"I bring news from the palace. The minerals you seek have been procured. We took it upon ourselves to customize the tools you need," Antiope reported to Atrius.
Atrius looked down at her, his expression unreadable. With a solemn nod, he turned away.
"Then there is no time to waste."
Turning on his heel, He reached forward in a fluid, grasping motion. Reality bent in response. Space itself tore like aged parchment, revealing a yawning void. Unlike the chaotic, swirling folds of the warp rift he once knew, this breach was something else entirely — silent, vast, and consuming.
It was emptiness perfected — a space unfamiliar even to him. Not a realm of madness, but of ancient, still power. He would not dare use it if he did not understand how to navigate it, and even then, the distance he could cross was limited. That limitation was one reason he remained trapped on this planet.
Without hesitation, Atrius stepped into the darkness. Heracles followed immediately, without pause — clearly not his first rift traversal today. He had grown accustomed to it.
Agape was next. She turned briefly to gesture toward Antiope, who remained by her mount.
"I think I will ride back. Veer is unsettled by this," Antiope said, gesturing to the horse that pawed nervously at the ground, eyes wide with primal fear.
Agape nodded once, disappearing into the rift. It sealed behind her with a whispered crack, leaving Antiope alone, save for the rhythmic sounds of crashing waves and her horse's anxious grunts.
Her expression shifted to something colder.
"I hope they're right," she murmured.
UNKNOWN LOCATION
Deep in uncharted space. Somewhere beyond the blackened stars.
A vast infernal chamber pulsed with dim crimson light. The interior was monstrous in scale, constructed of jagged obsidian and a dark alloy. The floor was etched with molten seams — rivers of subdued fire coursing through cracks like blood in veins. Jagged spires rose like claws toward a ceiling lost in shadow. Ambient shrieks echoed through the structure — sounds not of pain, but of pure, directionless torment — the cries of souls harvested from countless conquered worlds, imprisoned in the very walls.
At the center of the chamber stood a massive throne forged from weapons and bones — a seat of power only one being could occupy. Upon it lounged a colossal figure with a stillness more imposing than rage.
Darkseid.
The Destroyer.
The Final Tyrant.
A god, but not born of light. The New God of Apokolips, whose name alone turned courage into ash across galaxies. His skin was dark and cragged like volcanic rock, the price paid for unlocking forbidden power — the omega force itself pulsing faintly behind his eyes like dying stars.
Beneath his gaze, a semicircle of hooded figures stood in absolute silence. They were his lesser cadres — the Thinkers and Executors of Apokolips, each groomed for war, subjugation, or terror. None were equals. All were tools.
He did not speak immediately. The weight of his silence pressed into the marrow of those present, as real and suffocating as gravity.
Finally, he said:
"Why do you sway to the mist of fear? Why worry of victory, when I am the one leading this conquest? Do you doubt my power?"
His voice rumbled across the chamber like a war drum, vibrating the steel walls. The hooded figures flinched as one, instinctively avoiding the fiery glare of his Omega-lit eyes. Fear was not tolerated in Apokolips — it was punished.
The metallic walls seemed to groan in response, shrieks echoing again as if the ship itself shared in their terror.
One of the figures stepped forward slowly, his hood shifting slightly to reveal the jagged, stony complexion of a lesser New God — a son of Apokolips, bred for servitude. His voice was rough, scraping like rusted iron.
"You misunderstand, my lord. We do not doubt your might. But the realm you seek — the domain of the Old Gods — is older than the stars. They are not mortals to crush, nor Green Lanterns to swat. Even weakened, they possess power older than any in this age."
Another voice chimed in — hoarse, sycophantic.
"Yes, my lord. With our technologies — the eye-drones of Heggra's design, the soul sensors of Armagetto — we can observe their broken realm. We can spy on the surface of your prize and glean truths that will guide your hand."
Darkseid's gaze narrowed, the fire behind his eyes burning hotter.
"You wish I take victory when my enemies are weak?" he asked, voice devoid of emotion.
"No, my lord, I—"
"Silence."
Darkseid rose from his throne.
He was massive. Eight feet, seven inches tall, though he seemed even taller in the chamber's blazing light. The hooded figure stumbled backward in instinctual terror.
Too late.
Darkseid moved with terrifying grace. He reached forward and gripped the figure with ease, lifting him off the ground. His hood fell back to reveal curved horns like a demon's crown, an angular face marred by war and time. He was proud — but pride meant nothing here.
Hovering slightly off the ground, Darkseid drew him closer until the figure met his molten gaze.
"Victory over the weak is meaningless. It implies weakness in the conqueror."
Twin beams of Omega energy erupted from his eyes, focused, cruel, and precise. The Apokoliptian screamed — a raw, agonized wail — as the beams bored into his skull, igniting the flesh and boiling the brain within.
He convulsed. Skin peeled. His body unraveled into black, ashen slag.
Darkseid let the corpse fall.
He did not look again. He floated back to his throne and lowered himself onto it.
"Any more suggestions?"
Silence.
The air seemed to breathe around him. None dared speak.
"Excellent." He leaned forward, eyes distant. "Ready the armadas. We are almost there."
"As you wish, my lord," one of them said, fleeing the chamber to relay the command. The others remained frozen.
Their eyes — those who still dared look — shifted to the far side of the throne, where three cubes floated in midair. They pulsed with unstable energy, circuitry glowing.
The Mother Boxes.
Gateways to the Source. Weapons of unimaginable destruction.