Through the swirling curtain of volcanic ash and superheated air, a figure emerged that defied all expectation. Where Ben had stood moments before, now stood a towering crystalline warrior, his emerald facets catching and refracting the hellish glow of the erupting crater.
Ben looked down at his transformed body and sighed in exasperation.
"Diamondhead? Seriously?" he muttered, his voice resonating with a harmonic quality that made it carry clearly over the roar of the lava.
He scratched his crystalline head, considering the Omnitrix's choice. The first-generation device was notoriously prone to giving him unexpected transformations, but perhaps this time it had actually made the right call. Like Heatblast, Diamondhead was completely immune to extreme temperatures—and in this particular environment, that immunity might prove far more useful than flame powers.
A sharp whistling sound cut through his contemplation as something massive emerged from the volcanic depths. A tail the size of a subway car, trailing molten rock like liquid fire, whipped toward him with crushing force.
CLANG!
Ben raised his arms without hesitation, crystalline growths extending from his forearms to form a shield larger than a truck. The impact sent shockwaves through the air, but his diamond-hard defense held firm.
"Right," he said, analyzing the situation as lava dripped from his shield. "Fighting a creature that bathes in magma with fire powers would be like trying to freeze an iceberg with a snowball."
Even at his angriest, when Heatblast could theoretically reach temperatures approaching stellar cores, Heatblast's normal flames topped out at a few thousand degrees Celsius. For a creature that treated molten rock as a comfortable warm bath, such heat would be more like a pleasant sauna than a weapon.
The thick volcanic ash robbed him of normal vision, creating a world of gray-orange shadows where nothing was quite what it seemed. But Ben wasn't worried about finding his opponent—in an environment like this, the monster would come to him soon enough.
The molten rock felt strange against his crystalline skin, supporting his weight like impossibly hot water. He could sense the creature moving through the lava around him, creating currents and pressure waves that his enhanced senses could track even through the murky environment.
Then he felt it—a massive displacement of lava rushing toward him from behind, like a thermal torpedo closing in for the kill.
Ben spun around just as the Great Maw's guardian 'Deathfire' burst through the molten rock with the fury of a living avalanche.
BOOM!
Outside the crater, the audience—both those present and those watching via broadcast—could see almost nothing of the actual battle. The sky for kilometers around had been swallowed by volcanic ash so thick it blotted out the sun. The air itself seemed to burn, and even the heavily armored Death's Head Warguards had been forced to retreat to avoid being caught in the expanding destruction.
Most of the camera drones had pulled back to safe distances, their feeds showing little more than an apocalyptic wall of gray-black smoke punctuated by occasional explosions of orange flame.
"I thought that guy was supposed to be some kind of champion," the Red King said dismissively from his throne, resting his chin on one gauntleted hand. "Turns out he's just another overconfident fool. I didn't even need to deploy the Death's Head Warguards for this."
His tone was casual, almost bored, as if Ben's apparent death was nothing more than a mildly disappointing entertainment program.
"Your Majesty," one of the royal guards asked with proper deference, "shall I order the Death's Head Warguards and Liutenant Caiera to return to the capital?"
"Absolutely not," the Red King replied coldly. "They stay put until the Great Maw clear. I want to see the charred remains of that arrogant bastard with my own eyes."
Withdrawing forces before confirming the enemy's death was the kind of amateur mistake that got tyrants overthrown. The Red King hadn't maintained his grip on power for this long by being careless.
At the designated fallback position—a small village belonging to the Shadow People—Caiera led the Death's Head Warguards in their tactical withdrawal. The moment they entered the settlement, she could feel the waves of fear and disgust radiating from the inhabitants.
To her own people, Caiera represented the ultimate betrayal: a Shadow People warrior who had chosen to serve their oppressor rather than fight for freedom. They saw her as a traitor who used her strength to enforce the very system that kept them in chains.
But they were powerless to express their feelings openly. They could only bow their heads and endure, just as they'd been doing for years.
Caiera showed no outward reaction to their silent condemnation, but the soldiers of the Death's Head Warguards made no effort to hide their contempt. As members of the Red King's own species, they considered themselves the natural rulers of Sakaar, viewing all other races as inferior beings fit only for servitude.
"Now we just wait for the Deathfire to finish its tantrum and the Great Maw clear," one of the soldiers said to Caiera, his tone deliberately casual. "Once we confirm the challanger's death, we can head home."
Caiera didn't respond immediately, her attention focused on the distant crater where explosions continued to light up the ash-darkened sky. The sounds of destruction seemed to go on forever, far longer than any previous disturbance from the Deathfire.
Can that creature really consume someone like this new challanger? she wondered. This eruption is lasting much longer than normal.
Her lack of immediate response irritated the Death's Head soldier, who was already predisposed to resent taking orders from what he considered a lesser species. Just another Shadow People slave who's forgotten her place, he thought venomously, his hand drifting toward his weapon.
The soldiers were practically vibrating with barely contained bloodlust. If Caiera hadn't been there to restrain them, they would have already begun slaughtering villagers to pass the time while waiting for the volcanic activity to subside.
Miles away, Brunhilde stood before another gathering of scavengers, these ones even more hostile to her presence than usual. The wasteland had its own brutal hierarchy, and she had never bothered to respect the territorial boundaries that other scavenger tribes considered sacred.
"What are you doing here, rule-breaking outsider?" demanded the leader of this particular group, his voice dripping with disdain.
Brunhilde wasn't unwelcome because she was foreign—half the scavengers on Sakaar were originally from other worlds, former gladiators who had won their freedom but been exiled to the wasteland rather than allowed to remain in the capital. No, she was excluded because she consistently raided other tribes' territories for salvage, and none of them had been able to stop her.
The so-called Garbage King wasn't a real monarch, just someone who could barely maintain order among the competing scavenger factions. Getting them to work together toward a common goal was virtually impossible under normal circumstances.
Brunhilde pointed toward the distant screens that showed the volcanic eruption consuming the sky.
"I'm here to bring you hope!"
Many of the scavengers followed her gesture, but the screens showed nothing but impenetrable ash clouds and occasional flashes of fire.
"I heard there was some fighter who supposedly defeated the Red Wind Queen," the Garbage King said skeptically. "But from the looks of things, he's already been incinerated without even leaving a corpse behind."
He was a Shadow People member like Caiera, though his scavenged clothing and makeshift armor made it difficult to determine his exact origins.
"The monster in the Great Maw, the Deathfire has existed on Sakaar for thousands of years," he continued, his voice taking on the cadence of someone reciting ancient lore. "Only the prophesied Son of Sakaar could ever hope to subdue such a creature!"
Every native-born Sakaarian knew the legend by heart. The Son of Sakaar would be their savior, the one destined to transform their world, to bring life to the wasteland and conquer the forces of nature itself.
"If there is a Son of Sakaar," Brunhilde declared, her voice ringing with conviction, "then this is him!"
Her words triggered an explosion of outrage. Hundreds of energy weapons swiveled toward her, targeting her head and heart with deadly precision. The Garbage King's voice rose to a furious roar:
"I will never allow you to defile the sacred prophecy!"
The very suggestion that an offworlder could be their prophesied savior was the ultimate blasphemy to these desperate people clinging to their last hope.
In the gladiator cells beneath the arena, the fighters' reactions ranged from despair to bitter resignation. After seeing Ben seemingly consumed by the volcanic eruption, most had given up any hope of escape.
Hiroim, who had been born on Sakaar, looked particularly devastated. "I knew the Red King would never let him succeed," he said, "The Deathfire is a natural disaster, a force of godly punishment. No one can conquer it, no one can defeat it."
"Maybe he's still alive?" Korg suggested uncertainly, his rocky features creased with worry.
After witnessing Ben's impossible transformation and victory over Cork, Korg had developed an almost superstitious faith in the man's ability to survive anything.
"Maybe he'll walk out carrying the monster's severed head in a few minutes," he continued, looking to Beta Ray Bill for support. "What do you think, Bill?"
But Bill wasn't watching the screens. His attention was focused entirely on the two guards standing outside their cell, calculating distances and timing for what would need to happen next.
Without turning his head, he said quietly, "He's alive."
At the resistance base hidden in the wasteland, Loki watched the volcanic spectacle with growing concern. The rebels had been monitoring Red King communications, hoping to gain intelligence about troop movements and strategic vulnerabilities.
"It appears his story ends here," said the resistance leader, surprisingly revealing himself to be a red-skinned member of the Red King's own species. A trace of genuine regret crossed his weathered features. "What a waste. That fighter possessed tremendous power. If he could have aided our cause, it would have been invaluable."
Despite his words, the rebels weren't particularly surprised by Ben's apparent death. From the beginning, they hadn't truly expected support from an arena champion. In their experience, anyone powerful enough to survive the gladiatorial system was either completely broken by it or had made deals with the Red King to ensure their continued survival.
They had placed their real hopes in Loki himself.
"I have heard tales of Asgardian might from countless refugees who have passed through the portal," the leader continued, studying Loki with a mixture of expectation and desperation. "You are a prince of Asgard. If you could bring us aid from Asgard, we would be forever in your debt."
Loki shook his head firmly. "I am an exile. I lack the authority to summon armies."
Go crawling back to Odin for help? That would be admitting defeat before the war even began. Loki wanted to prove himself as a leader and strategist, not play the role of Thor's little brother running home whenever things got difficult.
But he couldn't afford to lose the resistance's trust, so he quickly shifted gears.
"There's no need to worry," he said smoothly. "My arrival marks the beginning of Sakaar's liberation."
He gestured to the screen showing the volcanic eruption. "That warrior was just one of my generals. I have many more like him."
The rebels turned toward him, eyes lighting up with interest—hope flickering behind their guarded expressions.
"Really?" one of them said, arms crossed, clearly unconvinced. "Because word is that Asgardian scavenger's the one who sold you to the arena."
Loki's expression darkened, but he kept his composure. Any sign of doubt could shatter their trust.
"Or perhaps," he said, voice low and deliberate, "I am the Son of Sakaar your prophecies spoke of."
"Perhaps there never was a Son of Sakaar to begin with."
An elderly Shadow People member stepped forward, his silver-blue skin marked with the scars of a lifetime's hardship. "While you cannot bring us reinforcements from Asgard, any additional strength is welcome."
He turned to address the other rebels, many of whom looked disappointed by Loki's limitations. "I know many of you dream of the legendary child of prophecy, the one who will overthrow the Red King's tyranny and transform our world."
The cave fell silent as all eyes focused on the elder.
"Many believe that when he comes, Sakaar will become fertile again and the rivers will run clean. When he arrives, children will no longer have to hide underground and fight scavengers for rotting scraps."
The silence stretched, heavy with years of accumulated pain and hope.
"I once believed such stories myself, but we cannot continue waiting forever. Perhaps there is no Son of Sakaar. Or perhaps every one of us who takes up arms to defend our right to exist is a Son of Sakaar."
After a long pause, the red-skinned leader spoke in a voice heavy with responsibility: "But we still need someone who can lead us to victory."
The elder raised his head toward the screen, which continued to show nothing but impenetrable darkness and distant explosions.
This time, the Deathfire's fury seemed like it would never end. Infinite energy poured forth as molten rock consumed the entire mining complex and began spreading toward the surrounding forests. Burning debris fell from the sky like apocalyptic rain.
Everyone across Sakaar was watching, waiting to see how this battle would end.
But the smoke never cleared.
Standing on a high platform in the Shadow People village, Caiera felt her usual composure beginning to crack. The volcanic activity was intensifying rather than diminishing, and the flow of lava was expanding in all directions.
"If this continues, the molten rock will reach the village," she said, more to herself than to anyone else.
Most Sakaarian settlements were built underground to protect against falling debris and the planet's frequent atmospheric disturbances. But underground construction meant they were vulnerable to lava flows—once the molten rock found its way into the tunnel systems, every living thing would be incinerated within minutes.
She glanced around at the villagers huddled in doorways and shadows. Mostly elderly people and children, they clung to each other with eyes full of fear and barely suppressed rage. They hated her for what she represented, but they were helpless to act on that hatred.
BOOM!!!
Another massive explosion shook the ground, this one powerful enough to crack stone foundations throughout the village. The Deathfire, dormant for thousands of years, seemed to be releasing millennia of accumulated fury all at once.
Then, without warning, the Great Maw simply... burst.
Like a dam failing under impossible pressure, the crater walls collapsed outward as a tsunami of molten rock roared across the landscape. The boiling lava rushed in all directions with the unstoppable force of a natural disaster, consuming everything in its path.
Caiera's mind went blank with horror. She could survive the lava easily enough, but the villagers—the elderly, the children, everyone too weak to flee—would be reduced to ash within seconds.
This was destruction on a geological scale. Even with all her Old Power abilities, she was just an insect compared to the forces of nature unleashed before her.
In that moment of despair, an ancient prophecy echoed through her thoughts. Not just hers, but every Sakaarian who witnessed the catastrophe remembered the story they had heard countless times since childhood.
BOOM!!!
Suddenly, the ground itself began to rise! Massive crystalline formations erupted from the earth like the petals of some impossible flower, each one taller than the surrounding mountains and brilliant as captured starlight.
The crystal barriers formed a wall that dwarfed any fortification ever built, standing directly in the path of the advancing lava. The molten rock struck the barriers and simply... stopped, held back by structures that seemed to defy every law of physics and geology.
In the center of the crystalline bloom, a spear of pure diamond pierced through the body of the Great Maw's guardian, the Deathfire holding the massive creature aloft like a trophy. At the spear's tip, glittering in the hellish light of the eruption, stood the emerald warrior who had accomplished the impossible.
Caiera stared in absolute shock, her breath catching in her throat as the words escaped unbidden:
"Son of Sakaar..."