The transition across the cosmos was not a gentle one. It felt like being shredded at the atomic level and then slammed back together on a world that hated life. This was the planet Duro. It was a place of absolute, suffocating isolation, a boundless ocean of burning, golden sand that stretched infinitely in every direction. There was no sky to speak of, only a thick, heavy haze of suspended dust that turned the sun into a pale, sickly disc of orange. The air was thick with the grit of pulverized stone, making every breath feel like inhaling sandpaper. The heat was not just a temperature here; it was a physical weight that pressed down on the lungs and boiled the blood.
But the most terrifying thing about Duro was the silence of the ground. The sand was not a dead thing. It shifted and groaned with a rhythmic, pulsing motion, constantly flowing like the tide of a hungry, invisible sea. It was alive, a sentient desert that did not just lay there, but actively hunted.
In the middle of this howling wasteland stood a mountain of green muscle. The Hulk was alone, his massive chest heaving as he stared at the horizon with eyes full of emerald fire. He had been teleported here in a state of pure, unadulterated fury, and the absence of something to smash was driving him to the brink of insanity. He let out a roar that shook the very foundation of the dunes, a sound so loud it should have shattered the atmosphere. But the sand just absorbed the sound, dampening it, as if the planet were laughing at him.
As if responding to his challenge, the desert beneath his massive feet began to change. The solid ground turned into a swirling vortex of liquid gold. Before the Hulk could react, he began to sink. He struck the sand with a fist that had once cracked the tectonic plates of planets, but the impact did nothing. The sand just rippled and swallowed his arm. He tried to jump, to use his world-breaking strength to launch himself into the air, but there was no solid surface to push against. The more he thrashed, the deeper he sank. Within minutes, the green titan was waist-deep, his savage strength rendered useless by an enemy that had no solid form to break. He roared in frustration, the sand filling his mouth and nostrils, pulling him down into the lightless belly of the planet. Just as the screaming sands rose to cover his eyes, a shadow eclipsed the hazy sun.
A massive body slammed into the dunes nearby with the force of a falling star. The impact was so violent that it sent a shockwave through the sand, momentarily stunning the sentient desert and blasting it back. Standing there was a figure that radiated pure, ancient brutality. It was Hercules, the Scion of the Past. He was a colossus of knotted muscle, his bronze skin covered in the jagged, white scars of a thousand wars against gods and monsters. He was the natural rival to the Hulk, a walking engine of destruction that relied on nothing but raw power and bone-deep savagery.
Hercules looked down at the sinking Hulk with a wide, malicious grin that held no mercy. With a casual, powerful movement, he reached into the quicksand, grabbing the Hulk by the back of his thick neck. With one explosive, vertical tug, he yanked the massive green giant out of the earth as if he were pulling a weed from a garden. He didn't do it out of kindness or a sense of heroism. He dropped the Hulk onto a temporary patch of solid rock and spat on the sand.
I will not let another hunter claim my prey, Hercules said, his voice a deep, sarcastic rumble that sounded like grinding boulders.
The insult hit the Hulk harder than any physical blow could. His pride, already wounded by the planet's trap, instantly boiled over. He didn't care that he had been saved; he only cared about the condescension in the legend's eyes. Without a word, the Hulk lunged. His fist, the size of a wrecking ball, collided with Hercules' braced forearm in a clash that created a shockwave, turning the surrounding sand into glass instantly.
The battle that followed was a descent into hell. At first, it was a pure test of raw, grinding strength. They locked their massive arms, forehead against forehead, their muscles bulging and twitching as they tried to crush one another. Neither would give an inch. But Hercules was a veteran of ancient wrestling pits and divine wars. He understood leverage. He shifted his weight, using the Hulk's own momentum to toss the titan across the dunes like a sack of stones.
Hercules began to dominate the fight with a terrifying, practiced efficiency. He landed a solid uppercut that snapped the Hulk's head back, sending a spray of thick, green blood across the golden sand like a waterfall of toxic waste. He followed it with a knee to the solar plexus that made the titan gasp for air, then a double-fist hammer-blow to the spine that drove the Hulk deep into the burning sand. The Hulk was bleeding from his nose and mouth, his hide torn by the ancient, calloused knuckles of the legend. It looked as though the modern hero was finally meeting his match.
But the entity had forgotten the fundamental rule of the green monster: the madder Hulk gets, the stronger Hulk gets.
Seeing his own blood staining the sand did not break the Hulk; it broke his restraint. His pride, his absolute belief that he was the strongest being in existence, was being spat upon. From the depths of his being, a new, cold kind of fury emerged. He stopped the wild, swinging punches. He narrowed his eyes, and his muscles didn't just grow—they hardened into something resembling jade iron. He dug his heels into the moving sand, absorbing a punch from Hercules that would have turned a titanium tank into scrap metal. He didn't even move.
Before Hercules could register the change, the Hulk unleashed a punch that was aimed not just at the body, but at the very existence of his opponent. The impact of the fist meeting Hercules' jaw was a sound that signaled the end of things. It was a dull, wet thud followed by the crack of bone and the tearing of sinew. If this fight had taken place on Earth, that single punch and the shockwave it produced would have leveled an entire metropolis and killed millions instantly.
Hercules stumbled back, his malicious grin replaced by a look of genuine shock and pain. The Hulk did not give him a second to breathe. He became a blur of green violence, a whirlwind of fists that struck with the weight of mountains. Each strike was a continental collision. They tore at each other like primitive beasts, their bodies a sickening mosaic of green and red blood. Even the living sand of Duro seemed to shrink away from the sheer heat of their conflict.
It was a war of pride and a war of rage. After a long, bitter struggle that felt like it lasted for years, the dust finally began to settle.
Hercules lay motionless in a massive crater of scorched sand, his body broken beyond repair, his chest a ruined mess of crushed ribs. Above him stood the Hulk. The titan was barely standing, his breath coming in ragged, bloody gasps. He was covered in deep, jagged gashes that exposed the green muscle beneath, and his left arm hung uselessly at his side, shattered and twisted from the final exchange of blows. He was wounded, exhausted, and on the verge of collapsing into a coma. But he was still standing. He had faced a legend of the old world, and he had broken it.
It was a conflict of pride and rage, and the one with the greater pride and rage triumphed.