| Stryker's Island Penitentiary - December 25
Joseph walked into the room, a folding chessboard in his hand, and took a seat.
Across from him sat his father, Lex Luthor.
Months of trial and public backlash for his involvement with the Light and the death of Superman hadn't aged the man. If anything, he looked healthier—happier—even in his orange prison overalls.
Joseph opened the board fully, and without a word, father and son began setting up the pieces.
Lex made the first move with white.
E4.
Joseph responded with black.
E5.
Lex followed with another pawn push.
F4. The King's Gambit.
Joseph played exf4, letting his pawn take as he accepted the gambit.
The room fell into silence as they moved piece after piece without speaking. Occasionally, Luthor would hum in appreciation at one of Joseph's more unorthodox moves—until, eventually, he clicked his tongue in annoyance at the inevitable checkmate forming on the board.
With a faint sigh, he tipped his king over.
Resignation.
They began putting the pieces away when Luthor finally spoke.
"You finally decided to visit your old man," he said. Not a question—a statement.
Joseph exhaled. "Your assistant, Mercy, kept clogging my inbox. She thinks it would make you happier to see me again. I think she has feelings for you or something."
"You know I don't do romantic love. And I don't think you'd come just because Mercy called."
"You're right. Mom's old colleague begging wasn't the only reason. My girlfriend thought it'd be a good idea to visit you—even if only for a few minutes. Something about a Tamaranean concept—rekma, the drifting of bonds." He paused. "Though we never really had a bond, did we, Dad?"
"Regretfully," Lex replied. "Though I'm glad I could help you by giving you LexCorp. I'm proud of all you've achieved, son."
Joseph clicked his tongue at the unfamiliar fatherly affection. "You could've achieved everything I have—if not for your obsession with Superman."
"Superman was an existential threat to human achievement," Lex said without hesitation. "He would have made humanity complacent—stunted our growth. The Man of Steel's effortless godhood is an insult to every human's hard-earned brilliance. The fact that people looked up to an alien above all else… disgusted me."
"Then I guess you'll hate that I'm bringing him back," Joseph said.
Lex's expression finally shifted.
"It turns out he never truly died. I was analyzing Kryptonian physiology in case something happened to my brothers, and I discovered that Superman entered a state of extreme cellular hibernation—not death. His body preserved what remained of his life force after the trauma, and his soul resisted crossing over. With enough concentrated solar energy, I'll be able to repair his cells over time."
For a brief moment, pure rage—envy—something darker—flashed across Lex's face.
Then it vanished.
He laughed.
"Fine. It doesn't matter. Superman stopped being humanity's greatest savior the moment you appeared. I've already proven humanity surpasses aliens. I've already won."
He leaned back slightly, amused.
"You've probably already taken control of large portions of the underworld—like you did with Carla Viti and Chicago—using the chaos of the past months as cover. I know that because it's what I would've done. And that peace deal in the Middle East? Straight out of my playbook."
His gaze sharpened.
"The reason I don't call your 'brothers' my children is because they lack it. The Luthor intelligence. The Luthor arrogance. The Luthor pride."
A pause.
"Whether you like it or not, you are my legacy."
Joseph stood.
There was no point denying it.
Lex was right.
He had shaped him—through more than just DNA.
And Joseph didn't care.
Because he knew one thing with certainty.
He was different.
He was better.
Joseph turned toward the door.
"I'll have someone named Airstryke watch over you while you're here," he said.
Airstryke was turned into a human–pterodactyl hybrid by Count Viper's Meta/Tech and was serving time here as well. Joseph had managed to help the man be able to reverse the transformation at will—something he was practicing to help Waylon—so the man owed him.
"And stop wearing that kryptonite ring. I'm not helping you if you give yourself cancer."
A beat.
"Merry Christmas, Father."
Then he left.
**
| Metropolis - December 25
Later that night, a small party was underway at Joseph's house.
For the first time, he had invited his brothers over.
Everyone sat around the dining table in casual clothes.
"You're telling me that cat is Klarion? I lost my favorite boots in the Tower of Fate to lava because of him," Conner said, wearing the leather biker jacket Joseph had gifted him for Christmas over his black shirt featuring the House of El crest in red.
It paired perfectly with the customized motorcycle he'd been working on in the Cave.
"Hey, Klarion's a good cat now. Right, Klarion?" Cass asked, offering him a piece of fish from her plate.
Months trapped in feline form had eroded Klarion's pride as a Lord of Chaos. He accepted the fish and ate it, nodding.
He actually seemed to prefer life like this.
He could sleep—something he had never experienced in billions of years—and he could mess with random people while pretending to be an ordinary cat, which he found hilarious.
And, of course, he could torment any assassin foolish enough to target Cass.
Meanwhile, Jason leaned toward Match who wore a white shirt with a yellow House of El crest.
"Who's stronger—you or Captain Marvel?"
"Why do you ask?" Match replied, adjusting the Hypno-Glasses Joseph had given him. Looking like a famous hero made it difficult for him to appear in public, but the glasses prevented people from recognizing the resemblance.
Conner, thanks to Lex's altered DNA, didn't have that problem.
"I need you to teach him a lesson," Jason said. "Billy keeps beating me in every game we play. I used to dominate him. I know he's using the Wisdom of Solomon—I just can't prove it."
"Maybe we should talk it out," Match suggested gently. "Violence isn't the answer."
Jason slammed his fist on the table.
"When you get hit with a 30-piece combo sixteen games in a row, then you'll understand why violence was invented. I'm older than you, so I know what I'm talking about."
Match opened his mouth to respond—
Then closed it.
He had no counter.
"I'd be able to do it myself if Joseph gave me cool powers, but no—'kids shouldn't fight crime and be superheroes.' Say that to Batman, damn it!"
"Language," Sebas, their android butler, said as he emerged from the kitchen carrying more scrumptious food.
"Thank you for the food, Sebas," Kori said as she eagerly began digging in. Joseph knew her appetite well—Tamaraneans didn't have nine stomachs for nothing.
Joseph couldn't help but smile at Kori's contentment, at the harmony of the moment.
Maybe next year, he'd reveal his secret identity to Aunt Lena so she could be part of this too.
This—this was why he did everything.
Family.
He would make sure this peace lasted as long as possible.
Kori noticed his smile and took his hand.
Their fingers interlocked as she leaned in and whispered, "I have to tell you something later."
//Sensors indicate a heavily armed artificial satellite has breached the Kuiper Belt,// Nova said. //Further analysis identifies it as the Warworld, commanded by the alien conqueror and tyrant known as Mongul.//
'Thanks, Nova.'
There was no need to inform the rest of the League. Today, of all days, they deserved to be with their families—taking a break from saving the world.
"Okay," Joseph said to Kori before addressing the table. "Looks like there's an alien tyrant headed for Earth, so I'll be gone for a bit."
"Can I come?" Conner asked. "I just want to learn a few tricks from you since you've got so much experience."
"Same—can I tag along?" Match added.
"Sure," Joseph replied.
"How about me?" Jason said. Joseph was about to answer when Jason cut him off. "Come on, I'm older than both of them. Just this once. You wouldn't deny a poor orphan boy from the Gotham slums a Christmas wish, would you?"
Joseph rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said, prompting Jason to pump his fists in victory. "But you're only allowed to watch."
Joseph enveloped Jason in a blue Nova Force aura before opening a boom tube.
"Cass, want to come?" Joseph asked.
"Maybe next time. I want to finish my chocolate ice cream," the seven-year-old replied simply, returning to her bowl.
"I'll stay with her. Have fun, boys," Kori said.
"Later!" Jason shouted as he dove into the boom tube.
"Wait, it could be dangerous—" Match said, flying after him. Conner followed right behind, slapping a red shield patch onto his arm. Joseph shook his head ruefully.
"We'll be back soon."
**
| Kuiper Belt - December 25
In a large chamber lined with glowing orange, high-tech runes, a single figure sat on the room's only piece of furniture: a lone chair.
The figure was a monstrous humanoid alien—yellow-skinned, red-eyed, clad in dark purple armor.
Mongul.
He was alerted to the anomaly detected by Warworld. With a mental command through the device on his head, he activated the system, projecting a view of space across the chamber walls.
Four figures appeared.
Ah. More future prisoners attempting to board his vessel.
He had captured several near Vega just days prior before arriving in this system via subspace.
Following standard protocol, Mongul dismissed the live feed.
There was no threat here.
This was a backwater system—nothing more than routine conquest.
Mongul was born into a long lineage of planetary rulers. From a young age, he believed one truth above all else: the strong were meant to dominate the weak.
He refused to share anything—not even with his own kin.
After killing his younger brother, his parents tried for years to discipline him, but their efforts only sparked a civil war that devastated their homeworld—leaving Mongul as the sole survivor.
Eventually, he was deposed by another tyrant.
Somehow, he came into possession of the Crystal Key—the power source of Warworld. With it, he set out to reclaim power by conquering the galaxy.
With major forces like the Citadel and the Reach locked in conflict, and the Green Lantern Corps spread thin trying to contain the chaos, the timing was perfect.
He chose this system after hearing rumors that the Reach had deployed a scarab to Earth with plans to conquer it.
Too bad.
He would take the planet first.
First come, first served.
The Warworld itself was ancient—once a planet torn from orbit and layered over with machinery by countless civilizations across millennia.
A massive, enigmatic construct said to be forged by the Old Gods.
Its atmosphere was sustained by the Great Worms—colossal creatures within its crust that expelled breathable gases. Veins of a rare mineral known as Genesis ran throughout its rocky core.
Mongul maintained a brutal cycle:
Find a resource-rich world.
Crush all resistance.
Enslave the survivors.
Strip the planet of resources to fuel Warworld's forges and sustain its slave population.
Then move on to the next.
Warworld, slightly smaller than Earth's moon, was armed with countless weapons capable of planetary devastation. Its most fearsome was a massive laser emitter—requiring an entire section of the planet's surface to retract before firing—capable of destroying a world in seconds.
It could also unleash massive missile barrages and deploy countless smaller weapons for surface defense.
Internally, the structure was protected by swarms of battle drones—red, floating, stretched-octahedral machines armed with energy weapons. Individually fragile, but deadly in numbers. Yellow variants handled maintenance and repairs, making Warworld entirely self-sustaining.
Meanwhile, its slave population farmed, manufactured goods, and mined Genesis—a highly valuable mineral—earning Mongul trillions of credits.
Among his most prized slaves were the Phaelosians—genetic offshoots of ancient Kryptonians, descended from an exiled science colony. Warworld's subterranean red sun generators kept them weakened, and Mongul took pleasure in crushing their rebellions whenever they arose—reminding all others of their place.
Then—
Mongul frowned.
The device on his head pinged again.
His brows furrowed.
"How are they advancing toward my position?" he muttered.
"I didn't open the doors."