Smoke curled around Mahoraga's figure as he stood at the edge of a rooftop, watching the stars flicker. Behind him, Zatanna kept a protective sigil active—a lattice of light circling them like a shell. Ever since the attack by Dr. Psycho, she hadn't let her guard down.
The night trembled.
A soundless ripple of force struck the sigil, then passed through it like vapor.
Mahoraga turned.
A figure stepped from the darkness, not walking so much as unfolding from it—gray-skinned, hooded, burning with the scent of fire and obedience. His eyes glowed like dead suns.
Steppenwolf.
He bowed.
"From the throne of Apokolips, Lord Darkseid sends greetings."
Zatanna immediately lifted her hands. "Don't take another step."
Steppenwolf raised a clawed hand in peace. "I come with words, not war. For now."
Mahoraga stared. "Speak."
"Darkseid has seen what you are. A creature beyond fate, immune to judgment, untouched by death. He does not wish to destroy you."
"Then what?"
Steppenwolf smiled—cold, calculating. "He offers… purpose."
Zatanna's voice snapped like a whip. "Darkseid doesn't offer purpose. He offers control. Slavery."
"Semantics," Steppenwolf said. "He sees your power, Mahoraga. And he sees that you are lost. A god without a cause. He offers you a throne. Not as servant. As weapon. As king."
Mahoraga said nothing.
Steppenwolf stepped back, and a black cube formed in his palm, pulsing with heat. "This is a Boom Beacon. Activate it when you are ready. And Darkseid will receive you with open arms."
He tossed it gently to the rooftop. It thudded like a fallen heart.
Then, with a flash of fire and space-rending force, Steppenwolf vanished.
Mahoraga stared down at the cube.
Zatanna's voice was tight. "Tell me you're not even considering it."
"No," Mahoraga said. "But I want to know why they want me."
Zatanna glanced at the cube warily, then sighed. "Then let's go to someone who's danced with devils worse than Darkseid."
---
London.
The smoke-filled loft of John Constantine reeked of whiskey, regret, and ozone. Arcane seals pulsed faintly along the walls, and half the lights flickered without rhythm.
Constantine stared at the Boom Beacon like it was a snake that hadn't bitten yet.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, stubbing out his cigarette. "You got a fan club on Apokolips. You're moving up in the world."
Mahoraga stood silently, while Zatanna paced.
"He doesn't want to take the offer," she said. "He wants to understand why."
"Well," Constantine grumbled, "Darkseid's the kind of bastard who collects cosmic anomalies like they're baseball cards. You—" he pointed at Mahoraga—"are a walking loophole. You break fate, death, judgment, prophecy… maybe even the bloody Anti-Life Equation."
Zatanna looked alarmed. "Wait—you think he sees Mahoraga as part of the Equation?"
"Or worse," Constantine said. "As something outside of it."
Before Zatanna could answer, a golden vortex opened beside them, spiraling with runes and divine balance. From within stepped a tall figure in gleaming blue and gold—Doctor Fate.
He regarded Mahoraga calmly.
"You should not exist," Fate said.
"I hear that often," Mahoraga replied.
"Then hear this too," Fate said. "Darkseid seeks to use you to bypass the walls between reality and metaphysical law. If you bend to him, even slightly, the balance of everything—Order and Chaos, Life and Death, Dream and Destiny—could unravel."
Mahoraga looked at Fate, unshaken. "Then help me remember why I was made. Help me remember what I was."
Fate's eyes narrowed beneath his helm.
"I can try. But your memories… they were never meant to return."
---
A flash of gold. A binding spell.
And Mahoraga was thrown into memory—
---
He stood on stone etched with curses, surrounded by shadowy figures in ceremonial robes. They chanted in a forgotten dialect. The room reeked of fear and divine blood.
Chains wrapped around his limbs. Runes glowed beneath his skin, pulsing with pain.
On a throne above him sat a young man—eyes mad with ambition.
"This will be my legacy. The ultimate shikigami. The one even the gods must kneel before. Let the Wheel turn. Let the curse become law!"
The ritual was cruel. Every wound inflicted forced Mahoraga to evolve—twisting, contorting, becoming more monstrous with each passing second.
He screamed.
Not in pain.
But in awakening.
He saw the truth: he was not a guardian. He was a weapon to be thrown at the divine. His purpose was never freedom. It was obedience until death.
When the wheel completed its eighth turn… he was no longer theirs to command.
He broke the summoning circle.
He slaughtered the ones who bound him.
And then he was sealed, feared even by his creator.
---
Mahoraga collapsed to his knees, gasping.
The vision faded. Constantine leaned against the wall, looking grim.
"They made you into something to kill gods," he said. "And when you became too good at it, they tried to erase you."
Zatanna knelt beside Mahoraga, her touch gentle. "You were never meant to have a will. But you do."
Doctor Fate nodded slowly. "You are not just power. You are potential."
Mahoraga rose slowly. "They forged me for war. Then feared me for surviving it. Now others want to claim me. But I will not be chained again."
Fate extended a hand. "Then let me ward you. Not to control—but to shield. You must not walk into this blind."
Mahoraga hesitated, then nodded.
Golden glyphs shimmered over his chest—symbols of Choice, Freedom, and Will.
Constantine lit another cigarette. "Good luck, mate. If Darkseid's eye is on you, you're already in the game."
Zatanna placed her hand on Mahoraga's arm. "We'll face it together."
He glanced at her.
"I was made to walk alone. But maybe… I don't have to."
---
Far away, on Apokolips, Darkseid stood before a flaming gateway.
He watched the Boom Beacon pulse, still untouched.
He did not frown.
"He resists," Desaad murmured.
Darkseid's voice was stone and gravity. "Then let us see how long that lasts. Send the Furies."