"That energy-absorbing constitution of yours really is something. But how about this?"
Thea's left hand traced a series of arcane symbols in the air. Apokolips—a world already carpeted in volcanic magma—answered her call. From deep within the planet's core, an enormous river of spectral blue-green surged upward, erupting through the surface like a geyser.
The river carved through the path of carnage she'd left behind. Countless corpses tumbled into its current and dissolved, feeding the waters. In return, the river distilled a portion of their essence back outward, and numberless souls began to howl.
Steppenwolf was closest. The water lunged at him like something alive.
His axe was a divine weapon in its own right. He swung it down to cleave the river apart—but the moment the blade touched the surface, a soul flickered into existence amid the rippling water. Twin daggers in hand, technique flawless. One dagger caught the axe and levered it aside; the other drove straight for Steppenwolf's left eye.
"Kanto?! You—"
The shock wasn't because his attack had been blocked. After all, that disastrous battle with Superman on Earth had cost him more than half his divine power. He was operating at less than forty percent of his peak—any halfway notable fighter could trade blows with him now.
No, the shock was because Kanto's soul had been pulled out. If his soul was here, then his body could rot for ten thousand years and it wouldn't matter. He was dead. Truly, irrevocably dead.
And yet—dead or not—the former greatest assassin in the universe still had his memories intact. His soul was entirely under Thea's control now. Steppenwolf had automatically become a former colleague, and nothing more. The twin daggers stabbed, slashed, hooked, and carved—each strike faster than the last—beating Steppenwolf into a humiliating retreat.
If one was an exception, three certainly weren't. Two of the Female Furies—pseudo-gods trained by Granny Goodness, but competent fighters nonetheless—had also fallen. Thea didn't discriminate. Every soul she could harvest, she converted and sent back into the fight.
The only regret was Kalibak. He hadn't actually died. She'd just claimed the Godhood of Death at the time, and her control over her own power had been slightly off. That sword strike hadn't finished him completely. By the time she'd noticed something was wrong, she'd weighed the optics of doubling back to finish him off, decided against it, and let the lion-maned brute keep his life by a thread.
"Let me give you your body back." She gestured casually. Kanto's corpse stood up on its own, head reattaching to neck as though the decapitation had been nothing more than an inconvenience. Then she flicked her wrist and drove his soul back inside.
His mastery over shadows was already consummate. With body and godhood reunited, the Source that had vanished upon his death came flooding back.
Kanto was the God of Shadows once more—only now, his allegiance had shifted from Apokolips to the Goddess of Death.
"Sorry about this. Nothing personal, old friend." Kanto's face was ashen—utterly lifeless, not a trace of vitality. He spoke even as he raised both daggers and threw himself at Steppenwolf with lethal intent.
Thea replicated the process. Lashina and Bernadeth from the Female Furies were "resurrected" next. Neither had held godhood in life—pseudo-gods at best—and their combat effectiveness had dropped sharply in death. But they were still far above average. One wielded a crackling electric whip; the other hefted a spear. Together, they charged Granny Goodness.
As for the rank-and-file Parademons? No such luxury. They fought as soul-constructs and nothing more.
The Sea of Souls from Darkseid's era. The River of Life from Nekron's. And now, this River of Death. She was beginning to realize she had a real affinity for water-based magic.
The feeling was decidedly not mutual. Apokolips's defenders were growing to despise water. Souls clung to anything they touched and refused to let go. The only way to cleanse it was to burn precious divine power—manageable in small doses, but at scale, a nightmare for anyone.
"Come on, drink up! Don't be shy!" Thea made a beckoning gesture at Mantis. You like absorbing magic? Absorbing energy? I'll give you all you can handle.
She even offered home delivery. The river coiled around Mantis like a living serpent.
He wasn't stupid. More importantly, he'd already noticed the problem. The divine power he'd been absorbing wasn't converting into his own strength the way it normally did. Instead, it was pooling inside his body—and corroding his existing reserves from within.
"Finally figured it out? Too late." Thea read his expression and knew he probably had some method of shedding divine power, purging the contamination. She didn't hesitate. She severed her connection to that portion of death energy entirely.
Without its rightful Goddess controlling it, the death energy inside Mantis went berserk.
The extreme pain might have been an exaggeration—but without sufficient mental preparation, the agony that came with uncontrolled death energy was impossible to resist.
"AAARGH—!" Mantis felt a ripping, soul-rending pain erupt from the deepest core of his soul. As though someone were driving a blade into his heart—once, ten times, a thousand times, ten thousand times. The entire sequence compressed into a single instant. He desperately wanted to pass out, but his battle-hardened nerves were too robust for that mercy. Consciousness refused to leave.
Time and space lost all meaning. Drowning in boundless agony, his vision dissolved into chaos. All perception ceased.
Mantis's body went rigid on the battlefield. Steppenwolf fought furiously, hacking and slashing until he finally drove Kanto back a step, then glanced over his shoulder—and froze. What the hell? The man had let out one roar and then just... stopped. Standing there, eyes vacant, completely motionless.
Dead? Steppenwolf didn't understand magic well enough to tell. He urgently signaled DeSaad and Doctor Bedlam—the two casters—to check.
Meanwhile, he ordered the remaining forces into a full offensive against Thea. Buy them time. Even knowing that every soldier who fell would join the enemy's ranks, he had no choice. If this kept up, they'd have to wake Darkseid—and the losses in the meantime were catastrophic.
DeSaad, being the God of Pain, could at least confirm Mantis was alive. Just in extraordinary agony.
Doctor Bedlam's psychic abilities were genuinely impressive. After a thorough examination, he arrived at a peculiar conclusion: "He seems to have entered some kind of self-imposed mental shutdown."
He couldn't fathom why anyone would voluntarily seal off their own consciousness in the middle of a battle. But then again, Doctor Bedlam had never been what you'd call a good person.
Without a word, he shed that Dementor-like black robe and transformed into a stream of pure psychic energy, plunging straight into Mantis's body.
He'd coveted this body for a long time. Physically, Mantis was among the strongest of all New Gods—speed, power, durability, all near the top. Add the energy-absorption constitution on top of that, plus Doctor Bedlam's own psychic powers? A perfect combination. He'd simply never found the right opportunity. Today, it had fallen into his lap.
Seizing a comrade's body the moment they showed weakness—that was Apokolips friendship in a nutshell.
Unfortunately, his calculations were a little too clever. The instant he entered Mantis's body—before he could even savor the raw power coursing through it—he found the problem. Black fire was raging inside the body, and the soul-deep agony hit him like a freight train. He gritted his teeth and fled at three times his entry speed, frantically pulling his black robe back on.
Even with reflexes that fast, a full fifth of his psychic essence—the very foundation of his existence—had been burned away.
Thea held off on pressing the attack. Steppenwolf was privately negotiating with her.
"If you don't pull back, I will wake His Majesty. Whatever scheme you're running, nothing stands against that power!" To the outside world, Steppenwolf looked unstoppable—axe whirling in devastating arcs. But on the psychic channel, he was practically begging. The bluster was so transparent that even he was disgusted with himself.