The war had ended.
But the scars remained.
Darkseid's fall had not restored the worlds he broke. Across the multiverse, echoes of his rot lingered—realities stitched together by Anti-Life, planets whose people remembered only fear, timelines still cracked by the pressure of his presence.
And so, Raga walked.
He was no longer followed by his Wheel—it had unraveled, becoming part of him, fused with his soul like a seed now rooted.
He had no army. No title. No cape.
Just his name.
And his will.
Worlds in Recovery
On Earth-214, time no longer flowed—it convulsed. Heroes aged backwards, children spoke the words of prophets, and clocks melted like wax. Raga stepped into the fractured flow and restored the current, absorbing the false code Darkseid had planted there.
On Earth-9, people lived with voices not their own—memories overwritten by digital whispers. Raga stood beneath their neon skies and severed the last tether to Apokolips' psionic grip, freeing their minds.
He did not ask for thanks.
He asked only one thing:
"What do you choose to be, now that you're free?"
A Quiet Conversation
Between dimensions, when the winds of reality paused just long enough, Death came again.
This time, there was no scythe.
No battlefield.
They sat on the edge of a quiet moon, watching starlight ripple across a gas giant's rings. Silence stretched between them like an old song.
"You've done well," she said.
"It doesn't feel like it," Raga replied. "The multiverse still mourns."
Death smiled softly. "Healing isn't the absence of pain. It's learning how to live beside it."
He looked out at the stars. "Will it ever end? The battles, the tyrants, the next god who thinks the multiverse belongs to them?"
"No," she said honestly. "But neither will you."
He blinked.
"You mean I'll live forever?"
"No," she said. "But your choice will. The path you carved. You showed others what it means to resist destiny. That doesn't disappear."
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"You were made to end everything," she whispered. "But you became the reason it still breathes."
And for once, Raga smiled.
The Presence
There came a time, as all times do, when he was summoned.
Not by war. Not by danger.
But by a question too vast for any voice to speak.
The sky simply opened.
And he stepped through.
He found himself on a field of endless white. No sun. No stars. No shadows.
Only the echo of everything that had ever been spoken—and every silence never heard.
At the center of the nothing stood a figure. No face. No features. Not even form.
Just presence.
And it spoke not in words, but in understanding:
You were never part of the plan.
You should not exist.
And yet—you are here.
Raga stood unafraid.
"I was made to end your story."
Yes.
"And now I write my own."
Yes.
The Presence asked nothing more.
It only listened.
Raga stepped closer.
"I'm not asking for forgiveness. I'm not asking for purpose."
"I just want to know… do I belong?"
The field remained silent.
Then—
A single, golden leaf drifted from nowhere.
It landed in Raga's palm.
It pulsed once, and vanished.
A gift.
Not of power.
But permission.
He bowed his head.
And left.
The Endless Once More
On the edge of dreaming, Raga stood before the gates of the Endless—those ancient siblings older than gods, untouched by battle.
Destiny waited with his book, still unread in the chapter of Raga's life.
"You remain outside my story."
"Good," Raga replied. "No one should have to live in someone else's outline."
Despair turned from her mirrors. She no longer wept for him.
Desire watched him go without speaking—for they feared anyone who could not be tempted.
Dream approached last.
"You carry hope, even now," he said.
"I carry choice," Raga said. "Even if I fail."
Dream nodded.
"Then you may walk the Dreaming freely, whenever you wish."
And finally, Death smiled at him from the gates.
But she said nothing this time.
She only waved.
And Raga turned—
And walked into the infinite.
The Name That Cannot Be Unwritten
He is not god.
He is not machine.
He is not weapon.
He is not prophecy.
He is not savior.
He is not Death's chosen.
He is not the destroyer.
He is the one who refused.
And in refusing, he became something else:
Raga.
The wheel that turned the other way.