."
"No promises," he replied, grinning like trouble in leather armor.
Death began to fade—her form dissolving into black mist and swirling parchment pages. Just before she vanished completely, she glanced over her shoulder.
"Good job, Harry."
Then she was gone.
And just like that, the weight in the room lifted. The ancient curse was broken. The dead were at peace. And Harry? Harry was standing in the aftermath like he'd just won The Bachelor: Paranormal Edition.
Mera whistled. "Well. That was dramatic."
Diana raised an eyebrow. "And hot. Let's not pretend otherwise."
Harry blinked. "Are you two flirting with me? Because I'm going to need a second sword if this turns into a love triangle."
Mera stepped closer, eyes dancing. "Sweetie, this isn't a triangle. This is a power couple with benefits."
Diana smirked. "And you are the benefit."
Shiera coughed politely from behind them. "I'm still here, by the way. Processing trauma. You three can go back to your mythological soap opera in a minute."
Harry looked back at her and softened. "You're free now, Shiera. No more running. No more dying. Just... life."
Shiera smiled—tired, but genuine. "Thanks to you."
He offered her his hand. She took it.
They stood for a moment in silence. Not the bad kind. The peaceful, we-survived-something-insane-and-now-we're-all-having-a-moment kind.
And then Harry broke it.
"So. Dinner? Drinks? Interdimensional spa day?"
Mera grinned. "You're paying."
Diana's eyes twinkled. "Unless Death bills you first."
Harry sighed. "Cosmic bureaucracy. The real final boss."
Together, they walked out of the tomb, leaving ash, ancient curses, and one hell of a legend behind them.
—
The silence didn't last long—because with this crew? Silence had the same life expectancy as a red-shirt in a horror movie.
"So…" Diana said, brushing a few rebellious strands of midnight hair out of her face like she was posing for a Greek statue catalog. She stepped toward Shiera with the grace of a lioness and the aura of a goddess—which, to be fair, she pretty much was. "What now, Shiera? The curse is broken. You've got your freedom. That's not a small thing."
Shiera looked down at her hands, turning them over like she half-expected ancient glyphs or flaming hawk feathers to crawl up her skin. "Honestly? I have no idea. This is the first time in, what—six, seven lifetimes?—that I've woken up without some homicidal reincarnation plot waiting to jump me before breakfast. It's like getting out of detention only to realize you don't remember how to walk home."
Mera snorted. "Try ruling Atlantis and juggling a war council and figuring out what goes with seafoam green." She tossed her damp curls over one shoulder, her voice half-mocking and half-affectionate. "Winging it is an acceptable life strategy, sweetie. Sometimes it's the only one."
"Coming from the woman who once blew up a Leviathan because it looked at her 'weird'," Harry—Eidolon—added, casually leaning against a shattered stone pillar like he'd been born to model for the cover of Battle-Hardened Heartthrobs Monthly. His armor was scuffed, his hood was down, and the soft glow of the crimson veins of energy made him look like the patron saint of overpowered protagonists.
Mera threw him a smirk over her shoulder. "I regret nothing. It was a shady-looking Leviathan."
"You run on fury and color-coded spreadsheets," Harry said. "I run on instinct, sass, and an ungodly amount of unresolved trauma."
"Don't forget plot armor," Mera replied sweetly. "You've got more survivability than a cockroach with a cheat code."
Harry placed a hand on his chest like she'd wounded him. "How dare you reduce me to a bug. I'm at least a phoenix. Or a really handsome basilisk."
"Harry," Diana said, her voice dipping into that tone that somehow managed to be both exasperated and weirdly flirty. "Focus."
He gave her a smile that should have been illegal in at least thirteen states. "Right. Back to the epic destiny talk."
Turning to Shiera, he straightened just enough to look official, which—considering he was wearing blood-red armor inlaid with phoenix feathers—meant very little.
"You've been a weapon for longer than most empires last. Always fighting. Always dying. Always coming back just to do it again. That's over. You've got a clean slate now." His voice softened, the grin fading into something dangerously sincere. "If you want to use that fire for something else… the League could use someone like you."
Shiera blinked. "Wait, you're asking me to join the Justice League?"
"Offer comes with optional cape and dental," Mera added, elbowing Harry lightly. "But fair warning, the group chat is 90% memes, 10% Diana trying to schedule mission briefings."
"I like structure," Diana said, folding her arms.
"We like chaos," Harry and Mera said in unison.
Shiera looked at them all—Diana with her steel-and-honey poise, Mera with her firecracker grin and dragon energy, and Harry with his I've-killed-a-god-and-I-still-make-deadpan-jokes vibe.
"You're all completely insane," she said.
"And that," Harry said with a smirk, "is probably the most normal thing you'll hear today. Welcome to the madness."
He offered a hand. She didn't take it.
Instead, she looked him over with the curiosity of someone trying to figure out how exactly a man could be this irritating, charming, and illegal levels of pretty all at once. "What exactly do you bring to the table besides a flaming sword and a death wish?"
Harry's grin sharpened. "Oh, just the usual. World-class magic, kryptonian flight, phoenix regeneration, several lifetimes of combat mastery, and cheekbones that can cut glass. Also, I'm hell with a monologue."
Diana, without looking, ran her fingers lightly across his armored chest. "He also cooks. And he's very good with his hands."
Mera leaned in from the other side, her voice husky and wicked. "And his mouth. Let's not forget his mouth."
Harry blinked. "Are we still recruiting Shiera or… seducing her with our collective dysfunction?"
Shiera raised an eyebrow, clearly not disinterested. "Honestly? It's working either way."
Before Harry could decide whether to make a witty comeback or suggest a team-building exercise involving whipped cream and poor life decisions, the rubble at the far end of the tomb gave a low, ominous rumble.
Diana turned sharply, hand already on her sword. "We're not alone."
"Great," Mera muttered. "I just washed my trident."
Harry rolled his neck, cloak flaring behind him like it had a personal wind machine. "Guess it's not over yet."
"Is it ever?" Diana asked.
"Not when you're cursed with ridiculous charisma and a tragic backstory," Harry said, summoning his sword with a snap of flame and flair. "Come on, wings. You coming?"
Shiera smiled, and for the first time in centuries, it wasn't haunted. Her wings shimmered into view—sharp, metallic, and more beautiful than any artist had ever painted them. "If I die again, I'm blaming you."
"Take a number," Harry called, already striding into the light. "The line starts behind Batman, Zatanna, and at least four gods I've offended."
Diana was right beside him in a heartbeat, brushing her shoulder against his. "Keep up, Champion."
Mera followed on his other side, rolling her eyes as she flicked water off her fingers with casual grace. "Try not to flirt with death too hard. We just got you fixed."
And behind them, wings spread and laughter in her voice, Shiera flew for the first time in a long time without fear.
The tomb faded into shadow.
The world outside still burned in places.
But for once, for all of them?
Life was just getting started.
—
Meanwhile, Somewhere Deep, Dark, and Definitely Government-Funded...
Lex Luthor didn't raise his voice often.
Not because he was composed. Or zen. Or following some mindfulness podcast.
No. He didn't yell because, when he did, things had a tendency to explode.
Sometimes figuratively. Often literally.
So when Lex Luthor's voice—sharp, smooth, and currently two ticks below "biblical wrath"—echoed across the walls of Lab 7B, the collective blood pressure of everyone present spiked hard enough to make their Fitbits cry for help.
"Let me see if I've got this right," Lex said, walking a slow circle like a lion that had just discovered his meat buffet had been replaced with tofu. "We have a vat of Kryptonian stem cells—that's going beautifully. Project Kr is hurling tanks and angsting in his tank like the hormonal demi-god he is. That's great. Golf clap for the boy wonder. Really."
He paused. The sarcasm practically dripped off the walls.
"But this—" he turned toward the containment pod floating in the center of the room "—this, gentlemen, is a mystery."
Inside the pod, a vial hovered midair, glowing like a radioactive lava lamp designed by H.P. Lovecraft. The blood inside shimmered silver-red. It pulsed. Not like a machine. Not like a sample. But like it was listening.
Lex folded his arms and gave it the kind of look that could curdle milk. "Eidolon's blood. I want answers. And I want them in English. Preferably sarcasm-free."
A cough. Then Dr. Kravitz shuffled forward, clutching a datapad like it owed him money.
"S-Sir," he stammered, "we've made excellent progress with Project Kr. The Kryptonian DNA has integrated seamlessly. His cellular regeneration, solar absorption, even his emotional instability—it's all there."
"Ah yes," Lex said smoothly, "can't forget the raging case of daddy issues. Very on brand."
"But Eidolon," Kravitz said, trying not to look directly at Lex like he might trigger a laser-based smiting, "his cells are… different."
"How poetic," Lex drawled. "Unfortunately, I didn't fund this facility to hear metaphors. Clarify."
Another scientist chimed in—Dr. Lang, tall, pale, and currently pulling an all-nighter that looked like it had lasted three weeks. "His cells don't follow any known biological laws. They won't divide. They won't degrade. They… resist. And when we try to push them, they push back."
Lex raised a brow. "Push back?"
"Lab 3," Lang said solemnly.
"Ah, yes," Lex said, with the deadpan calm of a man recalling an inconveniently fatal Tuesday. "The one with the spontaneous black hole and the floor that tried to eat Jenkins."
Lang nodded. "We think Eidolon's DNA has some kind of built-in defense. A molecular kill switch."
Kravitz held up his datapad, tapping rapidly. "We tried synthetic wombs, CRISPR splicing, even Apokoliptian gene tanks—"
"Which cost more than a national missile defense system, by the way," Lex added mildly. "So you'll understand my irritation when they were used to create what amounted to sentient soup."
"I-It's almost like the blood has… will," Kravitz said. "Like it knows we're trying to clone it."
From the back, a voice piped up.
"It's magic."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Lex turned slowly. It was the kind of turn that suggested someone's career, and possibly their kneecaps, were about to be reassigned.
"Who said that?" he asked, in the tone of a man who already knew and was giving you one last chance to lie well.
An intern—probably fresh out of MIT and still clinging to his soul—raised a trembling hand. "I-I just meant that's how it acts, sir. Reality warping, rule-breaking, resistance to logic—it resembles how magic behaves in the field."
Lex looked at him like he'd just confessed to believing in the Tooth Fairy.
"Magic," Lex repeated flatly. "Is the excuse of idiots. The kind of excuse people use when they can't be bothered to open the hood and understand the engine. Do I look like I believe in fairy tales?"
The intern gulped. "No, sir. More like a Bond villain who reads Nietzsche for fun."
Lex blinked.
Then he turned to Lang. "Promote him."
"What?"
"He's got a sense of humor. That's rare around here."
Kravitz cleared his throat again. "There's also… the energy signature."
Lex sighed. "Please don't tell me Eidolon's blood is also moonlighting as a reactor core."
"Not a reactor," Lang said carefully. "It's… harmonic. The sample emits a pulsing resonance that aligns with human bio-rhythms. But not biological ones. Spiritual ones."
Lex's eye twitched.
"We're talking pre-death neural oscillations," Kravitz added quickly. "The frequencies measured in near-death experiences. Things normally associated with… the human soul."
The vial pulsed again—just once. Soft. Like it agreed.
Lex stared at it for a long moment. Then, to no one in particular, he muttered, "If this thing sprouts wings and starts quoting Rumi, I'm calling Constantine."
"Sir?"
"Nothing," Lex snapped, spinning on his heel. "You're all fired."
"W-What?!"
"From this project. I need visionaries, not people who wet themselves at the sight of a glowing test tube. Get me Dr. Ivo. Wake T.O. Morrow. Dig Brainiac 8 out of the firewalls and bribe her with quantum data. Whatever it takes."
"What about Project Kr?" Kravitz called after him as Lex strode to the elevator, coat billowing like a supervillain runway model.
Lex paused. Turned. Smiled.
"Keep training the boy. Let him think he's special."
And then, with a glance at the vial—still pulsing, still glowing, still watching—he added:
"But make sure he never meets Eidolon. If I'm right… one is the future. The other?"
He smirked.
"The other is a walking apocalypse."
The doors slid shut.
—
Elsewhere in the Multiverse…
The sky was on fire.
Not metaphorically. Like, actual fire. Red, angry clouds roiled like they'd been brewed in a cauldron full of apocalypse juice, and below them, what used to be Metropolis was now just a smoking, lava-glazed mess. Picture a s'more that stayed in the campfire too long. Now add a body count.
Supergirl—well, a Supergirl, Kara Zor-L—hovered silently over the carnage, fists clenched so tight her knuckles cracked audibly. Her boots were covered in ash. Possibly some melted steel. Probably some regrets.
She looked like a fallen goddess who'd run out of people to smite.
And next to her, standing atop a ruined spire with all the subtlety of a gothic gargoyle, was Helena Wayne—Robin. Daughter of the Bat. Cape torn, eyeliner somehow still perfect, and currently adjusting the strap on her gauntlet like she was fixing to punch destiny in the teeth.
Neither of them spoke. There wasn't much to say when your whole world had just been reduced to barbecue.
"Clark," Kara finally said, voice hoarse. "Bruce. Diana. J'onn. Arthur. Victor. Barry…"
Helena nodded. "Yeah. All gone. Vaporized. Like Thanos snapped, but with extra Omega."
Kara made a soft noise—somewhere between a laugh and a choke. "Too soon for Marvel jokes."
"Too late for anything else."
Then it happened.
A Boom Tube tore through the sky like someone had slashed open reality with a hot knife. Lightning. Screaming light. Dimensional whiplash.
Helena twitched. Kara didn't even blink.
"Trap," Kara said flatly, floating up a little.
"Definitely a trap," Helena agreed, casually loading an explosive batarang like she was seasoning a sandwich.
"But…"
"We're out of options," Kara finished for her.
She reached out and grabbed Helena's wrist. It wasn't a comforting gesture. It was the same way Clark used to do it before throwing himself into stupidly heroic situations—half reassurance, half 'you're not doing this alone.'
Helena didn't pull away.
They jumped.
—
Earth-Prime – New Universe
Okay, new rule—dimensional travel should come with seatbelts. Or air cushions. Or a warning label that says: "May cause existential crisis upon landing."
They slammed into a rooftop somewhere in Not-Quite-Gotham like two meteorites with fashion sense. The HVAC unit they landed on disintegrated like a soda can under a bus.
"Oof," Helena muttered, pulling herself out of a pile of scrap metal.
Kara stood up slowly, flicking soot off her shoulder like it had personally offended her. "Gravity's Earth standard."
Helena was already fiddling with her gauntlet, fingers dancing across the screen like she was speed-running a hacking minigame. "Scraping local internet. Looking for news, facial recognition, League data… Wow, okay, this Wi-Fi sucks."
"Probably a good sign," Kara said. "Means Bruce hasn't gotten his Bat-towers set up yet."
"Got it," Helena said after a beat, her voice going weirdly quiet.
Kara turned to her. "What?"
"This Earth. The Justice League just formed. Three months ago."
Kara frowned. "Wait, just?"
"Yeah. After their first war with Apokolips."
Kara's eyes widened. "First?"
Helena nodded grimly. "Ours happened ten years ago. That was the war that turned our League into gods. This world? They're babies."
Kara floated up a few feet, scanning the skyline with glowing eyes. "Which means Darkseid hasn't come back. Yet."
"Oh, he will," Helena said. "But there's something else."
She tapped her gauntlet again. Holograms popped up in midair—news feeds, battle footage, livestreams of post-invasion celebrations.
And him.
Kara's breath caught.
There he was. A figure clad in black leather armor that looked stitched together from shadows and bad dreams. Crimson energy pulsed like veins across his chest, all spiraling from a single glowing emblem that looked ancient and angry. His cloak fluttered even without wind. His hood and helmet masked everything except for two red eyes that burned like judgment day.
He didn't move like a man. He moved like a ghost with perfect aim.
In the footage, he sent what looked like a Darkseid clone flying with one hit. He stood beside Diana and Clark like he belonged there—and unlike them, he didn't seem interested in talking to cameras or kissing babies.
Helena stared.
"Name's Eidolon," she muttered. "Founding member. Part of their Big Seven. Actually—Big Eight."
Kara landed beside her. "Never heard of him."
Helena's lips pressed into a line. "Because he wasn't on our Earth."
Kara turned to her sharply. "Neither are we."
Helena shook her head. "Your ship hasn't landed yet. This Earth's Kara doesn't exist yet."
Kara's eyebrows shot up. "So I'm… a multiversal spoiler?"
"More like an early access preview," Helena said with a smirk. "Bruce is still young. Which means either I don't exist here, or am still a kid. No Robin. No Bat-daughter. Just Baby Bats and a Justice League in diapers."
Kara stared at the holo-image of Eidolon.
He stood at a press conference beside the others, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Silent. Distant. The kind of hero who didn't want the spotlight—just results.
Then, in the footage… he turned. Just a little. As if he'd sensed something.
And looked straight at the camera.
Kara took a step back, eyes wide.
Helena stiffened.
"You felt that, too?" she whispered.
It was like his gaze went through the screen. Through the universe. Through them.
"I've looked Darkseid in the face," Kara said. "He didn't scare me."
Helena raised an eyebrow. "And this guy does?"
Kara didn't answer.
Instead, she pointed at the holo-feed. "We need to find him."
Helena was already scrolling, pulling up building schematics, League HQ blueprints, satellite data. "I'm working on it."
Kara looked at her sideways. "Think he's a threat?"
"Could be," Helena said. "Or he could be the reason this Earth isn't ashes yet."
Kara narrowed her eyes at the crimson-eyed silhouette on the screen.
"Let's find out," she said. "Before the next Boom Tube opens—and this world ends up like ours."
---
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