"Education is the movement from darkness to light." Allan Bloom
NEVADA DESERT
Battle Beast charged.
Mark's eyes widened at the sheer speed—faster than his father had ever moved during their sparring sessions, faster than anything he'd fought in the in his life. Battle Beast crossed the distance between them in less than a second, moving like a freight train wrapped in fur and muscle.
Mark barely managed to bring his guard up, his arms crossing in front of his face—
But Battle Beast wasn't aiming for a punch.
The leonine warrior's massive hand grabbed Mark's entire head, engulfing it like a basketball. Before Mark could react, Battle Beast spun, using Mark's body as a counterweight.
They became a tornado of motion, spinning faster and faster. Sand erupted around them in a whirlwind, creating a vortex that scraped Mark's exposed skin. The G-forces were incredible—Mark's inner ear screamed in protest, his sense of direction completely lost.
Then Battle Beast released him.
Mark shot into the air like a missile, tumbling end over end, completely disoriented. He was easily three hundred feet up before his Viltrumite instincts kicked in and he managed to stabilize himself, stopping his ascent and hovering.
He looked down just in time to see Battle Beast jump.
The warrior launched himself from the ground with enough force to crater the sand beneath him. He flew upward—not with flight, but pure muscular power—heading straight for Mark.
He's slower in the air, Mark realized. Still fast, but not as fast as on the ground where he can use his legs.
Mark made a split-second decision and dove.
He put both hands in front of him like a spear and accelerated downward, aiming for Battle Beast's exposed stomach. They met in mid-air with a sound like a bomb going off.
Mark's strike connected perfectly, driving into Battle Beast's abdomen with all the force of his strength amplified by momentum. Battle Beast's eyes widened slightly—surprise, or pain, or maybe both, probably just surprise—and he was driven down into the ground like a meteor.
BOOM.
The impact created a crater twenty feet across. Dust and sand exploded outward in a massive cloud.
Mark didn't hesitate. He dove into the crater after Battle Beast and started pummeling him—left, right, left, right. His fists moved in a blur, each impact driving Battle Beast deeper into the sand.
Got him. Keep the pressure on. Don't let him recover—
Battle Beast snarled—an animal sound of fury and excitement.
His hand shot up and caught Mark's fist mid-punch. The grip was like a vice, crushing down on Mark's hand hard enough that he felt bones creak.
"My turn," Battle Beast growled.
He threw Mark.
Not gently. Not carefully. He hurled Mark like a discus, sending him flying hundreds of feet through the air. Mark's body became a projectile, crashing through a rock formation. The rocks shattered on impact—solid stone reduced to rubble—and Mark tumbled through the debris, his body carving a path of destruction.
He finally stopped, embedded in what was left of the rock face, his body creating a human-shaped impression.
Mark groaned and pushed himself out, falling to his knees in the sand.
Okay. That hurt. That really hurt.
He looked up to see Battle Beast already charging at him, covering the distance impossibly fast. The warrior's legs were a blur, each step cratering the sand beneath him, propelling him forward with devastating momentum.
"Show me the Viltrumite legend I have heard all about!" Battle Beast roared.
Mark flew straight up at the last second. Battle Beast's charge carried him past, missing by inches. Mark immediately countered, diving down and driving his fist into Battle Beast's side with all his strength.
CRACK.
The impact was solid—Mark felt it connect, felt Battle Beast's body give slightly under the force. The warrior was sent flying sideways, tumbling through the air.
Battle Beast flipped mid-flight, extended his claws, and landed on all fours in the sand. His claws dug in for purchase, but the loose sand shifted beneath him, making it hard to find solid footing. He slid several feet before managing to stop himself.
Mark was already flying at him again, building speed, his fist cocked back.
Battle Beast's eyes narrowed. He waited until Mark was almost on him, then crouched low and clapped his hands together in front of him.
BOOM.
The thunderclap was deafening. A visible shockwave of compressed air shot forward like a wall, hitting Mark with the force of a hurricane. He was blown backward, tumbling through the air, his trajectory completely disrupted.
Before Mark could recover, Battle Beast launched himself forward—faster than Mark had ever seen him move. He covered the distance while Mark was still disoriented and drove his fist into Mark's gut.
All the air left Mark's lungs in an explosive gasp. He felt something crack—ribs, definitely ribs—and then he was flying upward, propelled by the force of the blow.
Battle Beast jumped after him, his powerful legs launching him like a missile. He caught Mark's leg mid-flight and used the momentum to swing him in a wide arc.
CRASH.
Mark hit the sand face-first with enough force to create a crater fifteen feet deep. Sand exploded outward from the impact.
Before Mark could even process what had happened, Battle Beast was on him. The warrior grabbed him by the back of his suit and lifted him bodily from the crater.
Battle Beast smashed him into the ground again, this time face-up.
And again, driving him deeper into the sand.
Each impact sent shockwaves through the desert floor. Sand fountained into the air with each strike.
Then Battle Beast dragged Mark across the sand—the friction tearing at Mark's suit, sand burning against his skin—and brought him to his knee in one brutally efficient motion.
Battle Beast's fist came down like a hammer.
CRACK.
The punch drove into Mark's chest. More ribs broke. Mark tasted blood—coppery and hot—filling his mouth.
Battle Beast kicked him away. Mark tumbled across the desert floor, rolling and bouncing like a ragdoll, finally coming to a stop fifty feet away.
Get up, Mark told himself. Get up. You have to get up.
His healing was already working—the broken ribs starting to mend, the internal bleeding beginning to slow faster than expected. But it hurt. God, it hurt.
Mark pushed himself to his feet, spitting blood into the sand. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand.
Thirteen years, Mark thought through the pain. Thirteen years preparing in the Flaxan dimension plus the pain serum. This hurts worse than anything I felt there. But I can take it. I can—
Battle Beast charged again.
Jesus, he's relentless.
Mark charged too, yelling his defiance.
They met in the middle. Battle Beast's right claw swiped at Mark's head—four razor-sharp claws that could have taken his head clean off. Mark ducked under it at the last possible second, the air slicing apart from the force with him getting inside Battle Beast's guard.
He drove his fist into the warrior's face with everything he had.
CRACK.
Battle Beast's head snapped to the side. Blood sprayed from his nose.
"That's it!" Battle Beast shouted, and Mark could hear genuine joy in his voice. "That's the way!"
The warrior was smiling—actually smiling—even as blood ran down his face and dripped from his chin.
Then his hand shot out and grabbed Mark by the head again.
Not this goddamn move again—
Mark angled his leg up and kicked Battle Beast's shoulder with all his strength. The leverage broke Battle Beast's grip, and Mark backflipped away, creating distance.
He landed on his feet, immediately cocked his fist back, planted his stance, and roared as he threw everything he had into a single punch.
Battle Beast, still recovering from the shoulder kick, tried to dodge but wasn't fast enough.
Mark's fist connected with Battle Beast's jaw.
CRACK.
The sound was like breaking stone. Blood and saliva sprayed. Battle Beast was sent flying backward, his massive body tumbling through the air, leaving a trail of crimson droplets that caught the dying sunlight.
He rolled when he hit the ground, tumbling end over end, before finally coming to a stop fifty feet away.
Mark stood there panting, his chest heaving, watching to see if Battle Beast would get back up.
Please stay down. Please just stay—
Laughter.
Battle Beast pushed himself up slowly, blood running down his chin, staining his white fur crimson. The sun was setting now, painting the desert in shades of orange and red. Battle Beast stood with his arms spread wide, backlit by the dying light, blood dripping from his claws onto the sand making him look like a demon from hell.
He licked the blood off his claws, his yellow eyes locked on Mark, and grinned wider than ever.
"I did not know the mighty Invincible could bleed," Battle Beast said, his voice carrying genuine delight.
Mark looked down at himself and his stomach dropped.
His suit was torn in several places. Long claw marks ran across his stomach—four parallel lines that had cut deep enough to draw blood. A lot of blood. His suit was soaked with it.
When did he—the first grab? When he threw me? I didn't even feel it.
His pain tolerance had dulled the sensation enough that he hadn't even noticed until now. But looking at it, seeing the damage...
That's bad. That's really bad.
"Come at me, Invincible!" Battle Beast roared, dropping into a combat stance. "Show me the meaning of that word!"
He charged.
Mark put his fists up and charged too, yelling his challenge.
They collided in the center of the desert.
Battle Beast's left claw came at Mark's face. Mark blocked with his forearm—the claws scraped against his skin, drawing more blood but not penetrating deep. He countered with a right hook to Battle Beast's ribs.
Battle Beast took the hit without flinching and responded with a knee to Mark's stomach.
WHAM.
Right into the claw wounds.
Mark's vision went white with pain. He doubled over, gasping, and Battle Beast immediately capitalized—grabbing Mark's head and driving his knee up into Mark's face.
CRACK.
Mark's nose broke. Blood exploded across his face, hot and immediate.
Battle Beast released him and Mark stumbled backward, his hands coming up instinctively to his broken nose. Through the blood and tears, he saw Battle Beast coming at him again.
Move!
Mark flew straight up, but Battle Beast anticipated it. The warrior jumped, his powerful legs launching him after Mark, and caught Mark's leg.
Battle Beast pulled Mark down and spun in mid-air, using Mark's body like a flail. He swung Mark in a complete circle—once, twice—building momentum.
Then he threw Mark at the ground.
Mark hit the desert floor so hard it created a crater thirty feet across. The impact drove all the air from his lungs. His back arched involuntarily from the pain.
Battle Beast landed beside the crater on all fours, then walked to the edge, looking down at Mark with those predatory yellow eyes.
"Are you done, Invincible?" Battle Beast asked. "Is this all the strength a half-breed can muster?"
Mark coughed, blood spraying from his mouth. His ribs were broken again—he could feel the sharp pain with every breath. His nose was definitely broken. The claw wounds on his stomach were bleeding heavily.
But he wasn't done.
I'm not done. I can't be done. This is what I trained for. This is why I spent thirteen years in hell. To prove I could handle this. To prove I'm strong enough.
Mark pushed himself up. First to his knees. Then to his feet. Swaying. Bleeding. But standing.
"Not... done..." Mark spat blood. "Not even... close."
Battle Beast's grin widened. "Good. Then we continue."
He jumped into the crater.
What followed was brutal.
Battle Beast came at Mark with a combination—left claw, right claw, knee, elbow. Mark blocked what he could, but Battle Beast was faster, stronger, more experienced. Each strike that got through dealt devastating damage.
A claw to the shoulder, opening up deep gashes.
A punch to the kidney that made Mark's entire body seize up.
An elbow to the temple that made his vision blur and his ears ring.
Mark tried to fight back, throwing punches and kicks whenever he saw an opening. Some connected—solid hits that would have put down any normal opponent. But Battle Beast just absorbed them, smiled, and kept coming.
They fought across the desert for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes. Mark was operating purely on instinct now, his instinct taking over while his conscious mind struggled to keep up with the overwhelming violence.
Battle Beast grabbed Mark and threw him into another rock formation. Mark crashed through it, shattering stone, and kept going until he hit a second formation behind it. That one stopped him, and he fell to the ground in a heap.
Mark tried to stand. His legs wouldn't cooperate. Everything hurt. Everything.
He pushed himself up on one arm, looking up to see Battle Beast approaching slowly, deliberately. The warrior wasn't even breathing hard. No bruises, some blood, but otherwise he looked ready to fight for days.
How am I supposed to beat this? Mark thought desperately. He's too strong. Too fast. Too everything.
Battle Beast stood over him. "Do you yield?"
Mark spat blood. "No."
"Then stand."
Mark used a nearby boulder to pull himself up. His legs shook, barely supporting his weight. Blood ran down his face, his chest, his arms. His suit was in tatters.
But he was standing.
Battle Beast nodded, something like respect in his eyes. "You have spirit. I will grant you that."
He charged again.
Mark tried to block, but his arms were too slow, too weak. Battle Beast's fist slammed into his gut—right into the claw wounds again.
Mark doubled over, and Battle Beast grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground.
"This is the difference between us," Battle Beast said, his voice calm, almost gentle. "Between a half-breed and a true warrior."
He squeezed.
Mark's vision started to darken around the edges. He grabbed Battle Beast's wrist, tried to pry the fingers off his throat, but he might as well have been trying to bend steel.
No. Not like this. Not defeated. Not broken.
Mark's survival instincts kicked in. He drew his legs up and kicked Battle Beast in the chest with both feet, putting every ounce of remaining strength into it, his legs bones creaking from pain.
CRACK.
Battle Beast staggered backward, his grip loosening. Mark gasped for air and immediately flew upward, putting distance between them.
He hovered there, fifty feet up, breathing hard. Blood dripped from his wounds, falling like rain.
Battle Beast looked up at him, touched his chest where Mark had kicked him, and laughed.
"Yes! That is what I wanted to see! Fight, Invincible! Fight like your life depends on it—because it does!"
Battle Beast crouched, then launched himself upward with such force that the ground beneath him shattered.
MACHINE HEAD'S PENTHOUSE - SAME TIME
Cecil stood amid the wreckage, supervising the GDA agents as they cataloged evidence and secured the unconscious supervillains. The Guardians had already left—exhausted from the fight but victorious.
Robot had stayed behind, his mechanical form standing near the shattered window, looking out at the night sky.
"Will Mark be okay?" Robot asked quietly.
Cecil looked up from his tablet. "Not sure. But I'm going to ask someone who can potentially help."
"Omni-Man?"
"Yeah." Cecil's expression was grim. "If anyone can handle Battle Beast, it's him. And if Mark's in real trouble..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He just activated his teleporter.
Blue static crackled around him, and he vanished.
GRAYSON HOUSEHOLD - KITCHEN
Cecil materialized in the Grayson kitchen in a flash of blue static.
Debbie was at the stove, cooking dinner. She jumped at his sudden appearance, nearly dropping the spatula she was holding.
"What the hell, Cecil? You can't just barge in here like this! This is my home—have you lost your mind?" Debbies voice echoed with genuine shock, his eyes wide as he stared at the man who'd materialized in his kitchen unannounced.
"Where's Nolan?" Cecil interrupted, his tone urgent.
"He said he left to stop a monster or something. Why? Is something the matter?"
Cecil's expression darkened. "Mark is fighting something that he might not survive. We need Nolan's help. Where is he, Debbie?"
Debbie's face went pale. The spatula clattered to the floor. "I don't know. He just said he was fighting a monster. He didn't say where—"
"There are no fucking monsters right now," Cecil said, his voice rising despite himself. "No reports, no sightings, nothing. The only monster being fought anywhere on this planet right now is the one Mark is fighting. I need to know where Nolan is, Debbie. Now."
"I told you, I don't—" Debbie's voice cracked, tears forming in her eyes. "He didn't tell me where he was going. He just left. Said he'd be back for dinner."
The back door opened.
Omni-Man walked in, still wearing his suit, looking completely calm and uninjured. Not a scratch on him. Not a single sign that he'd been fighting anything.
Everyone turned to stare at him.
"Why are you here, Cecil?" Nolan asked, his eyes narrowing.
"I was just about to ask you the same damn thing," Cecil replied, his voice cold. "What do you know about Battle Beast?"
Nolan's eyes widened for just a fraction of a second—genuine surprise—before his expression became carefully neutral. "Nothing. You can leave my house, Cecil."
"Goddamn it, Nolan!" Cecil took a step forward. "Mark told me that Battle Beast is one of the strongest beings in this universe. And he is currently fighting it. He needs your help."
"No," Nolan said flatly.
The single word hung in the air like a death sentence.
Debbie stared at her husband in shock. "What do you mean, 'no'?"
"I mean no," Nolan repeated, his voice harder. "I'm not going."
"If what Cecil said is right, then our son is about to die!" Debbie's voice rose to a near-scream. "And you're just going to stand here?!"
"I told him not to trust Titan," Nolan said coldly. "I warned him. He didn't listen. And here we are."
Debbie looked at him like she'd never seen him before. Like he was a stranger wearing her husband's face.
"You're telling me," Cecil said slowly, his voice dripping with barely controlled rage, "that you're just going to stand here and hear that your son is potentially going to die, even though you are literally three minutes away from helping him?"
"That's his lesson," Nolan said, meeting Cecil's glare without flinching.
"You are a piece of shit Nolan," Cecil said.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The words carried more weight than any shout could have.
Blue static crackled around him, and he vanished.
Debbie just stood there, staring at Nolan in complete shock. Tears streamed down her face.
"Debbie—" Nolan started he turned to her.
She turned and ran upstairs, her sobs echoing through the house.
Nolan stood alone in the kitchen, his jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists.
He could hear her crying upstairs. Could hear her heart breaking.
But he didn't move.
This is necessary, he told himself. Mark needs to learn. Needs to understand what it means to be Viltrumite. Needs to know that weakness gets you killed.
This is for his own good.
But even as he thought it, the sound of Debbie's crying made something twist in his chest—something he didn't want to name.
NEVADA DESERT - ISOLATED LOCATION
He came at Mark like a missile.
Mark met him halfway, both of them colliding in mid-air with a shockwave that rippled across the desert below.
They grappled, spinning through the air, trading blows. Mark landed a punch to Battle Beast's face. Battle Beast responded with a claw strike that opened up three new cuts across Mark's chest.
They separated, hovered for a moment, then came together again.
Punch. Block. Kick. Counter. Grab. Throw.
They fell back to the ground together, still fighting, crashing into the sand hard enough to create another crater. They rolled across the desert floor, neither willing to give ground, each trying to get the dominant position.
Battle Beast ended up on top. His claws came down toward Mark's throat.
Mark caught both of Battle Beast's wrists, holding the claws inches from his neck. His arms trembled with the effort. Battle Beast pushed down, using his superior strength, and the claws inched closer.
No. No. Hold him. Hold—
Battle Beast headbutted him.
CRACK.
Stars exploded across Mark's vision. His grip loosened for just a second.
That was all Battle Beast needed.
His right claw raked across Mark's stomach—deep. So deep that Mark felt something give way inside him.
Battle Beast stood up, leaving Mark lying in the sand.
Mark looked down at his stomach and his breath caught in his throat.
The claw wounds from earlier had been bad. These new ones were catastrophic.
Four deep gashes running across his abdomen, so deep that he could see inside himself. Could see his intestines. Could see them starting to push out through the wounds.
Oh god. Oh god no.
Mark's left hand immediately went to his stomach, pressing against the wounds, trying to hold everything in. Blood poured between his fingers—hot and slick and there was so much of it.
"That is a mortal wound," Battle Beast said, looking down at him. "For most species. But you are Viltrumite. You will survive. Probably."
Mark tried to speak but only managed a gurgling sound. Blood filled his mouth.
Battle Beast walked away, leaving Mark lying there.
Get up, Mark told himself. Get up. You're not done. You can't be done.
He rolled onto his side, still holding his stomach. The movement sent fresh waves of agony through him. He could feel his intestines trying to spill out, feel his hand being the only thing keeping him from literally falling apart.
But he got to his knees.
Then, impossibly, using a nearby rock for support, he got to his feet.
He swayed, his vision tunneling, but he was standing.
Battle Beast turned back, glee clear on his face. "Remarkable. You should be unconscious. Dead, even. But you stand."
"Not... done..." Mark wheezed. "Come at me... you bastard."
Battle Beast laughed—genuine, delighted laughter. "You cannot even stand properly, and yet you challenge me? You are either the bravest warrior I have met or the most foolish." He tilted his head. "Perhaps both."
Mark took a step forward. Then another. Each movement was agony, but he kept moving.
Battle Beast watched him approach, making no move to attack. He just waited, curious to see what Mark would do.
Mark reached him and threw a punch with his right hand—his one free hand.
It was slow. Weak. Telegraphed from a mile away.
Battle Beast caught it easily. "This is not a punch. This is a child's attempt at defiance."
"Maybe," Mark gasped. "But I'm... still... trying."
Battle Beast looked into Mark's eyes and saw something there that made him smile—not his predatory grin, but something almost respectful.
"Yes. You are." He released Mark's hand and stepped back. "You have heart, Invincible. More heart than warriors twice your strength. You have earned something few beings ever earn from me."
Battle Beast walked over to where he'd dropped his clothes and weapons at the start of the fight. He dressed slowly, methodically, strapping his mace to his back.
Mark stood there, swaying, his left hand still pressed against his stomach, blood running between his fingers and dripping into the sand. His right arm hung uselessly at his side—dislocated shoulder, he realized distantly—while his entire body screamed in agony.
"Invincible," Battle Beast said, turning back to face him. "You have my thanks. You have made me feel something I have not felt in years. And you have shown me that Viltrumites are truly worth fighting."
He walked closer, his heavy footsteps crunching on thick sand and shattered rock.
"Although this is not a fight to the death, I hope that the next time we meet, it will be." Battle Beast's expression became serious. "You have potential, half-breed. Great potential. Do not waste it. Train. Grow stronger. And when you are ready—when you are truly ready—seek me out. I will give you the fight you deserve."
Mark tried to respond, but only managed a weak cough that brought up more blood. He swallowed and tried again.
"Yeah," he rasped, his voice barely audible. "I hope you... find someone... in the future... who gives you... the fight... you're looking for."
Someone who isn't me, he added silently. Because I don't think I could survive another round. Ever.
Battle Beast pressed a button on a device attached to his wrist.
A yellow square rift appeared in the air behind him—a portal to somewhere else. Somewhere far from Earth.
"I hope to see you again, Invincible," Battle Beast said. "Next time, bring your father. I would very much like to test myself against a full Viltrumite. To see if they truly deserve their legendary reputation."
He walked through the portal.
It closed behind him with a sound like tearing fabric, leaving Mark alone in the destroyed desert.
Mark stood there for another moment, his legs trembling, his vision blurring. He looked down at his hand pressed against his stomach—at the blood that just wouldn't stop flowing.
I did it, Mark thought. I survived. I actually survived.
His legs gave out.
He collapsed to his knees, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side while his left hand still pressed against his stomach, still trying to hold himself together.
Just need to... stay conscious... just a little longer...
Blue static crackled in the air.
Cecil appeared, followed immediately by a full GDA medical team carrying equipment and stretchers.
Cecil took one look at Mark, at the destroyed landscape around them—miles of destruction, craters and shattered rock formations stretching in every direction—and whistled low.
"Jesus Christ, Mark," Cecil said, his voice a mixture of awe and horror. "You guys terraformed the desert."
He turned in a slow circle, taking in the full scope of the devastation. The battle had covered over two square miles, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.
Then he spun back to his medical team, who were all standing there staring at Mark in shock.
"What are you all standing there for?!" Cecil shouted. "Get to him! Move! NOW!"
The medics snapped out of their shock and rushed forward with stretchers and medical equipment. They reached Mark, who was still on his knees, barely conscious, his hand still pressed against his ruined stomach.
"Sir, we need you to lie down," one medic said gently, kneeling beside Mark.
Mark tried to respond but couldn't form words anymore. His mouth moved, but only blood came out. He just nodded weakly.
They began easing him down onto a stretcher carefully, mindful of his numerous injuries. One of them tried to move Mark's hand away from his stomach to assess the damage.
"No," Mark rasped, his voice barely a whisper. His hand tightened against his stomach. "Gotta... hold them in..."
"Sir, we need to see the wound—"
"He's right," another medic interrupted, having gotten close enough to see what Mark's hand was covering. Her face went pale. "Oh my god. If we move his hand without stabilizing the wound first, his intestines will... we need the medical foam. Now! And get a compression brace ready!"
The medical team moved with urgent efficiency. IV lines were inserted into both arms. Medical foam—a specialized substance that could temporarily seal and support damaged tissue—was carefully applied around Mark's stomach wound, building up layers while Mark's hand stayed in place.
"On three, we're going to replace your hand with the brace," the lead medic told Mark. "It's going to hurt. A lot. Ready? One... two... three!"
They moved fast. Mark's hand was lifted away, and a specialized compression brace was immediately pressed against his stomach, holding everything in place with medical-grade force. Mark screamed—a raw, agonized sound—then went limp, unconscious from the pain.
"Vitals dropping!" one medic called out. "Heart rate erratic! Blood pressure critical!"
"Get him in the transport now!" the lead medic ordered. "We need to be at the surgical facility in five minutes or we're going to lose him!"
They loaded Mark onto the stretcher—carefully, but quickly—and began rushing him toward the medical transport vehicle that had landed nearby.
Cecil walked alongside them, looking down at Mark's battered face. Even unconscious, Mark looked like he'd been through hell. His face was a mass of bruises, one eye swollen completely shut, blood covering everything.
The medics loaded Mark into the transport. The doors sealed with a hiss, and the vehicle lifted off immediately, racing toward the nearest GDA medical facility.
Cecil stood alone in the destroyed desert, surrounded by the evidence of a battle that would have killed anyone else. Anyone probably even omni man too..
He pulled out his phone and made a call.
"Donald, I need you to get me everything we have on Battle Beast. History, combat footage, threat assessments, psychological profiles. Everything." He paused, looking at a crater that was at least forty feet deep. "And Donald? Flag Invincibles' file. Update his threat level to... Christ, I don't even know. Just mark it as 'extreme potential' and put it on my desk for review."
He hung up and made another call.
"This is Stedman. I need a full analysis team at these coordinates. Two square miles of combat zone. I want every crater measured, every impact analyzed, force calculations on everything. I need to know exactly how much power was being thrown around out here."
Cecil looked one more time at the destruction around him—miles of it, stretching in every direction. The setting sun painted everything in shades of red and orange, making it look like a vision of hell.
Omni-Man left his son to die, Cecil thought, his jaw clenching. Refused to help when Mark needed him most. Just stood there and said 'no.'
That's not just concerning. That's not just suspicious. That's a father willing to watch his son get killed to 'teach him a lesson.'
What kind of man does that? What kind of alien?
And what the hell is Omni-Man really planning?
Cecil activated his teleporter and disappeared in blue static, leaving the desert behind.
The wind picked up, blowing sand across the battlefield, slowly beginning to hide the evidence of what had happened here.
But the memory would remain.
The night Invincible fought Battle Beast.
And survived.
Barely.
GDA MEDICAL FACILITY - SURGERY WING - TWO HOURS LATER
Mark lay on an operating table, surrounded by the best trauma surgeons the GDA had. His suit had been cut away completely, leaving him covered only by surgical sheets strategically placed for modesty.
The lead surgeon—Dr. Morris, a woman who'd pioneered techniques for treating enhanced individuals—worked carefully on Mark's abdomen, repairing the catastrophic damage that Battle Beast's claws had caused.
"Remarkable," she muttered as she worked, her hands steady despite the horrific injuries. "His healing factor has already started knitting the intestines back together. The muscle tissue is regenerating in real-time. I can literally watch it heal as I work. I've never seen anything like this, its faster than omni-Mans."
"How long until he's recovered?" Cecil asked from the observation room above, watching through reinforced glass.
"Full recovery? Maybe a week, possibly less if his healing accelerates," Dr. Morris replied through her comm. "But he'll be mobile in a day or two. His Viltrumite biology is incredible. Any enhanced human would have died from these injuries hours ago. Hell, most enhanced humans would have died. The fact that he's alive at all is a miracle."
"What about permanent damage?"
"Hard to say. The claw wounds were deep—they penetrated the peritoneum, damaged the intestines, came within millimeters of severing his abdominal aorta. If they'd gone any deeper..." Dr. Morris shook her head. "But with his healing factor, I don't think there will be any permanent physical damage. Psychological trauma, though? That's another story."
"Make sure he gets the best care we can provide and draw some blood while you are at it" Cecil ordered.
"Already on it, sir."
Cecil watched the surgery for a few more minutes, his expression grim. The surgical team worked with focused precision, repairing damage, stabilizing organs, sealing wounds. But even with all their skill, most of the actual healing was being done by Mark's own body.
Marks biology, Cecil thought. Combat-optimized from birth. Designed to survive injuries that would kill anything else or maybe just mark is special cause Nolan's was not like this.
Cecil turned and left the observation room. He had reports to file. Evidence to catalog. A crime boss to hunt down.
And a very uncomfortable conversation to have with Omni-Man.
But that could wait until morning.
Tonight, he'd let the doctors work their magic.
GRAYSON HOUSEHOLD - MIDNIGHT
Debbie lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tears still drying on her face.
Nolan was downstairs. She could hear him moving around, pretending everything was normal. Watching television. Getting a drink from the kitchen. Acting like he hadn't just refused to save his own son's life.
But nothing was normal.
Nothing would ever be normal again.
She thought about the notebook hidden in her closet. Darkblood's evidence. The logical, methodical proof that Nolan had killed the Guardians.
She'd tried to ignore it. Tried to convince herself it was wrong, that there had to be another explanation.
But after tonight... after watching him stand there and say 'no' when Mark needed him most...
What have I been living with? Debbie thought, fresh tears sliding down her temples. Who is the man sleeping in my house? Who is this person I married?
She pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn't come.
Just fear.