The arena was alive with energy, a cacophony of cheers and camera flashes. Bright lights illuminated the grand stage, their radiance dancing off polished floors. Then, as if on cue, the entire stadium plunged into darkness. Silence swept across the crowd like a tide, anticipation thick in the air.
A single spotlight pierced the void, revealing a man in a tailored suit standing center stage. His presence commanded attention, his voice deep and resonant.
"Welcome," he said, his tone smooth and deliberate, "to Miss Universe, where we celebrate the most extraordinary beauty in the entire cosmos!"
The crowd erupted in a frenzy, the sound reverberating through the colossal venue.
One by one, the contestants began their procession down the catwalk. Each woman was a vision of elegance, their heels striking the stage in a rhythmic cadence, their hips swaying with an effortless grace. Feathers adorned their backs some as black as midnight, others as white as freshly fallen snow each pair of wings uniquely complementing their ethereal beauty. The light reflected off sequined gowns and shimmering fabrics, transforming the runway into a cascade of stars.
Above the stage, in a private glass booth perched high atop the stadium, a group of distinguished figures observed the spectacle with quiet authority. Draped in power, their tailored suits and composed expressions marked them as titans of their respective industries. Among them were the Galaktikos, a race of beings whose presence demanded attention. Just like Boris, they exuded an air of sophistication and dominance, but their blue skin, faintly glowing in the dim light, set them apart.
Boris, his sharp features mirroring their angular elegance, sat among them, his piercing gaze fixed on the runway below. His expression betrayed no emotion, though his mind churned with calculated intensity. The Galaktikos board members sat in hushed discussion, their voices resonating with a melodic cadence unique to their kind. Together, they watched as dreams and ambitions collided under the relentless spotlight, their shared focus as sharp as the edges of their influence, which spanned far beyond the confines of this stadium even this world.
As the models graced the stage, one of the men leaned back in his chair, exhaling a cloud of smoke from an ornate cigar. "So, Boris, who's your bet this year?"
Without turning, Boris's lips curled into a sly grin. "Bianca," he said, his voice tinged with amusement. "Those big blue eyes are hard to resist."
The others laughed, sharing their own predictions. Names like Charlotte, Michelle, and Stephanie were tossed around the room like poker chips. Another man, his blue-tinged skin gleaming faintly in the dim light, raised an eyebrow. "Same wager as always?"
Boris finally turned his chair to face them, resting his elbows on the table. "Same rules," he said smoothly. "Winner takes all the prize money, the prestige… and the girl." His grin widened, revealing perfectly white teeth. "And let's not forget, I've claimed victory for the past three years. Don't think this year will be any different."
A hush fell over the men as the lights below dimmed, signaling the climax of the event. All eyes turned to the stage as the announcer's voice boomed through the stadium.
"And now, the moment we've all been waiting for. Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this year's Miss Universe is…"
The tension in the room was palpable. Time seemed to stretch infinitely.
"Bianca!"
The audience erupted into thunderous applause as Bianca stepped forward, her wings unfurling behind her in a breathtaking display of pristine white feathers that seemed to glow under the lights. She moved with a regal, effortless grace, her tall and commanding presence accentuated by her long, dark hair cascading like a river of ink down her back. Her sapphire-blue eyes large, luminous, and deep as the ocean caught the light, holding the crowd spellbound.
Reaching the center of the stage, Bianca paused, lifting her chin slightly. A deep breath steadied her, and when she spoke, her voice was clear and resonant, effortlessly commanding the room. "Thank you," she began, her words silencing the applause as they settled into a hushed anticipation. "Thank you to my mom, my dad, and my manager for standing by me. I wouldn't be here without them."
A brief pause followed, her piercing gaze sweeping over the audience. "But if I'm being honest…" She hesitated just long enough to let the tension build, her wings shifting slightly behind her. "This wasn't my dream. Beauty contests, the dresses, the spotlight they're extraordinary, but they've never been my dream. I'm a singer, first and foremost. Music is who I am, and it's how I connect with the world."
Her tone deepened, growing firmer, more resolute. "But tonight, standing here, I see an opportunity to do more than chase my own dreams. I see a chance to speak up for something that truly matters. No more wars. The Grid" she emphasized the name with a sharp edge, her wings unfurling slightly in an unconscious gesture of defiance, "has no right to impose its influence on other nations or realms. It's time to end the greed, the division, the endless grasp for power. We are stronger together. United, not fractured."
For a moment, the room was still, her words reverberating in the silence. Then, as if ignited by the fervor in her voice, the applause swelled to a deafening roar. It wasn't just approval it was a tidal wave of energy, the crowd's collective spirit rising to meet hers.
Bianca smiled, her sapphire eyes glistening under the lights, a flicker of vulnerability shining through her commanding presence. When the applause softened, she raised her voice one final time, her tone softer but no less powerful. "And before I leave this stage, I want to dedicate this moment to someone very special to me my grandmother, who's in the hospital right now. I hope she gets better soon. This one's for you, Grandma."
The applause roared to life again, louder and more heartfelt than ever, as Bianca stood tall, her white wings spreading wide behind her like a shield of hope, her ocean-blue eyes shining with emotion.
From the booth above, Boris's smirk faltered, his fingers drumming against the table. He leaned closer to the glass, watching Bianca as the light framed her figure like a halo.
Onstage, Bianca turned to the audience one last time, her wings spreading fully, a vision of defiance and grace. "This crown," she said, her voice steady, "isn't just for beauty. It's a symbol of hope. And I'll wear it proudly."
As the cameras zoomed in on her, capturing her radiance for the universe to see, the stage erupted in golden confetti. Bianca stood tall, her presence commanding, her words echoing in the hearts of everyone present.
Boris leaned back in his chair, a self-assured smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he began to clap slowly. "Well, gentlemen," he said, his voice smooth and measured, "it seems the odds were, once again, in my favor."
He gestured subtly to his butler, who stepped forward with a sleek, black suitcase in hand. With quiet efficiency, the butler opened it, revealing a neatly organized interior, and began collecting the stacks of cash from the table. The other businessmen, their faces a mix of grudging admiration and quiet resignation, exchanged muted glances.
One of them, a man with silver hair and an impeccably tailored suit, cleared his throat and spoke in a conciliatory tone. "I'll have my share transferred to your account digitally, Mr. Boris. Bitcoin, as usual?"
Boris's smile widened just slightly as he inclined his head. "Of course. Efficiency is always appreciated."
Another chimed in, gesturing briefly to his tablet. "The funds will be in your wallet before the hour is up."
"Good," Boris replied, his tone crisp but polite. As the butler closed the suitcase and stepped aside, Boris shifted his gaze toward the group, his piercing eyes cutting through the room. "Gentlemen, I trust you'll be better prepared next time. Competition keeps us sharp, after all."
He waved them off with an air of finality, his focus shifting. "Now," he said, turning to his butler, his tone taking on a commanding edge, "bring Bianca's manager to my office immediately. I want to discuss her future prospects."
The butler gave a sharp nod, tucking the suitcase under his arm. "Right away, sir," he replied, before disappearing through the door with a quiet but purposeful stride.
Boris leaned back further in his chair, steepling his fingers as he stared out the panoramic glass wall, the city lights glittering far below. The game was his, and now it was time to turn the pieces toward his next move.
Outside the office, Bianca and her manager were deep in conversation. The manager, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a slightly hunched posture, leaned in toward her. "I told you this was a good idea," he said with a smile. "I knew you'd win this. This year is going to skyrocket your music sales."
Bianca tilted her head, her raven-black hair cascading over her shoulder. "You were right," she admitted with a soft smile. "I didn't think this contest would make me so popular. I didn't even expect to win. But at least now I can finally chase my real dream being a singer."
Their conversation was cut short as the butler arrived. He cleared his throat, his presence imposing. "Excuse me," he said, his voice calm yet firm. "Mr. Boris has requested to see you."
The manager's face paled slightly, but he nodded, adjusting his tie nervously. Bianca stayed behind, watching as her manager followed the butler through the grand double doors into Boris's office.
Inside the lavish office, Boris gestured for the manager to sit. The room was opulent, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city below. A decanter of amber-colored whiskey sat on a polished oak desk, the air tinged with its faint aroma.
The manager hesitated before taking a seat, his palms damp and his heart pounding.
Boris leaned forward, his sharp eyes locking onto the manager like a predator sizing up its prey. "You know the deal," Boris said smoothly. "How much will it cost me? Name your price."
The manager swallowed hard, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Mr. Boris… this one is different," he began hesitantly. "Bianca isn't like the others. I've managed her since she was a child. She's like family to me. She's not just another girl you can use and discard."
Boris's expression darkened, his smile vanishing. "You forget who you're talking to," he said coldly. "I can end your career with a single phone call. You'd be blacklisted before you even left this building."
The manager looked down, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "I understand," he murmured. Rising to his feet, he nodded stiffly before leaving the office.
Bianca was waiting patiently outside, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. When her manager emerged, she immediately looked up, her eyes filled with hope. "What happened?" she asked eagerly. "Did he like the show? Did he offer me a record deal? He's one of the most powerful men on the planet! He owns Pluto Industries they control almost every music label in the country."
Her manager hesitated, his face pale and drawn. "Yes," he said quietly, "but… there's something he wants you to do first." He leaned closer, whispering the details into her ear.
Bianca's face shifted instantly, her expression hardening. "No," she said firmly, her voice filled with conviction. "I'm not doing that."
Her manager looked away, ashamed. "Bianca, this could change everything for you. Think about your career your dreams."
She took a step back, her wings rustling slightly as her eyes burned with fury. "I don't care about any of that if it costs me my integrity. I thought you believed in me. How could you even ask me to do something like this?"
The manager stammered, "I just"
"No!" she cut him off. "I'd rather walk away with nothing than sell my soul for everything."
The manager's face grew pale as Bianca's fiery refusal cut through the tense air between them. "Bianca," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "This isn't just about you. If you don't do this, he'll punish me too. My career, my life it's all on the line!"
Bianca's glare was unwavering, her voice steady and cold. "I don't care," she said. "I'm not compromising my integrity just to protect you.
Their conversation was abruptly interrupted as Boris's commanding presence filled the hall. He cleared his throat, a sharp sound that made both Bianca and her manager freeze. "My apologies," Boris said, his tone laced with mock politeness. "But what exactly is taking so long?"
Bianca turned to him, her chin held high. "I heard what he says you want me to do," she declared, her voice rising. "And I'm not doing it."
Boris's expression darkened, his voice dropping into a menacing growl. "Lower your voice," he ordered, his eyes narrowing.
Without another word, Bianca turned on her heel and began to walk away.
"Where are you going, Bianca?" Boris called after her, his voice calm but with an edge that froze the air around them.
She didn't look back as she answered, her voice steady but her heart pounding, "Home. I'll build the career I want the right way, no shortcuts. I don't care how long it takes."
Boris let out a low chuckle, a cold, calculating sound that sent a chill through the room. "Home?" he said, the word dripping with mockery. "Bianca, let's not kid ourselves. That house you're talking about your so-called home was purchased by the label. My label. And the car you drove here? Same story. Every little luxury you think is yours is a line item in my budget."
He stepped closer, his polished leather shoes tapping rhythmically against the floor. "So tell me," he continued, his tone calm but cutting, "how exactly do you plan to get home? Walk? Maybe hitch a ride? Because you've got nothing, Bianca. Nothing that isn't tethered to me."
Bianca stopped in her tracks, her hands curling into fists. She stared at the ground, refusing to turn around, her mind racing for a way out of this.
Boris closed the distance between them, his voice softening not with kindness, but with a chilling precision. "Let me lay it out for you," he said, his tone clinical, as if explaining a business deal to a boardroom. "Your career, your reputation, your lifestyle every single thing you have is because I allowed it. I could end it all with a single phone call. Do you know how many artists would kill to have what you have? And here you are, throwing it away over five minutes of your time."
Her breath hitched, tears threatening to spill as the weight of his words pressed down on her like a vice.
Boris's voice dropped lower, colder. "And then there's your grandmother," he said, his words striking like a scalpel. "She's in the hospital, isn't she? Fighting for her life. Who do you think is footing that bill? The label. And who owns the label? Me. So let's do some quick math. If you walk out of here, who pays for her care? Certainly not you. The moment you leave, that funding disappears. Do you think the hospital will keep her alive out of charity?"
Bianca's knees felt like they might give out, her chest tightening with helplessness.
Boris took a step back, straightening his tie as he delivered the final blow. "Here's how this works," he said, his voice sharp and deliberate. "I'm going back to my office. You have five minutes to rethink your position. If you're not there, I'll assume you've found another way to pay for her treatments. And if that's the case, you'd better hope you can handle the fallout''.
Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strode away, his polished demeanor unshaken. Bianca stood frozen, tears streaming down her face as the walls seemed to close in around her.
As Boris disappeared into his office, Bianca stood frozen, tears streaming down her face. The seconds ticked by, each one heavier than the last, until she found herself slowly making her way toward his door.
The office door creaked open, and Bianca stepped inside. Everything went black.
Later, Boris emerged from his office, his suit immaculate and his expression coolly composed, as though the events of the past hour were nothing more than another item on his carefully managed agenda. Behind him, Bianca stumbled out, her hair slightly disheveled and her usually radiant face marked with red, swollen eyes. She trembled visibly, avoiding his gaze, the fire in her sapphire eyes now extinguished, replaced by a haunting vacancy.
Boris glanced at her, a thin, self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. "Don't worry," he said smoothly, his tone laced with insincere reassurance. "One of the labels I own I'll make sure they take good care of you. You'll get all the resources you need to thrive." He paused, adjusting his tie with practiced precision. "You know what?" He chuckled, as if savoring the moment. "That was such a good experience. I'm going to personally ensure that this year, you'll break into the top ten artists. Doesn't that sound amazing?"
Bianca's lips parted slightly, as though she were about to speak, but no words came. Instead, she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, her eyes fixed on the floor. For a brief second, her gaze flickered upward, just in time to see him sliding his wedding ring back onto his finger.
The gold band caught the light, gleaming faintly as it settled into place.
Boris leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, as if to cement his dominance. "And of course," he said, his words cutting and deliberate, "there's no need to make this obvious. What happened here today well, we won't speak of it again. Correct?"
Bianca nodded once more, her movements stiff and mechanical, her silence suffused with a painful mixture of shame and helplessness.
Satisfied, Boris turned away, adjusting his cuffs as if brushing off the remnants of an unpleasant chore. "Make sure she gets home safely," he said curtly to his butler, his voice devoid of any hint of empathy or remorse.
The butler gave a small bow, his expression unreadable as he stepped forward. Seeing Bianca's trembling frame, he slipped off his tailored jacket and gently draped it over her shoulders. "Come," he said softly, guiding her toward the waiting car.
Bianca followed in silence, her steps faltering under the weight of everything she had just endured. As they approached the car, the butler paused, opening the door for her. Before she could step in, he handed her a sleek suitcase.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice tinged with something close to regret. "I truly am." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "There's a couple of million dollars in there. If you say nothing, everything will be fine. Bianca… just make sure you say nothing."
Her tear-filled eyes searched his face for any trace of sincerity, but the butler had already turned toward the cab driver. "Take her straight home," he instructed firmly before stepping back.
As the car pulled away, Bianca clutched the suitcase tightly, the cold metal a cruel reminder of the price she'd just been paid to forget.
The butler returned after dropping Bianca off, his footsteps soft on the polished marble floor.
"Everything is taken care of, sir," he announced, standing at attention.
Boris leaned back in his chair, extinguishing his cigarette with deliberate precision. "Good," he said, rising smoothly. "Let's get to the jet. It's time we moved this operation to the main office."
Minutes later, the sleek black jet cut through the skies, its engines purring like a predator. Boris sat quietly, his gaze fixed ahead, while the butler stood at his side, ever vigilant.
As they entered his towering headquarters, Boris strode confidently into his opulent office, a space that exuded power and wealth with every meticulously chosen detail. The air smelled faintly of polished mahogany and fresh leather. Trophies and awards shimmered beneath the soft glow of ambient lighting, their surfaces reflecting a lifetime of accomplishments. The walls were adorned with photographs of Boris alongside presidents, monarchs, and global leaders, each image a testament to his reach and influence.
Dominating the center wall was the most commanding image: a large portrait of Boris standing tall, flanked by the King and the President of the country, their expressions united in confidence. Beside it was a smaller but equally striking photo of Boris and the Vice President, their hands clasped in a firm handshake, symbolizing trust and shared vision.
On his sleek, glass-topped desk rested more personal mementos a silver-framed photograph of his family, his wife and young son, Dylan, their smiles warm and inviting.
He lowered himself into his chair, his fingers steepled. "It's time to remind the world," he said, his voice a quiet growl, "why Pluto Industries owns everything and everyone."
He approached his massive desk, crafted from a rare otherworldly mineral, and grabbed a sleek remote. A press of a button brought the wall of televisions to life, each screen displaying a robotic version of himself. One was signing papers, another addressing a corporate board meeting, while others flew in private jets, engaged in diplomatic discussions, or meeting with senators of Earth and other realms.
Boris smirked and sank into his chair, his voice calm and measured as he leaned back. "Creating these robots to manage my tasks was the greatest investment I've ever made. Running a septillion-dollar enterprise requires efficiency. And soon..." He looked out over the sprawling city below, glittering like a galaxy under the night sky. "I'll control not just this world but the entire cosmos. This planet its unique ability to break through realities and connect to every hyperverse makes it the perfect launchpad for my ultimate vision."
His watch chimed, breaking his moment of reverie. Boris pressed a button on its face, answering the call. "What is it, Professor?" he asked, his tone clipped and businesslike.
The professor's voice crackled through, laced with urgency. "Sir, we have a situation."
Boris tapped a button on his desk, projecting the professor's hologram into the room. The figure appeared beside him, flickering faintly, carrying a tablet displaying data and images from a recent operation. "Go on," Boris said, his gaze sharp and expectant. "What's the issue?"
The professor adjusted his glasses nervously. "The superhero squad you deployed to District F to neutralize Jason Knight has failed. Furthermore, the robots we sent as reinforcements were also destroyed."
Boris's expression darkened, but his tone remained steady, though tinged with annoyance. "Failed?" he repeated, steepling his fingers. "I handpicked that team for this mission. They were highly trained, equipped with state-of-the-art tech. And you're telling me they couldn't handle it?"
"Yes, sir," the professor said quickly, clearly flustered. "But we've managed to gather data during the confrontation. It appears Jason Knight has begun to understand the Red Crystal's abilities. The situation is more complex than anticipated."
Boris leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Complex? That's not the kind of word I like to hear, Professor. Explain."
The hologram displayed a swirling red crystal, data streams scrolling beside it. The professor cleared his throat, speaking with the precision of a scientist immersed in his craft. "The crystal, as you know, was originally in our possession before being stolen by Professor Doom and handed to his son, Jason Knight. We haven't had sufficient time to study its properties in-depth, but from what we've observed during the battle..."
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then continued. "The Red Crystal appears to be a gateway. A literal gateway to Hell. It's not just a source of immense energy but a conduit for infinite power. Jason has barely scratched the surface of its potential, but even at this early stage, it has given him capabilities far beyond what we anticipated."
Boris leaned back, his jaw tightening as he absorbed the report. "So, let me get this straight," he said, his voice icy and deliberate. "Not only have we lost the crystal, but the boy holding it now has the power to rival or surpass anything we've faced before? Is that all you've brought me, Professor? Bad news?"
The professor shook his head, his holographic form flickering slightly. "No, sir. I'm proposing we escalate. Another superhero team, more advanced models of the robots, and more resources to neutralize him before he gains full control of the crystal."
Boris raised an eyebrow, his voice calm but laced with menace. "Professor, if you had to rate the level of his powers, what would you consider it?"
The professor nodded nervously, his voice trembling. "I... I believe his power is at least a B-level when it comes to superhuman abilities. But the main issue with Jason Knight isn't just his powers. It's his influence. He's rallied the people of the F District for change. Half of them practically worship him. They call him their savior. Specifically, they call him Ravana the Savior."
Boris smirked, leaning back in his chair with disdain. "Who cares if he rallies a bunch of F-ranked nobodies in that pathetic F District? They're ants powerless, irrelevant. They have no votes, no influence, and their strength is laughable. Let's focus on the real task: taking Jason down."
The professor hesitated before responding, "I understand, sir. I believe we're on the cusp of a breakthrough. The crystal's power… it's extraordinary. If harnessed and controlled, it could tip the scales entirely. It's a risky endeavor, but the data we've gathered so far gives us a potential path forward. We simply need more time."
Boris exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting to the image of the glowing crystal on the monitor. After a long moment, he spoke, his tone sharp and unyielding. "Send the reinforcements. This time, I want results. Professor, whatever resources you need from Pluto Industries, you have them up to S-rank weapons and the most powerful heroes we got. No excuses."
His eyes narrowed, the room growing colder as his voice dropped an octave. "If that boy gains full control of the crystal, we'll be facing something far worse than a minor inconvenience. Do Whatever It Takes."
The professor nodded, the weight of the directive clear. "Understood, sir."
With a flick of his wrist, Boris dismissed the hologram, turning his chair to face the city once more. His reflection in the glass seemed to merge with the glittering skyline as he muttered to himself, "A gateway to Hell and infinite power... This might be more interesting than I thought."
Boris sat at his desk, his fingers lightly tapping on the remote, as his mind raced through the possibilities. He had just reviewed the data on Jason Knight two versions of the same man, each more intriguing than the last. As the hologram flickered to life, the AI's monotone voice cut through his thoughts.
"Sir, there are two versions of Jason Knight. It seems the Red Crystal grants him another persona Ravana."
The first version of Jason appeared young, around 24, with pale skin, black hair, and brown eyes. He stood at 5'10, dressed in all black, a picture of an ordinary man. But the second version was a striking contrast. Standing a few inches taller at 6'2, this version of Jason had white hair, his skin not as pale, and a horn protruding from his left temple. His eyes glowed red, and his nails were sharp, demon-like in appearance.
Boris studied the two versions intently. "Ravana... Interesting," he murmured, leaning forward as he swiped through the images. "A name I'm familiar with. We encountered it during the retrieval of the Green Crystal. So, these crystals are somehow linked, are they?" His eyes narrowed as he pondered the implications. "Did they come from the same planet?"
The AI responded, its voice devoid of emotion, "That information is inconclusive at this time, sir."
Before Boris could delve further into the mystery, his door opened, and his butler stepped in, his expression grim.
"I apologize for the interruption, Sir, but I have some bad news."
Boris's hand tightened around the remote, and he flicked off the hologram with a snap. His eyes locked onto the butler. "The last thing I need right now is bad news. What is it?"
The butler hesitated for a moment, clearly uncomfortable, before continuing. "The young man... the superhero Vajra. The one with the Green Crystal. He's escaped from prison."
Boris's eyes flared with anger. "What? How is that possible?" He stood, his chair scraping against the floor as he paced, his mind whirring with disbelief. "That prison was secure. Not the most advanced, perhaps, but the crystals surrounding it were designed to weaken anyone in proximity. It was foolproof. How did he break out?"
The butler seemed to shrink under the weight of Boris's fury. "I'm not certain, Sir. But I've already begun investigating. I brought you the footage of the incident."
"Bring it to me," Boris ordered, his voice clipped with frustration.
Moments later, the butler placed a small device on Boris's desk. He plugged it in, and the footage began to play on the screen. The image showed the high-security facility, once thought impenetrable. Guards were posted at every entrance, but everything quickly spiraled out of control.
Boris's gaze remained fixed on the screen as the footage played, showing Vajra his aura pulsing with the green energy of the crystal fighting off guards and shattering the magical barriers designed to restrain him
As Boris sat back in his chair, watching the footage play, his sharp eyes scanned the figures helping Vajra. The first person was striking an individual with dark, imposing black wings, moving with a grace that was unmistakable.
"Who are those people helping him?" Boris asked, his voice steady but tinged with curiosity.
The butler didn't hesitate. "The one with the black wings is Nathan Hunter, a former superhero." He paused before continuing. "The second person... the woman? Her name is Kiyohime. She's wanted right now for a number of reasons, including her connection to the Samurai clan. She is the daughter of the late Princess of the Samurai who recently passed away."
Boris's eyes narrowed as he processed the information. "Nathan Hunter … Why does that name sound familiar?"
The butler pointed at a framed photograph hanging on the wall. "Sir, it's because you meat he's daughter a couple of years back."
Boris walked over to the picture, his eyes scanning the scene captured in the frame. He could see himself, shaking hands with Nathan Hunter's daughter, a poised and elegant young woman. She was receiving an award for Miss Universe the most beautiful woman in the world. A light chuckle escaped his lips as he recalled the moment.
"Of course," Boris said softly, his fingers brushing the edge of the photo frame on his desk. His expression darkened, his jaw tightening as a bitter memory replayed in his mind. "How could I forget her?" he muttered, his tone low and venomous. "She's the reason Nathan Hunter is no longer part of the Hero Organization."
His lips curled in disgust as he leaned forward, glaring at the photograph like it held the blame. "He couldn't handle the pressure. His daughter…" Boris let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head slowly. "She couldn't keep her mouth shut. After all the money I gave her, all the opportunities I handed her on a silver platter, she had the nerve to try and destroy my name. My character. She dragged me through the media, claiming I did things to her said I sexually assaulted her."
He scoffed, his voice hardening with indignation. "Women these days just don't know how to stay quiet. Always running their mouths, thinking they can bring men like me down. But I couldn't let that happen. Not to me. Not to my legacy."
His fingers drummed against the desk as his voice grew colder. "So I got rid of her. She left me no choice. It was her or everything I built. And Jason…" His eyes narrowed, his smirk cruel and calculating. "He didn't like it. He thought he could stand in my way, challenge my decisions. But in the end, he was just like the rest disposable.
He turned away from the photo, walking back to his desk with a cold, calculated expression on his face.
"Get me that crystal back. We need that kid Vajra here," Boris said, his voice darkening. He sat down in his chair, his fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. "And call the Hero Organization Society. I need the Ranger Force get them to my office. Now. ASAP."
The butler nodded quickly. "Yes, Sir. I will get them on the phone right away."
Boris lit a cigarette, taking a long drag as he exhaled slowly, his eyes locked on the window overlooking the sprawling city. His mind was already calculating the next move. The plan was unfolding, and no matter who got in his way, he would bend them to his will. The world was on the brink of his control, but first, he needed those crystals.
As Boris stared out the towering windows of his office, the glowing embers of his cigarette glowing faintly in the dim light, something caught his eye. A flash, distant at first, a streak of rainbow light that grew brighter, intensifying with each passing second. It wasn't a natural phenomenon it was something... else. Something engineered. And it was coming straight for him.
The light grew larger, drawing closer with a speed that defied the ordinary. Then, in an instant, it exploded outward, revealing a dramatic, almost theatrical scene a squad of seven individuals, each one clad in vibrant, full-body suits of flexible metal, gleaming under the light of the city. They landed, each one striking an absurdly coordinated pose, as if they'd practiced it a million times.
With impeccable timing, they stood in front of Boris's window each in their own ridiculous, overly dramatic stance: fists clenched, arms outstretched, one leg forward like they were about to strike. The power and precision of their formation were unmistakable, but the over-the-top poses were almost comically exaggerated.
The Arrival of the Superhero Rangers
The battlefield seemed to bend beneath their presence, the air humming with metallic resonance as seven figures stood shoulder to shoulder. Their suits gleamed with a strange, otherworldly sheen part armor, part living machine each one crafted in its own bold color. The arrogance on their stances was unmistakable, as if they expected the world to bow before them.
And then, like thunder cracking across the heavens, they struck their poses and shouted in perfect harmony:
"We are the Superhero Rangers!"
Mr. Black – The Iron Phantom
Mr. Black towered with a presence more menacing than the rest. His armor was jet black with streaks of shadowy gray, accented by subtle golden trims circling his wrists and ankles like chains of authority. Like the others, his face was hidden behind a high-tech mask no eyes, no features, just a blank armored surface that made him appear less like a man and more like a weapon forged for war.
In each hand, he brandished a mechanical sword sleek obsidian blades streaked with steel-gray circuitry. At their hollowed tips, vents glowed faintly, hinting at the terrifying truth: these were not just blades, but high-powered laser cannons, capable of cleaving enemies with light itself. When he posed, both swords crossed against his chest, humming with power, his aura a living shadow edged with molten gold.
Mr. Red – The Crimson Commander
Bathed in scarlet light, Mr. Red was flamboyant and commanding, his armor a royal blend of crimson, white, and shining gold trim. His chestplate glowed faintly, designed to project both strength and spectacle. Slung across his back was a polished crimson sword, elegant yet brutal in shape. At his hips, a belt of futuristic pistols shimmered like an arsenal of miniature suns, each weapon polished to perfection.
As he struck his pose, one pistol was already drawn and twirled effortlessly, while his sword gleamed behind him like a banner of war. His stance radiated sheer dominance, the kind of leader who fought with fire and demanded the battlefield revolve around his presence.
Mrs. Blue – The Frosted Sentinel
Mrs. Blue's armor gleamed with a colder aesthetic light blue streaks glowing along the dark navy base, framed with accents of sharp white. She was the image of precision and discipline, her gear mechanical but refined, bristling with futuristic engineering.
In one hand she carried a massive mechanical bow, its limbs lined with circuits and glowing energy coils. The bow wasn't just for arrows at its core sat a laser generator, ready to fire beams of concentrated destruction. Strapped to her other arm was a broad, angular shield, shifting with hidden panels and vents that suggested it could fire bursts of energy in addition to blocking attacks. She posed like a stoic warrior, bow drawn and shield raised, the embodiment of offense and defense fused into one.
Mr. Green – The Arsenal Maverick
Mr. Green stood out with reckless bravado, his armor an eye-popping combination of emerald, white, and streaks of gold plating, with most of his bulk shimmering green. Across his back, a futuristic rocket launcher hummed faintly, its barrel fitted with rotating chambers for interchangeable energy rounds. Strapped to his thigh was a folded hoverboard, gleaming like a metallic predator ready to unfold and carry him across the skies.
Around his waist clung an arsenal sleek pistols of varying calibers, throwing knives etched with neon-green circuitry, and gadgets tucked away in hidden holsters. His pose was flamboyant, a pistol pointed skyward while his other hand rested cockily on the rocket launcher, as if daring anyone to challenge his overflowing armory.
Mrs. Yellow – The Winged Predator
Mrs. Yellow was radiant, her golden armor streaked with white and glowing brighter than the others, almost difficult to look at directly. The back of her suit sprouted enormous metallic wings, razor-edged and mechanical, each feather shifting like the blade of a machine god.
Across her back rested two massive sniper rifles, their long, angular frames humming with golden circuitry. Strapped at her hips were shotguns sleek, futuristic models designed for close-quarters devastation. When she struck her pose, her wings unfurled in a dazzling metallic fan, glinting like a hundred swords under the sun, while her rifles gleamed on either side like a hunter who ruled the skies.
Mr. White – The Phantom Disciple
Mr. White gleamed with an ethereal brilliance, his armor crafted from layered whites in varying shades, accented with sleek lines of pale gray. His gear was strange and versatile, giving him the aura of a wandering monk turned futuristic warrior. In one hand, he carried a long white staff, glowing faintly with strange runes. Strapped across his back was a set of nunchaku, crafted from spinning rods of white-steel alloy. Around his waist, a collection of sleek pistols rested like silent guardians.
When he struck his pose, his staff spun in his hand before slamming to the ground with a flare of energy, his silhouette backlit by the ghostly radiance of his weaponry. His was a stance of calm lethality the storm hidden within serenity.
Miss Pink – The Shattered Heart
Miss Pink's armor was sleek and elegant, crafted in polished metal with shining pink hues edged in silver. At the center of her chest burned a heart-shaped core, glowing like a reactor of pure power. Unlike the others, her gear seemed almost alive tiny mechanical droids clung to her armor, detaching and reattaching in shifting patterns, their bodies unfolding into guns, blades, and missile pods at will.
Her boots burned with faint propulsion as higher-dimensional rocket shoes shimmered beneath her, built to let her dart across the battlefield at impossible angles. Pistols gleamed on her hips, but the true spectacle was the swarm of shifting, reattaching drones orbiting her body. When she posed, her arms spread wide, the heart on her chest blazing as the droids fanned out around her like a mechanical halo of death.
Together, they looked less like heroes and more like gods of machinery and arrogance each pose unique yet harmonized, their weapons glowing, their colors screaming across the the city. Their unified shout, "We are the Superhero Rangers!", shook the air like a war drum, their arrogance as palpable as their deadly, futuristic power.
There was a brief pause, before they all held their poses just a fraction longer. It was almost as if they expected a fanfare to follow, or perhaps the earth itself to rumble in awe. Boris, unfazed, flicked his cigarette ash, his expression a mix of amusement and annoyance.
They stood there, an absurd yet oddly impressive group of seven, radiating a kind of chaotic energy that could only belong to people who clearly thought they were the heroes of this story.
Boris took a final drag of his cigarette, then flicked it aside as he addressed his AI system. "Open the window."
With a soft hum, the glass wall slid open, allowing the Superhero Ranger Force to step into his office. Their metallic suits gleamed under the ambient light, and their synchronized movements made them look like a highly specialized unit ready for action. Once inside, they formed a line, standing at attention with a precision that only came from rigorous training.
Boris paced in front of them, his hands clasped behind his back. "I have an important mission for you," he said, his voice calm but commanding. With a snap of his fingers, holograms materialized in the center of the room, casting faint glows across the floor. The holograms displayed three figures: Adamus, Hunter, and Kiyohime.
"These individuals," Boris continued, pointing to each figure, "have become significant threats to our operations. Your mission is simple: locate and capture them. Alive."
The Mr. Red stepped forward, his voice brimming with confidence. "You got it, sir. Where are they? What part of the country are they located?"
Boris stopped pacing, turning to face the team fully. "They aren't in our country or even in our realm," he said, his tone serious. "They're in the Earth Realm."
The Rangers exchanged glances, their confidence faltering slightly. Mrs. Yellow spoke up, their voice edged with concern. "The Earth Realm? That's… quite a distance. How do we even get there?"
Boris smirked, as if he had anticipated the question. "We have established teleportation hubs across multiple realms, including the Earth Realm. You'll be dropped near the last known location of these targets. From there, you'll use your expertise to track them down and bring them back."
He gestured toward the team, his voice taking on a sharp edge of authority. "You are the best capture and retrieval squad across every realm. Your mastery of close-quarters combat, tactical infiltration, and tracking makes you the perfect unit for this operation. No one escapes you. That's why I've chosen you for this mission."
Mr. Red stepped forward again, now fully composed. "Understood, sir. We'll retrieve them and bring them back."
Boris nodded, his expression one of cold confidence. "Good. I'm counting on you. Failure is not an option."
The Rangers stood at attention, their resolve hardening. They were ready to do what they did best: capture the most elusive targets, no matter where they ran or what realm they ran to.
As Boris leaned back in his chair, the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. "Don't forget," he said, his voice sharp but calm. "The one named Adamus he is not to be killed. Bring him to me alive."
The Rangers all nodded in unison, but the atmosphere shifted when the Mr. Red, their leader, glanced around and noticed something out of place. Sitting casually on Boris's leather couch, with his feet up, was Mr. Green. His helmet rested on the armrest, and his nonchalant demeanor radiated indifference.
Boris's sharp eyes locked onto the scene. "What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice like ice. He marched toward Mr. Green, grabbing his feet and yanking them off the couch. "Do you even know what this material is made of?"
Mr. Red quickly stepped between them, raising his hands nervously to de-escalate the situation. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, his voice rushed and apologetic. "He's new this is his first month as a Ranger. We're still teaching him the rules… and the poses!" In a desperate attempt to lighten the mood, Mr. Red struck one of their signature stances.
Mr. Green , however, remained unfazed. Rising to his feet, he brushed Boris off with a shrug and a smirk. "Relax, Boris," he said, placing a gloved hand on Boris's shoulder. "We're gonna get the job done. We're experts calm down."
As Mr. Green removed his hand, he left a faint steam mark on Boris's pristine suit. Boris's gaze dropped to the blemish, his expression unreadable. Mr. Red immediately panicked, rushing to wipe it away. "I'm so sorry, sir! He didn't mean it I'll fix it!"
Boris raised a hand and calmly slapped Mr. Red aside. He clapped his hands slowly, the sound echoing ominously through the room. "This," he began, his tone cold and commanding, "is the perfect time for you so-called heroes to understand who's really in charge."
The room fell silent. Even Mr. Green cocky smirk faded as he locked eyes with Boris.
"This planet," Boris continued, pacing slowly, "is not ruled by superheroes. Nor is it ruled by gods. No." He paused, turning to face Mr. Green directly. "This world is ruled by the most powerful people in existence. People like me. CEOs. The richest. Men who can buy anything, including power."
Boris stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Money runs everything. And it buys me everything." He placed a hand on Mr. Green shoulder, his grip tightening.
The Green Ranger smirked again, brushing off the tension. "Calm down, dude. It's just a little steen.. You're rich get over it."
Boris's suit and tie suddenly glowed a faint, menacing red. Without a word, he drove his fist clean through Mr. Green chest. Blood splattered across the floor as Mr. Green coughed violently, falling to the ground in a lifeless heap.
The remaining Rangers stood frozen, watching their comrade bleed out in silence.
Boris flexed his glowing hand, a thin layer of blood dripping from his fingers. "I've been dying to test out this new superhero suit I designed. It's made to look like regular clothes. What do you think?" He turned to the Rangers, who stood in stunned silence, their faces hidden but their horror palpable.
Boris's lips curled into a cruel grin. He called out, "Butler, bring me another suit."
Without hesitation, the butler retrieved a fresh jacket, presenting it with precision. Boris shrugged off his blood-stained blazer, slipping into the pristine replacement as if it were a second skin. "I despise getting blood on me," he muttered, smoothing the fabric with an air of indifference.
As Boris chuckled softly, his laughter grew, filling the room with an unsettling echo. The Rangers exchanged uneasy glances before forcing themselves to join in, their laughter awkward and hollow, failing to mask the tension that gripped them.
"Why does everyone look so nervous now?" Boris teased, his laugh growing louder, echoing in the room.
He clapped his hands again, summoning his butler, who entered with a thick stack of papers and a tray of ornate pens. Boris gestured for the Rangers to sit. "Before you go, you'll sign this."
The butler placed the contracts before them, and Boris leaned in, his grin widening. "This is not a regular contract. These documents are imbued with ancient magic. Each paper is cursed, ensuring your loyalty. You will sign them in blood."
Contract of Absolute Obligation
I, the undersigned, hereby swear upon my life, my soul, and the lives and souls of my family, to devote myself wholly and irrevocably to the mission assigned to me by Pluto Industries. I shall execute my duties with unwavering precision and relentless determination, ensuring the capture of my designated adversary alive.
Failure to fulfill this task will result in consequences both severe and inescapable. Upon dereliction of duty, I willingly accept the fate of a slow and excruciating demise, ravaged by incurable afflictions, as deemed fit by this binding agreement.
This contract, sealed in blood, is immutable and absolute. By signing, I relinquish all rights to defiance, dissent, or retreat, binding myself entirely to the will of Pluto, the rightful master of power and dominion.
This contract can only be fulfilled or broken upon the successful completion of the mission. Until that time, it shall remain in effect, governing my life and actions without exception or mercy.
Sign in blood below.
He handed out the pens, each fitted with a sharp needle-like tip. "Pierce your skin, and sign your name in blood. This seals the contract, binding you to your mission. There's no turning back."
One by one, the Rangers drew their blood, signing the contracts. The air was thick with tension as they pressed their names into the cursed paper, their blood glowing faintly as it seeped into the parchment.
As the final Ranger finished signing, Boris rose from his seat, his presence towering and his smile as sharp as the blade that had so mercilessly ended Mr. Green life. "Good," he said, his voice laced with venomous amusement. "Now go. Don't disappoint me."
The Rangers stood in rigid silence, their eyes averted, their thoughts racing as they turned and filed out of the office. Without a word, they leaped through the window, their metallic suits glinting under the pale glow of the city lights.
As they soared through the air in synchronized formation, the tension between them began to surface. Mrs. Yellow broke the silence. "I always wanted to work with Pluto Industries... but I never knew they were this vicious. They make the Hero Organization look soft."
Mr. Red their leader, turned his head slightly. "This is what we signed up for: to be heroes, to protect our country. Stay focused, guys." His tone was firm, but even he couldn't hide the unease in his voice.
Mrs. Pink voice cracked as she spoke, sadness creeping into her words. "But... he killed Mr. Green. Just for a stupid stain on his suit."
Mr. Blue chimed in, his voice low and resigned. "I know... but there's nothing we can do about it now."
Silence fell over the group, the weight of the contract they had signed hanging heavy over them. Their flight grew somber as they neared the teleporter. Mr. Red finally broke the quiet. "We have to complete this mission. No matter what."
Behind them, Boris leaned back in his chair, his figure shrouded in the faint haze of cigarette smoke. His laughter echoed through the now-empty office, a sinister, mocking sound that carried the weight of inevitability. Taking a slow drag from his cigarette, he noticed the faint flicker of a candle in the corner of his opulent office, its flame trembling as a ghostly breeze whispered through the room.
His eyes narrowed, and a wicked smile spread across his face. "Who dares hide from me? I know you're here, Thanatos."
The breeze thickened, condensing into a spectral mist that swirled before him. From the swirling fog emerged a figure Thanatos. His pale, lifeless skin seemed to drain the light from the room, his hair as dark as midnight. His hollow, black eyes bore into Boris, and his skeletal jaw partially exposed by the decayed flesh of his face made him a terrifying embodiment of death itself. A gaping hole sat ominously in his chest, as though his form defied the concept of life.
"Boris," Thanatos hissed, his voice low and echoing like the final breath of a dying man, "why act so surprised? You summoned me. You needed me. You needed death."
Boris grinned, unfazed, his sharp features illuminated by the faint glow of his cigarette. "Correct. I require your services. The Ranger Force is on an important mission. I need you as part of Plan B not just as insurance if they fail, but as a failsafe to ensure the mission is completed. And if they dare go against their contract, well... that's a few more souls for your collection, isn't it?"
Thanatos's dark form shifted closer, his hollow eyes gleaming with a sinister light. "This must be quite the mission, Boris. Especially if you're binding them to me with a blood contract. Tied to death itself. What could possibly warrant such desperation?"
Boris's grin widened, a glint of excitement in his eyes. "It's a mission of utmost importance. A power beyond comprehension beyond words. Something even greater than death itself."
Thanatos tilted his head, his skeletal grin widening. "Greater than death? Now you've caught my interest. You're tempting me, Boris. Maybe I should bypass this little mission of yours, hunt down this power myself, kill it, and devour its soul." He laughed, a hollow, bone-chilling sound that echoed as he floated ominously around Boris.
Boris's smile didn't waver, but his eyes turned cold, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "If you try that, Thanatos, I will give you something far worse than death."
Thanatos stopped his circling, his form solidifying as he leaned closer to Boris, his hollow gaze searching. For a moment, the air between them grew colder, heavy with unspoken tension. Finally, Thanatos chuckled darkly, his voice reverberating like distant thunder. "You've always known how to keep things interesting, Boris. Very well, I'll play your game. But mark my words no one escapes me."
Boris leaned back, exhaling smoke through his grin. "Good. Then let's get started."
Thanatos's form began to dissipate, his body dissolving into ghostly smoke as his voice lingered, whispering like the wind through a graveyard. "No one escapes death."
Boris leaned back again, exhaling a plume of smoke that mingled with the lingering mist of Thanatos's departure. His smile returned, cold and calculating. The pieces were moving, and the game had only just begun.
"AI," Boris said, exhaling a plume of smoke, "bring up Jason Knight again."
The hologram flickered to life, illuminating the room with two shifting images of Jason Knight in different forms. Boris's cold, calculating eyes studied them intently, his mind already working on his next move.
"It's time I stopped underestimating you," he murmured, his tone dripping with menace. "I'm going to find out everything there is to know about you... and then, I'll crush you."
He took another long drag from his cigarette, his gaze never leaving the holograms, and a dark grin spread across his face.