The effort was titanic. A pain like he had never known, tearing apart every molecule of his being. It wasn't a physical wound, no. It was far worse. The very fabric of reality was tearing around him as he forced a passage, fleeing the apocalypse.
Beside him, his twin brother, Thragg, gritted his teeth, their combined powers forming an unstable shield against the dimensional vortex. They were the last heirs of the Viltrumite royal line, the only ones who had dared to defy the Empire and its iron code. They had lost.
"The rift is closing!" Thragg roared, his voice strained by the effort.
"We're almost there..."
The sentence was swift and devastating. A bolt of pure energy, emanating from their pursuers, struck the vortex head-on. The detonation was silent and absolute. Reality shattered like glass.
He felt Thragg's grip slip from his. Their eyes met one last time, filled with twin terror and determination. Then, nothing. The void. An endless fall through a kaleidoscope of colors and impossible realities.
When he hit the ground, it was with the violence of a meteorite. The crater he formed in what appeared to be a cornfield shook the ground for kilometers. The dust settled, revealing his imposing silhouette, his Viltrumite armor scuffed and smoking. He stood up, his bruised body already regenerating at prodigious speed.
The sky was a pure blue. The air, though polluted, smelled... of life. A fragile, naive life. He looked up at the stars, searching for a familiar constellation. Nothing. He was lost. Alone. The last of his line, in a universe that was not his own.
His name was Korvak. Twin brother of Thragg. Exile. Survivor.
He had one year. One year before this reality would, in turn, be threatened, according to the fragments of data he had intercepted in the dimensional flow. One year to rebuild, to hide, and to find a reason to fight again.
The first step? Learning to live among them. And for that, he needed a job.
Chapter 1: The Writer and the Hero
Metropolis, one year later.
The apartment was modest, with a view of the docks and the immense chrome silhouette of the Daily Planet tower glittering in the distance. Korvak typed on a computer keyboard, his thick fingers—capable of reducing a tank to rubble—handling the keys with surprising delicacy.
CLACK-CLACK-CLACK.
The screen lit up with words. It wasn't great literature. It was an action story, full of sound and fury, populated by heroic warriors and cruel galactic empires. A fiction. His alibi.
Becoming a mercenary or bodyguard would have been too obvious, too risky. Attracting the attention of this world's "protectors"—this "Justice League" everyone talked about—was the last thing he wanted. No, anonymity was his best armor. And what better anonymity than that of a failed author, locked away at home churning out pulp novels?
His publisher, a portly man named Jerry, loved it. "Korvak, my boy, it's pure genius! Raw space opera! The public can't get enough!" Korvak sighed inwardly. He was just telling stories from his childhood, changing the names and toning down the extreme violence. For the Terrans, it was fascinating science fiction.
Suddenly, the rumble of a distant explosion made the windows vibrate. Korvak looked up, his superhuman senses instantly snapping to attention. Screams. Sirens. The distinct sound of a superhero fight.
Superman, no doubt. Or perhaps that Martian Manhunter the papers talked about.
He stood up and walked to the window. On the horizon, near the old factory, a column of black smoke rose. He could see energy blasts and projectiles flying. A common scene on this strangely tumultuous planet.
One year. It had been exactly one year since he arrived here. According to his calculations, the threat he had sensed was approaching. The time for hiding was almost over. Soon, he would have to choose a side. Or remain neutral.
His cell phone—a primitive yet useful Terran invention—vibrated.
"Korvak? It's Diana."
A rare light illuminated his severe gaze. Diana Prince. He had met her two months earlier at a literary convention in Washington D.C. She was there promoting a history book on Greek mythology; he was there signing his latest pulp, Echoes of Viltrum. Against all odds, they had hit it off. She was intelligent, strong, with a wisdom that seemed ancient. He enjoyed her company, even though he kept his distance, concealing his true nature behind the mask of a simple, reclusive writer who was surprisingly well-built.
"Diana. Good evening." "I hope I'm not disturbing you.I'm in Metropolis for... work. I thought we could get coffee tomorrow? I'd like to talk to you about something."
Her voice was calm, melodious. Korvak felt a shiver of alarm. Was it a coincidence? Her arrival in Metropolis on the very day his internal sensors indicated an imminent disturbance?
"Of course," he said, keeping his voice neutral. "That would be nice." "Perfect.See you tomorrow, then. Take care, Korvak. Metropolis seems a bit... lively tonight."
You have no idea, he thought, hanging up.
He returned to his desk and shut down his computer. On the desk, next to his cold coffee cup, sat a stack of manuscripts. On top, a draft cover an illustrator had sent him: a warrior with severe features, clad in familiar armor, standing on the ruins of a burning citadel.
He picked up a pen and scrawled a title above the image:
"INVINCIBLE: The Beginning"
A cynical smile touched his lips. The irony. Him, the fugitive, writing stories about invincible heroes.
Outside, the sirens wailed again. Korvak closed his eyes, listening to the pulse of the city. A hurried, nervous pulse. The Earth's fragile peace was trembling.
His new friends—Diana, Jerry, the bookseller down the street who always kept a copy of his book in the window—lived here. They were weak, vulnerable. But they had a strength the Viltrumite Empire had long forgotten: the conviction to fight for what is right.
Perhaps staying neutral was simply not in his nature.
Perhaps the writer's time was over.
And the warrior's hour was about to ring again.