Gohan, Vermont, and Strix descended toward Japan, the coastline glittering beneath them like someone had polished the whole country out of courtesy.
"This island is home to the Japanese," Vermont explained, gesturing with the slow confidence of someone giving a museum tour. "If you were ever going to be born in this universe, odds are it would've been here."
"The letters do look very similar…" Gohan noted thoughtfully. They touched down near a restaurant, and instantly the entire street reacted. Conversations froze, eyes widened, and within seconds the staff were scrambling to greet them—ushering them inside with a level of courtesy normally reserved for royalty. No one literally rolled out a carpet, but the atmosphere made it feel like they had.
"I believe this place is called Royal Host," Vermont noted, admiring the interior. The employees practically escorted them to a private dining area before they'd even finished stepping through the door.
Word traveled fast. Terrifyingly fast. Within minutes, whispers raced across Japan: the God of Destruction was here or their own title for him; Kami no Hakaisha "God of Redemption."
In Universe 7…
Goku slipped past Broly's punch with casual ease—right up until the hidden fist behind it clocked him square in the jaw.
"Wha—?!"
Broly's energy spiked like a pressure valve hissing open.
"Stop." Whis didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. The spar halted instantly.
"Once your power starts climbing, it tends to… ignore the brakes," Whis said gently. "Though, yes—at least you try not to go berserk anymore."
Broly exhaled, shoulders sagging. "Sorry..." Goku gave him a friendly jab to the ribs.
"Hey, you can go Super Saiyan now without losing your mind. That's huge!" he said. Broly managed a small smile. Progress was progress.
"Still, your power just shoots upward. Some of us are built different," Goku added—until Vegeta cut in with a perfectly timed smirk.
"Feeling threatened by another Saiyan again, Kakarot?"
Goku waved it off. "Nah. Just means I've gotta train harder."
Before the conversation could devolve into friendly bickering, a groggy voice echoed across the courtyard.
"Oi!"
Beerus stumbled in wearing his sleepwear, looking like someone had just shaken him awake during a centuries-long nap.
"Can you three STOP MAKING NOISE?! I need my rest!"
Whis' staff glowed softly. Everyone straightened at once.
"There is a disturbance in the Abyss," Whis said. "My staff cannot identify the source—only that it is dangerous."
Beerus squinted at him. "Do we have to go?"
Whis gave him a look that translated to yes, unless you want the universe to spontaneously implode.
"Vegeta!" Beerus suddenly snapped. The Saiyan prince jolted. "Why are you taking so long to get stronger so you can take over this blasted job?!"
Vegeta could only sweat, unsure whether to apologize or defend his pace.
"No one likes a lazy deity, my lord," Whis added lightly.
Beerus groaned. "Fine. Prepare the ship or whatever."
Goku perked up immediately. "So when do we leave? I wanna see what's in the Abyss!"
Whis slowly shook his head. "Goku… it might not be safe. Even you, Vegeta, and Broly are far below Lord Beerus' level. But—if my lord permits—"
Goku swung his gaze toward Beerus, eyes sparkling like an excited puppy. Beerus recoiled. "Stop that."
"I'll go," Vegeta declared before Kakarot could beg harder.
If he's going, then I'm not staying behind! he thought.
Beerus put his hands on his hips. "You two annoy the hell out of me, you know that?" His glare slid to Broly. "And you. Don't tell me you're coming too."
Broly blinked, then pointed to himself. "Actually… I'd rather stay."
Beerus shrugged. "Suit yourself."
With that, he and Whis floated toward the castle.
"We leave in a day! If you're late, I'm leaving without you!" he yelled back, voice echoing down the long hall.
Goku stretched his arms behind his head. "I wonder how Gohan's doing…"
Vegeta shot him a sideways look. "He's a God of Destruction Lord Beerus acknowledged. He's fine."
"Yeah, I know. Just funny how he always wanted to be a scholar… and now he's a god."
Vegeta snorted. "So instead of being a peon, he became something with immeasurable power. Good for him."
Goku grinned. "He sure got strong."
Back on Gohan's Planet of Destruction.
Trunks slipped past Sentinel No. 1's strike and punished her openings—two sharp blows to the gut, one precise jab to the kidney.
She staggered back, clutching the sore spots. "Don't just attack based on the first thing that pops into your head," Trunks said, not unkindly but with the sternness of a veteran who'd watched the same mistake too many times. "You've rushed me the exact same way at least a dozen times."
Sentinel No. 1 grit her teeth, then lunged again, leg sweeping out. Trunks saw it miles away. She missed—and his boot cracked against her jaw, sending her crashing clean through a wall.
From the sidelines, Bardock just sighed.
'She really has no instincts. It's like watching a kid who was born five minutes ago,' he thought, arms folded.
Trunks approached her slowly. "Take a deep breath and focus."
She obeyed. Inhale—exhale. When her eyes opened again, there was calculation instead of raw impulse. 'Good.' She charged.
'Bad.' Because she was still read like a book.
Trunks pivoted and delivered a numbing blow to her forearm. She hissed, stumbling back and clutching it.
"That's better," Trunks said, circling her. "You thought first. You just didn't think enough."
Sentinel No. 1 scowled. "Then what do I do?"
"Stop assuming you can overpower me," Trunks replied. "You're fast, but not faster than me. You're strong, but not stronger than me. So use something else—your mind."
Bardock stepped forward now, voice rough but not unkind. "Girl… when you swing, it's like yelling your plan in my ear. Your body gives everything away. Tighten your posture. Control the energy leaking out of you." Bardock explained, 'at least that's what Kakar-Goku told me.'
She blinked at him. "Energy… leaking?"
"To us? You glow like a busted generator," Trunks said. "We can feel you winding up before you even move."
Sentinel No. 1 closed her eyes again. This time, she didn't charge immediately. She lowered her stance. Let her breathing settle. Tightened her aura until it folded inward rather than flaring outward.
"Oh?" Trunks said, raising an eyebrow. "Now that's actually harder to read."
She didn't wait for praise—she dashed forward, faster than before, and this time Trunks only barely slipped the first punch.
His eyes lit up. "That's it! Now commit!"
Sentinel No. 1 followed with a feint—finally—a misdirection that forced Trunks to guard. He blocked, but her palm strike grazed his cheek. Not enough to hurt him, but enough to make a point.
Bardock smirked. "Heh. Look at that. She drew blood."
Trunks touched his cheek, saw the tiny red line, and grinned.
"Alright. Now we're getting somewhere."
Sentinel No. 1's confidence swelled. She darted in recklessly again, riding the high of having landed a hit.
Trunks vanished behind her in an instant.
"Too eager," he warned—before chopping the back of her knee and sweeping her legs out from under her.
She hit the ground with a grunt.
"But you're learning," he added, offering a hand to pull her up. "And that's all that matters."
Sentinel No. 1 took his hand, breathing hard but smiling faintly.
"I… want to be better."
"You will be," Trunks said.
Bardock cracked his knuckles. "Well, if she's ready to learn properly… how about I take the next round?"
Trunks smirked. "Think you can go easy on her?"
"I didn't say anything about going easy," he said, rolling his shoulders. "But I'll teach her how to think while fighting. Y'know—the real dirt of battle. Something you softies keep forgetting."
Sentinel No. 1 swallowed—but she stepped forward anyway.
Bardock nodded once, approving. "First rule of combat," he said, circling her like a shark that had nowhere better to be, "is flexibility. You adapt, or you get left in the dirt. And that especially goes for—"
His fist blurred.
"—surprise attacks!"
The punch came with killing intent—pure, unfiltered, Saiyan malice. Sentinel No. 1 didn't react. Couldn't. Every wire in her mind short-circuited at once. Bardock's fist stopped a hair's width from her face, the shockwave rippling her hair back.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then a bead of cold sweat rolled down her cheek.
"I—I thought I was going to die!" she blurted, stumbling backward so fast her feet tangled beneath her. She crashed to the floor, gasping.
Bardock lowered his fist and straightened up. "Good," he said matter-of-factly, as if he'd been demonstrating a kitchen tool. "That means you actually felt it."
He offered her a hand and pulled her up with a firm yank.
"That was killing intent," Bardock explained. "The real thing. And you froze because you've never dealt with it before."
Sentinel No. 1's hands trembled despite herself. She hated that. Bardock noticed, and for once, he didn't smirk.
"You've been lucky so far," he went on. "Everyone you've fought held back. Even Trunks." He jerked a thumb at the half-Saiyan, who pretended to be fascinated by a pebble on the ground. "But luck runs out fast in a real battle. Power alone won't save you if someone gets the drop on you."
Sentinel No. 1 nodded shakily.
Bardock cracked his neck, grin returning. "Alright. Enough warm-up." He took a step back, planting his heel, aura flickering to life like an old engine revving back up.
"Let's get to the part where you stop dying every five seconds."
She braced herself. "Right!"
"Because you're going to learn properly—starting now."
Raditz had never been inside the dungeon beneath Gohan's castle. Even as a Saiyan warrior, even as someone who'd stared down worlds collapsing in front of him, the air down here felt… wrong.
Not evil. Just heavy. A pressure that reminded him—constantly—that the man who lived above these floors wasn't just Gohan. He was a God of Destruction. His presence lingered here like gravity.
"Left at the… uh—no, not that way." Raditz squinted down the stone corridor, trying to remember Vermont's directions. "Blasted maze…"
He took a wrong turn, realized it when he passed the same cracked pillar twice, and swore under his breath. "Of course Gohan puts the prison under the castle and forgets to tell me it's a labyrinth…"
Finally, after five attempts and one accidental entry into a storage room of cursed artifacts he absolutely wasn't supposed to touch, Raditz found the right hallway.
The temperature dropped.
At the end of the corridor—behind bars—sat her.
Barda. Former Fury of Apokolips. Grumpy, restrained, but radiating a quiet fury all the same. Her helmet sat discarded beside her, her eyes fixed on the floor, hardened but tired. The aura of someone who had expected a swift execution and, to her surprise, didn't get one.
Raditz cleared his throat.
"So… You're the one Lord Gohan decided not to erase." He crossed his arms. "Huh. Didn't think I'd meet anyone who still had a pulse after fighting him seriously."
Barda didn't look up. "Then leave," she muttered. "I don't need a spectator."
Raditz walked closer, boots echoing off the stone. "I'm not here to gawk. I'm here because he sent me."
That got her attention. Her head snapped up, eyes sharp. "Are you here to finish the job?"
Raditz snorted. "If he wanted you gone, you wouldn't be asking questions."
Barda stiffened, unsure if that was meant as comfort or threat.
Raditz tapped the bars. "Listen. You've been down here long enough to know he didn't kill you. That wasn't mercy. It was a choice."
"A punishment," she corrected bitterly. "I'm an example. A defeated Fury rotting under the castle of the god who embarrassed Darkseid. You think I don't understand the message?"
Raditz's expression cooled. "If he wanted to send a message, he'd have shown your defeat to the universe, not locked you where no one can see it."
Barda blinked, thrown off.
Raditz continued. "He sensed something in you. Said you weren't fully gone. Not like the others."
Barda laughed—harsh, humorless. "So now the Destroyer seeks to reform a Fury? He who erased us! You expect me to believe that?"
Raditz shrugged. "Believe what you want. I'm just here to ask one thing."
He stepped closer, voice firm.
"Do you plan to rot down here until you break? Or do you want a way out?"
She stared at him silently, breathing unevenly. Her pride warred with her situation. Her whole life had been Apokolips—its brutality, its order, its absolute devotion to Darkseid. And now?
She was nothing and had nothing but her helmet and the armor she wore.
"Where would I go?" she finally asked. "I'd be executed on every planet that's heard of Darkseid and that's all of them, at least here I get a meal a day,"
"Planet Bardock," Raditz answered. "A Saiyan world. Training. Structure. Strength. And a chance to stand under Gohan's banner instead of Darkseid's. He's willing to give you that shot."
Barda's eyes narrowed. "Serve another master? Another god?"
Raditz leaned forward, his voice low. "Gohan doesn't want servants. He wants warriors who don't slaughter the innocent. If you train, you answer to him, yeah—but it's not slavery."
"That's what Darkseid's loyalists always say," she spat.
"And yet here you sit," Raditz countered. "Abandoned. Forgotten. Disposable."
Her breath caught—just barely. It was the first thing that truly hit her.
Raditz didn't gloat.
He didn't need to.
"You don't have to like him," Raditz said. "You just have to decide whether you want to live. Really live. Not wait for death in a cell."
The silence stretched.
Barda finally exhaled… and lowered her head.
"…If I refuse?"
Raditz sighed. "Then you stay here. For years. Decades. Maybe centuries, it depends on your lifespan. Lord Gohan won't kill you, but he won't trust you free, either. Not with what you've done."
Barda tightened her hands into fists.
"And if I agree?"
Raditz stepped back and unlocked the cell.
"Then you walk out of here under your own power,"
The bars faded.
Barda didn't move at first. Her legs trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of the choice. Slowly, she rose to her full height, chains rattling softly.
She studied Raditz for a long, silent moment. Not with admiration—more like someone trying to understand a creature they had never seen before.
"You…" she said quietly, her voice rough from disuse. "You fight with a kind of… relentlessness."
Raditz gave a lopsided smirk. "Call it training. Or just bad luck. Either way, quitting never did much for my people."
Her brow lowered. "Your people. They're like you?"
"Some of 'em," he answered, scratching the back of his head. "Some stronger. Some weaker. Most stubborn. But all of them kept moving—even when everything told us not to."
Barda's eyes flickered at that—something between bitterness and recognition. Not because she knew Saiyans, but because she understood struggle.
For the first time since her capture, she lifted her gaze fully and met his eyes, not as a Fury, not as a prisoner—but as someone who'd finally found a direction that wasn't just downward.
"…Take me to this Planet Bardock."
Raditz nodded once, serious. "Then let's get you out of this pit."
He turned. She followed.
Her footsteps were unsteady, but her resolve wasn't.
Soon Barda and Raditz exited the dungeon after Raditz internally prayed he wouldn't get lost.
Once out, Barda's eyes re-adjusted slowly.
At first, she winced—the light was too much after so long in the dim bowels of the castle. But as her pupils narrowed and the world came into focus, her breath caught in her throat.
She had expected barren stone.
She had expected ruin, or maybe some cosmic wasteland befitting a God of Destruction.
But instead—
The world opened before her like a dream.
A sky brushed in rose-gold and muted violet stretched across the horizon, caught between the softness of dawn and the stillness of dusk—like the planet couldn't decide which one it preferred, so it held onto both. Stars flickered openly in the daylight, not shy or waiting their turn, but hanging proudly in the atmosphere like they'd earned the right.
Massive celestial bodies drifted lazily overhead—close enough to feel present, but not close enough to threaten. Some glowed, some shimmered, some showed faint rings. None of them felt hostile.
And the moons—plural—hovered like lanterns strung across a cosmic festival, quiet and watchful.
The ground beneath her feet wasn't dirt or marble; it was smooth stone with a faint inner glow, catching the starlight.
The "castle." Her throat tightened. The structure she had been imprisoned within wasn't a fortress of carved rock or forged metal.
It felt alive.
A colossal, ancient tree rose into the sky—so tall she couldn't make out its crown, its trunk wider unimaginably wide, its branches twisting into the heavens like a pantheon of living pillars. Its bark shimmered with faint currents of energy, as if the tree pulsed with the heartbeat of the realm itself.
Raditz stepped past her and stretched, letting the starlight hit his face. "Yeah," he said casually, as though this view were nothing. "First time out after the dungeon's always like that. Takes a minute."
Barda said nothing. She couldn't.
In all her years serving Darkseid, she had trained on Apokolips, marched through the fire pits, broken rebellions, hunted gods—and yet this place, this world shaped by a Destroyer… it was beautiful. Unnaturally so. As though power and serenity had been forced into harmony by one unimaginable will.
Raditz noticed where she was staring and jerked his thumb forward.
"Come on. We've got a walk."
They walked along a smooth path that curved around the base of the living castle. The air tasted clean. Real. She hated how much she noticed it.
Then, from a clearing ahead, a thunderous boom cracked through the stillness.
Barda instinctively tensed.
Raditz didn't.
"That'll be Bardock," he said, unfazed.
They crested a small hill, and Barda's eyes widened again.
In the distance, a group trained together—three figures sending shockwaves across the field with every strike.
Trunks, sharp and focused, his blade sheathed but aura flaring.
Sentinel No. 1, stance rigid and trying to mimic the fluidity of her mentor.
And the third—
A rugged fighter stood at the front—wild black hair, old scars cut across his arms, and the kind of presence that came from surviving battles no sane person would volunteer for. Every movement he made was efficient, deliberate. No hesitation. Someone who didn't just fight—he'd lived in the thick of it for years.
Barda felt it immediately. Even at this distance, the pressure rolling off him settled on her shoulders like a warning. She glanced at the purple-haired man nearby, noting the same edge in him—calm on the surface, but with a readiness that said he could end a life before anyone realized he'd moved.
"That one," Raditz said, nodding toward the king between the three, "is Bardock."
She studied the man again, brow tightening. "…He moves like someone who's crawled out of every fight he wasn't supposed to win."
"Pretty much." Raditz crossed his arms. "He's the King of the Saiyans now."
Barda turned sharply toward him. "King? Then why is he—"
"Training a kid?" Raditz supplied. "Training everyone? Because that's what he does. Doesn't matter if he's king." Then he smirked. "Besides, it's not a throne-and-crown kind of job. The Saiyans aren't impressed by chairs."
Another explosion from the training ground punctuated the comment—Bardock had driven Sentinel No. 1 into the dirt again, though Raditz shrugged as though it were routine.
Barda looked back toward the horizon, the moons, the living castle, the world that pulsed with power but not cruelty, she knew cruelty. This was beautiful—to a degree that almost hurt.
"We're going this way," Raditz explained as they made their way to the courtyard, where a large pink rectangle stood on legs.
"Lord Gohan and Master Vermount have allowed us to use the Cube," Raditz continued as he approached it, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a button that opened a doorway for them.
Raditz walked toward the right side of the Cube and placed his hand on the only table available.
Barda followed him inside and looked around. It wasn't much—no seating, either. "So this Cube is like a ship?" she asked, and he nodded.
"For gods, it'll let the Saiyans know you were sent by Lord Gohan and not someone I brought along on a whim," he explained.
"Wouldn't your word carry influence?" she asked.
"Saiyans usually understand more intensely with a visual aid," Raditz replied.
Raditz closed his eyes for a moment, focusing. The Cube responded with a soft hum—then, without ceremony or countdown, lifted clean off the ground and shot skyward like it had been waiting all day to leave.
The floor lurched. Raditz bent his knees and rode out the sudden burst of acceleration.
Barda did not.
She yelped as she was forced down, landing hard on the polished metal. One hand slapped the floor for balance.
"Warn me next time!" she barked, pushing herself up. Her usually neat hair stuck out in uneven angles. "That felt like getting blindsided by a comet."
Raditz steadied himself as the Cube transitioned into a smoother glide. "It's not supposed to feel normal," he said, shaking out his arms. "It was designed for gods. Mortals like us are… the optional feature."
She glared. "And you couldn't tell me that before we took off?"
"I didn't think it launched like that," Raditz countered. "The only time I've seen it move, Master Vermont was piloting. Everything looks effortless when he's pressing the buttons." He paused, rubbing his chin. "Maybe I'm just terrible at driving it."
Barda scoffed. "That seems likely."
The Cube's walls shifted from dull metal to a translucent sheen, giving them a clear view of the stars streaking past. Raditz shot her a sideways glance—checking to see if she was breathing normally.
"Relax," he said. "The rough part's over."
"That wasn't very comforting."
The Cube dipped, angled, then streaked toward a new destination. A planet came into view—broad continents of deep green cut with long scars of burnt red. No neon skylines. No sprawling orbiting docks. Just solid land and structures that looked like they'd been stress-tested by fists first and weather second.
"That's Planet Bardock," Raditz said.
As the Cube descended, the landscape sharpened: enormous stone rings marked for duels, training towers with long energy scorches running down their sides, communal halls carved straight out of volcanic rock. Fires burned in wide circles where groups gathered—shouting, competing, laughing loud enough to echo across the plains.
Wanda's eyes snapped open, her heart pounding in her chest. She slowly stood and made her way to the bathroom.
"Wanda," a man's distinguished voice called.
"You may enter," Wanda said, waving her hand as her clothes shifted from casual sleepwear to her Scarlet outfit—though it had been modified and now resembled a Destroyer's uniform.
An angel with light-blue skin entered the room. "You have awoken. It seems you still struggle with your rest," the angel observed.
She sighed and nodded. "Thanos hasn't left my mind after all these years. I wonder how the others are," she thought. Thanos had been plaguing her dreams.
"Ever since your arrival and the Cycle, the Abyss has grown increasingly unstable," the angel explained. "I would have preferred that you rest more after your training, but it seems it cannot be helped."
Wanda waved him off. "What do you need?" she asked, a tremor running through her.
"Woah!" Wanda exclaimed as it felt like she was being torn apart. "What is this!?"
"It seems this universe has reached its limit," the angel explained, as cracks of glowing light appeared, tearing through everything.
"Can't have that," Wanda said, raising her hands and releasing a wave of Chaos Magic. Instantly, the cracks began to disappear. She let out a sigh of relief as they teleported to her courtyard on planet Wanda.
"That was a bit scary. I can only imagine how that would have felt if I weren't a god now," she murmured.
"Those tremors will continue unless you set up another barrier beyond the initial one for stability." The angel advised as she nodded.
"Let's head towards the outside of the universe, I need to see what is happening, that way I can put up more barriers," she explained as the angel nodded, she placed her hand on his back and let him carry her towards the outside of the universe.
'I need to stop Thanos,' Wanda thought to herself. 'Once I kill Thanos, I'll stay here as promised.'
Once they appeared, Wanda raised her arms. Crimson energy crackled around her, laced with streaks of purple lightning. Her eyes glowed red.
"Alright, time to create a secondary barrier." The universe trembled as a pulse of Chaos Magic wove itself together, forming a vast crimson barrier.
"Most excellent," the angel attendant praised as his staff blinked. He lifted it, peering into its shimmering surface.
Wanda stared out into the Abyss. The mist had grown thicker, forming a shifting darkness that was almost… beautiful.
"It seems my staff has detected an unknown danger," the angel attendant said. Wanda stepped beside him and looked into the staff as well. "It is about a month's travel."
"That is strange…" She could sense the direction clearly. "I'll leave a clone behind to protect this universe," Wanda explained as a copy of her materialized.
"We will leave now." She placed her hand on his back, and they vanished in a burst of brilliant light, leaving the clone to turn back.
Enchantress sat in a cave, her body slumped against the rocky wall, her breathing uneven as she used her eyes to flip the pages.
'I should… have recovered,' she thought, looking down at her fingers. She tried to summon her magic—only to be hit with a surge of agony so sharp it knocked the breath from her lungs. She collapsed back against the wall, convulsing, instantly regretting the attempt.
'It feels as if I've made myself allergic to magic,' she pondered, relaxing only slightly as the pain dulled. 'The pain is excruciating, but I suppose it's manageable. I didn't pass out,' she told herself, gritting her teeth as her hand curled into a fist.
'It truly does feel like it would be better to just lop off my arm… but I know that wouldn't fix anything.' A groan escaped her as a wave of nausea and vertigo crashed over her, finally knocking the sorceress unconscious.
Circe sat in silence in the Watchtower cafeteria, turning a page of her book with a huff. 'He's always telling me what to do! Well, I'll show him!' she fumed mentally—until Enchantress's face flashed uninvited through her thoughts.
Her cheeks flushed red. She immediately glued her eyes back to the book, reading with sudden, fierce determination.
Footsteps echoed through the cafeteria. Several voices followed.
Circe looked up, confused, as a man in a metal suit entered with a cluster of other heroes. "Since when did the League do mass hiring?" she muttered aloud.
The group halted when they saw her.
"What are you still doing here!?" Green Arrow demanded.
Circe rolled her eyes. "Would you calm down? It's not like I helped you all."
"So what!? You're literally evil."
Most of the group looked unsettled… but not in the usual villain-is-in-the-room way. More like they were trying to decide whether she was supposed to know something. The metal-suited man's visor lingered on her, unreadable.
Circe frowned. "What now?"
The metal faceplate retracted with a soft hiss, revealing a goatee, tired eyes, and a level of scrutiny far sharper than the suit suggested.
"You're awfully calm for someone sitting in a cafeteria full of people who don't know whether you're on the guest list," he said, not accusatory, just… curious. Irritatingly so. "If this were the Avengers HQ, I'd be just as confused about why someone who is 'evil' is eating and reading so comfortably."
Circe's jaw tightened. "If I wasn't on the 'guest list,' trust me, someone would've dragged me away by the hair ages ago."
A few Avengers exchanged a glance. Not hostile—just wary, the kind of wariness that followed a person with history. Heroes were predictable like that and Green Arrow nodded.
Tony didn't look away. "Right. And you're here because…?"
She met his stare fully now, forcing her expression into a smooth, unimpressed neutrality. "Because I helped save this place not too long ago. Because I'm cooperating. Because I'm not stupid enough to challenge someone who can turn me into a smear with a thought." A pause. "And because I'm reading. Quietly. At a table."
That answer seemed to land with the group—confusing them in a different direction now. They weren't expecting honesty. Or restraint.
Tony's brow lifted a millimeter, as though he caught the part she didn't say aloud: I'm keeping myself in check because the alternative is death.
He didn't comment on it.
Instead, he gestured vaguely at her book. "So… this is you 'cooperating,' huh?"
Circe shrugged, forcing herself to look indifferent even as her pulse tapped at her throat. "It's either that or get vaporized. I'm choosing literature."
The admission hung there—soft, tense, unexpectedly human.
"Circe can stay," Martian Manhunter's voice suddenly cut through the intercom. "We have been keeping an eye on her, Green Arrow," he reassured. "You know how Batman is."
The conference room buried beneath Washington looked less like a place for democracy and more like the war room of a nation preparing for an existential event. A dozen officials sat around the long obsidian table, their faces illuminated by the hovering holo-projector cycling through images of destroyed buildings, leaked footage of the lab where the Sentinels were created, and some civilian crowds chanting Gohan's title with something close to reverence.
Secretary Langley tapped her pen once, sharp enough to cut through the tension.
"Let's be direct. Amanda Waller is gone. As of last night, every agency, private contractor, diplomatic ally, and even a few people who only owe her favors 'off the books' have withdrawn support. I suppose it can't be helped with her being dead now."
A few officials had the audacity to look relieved.
General Marker leaned back in his chair, exhaling as if a weight had finally lifted from his spine. "Good riddance. She was a loaded gun pointed at all of us. Half the time I wasn't sure if she served the United States or her own paranoia."
"That paranoia kept us alive more than once," snapped Director Hall of Metahuman Affairs. "You don't have to like her methods, but don't pretend you didn't rely on them."
Marker shot him a look. "There's a difference between using the Devil's tools and letting the Devil run procurement."
Hall didn't flinch. "She held together a fragile world before superheroes and gods. We would've fallen without her."
"And then she tried to detain one of those gods," Langley said, voice cool. "A being who—let's be perfectly clear—can erase continents on a whim."
Silence swallowed the room.
Deputy Director Roe cleared her throat. "It wasn't just the attempt. It was the belief she could. When the destroyer arrived, the rules changed. Waller refused to update the playbook."
"And now?" Marker gestured toward the hologram, which shifted to show millions of civilians gathered at a plaza, cheering as Gohan stabilized the universe, they themselves had felt the tear through reality.
"The public," Langley said, "is in love with him."
There was no dissenting murmur. They all felt it—the cultural shift, the subtle but unmistakable reordering of power. People trusted the Destroyer more than their own governments. And more dangerously: the Destroyer earned it.
Roe leaned forward, clasping her hands. "Look at these polls. Seventy-eight percent approval rating. Higher in some regions. They see him as impartial, incorruptible, and—"
"Above us," Marker muttered.
"Above politics," Hall corrected. "That's why Amanda panicked. She realized there was no leverage, no hostage scenario, no contingency plan that could force him into structure."
Langley turned off the projector with a soft chime. "Waller's actions forced the Destroyer to make a public stance. He didn't lash out. He didn't retaliate. But when he basically said, 'Your systems cannot claim jurisdiction over gods,' almost every intelligence director on Earth took that as the final word some took it as a challenge."
Marker folded his arms. "Which is exactly why she's done. No one wants to be seen defending her after that."
Roe's voice dropped. "And let's not pretend the League didn't quietly push this along. Batman's testimony didn't help her case either, he must have been finally gotten the opportunity to safeguard the league without the league having to do anything." The group could only sit as they realized the bat of Gotham had probably pit the destroyer against Waller.
Hall rubbed his forehead. "Gods, sorcerers, angels… We used to deal with terrorists and rogue metas. Now we're regulating pantheons."
Langley nodded. "That's the new reality. And Waller thought she could steer it by force. Instead, she walked into a realm where power has a different currency. One she didn't possess."
The holo-projector dimmed, but no one moved. The air in the subterranean conference room felt heavier than it had minutes earlier, as if Amanda Waller's absence was a physical weight pressing on the walls.
Langley set her folder down. "We've covered the public narrative. Now we address the parts that will never see daylight."
The officials didn't relax.
Director Hall spoke first, voice low. "We should assume Amanda anticipated her own death. She always had contingencies. Always."
Marker grimaced. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Hall said, "we need to ask the real question: What did she set in motion before she died?"
A hard silence.
Roe answered it. "Project Icarus didn't begin with Project Apex Sentinels. It was just the only part we found. Every time she built a weapon, she built a backup plan. Every time she initiated a black budget operation, she created two more that weren't on any ledger."
Marker's fist clenched. "So we're sitting on a minefield and don't know which tripwire she connected to which agency."
"Correct," Roe said flatly. "She may have left measures that auto-trigger if certain people take her place. Or if the government tries to dismantle her empire."
Langley exhaled, then moved to the second topic. "Next problem: Who inherits her blackmail networks?"
Every face stiffened.
Waller's files were legendary — kompromat, leverage, confessions, secret identities, meta-gene registries that even the league didn't know existed. If that information went to the wrong hands…
Hall's voice dropped nearly to a whisper. "Some of her people were loyal to her. Some were loyal to the power she represented. And some… were loyal to the information she held."
Marker rubbed his eyes. "Meaning those networks don't disappear. They migrate."
Roe nodded. "Exactly. And whoever inherits them will have influence none of us can predict. Could be a silent contractor. Could be a foreign intelligence service. Could be someone inside this room."
Eyes shifted. No accusations — just the uncomfortable understanding that secrets like Waller's didn't die with her.
Langley brought up the next holo-slate. "Third issue: programs only controlled by her. That we know of."
The list was short, but every line was terrifying.
* Gorgon Protocol: the program designed to neutralize rogue metahumans using occult bio-countermeasures.
* Cadmus Black: the unauthorized clone-storage vault.
* The Lamentation Index: a predictive model for divine-class threats.
* Unregistered metahuman prisons, locations unknown.
* Meta-Entity Cooperative Assurance Initiative (MECAI): Strategic presence within League operations.
Marker swore under his breath. "Some of these shouldn't even exist."
"But they do," Langley said. "And she ran all of them personally. No second-in-command. No oversight. She didn't trust anyone with the keys."
"Which means," Hall said, "that those programs are now abandoned, unstable… or waiting for someone brave or foolish enough to claim them."
No one liked any of those options.
Langley turned off the slate. "Last question. The worst one."
Everyone braced.
"What happens," she said quietly, "if the Destroyer decides she represented the government as a whole?"
Roe spoke first. "He already showed mercy once. He ended the crisis without retaliating. But if he concludes that Waller wasn't acting alone, that her Sentinels or her contingencies were approved at higher levels…"
Marker's voice cracked slightly. "Then he thinks we endorsed her war against him."
"And gods don't retaliate proportionally," Hall murmured. "They retaliate decisively."
Langley nodded grimly. "Gohan helped stabilize reality. He saved millions. But that doesn't mean he's patient forever. If he looks at Amanda Waller's actions and decides they reflect the United States as an institution…"
She didn't finish the sentence.
She didn't need to.
Marker's jaw tightened. "So what do we do? Wait for judgment?"
"No," Langley said, her voice low but firm. "We make sure the Destroyer understands one thing: Amanda Waller acted alone."
Roe nodded slowly. "She operated at a level of autonomy no official should have held. Her authority was bloated—shielded by overlapping jurisdictions, classified budgets, and political favors decades deep."
"And she knew how to weaponize all of that," Hall added. "Half her programs never touched a committee. She buried oversight before it even existed."
Marker frowned. "So our strategy is what—throw her under the bus?"
"No," Langley said sharply. "We tell the truth. She was the bus."
The officials exchanged glances, the unpleasant accuracy settling over them.
Roe leaned forward. "The Destroyer doesn't need us to confess anything. He needs to understand the scale of her independence. How far she drifted from the chain of command. How often she acted without briefing anyone outside her inner circle."
"And how no one had the authority to stop her," Hall added quietly. "Not without triggering half a dozen national crises."
Langley folded her hands. "We emphasize structure. Process. Hierarchy. We show that she didn't follow any of it. Not for years. Waller didn't represent the United States—she represented herself. And she did it under the camouflage of government power."
Marker exhaled. "He'll believe that?"
Roe's gaze sharpened. "He doesn't need to believe it. He just needs to recognize it's plausible."
Langley nodded. "Gohan understands order. Balance. Responsibility. If we show him that Waller broke those principles long before she crossed him, he'll see her decisions as her own."
Hall added, "And if he thinks we endorsed what she did—using weapons beyond our control, provoking gods, building living war machines—we're finished."
Marker stared at the dim holo-screen. "So we frame her… as an uncontrolled variable. A rogue operator with too much reach."
"Not a scapegoat," Langley corrected. "An anomaly."
"An outlier," Roe added. "One whose influence was unquestioned because challenging her would've destabilized everything else."
The truth hung heavy between them.
Waller's power had grown so vast it had blocked out the sun.
And now that she was gone, the government finally had to stand in its shadow.
Langley rose, gathering her files. "We proceed carefully. Consistently. And with the understanding that the Destroyer doesn't need our secrets—he needs our honesty."
Marker shook his head. "Not honesty. Context."
"Exactly," Langley said.
The officials stood, each wearing the same haunted understanding:
They weren't rewriting Waller's legacy. They were surviving it.
The sky over Almerac had changed color.
It was subtle at first—an almost imperceptible darkening at the edge of the upper atmosphere, like a bruise forming beneath flawless skin. Astronomers had confirmed it hours ago, but confirmation changed nothing. The planet's gravity wells screamed warnings across every array. The black hole's pull was no longer theoretical.
It was here.
Queen Maxima stood at the highest terrace of the Citadel, her cloak unmoving despite the high-altitude winds. She wore no crown—Almerac queens never did in times of war—but the sigil of the First Blade rested against her chest, forged from the core-metal of a dead star.
Behind her, attendants waited in disciplined silence.
No one spoke first.
Finally, one of the Seer-Captains knelt, fist to chest. "Your Majesty. The outer moons have begun to destabilize. Tidal distortions are increasing exponentially."
"I know," Almerac replied calmly. Her voice carried without effort. "You would not kneel otherwise."
Another attendant stepped forward—young, too young for this—holding a trembling data-slate. "The people are asking if… if evacuation is possible."
The queen turned then.
Not sharply. Not angrily. She simply turned and looked at them.
"How long have we trained our children to face death?" she asked.
The attendant swallowed. "Since they can walk."
"And how long have we taught them that a warrior's worth is not measured by survival, but by how they stand when survival is denied?"
No one answered, because the answer was the planet itself.
A low, distant tremor rolled through the Citadel—not an earthquake, but a gravitational shudder as Almerac's core reacted to the approaching singularity. A few attendants faltered. One steadied another without a word.
"Your Majesty," the Seer-Captain said quietly, "even our war engines will be torn apart before they can—"
"I am aware," Maxima interrupted. "Do you think I would order futile resistance out of ignorance?"
She walked to the edge of the terrace and looked into the sky again. The stars near the horizon were bending, their light stretched into thin, impossible arcs.
"There will be no false hope," she said. "No prayers shouted into the void. We will not waste our final hours pretending we can win a war that has no enemy."
She turned back to them, eyes sharp, unbroken.
"But we will not whimper."
Her hand clenched into a fist. "Sound the Great Call. Every warrior to the plains. Every banner raised. If the universe intends to erase us, it will do so while we remind it what it has chosen to consume."
The attendants bowed as one—fear present, yes, but buried beneath something stronger.
Pride.
On Earth.
Gohan sat with Vermont and Strix. Only one waitress was present, standing silently in the corner with her eyes closed.
"This restaurant has a very different atmosphere compared to the previous establishment," Vermont noted. Strix nodded and glanced toward the bar, where the name Sukiyabashi Jiro was displayed.
The food on the table disappeared quickly as Gohan ate. Vermont ate at a much slower pace, and Strix matched Vermont's rhythm. As soon as the table was empty, Gohan tapped the call bell. The soft ring made the waitress open her eyes, as if it had activated her.
"You know, seeing as we're in Japan, I'd like to try some rare sushi," Gohan said. The woman nodded and began speaking fluent English.
"Thank you again for joining us today. This evening's meal will be an omakase course prepared personally by the master. There is no menu—each piece is chosen based on the season and served at the moment it reaches peak flavor," she explained.
"We adjust pacing to your comfort, and if you prefer more privacy, we can prepare a separate counter for just your party."
Gohan glanced at Vermont and Strix, who didn't seem to care either way. He shrugged. "No, thank you," he said, shaking his head.
"Of course," she replied before continuing. "You'll begin with lighter fish—tai, hirame, white-flesh varieties—then move gradually toward richer cuts like chutoro and otoro. Shellfish and uni will follow if the season allows. We finish with tamago and a clear broth. The master seasons each piece himself; no additional sauces are required."
"That sounds delicious!" Gohan said suddenly. Vermont's staff blinked into existence.
The waitress froze with a barely audible yelp, which made all three look at her. She quickly covered her mouth, her eyes going wide.
Before Gohan could stop himself, he burst into a fit of laughter. Strix sighed before smiling—not at the yelp, but at her master's happiness.
"Oh my!" Vermont said, surprised by Gohan's bellowing laughter.
"Thanks for that!" Gohan said, wiping a tear away. His face was flushed as he held his sides. "I don't know what came over me."
The waitress bowed repeatedly. Secretly, she was happy he hadn't made her disappear. She sighed and smiled.
Vermont shook his head in amusement before checking his staff. "This is… new?" Vermont's head tilted to the left.
"Don't tell me there's another anomaly?" Gohan asked. Surely the universe could hold together for five bloody minutes.
"No, no anomaly," Vermont said.
"Alright. Otherwise, I might just start developing PTSD when that thing starts glowing," Gohan said.
Vermont frowned before looking at Gohan. "My staff is not a 'thing.' It's a beautifully crafted divine instrument."
"Well, what I'm trying to say is that your 'divine instrument' keeps bringing up all the problems," Gohan said. Vermont sighed out loud, overly exasperated.
"Well, it seems a bubble has appeared in the universe—a black hole—and it appears to be rapidly growing and moving at an incredible pace. It has already stripped a couple dozen solar systems. No inhabited planets have been swallowed yet, but it seems Planet Almerac will be struck in a few hours," Vermont explained as Gohan nodded.
"The warrior planet?" Gohan asked.
"That is correct. I do not believe they will be able to stop this black hole from devouring them," Vermont finished.
"Alright, we will leave. I need to get rid of that black hole anyway," Gohan said. "I wonder what Diana is doing?"
"Well, from the location of her energy, it appears to be on the Island of Themyscira…" Vermont explained. Gohan could confirm it himself with a simple energy sense.
Diana and Donna entered the palace as Hippolyta sat forward in anger. "You DARE!" she yelled.
"Guards!" the queen commanded, but her warriors were hesitant. All they could do was surround their sisters.
"Mother!" Donna called out. "I just wanted to wish you—"
"You will do. No. Such. Thing," Hippolyta ordered, stunning Donna as Diana stepped in front of her.
"She just wanted to say happy festival. It is dedicated after you…" Hippolyta looked away.
"You made your choices the day you left."
"Mother…"
Far above Almerac's atmosphere, space folded.
Three figures tore through reality itself.
Gohan slowed first, eyes narrowing as the planet filled his vision. He could feel it now—the drag, the wrongness, the way spacetime screamed as it was stretched toward annihilation.
Strix folded her arms slightly, gaze unreadable. Vermont's staff pulsed once, softly.
"Well," Vermont said, unusually quiet, "this is… dramatic."
Gohan exhaled slowly.
"Yeah," he muttered. "And they're not running."
He watched the planet below—war formations assembling not to escape, but to be seen.
A faint, humorless smile tugged at his face.
"…I like them already."
On the highest terrace of the Citadel, Queen Maxima raised her blade toward the bending stars.
She felt it then.
Not salvation. Not doom.
Aura.
The air above the Citadel shifted.
No alarms sounded. No shields flared. Yet every Seer present stiffened as space itself seemed to adjust—as if something immense had arrived and was now choosing how loudly to exist.
Queen Maxima did not turn at once.
She kept her blade raised toward the warped stars, posture unbroken.
"You have come to watch," she said calmly. "Or to interfere."
Gohan stepped forward until his boots touched the stone of the terrace. He did not radiate power. Did not posture. To the Seers, that restraint was more unsettling than any display.
"I came because a black hole is about to erase your planet," he said plainly. "I can stop it."
A murmur rippled through the attendants—checked, but not silenced.
Maxima finally turned.
Her eyes met his, sharp and assessing, not awed.
"You speak as if that grants you authority."
"It doesn't," Gohan replied immediately. "That's why I'm asking." Almerac had denied his alliance after all.
Silence.
Then, slowly, she lowered her blade.
"You ask permission to deny us our end," she said. "Do you understand what that means to my people?"
"I think I do," Gohan said. "But I might be wrong."
That earned him a fraction of consideration.
"We do not beg the universe to spare us," Almerac said. "We do not outsource our fate to forces we do not command. If we survive, it is because we stood—not because someone decided we were worth saving."
"I'm not deciding that," Gohan said. "You already did."
She studied him again—longer this time.
"And if we refuse?" she asked. "If I tell you to leave us to what comes?"
Gohan didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was quieter.
"Then I'll leave," he said. "I won't drag your people into survival against their will."
The Seers tensed.
Queen Almerac searched his face for deception—and found none.
"…But," she said, "you hesitate."
Gohan exhaled.
"Because the black hole doesn't stop with you," he said. "It will keep going. Strip more systems. Kill people who never got the chance to choose how they face it."
Understanding dawned—not relief, not gratitude.
Clarity.
"So you will act regardless," Maxima said.
"Yes," Gohan replied. "But not for you. And not over you."
Her grip tightened on the blade.
"You will not be our savior," she said firmly.
"I don't want to be," Gohan said just as firmly.
Another silence—this one heavier, layered with centuries of doctrine and a future balanced on a single decision.
At last, Queen Maxima nodded once.
"Then hear our terms," she said. "You will not shield us. You will not move our people. We will stand as we intended. If the universe spares us, it will do so knowing we did not kneel."
Gohan inclined his head.
"That's fair." It was the reason Broadcast was not available on Almerac—they wanted no propaganda.
She raised her blade again—not in challenge, but in acknowledgment.
"Go, then," Queen Maxima said. "End the threat that was never ours alone."
Gohan stepped back, already turning toward the sky.
As he rose from the terrace, the air itself seemed to thin around him, pressure bending subtly as if the world was reluctant to let him go. Strix moved to the edge of the balcony and watched in silence, her expression unreadable. Vermont lingered behind, his staff dimmed to a low, steady glow.
"You are… unusual," Vermont said at last, his tone thoughtful rather than amused.
Queen Maxima did not look away from the warped stars above her world.
"So are you," she replied.
"I'll be back shortly," Gohan said. There was no bravado in his voice—only certainty.
Then he was gone, space snapping closed behind him as he accelerated beyond sight.
High above Almerac, the universe grew hostile.
The pull of the singularity pressed against him from all directions, an invisible weight that distorted distance and intention alike. Light bent. Space groaned. Gohan felt his body strain—not painfully, but insistently—like standing knee-deep in a current that wanted to drag him under.
"…Being this close to a black hole really is something," he muttered. "Feels like quicksand made out of gravity."
He steadied himself, drawing his ki inward—not explosively, not defiantly, but with control. The wild growth of the singularity slowed as his energy wrapped around it, an artificial boundary placed upon something that had never known limits.
"Alright," he said softly, almost respectfully. "That's enough."
He extended his palm.
Purple light bloomed—not violent, not chaotic, but absolute.
"Hakai."
The energy did not clash with the black hole. It unmade it.
Infinite mass unraveled piece by piece, its hunger silenced as reality corrected itself. There was no explosion—only a slow, terrible quiet as the singularity collapsed into nothingness, leaving behind faint motes of light that shimmered once… and were gone.
Gohan hovered there for a moment, scanning the void, feeling for any lingering distortion.
Nothing.
He nodded to himself. "Alright. Problem solved."
On Almerac, instruments across the Citadel recalibrated in disbelief.
"The gravitational wavelengths have vanished," one Seer reported, voice tight with awe. "The shockwave—gone. The pull—it's completely gone."
Silence followed.
Then understanding.
Gohan reappeared on the terrace in a flicker of light, his hair still glowing red before the aura faded and the air settled around him once more.
"Well," he said, casual again but not careless, "that's taken care of. We'll be heading out."
Queen Maxima inclined her head.
Not in gratitude.
In acknowledgment.
For a moment, her composure faltered—just enough for her to press her lips together, to steady herself. Then she straightened, shoulders squared, gaze lifted once more to a sky that no longer bent against her world.
She said nothing.
She didn't need to.