Parademons poured from their hives in droves. A ground force that could only be called massive converged from every direction, encircling her completely.
Hulking brutes with savage faces. Grotesque alien species. But compared to New Genesis's disciplined ranks, this army looked like a mob.
Some carried chain-maces. Some wielded axes. Most relied on laser weapons and energy blades.
The wave of death rolling off Thea had been working on the fodder's minds the entire time. Their dim, brutalized brains couldn't identify what they feared—only that something primal was screaming at them to back away.
Then someone shouted "Kill her!" and every soldier remembered their predicament: hang back now, get executed later. Charge forward, and maybe—just maybe—you survive.
One. Two. A trickle of courage, and they rushed her.
What awaited them was only death.
Against fodder like this, a single spell could wipe out thousands. But to deepen her attunement with death, Thea chose to kill with steel.
The gladiatorial bouts she'd watched over the past few days were paying off handsomely—her close-combat instincts had grown by a significant margin, and this was the perfect proving ground.
Blood sprayed. Severed limbs and shattered corpses paved a road of gore. Soldiers surged forward in waves, only to become corpses even faster.
The efficiency's a bit low. At her core, Thea was a lazy person. Mowing them down like this was satisfying, sure, but monotonous.
A flash—an ink-black crescent slash arced from her blade, streaking across the distance, claiming seven heads and bisecting four unlucky souls at the waist.
Once she realized ranged attacks still counted as killing, Thea was delighted. Finally—no more mindless sword-swinging.
Saw-tooth flying blades. Crescent slashes. A full arsenal of ranged techniques pushed her kill rate up by another thirty percent.
The death energy orbiting her began expanding erratically. Twin swords danced, composing a symphony of death—each devastating ranged strike a heavy note on the score.
A single scratch from either blade meant death. The fodder couldn't comprehend it. Their last conscious thought, as the light left their eyes: Why? It was just a nick on my arm. Why am I dying?
Clang! A swing—blocked. Thea looked up. Well, well. A familiar face. The "Greatest Assassin in the Universe," Kanto. They'd met just days ago.
Today the God of Shadows had come fully armed: circular helm, crimson soft-armor, a pair of wickedly gleaming daggers—and Thea spotted plenty of smaller toys on his person. Throwing stars. Throwing knives. Poison vials.
"I spared your life the other day. Wasn't being alive good enough?"
"Greatest Assassin in the Universe? Master of a hundred million fighting styles?" She snorted. "In my eyes, you're no different from the fodder. You chose the wrong path."
She couldn't fathom where he'd found the courage to show his face. Three days ago he hadn't been a match; what made him think today would be different?
Kanto, for his part, was cursing his own luck to the heavens.
Purging the traps she'd planted in his body had cost him dearly. He'd gone to DeSaad and Granny Goodness—the two magic-wielding gods on Apokolips—and begged for their help. On Apokolips, camaraderie between ranks was worth about as much as toilet paper; the price they'd extracted was enormous, and the cleansing had taken three full days.
Too spooked to return to the arena, Kanto had stayed home to train. He hadn't gotten through two forms before the commotion outside dragged him out—and there she was, going full Dynasty Warriors on the foot soldiers.
He looked around. This was Apokolips, right? Not that arena? How had she tracked him here? The Greatest Assassin in the Universe nearly choked on his own bile.
He would have loved to hide, but his home sat squarely on the line between Darkseid's palace and Thea's landing point. Worse, a swarm of soldiers had already spotted him. Unless the Greatest Assassin wanted to be branded a traitor, he had no choice but to step up.
She was a spellcaster, no matter how strong. His odds of winning were slim, but he might manage to escape.
He raised a hand. Black fog billowed outward as Kanto tried to drag the fight onto his home turf.
Thea hurled her left-hand sword. Kanto's concealment was the stuff of legend—a micro-shift of his left foot and he slipped into shadow.
Simultaneously, nine throwing knives fanned out, sealing every dodge angle Thea had. Each knife trailed wisps of shadow energy.
Thea had seen him use this trick against Lady Styx's diamond golems. If the target didn't react in time, there was a real chance of being locked inside a Shadow Cage.
Kanto's play was obviously a stall.
"Parlor tricks." Thea's speed defied expectation. One sword spun free, its tip flicking upward—three fodder soldiers were launched into the path of three incoming knives, trapped in the cages instead.
Her left hand closed on empty air and the sword reappeared in her grip. She swept a slash sideways—black energy roiling, space splitting—a strike of pure divine power—the power of death itself.
Kanto burst out of the shadow dimension, didn't stop moving, and made for a nearby soldier's shadow to dive back in.
"Die. You've been chasing the wrong things your whole life." Thea had already calculated his escape route. The moment Kanto surfaced, a black blade was waiting at his throat. He threw up both daggers to block—only to realize it was a feint. Thea's right hand sailed past without stopping, and her left swept across his neck in a single clean motion. Kanto saw a flash of black, and without so much as a grunt, his head left his body.
Combat technique, no matter how polished, meant nothing without the raw power to back it up. Strength, speed—he was outclassed on every axis. Thea's martial skill didn't amount to a fraction of his, yet sheer superiority made a simple cleave more than sufficient.
What was the point of learning so much? Thea couldn't understand it. He could have spent that time studying his own godhood. She flicked the blood from her blade. Two New Gods killed. The Godhood of Death hummed with growing satisfaction.
While Thea was out here savoring blood and fire, treating Apokolips to a killing spree with local flavor, her two old friends—Steppenwolf and DeSaad—were staring at the live feed from the front lines, trading bewildered glances.
"That's her, isn't it? I'm not seeing things?" DeSaad had met Thea twice, though never in a real fight. The distance had been considerable both times, and she'd changed her look since then. He wasn't entirely sure.
Steppenwolf knew her much better. He rubbed his eyes, studied the image for a long moment, and arrived at a conclusion he was very sure about: this was New Genesis's Goddess of Wealth. What in the world was she doing here?
One scholar, one warrior—Darkseid's left and right hands. Between them, these two gods had lived hundreds of millions of years and seen their share of the bizarre. But a lone attacker storming Apokolips? That was a first.
It's a trap. An ambush. That was their immediate thought. The way they saw it, Thea was marching in this brazenly because Highfather and his forces were crouched in some metaphorical bush, waiting for them to commit before springing the real attack.