Steppenwolf charged forward, his body a living bomb counting down to detonation.
Every step brought him closer to Marcus, and every step made the energy building inside him more unstable. His living metal armor pulsed with contained power, cracks glowing with barely restrained destruction.
He knew he would die. Accepted it. Embraced it.
But he would take this threat to Lord Darkseid with him.
"For Apokolips!" Steppenwolf roared, closing the final distance. "For the Master's eternal—"
Marcus bent his legs slightly and jumped.
The movement was casual, almost lazy. Like someone hopping over a puddle rather than evading a walking apocalypse.
But the result was anything but casual.
Marcus shot into the air like a missile, momentum carrying him up and up until he was a hundred feet above the nest. Then gravity reasserted itself, and he began to fall.
Falling faster than physics should allow. Faster than terminal velocity. Accelerating with each passing microsecond.
Flames erupted around his feet—friction with the air turning into literal fire as his speed increased beyond what atmosphere was designed to handle.
Rhino Stomp.
The signature ability of Rhino, enhanced by Infinite Empowerment, channeled into a single devastating strike.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The sound wasn't just loud—it was physical. Shockwaves rippled through the air, visible distortions that made reality itself seem to warp.
Steppenwolf, committed to his charge, looked up just in time to see a meteor made of armor and fury descending toward him.
He jumped to meet it—because what else could he do? His body was already primed to explode, already past the point of no return.
The two titans collided in mid-air.
BOOM!!!
The explosion was catastrophic.
Not just the detonation of Steppenwolf's suicide charge, but the combined release of kinetic energy from Marcus' stomp meeting resistance at exactly the wrong moment. Two incompatible forces colliding and producing something far worse than either alone.
The blast consumed the center of the nest in a sphere of destruction. Heat and pressure and light merged into something that resembled a miniature sun being born.
The shockwave radiated outward like the wrath of god.
Throughout the nest, the Justice League felt the impact.
Diana was in mid-swing when the explosion hit. The shockwave caught her shield-first, and even her divine heritage couldn't completely absorb the force. She slid backward twenty feet, boots carving furrows in the organic floor.
"Brace yourselves!" she shouted, though the warning came slightly too late.
Arthur drove his trident into the ground like an anchor and hung on. The wind threatened to tear him loose, but Atlantean strength kept him rooted.
Victor, still connected to the Mother Boxes, felt his body's gyroscopic stabilizers working overtime to keep him from being torn away from his task.
And the nest itself cracked.
The structure—built to withstand orbital bombardment, constructed from materials stronger than steel—developed fractures that spread like lightning across its surface. Massive chunks of biomass and corrupted metal began falling, creating a deadly rain of debris.
"This is getting dangerous!" Arthur shouted over the chaos, using his trident to deflect a falling pillar that would have crushed Victor. "Are they actually fighting down there, or trying to destroy the planet?"
Diana deflected another piece of falling debris with her shield, her movements precise despite the chaos. "They're fighting. But for Marcus?" She risked a glance toward the epicenter of the explosion. "This probably isn't even serious yet."
"What?" Arthur stared at her like she'd lost her mind.
"Marcus is playing," Diana explained, cutting down two Parademons that had survived the blast. "If he was using his full power, we wouldn't be having this conversation. The entire structure would already be gone."
She'd seen Marcus fight before—really fight, with intent to destroy rather than test. This? This was a warm-up exercise for him.
"Just for fun and it's this destructive?" Arthur caught another falling chunk of nest with his trident, redirecting it away from their position. "What the hell happens when he gets serious?"
"You don't want to know," Diana said simply.
Arthur turned his attention back to the swarms of Parademons still attacking despite the devastation. "Great. We're relying on someone who can casually cause earthquakes. That's not terrifying at all."
But even as he complained, Arthur was already moving—channeling his power through the trident, calling on ancient Atlantean authority over storms and seas.
The sky above the nest darkened impossibly fast. Storm clouds materialized from nowhere, thick and pregnant with lightning. Thunder rolled across the heavens, a sound like the ocean depths given voice.
"Let's even the odds," Arthur growled.
He raised the trident high, and the storm answered.
CRACK-BOOM!
Lightning—not normal lightning, but the kind that split mountains and boiled seas—lanced down from the clouds. It struck Arthur's trident and stayed, flowing through the weapon like water through a pipe.
Arthur became a conduit, channeling heaven's fury.
The lightning spread from him in branching paths, following every Parademon in range. The creatures barely had time to scream before electricity cooked them from the inside out.
But Arthur wasn't done.
He brought the trident down in a sweeping gesture, and rain fell. Not a drizzle, not a shower, but a deluge—thousands of gallons of water manifesting from the storm clouds and crashing down with monsoon intensity.
The Parademons, soaked instantly, became perfect conductors.
The lightning intensified, spreading through the water, linking every wet surface into one massive electrical circuit. Parademons by the dozens convulsed and fell, their nervous systems fried beyond recovery.
Diana watched the display with approval. "Well done. My turn."
She sheathed the Vulcan Sword and retrieved the Lasso of Truth from her belt. The golden rope gleamed even in the storm's darkness, power radiating from it in waves.
Most people thought of the Lasso as a lie detector—a tool for interrogation and truth-seeking. And it was that, certainly.
But it was also forged by Hephaestus, the god of craft and fire. It was a weapon, blessed by the Olympians and capable of feats that would make skeptics weep.
Diana began to spin the Lasso, the rope extending as she built momentum. It grew longer with each rotation, stretching beyond its physical length through divine will.
Then she threw it upward, toward the heart of Arthur's storm.
The Lasso pierced through the clouds and grabbed a bolt of lightning.
Not redirected it. Not channeled it. Grabbed it like a physical thing and pulled it down, bound it with unbreakable cord, made it hers to command.
Diana held lightning in her hands.
She whipped the Lasso in a wide arc, and the captured lightning followed—a dragon made of pure electricity, dancing to her will. It swept through the nest like a scythe, burning everything it touched.
Parademons died screaming. The organic structure of the nest ignited where the lightning passed. The combination of Arthur's storm and Diana's lightning transformed the battlefield into something mythological.
"That's better," Diana said with satisfaction.
The demon army, which had been an overwhelming force moments ago, was now scattered and broken. Survivors fled or tried to hide, their numbers decimated by divine wrath.
Victor, still working on the Mother Boxes, allowed himself a moment of relief. "Thanks for the assist. I can actually focus now."
"Just keep working," Arthur said, already tracking new threats. "We'll handle security."
Victor turned his full attention back to the Mother Boxes.
They floated in front of him, two perfect cubes of impossible geometry. They pulsed in synchronization, their energies intertwining, growing closer to complete fusion with each passing second.
Mechanical tendrils extended from Victor's body—part of him now, as much his limbs as his arms or legs—and connected to each Mother Box.
The moment contact was made, Victor's consciousness expanded.
He could feel the Mother Boxes. Feel their power, their purpose, their hunger to unite and transform. They wanted to merge, wanted to reshape this world into something that served Apokolips.
And they were incredibly difficult to resist.
"Come on," Victor muttered, his internal processors working at maximum capacity. "I was made by one of you. We're the same kind. Listen to me!"
He poured energy into the connections, trying to override the synchronization protocol. The Mother Boxes pushed back, their programming ancient and absolute.
Victor increased power.
Thrusters emerged from his back and shoulders, adding their force to his efforts. His arms extended fully, mechanical components shifting and reconfiguring to maximize leverage.
The Mother Boxes began to separate—slowly, reluctantly, fighting him every millimeter.
"That's it," Victor encouraged himself. "Just a little more..."
At the bottom of the nest, where the explosion had carved a crater the size of a city block, movement stirred in the rubble.
Steppenwolf pulled himself from the debris, his living metal armor scorched and cracked. Blood—dark and thick—leaked from joints in the armor. His breathing was labored, painful.
But he was alive.
And Marcus was standing twenty feet away, completely unharmed, looking almost bored.
"Impressive durability," Marcus observed. "That explosion should have vaporized you. The armor saved your life."
Steppenwolf spat blood and rose to his feet, gripping his electro-axe. The weapon had been damaged in the blast but was already regenerating, living metal flowing to repair the cracks.
"I will not fail the Master," Steppenwolf growled. "This world belongs to Lord Darkseid! The entire universe belongs to him!"
"Does it?" Marcus asked mildly. "That seems like a rather large claim."
"Go to hell!"
Steppenwolf charged again, the electro-axe crackling with renewed energy. He moved with desperate speed, putting everything he had left into one final assault.
Marcus sighed. "This is getting repetitive."
Rhino Stomp.
The ground beneath Marcus' feet rippled like disturbed water. Debris that had been scattered by the explosion floated upward, suspended in a zone of warped space-time.
Steppenwolf, mid-leap, suddenly stopped. His body hung in the air, frozen mid-attack, caught in a pocket of stopped time created by the stomp's reality-warping effects.
Marcus walked forward casually, his fists already pulling back.
"I've weakened myself considerably for this fight," he said conversationally, as if Steppenwolf could hear him. "Turned off most of my defensive abilities, limited my strength, tried to make it interesting."
His fists shot forward—not as punches but as artillery shells, propelled by forces that had nothing to do with muscles.
BOOM! BOOM!
The impacts were earth-shattering. Literally. The ground cracked in concentric rings around the strikes, shockwaves spreading outward with enough force to shatter stone.
Steppenwolf shot backward like he'd been hit by a railgun, his body smashing through pillars that had supported the nest for days. The structures, harder than steel, shattered like glass under the force of his passage.
He didn't stop at the nest's wall.
He went through it, punching a hole in the structure and continuing out into open air.
Barry Allen and Clark Kent were returning to the nest at top speed when they saw something impossible.
A figure shot out of the nest's side like a missile, trailing smoke and debris.
Steppenwolf.
"Get ready!" Clark shouted, coming to an abrupt halt. "Barry, get to Green Arrow and Batman. I'll handle this!"
Barry didn't argue—he could see the determination in Clark's eyes, the set of his jaw that meant he wasn't backing down. "Don't die, okay? Marcus would kill us if we let anything happen to you."
"I'll be fine," Clark assured him, though his voice was tight with pain. The kryptonite contamination flared with every use of his powers, but he pushed through it.
He had to.
Barry became lightning and vanished, racing back toward the nest.
Clark turned to face Steppenwolf, who was already recovering from his impact. The Apokoliptian general rose to his feet, armor smoking but still functional.
"You," Steppenwolf said, recognition dawning. "You're Kryptonian."
He stared at the S-shield on Clark's chest—the symbol of the House of El, known across galaxies even after Krypton's destruction.
"I'm Kryptonian," Clark agreed. "But I'm also from Earth. This is my home, and you're not welcome here."
He shifted his stance—feet shoulder-width apart, weight distributed evenly, hands raised in a guard position that looked deceptively simple.
Marcus had taught him this stance years ago. Called it the "foundation form"—the basis of all combat, distilled to its purest essence.
Clark had practiced it ten thousand times. Ten thousand times, Marcus had corrected his posture, adjusted his balance, refined his technique.
"Power without control is just noise," Marcus had told him. "Learn to channel everything through this stance, and you'll never be helpless."
Now, weakened by kryptonite poisoning, that training was all Clark had.
He exhaled—a breath so cold it produced visible frost. The biological field that surrounded his body extended to the condensing moisture, shaping it, hardening it into solid ice that wrapped around his fists like gloves.
Frost armor. Not strong by Kryptonian standards, but better than nothing.
Clark's eyes glowed red. Heat vision lanced out, striking Steppenwolf before the general could fully recover.
The beam carved a burning line across the living metal armor, scorching but not penetrating. Steppenwolf roared in pain and anger, raising his electro-axe defensively.
But the heat vision wasn't meant to hurt him—it was meant to keep him off-balance.
Clark moved.
The foundation stance allowed him to channel his remaining strength with perfect efficiency. His frost-armored fist shot forward, not with Kryptonian super-speed but with technique that turned every ounce of power into devastating impact.
CRACK!
The punch connected with Steppenwolf's jaw, and the general flew backward, smashing through the remains of a building.
Clark allowed himself a small smile. "Still got it."
But the smile faded when Steppenwolf climbed out of the rubble, relatively unharmed.
At his peak, that punch would have knocked Steppenwolf unconscious. Now? It barely fazed him.
"Compared to him, you're weak," Steppenwolf said, spitting blood. "The one who fights inside the nest—that creature has power like the Master himself. But you?" He hefted his electro-axe. "You're nothing special."
Clark's jaw tightened. "Don't talk about him like you know him."
"And you do?" Steppenwolf laughed mockingly.
"Yes," a new voice said. "He does."
Steppenwolf spun around just in time to see Marcus materialize behind him—no portal, no warning, just suddenly there.
And Marcus' foot was already moving.
Rhino Charge.
The kick wasn't just a kick. It was momentum and mass and unstoppable force compressed into a single point of contact.
Steppenwolf flew toward Clark like a missile.
Clark saw him coming and made a split-second decision. He gathered every ounce of remaining strength, channeled it through the foundation stance Marcus had taught him, and threw a perfect counter-punch.
BOOM!!!
The collision stopped Steppenwolf's flight, but the force drove Clark backward. His feet carved deep furrows in the ground as he slid, the impact traveling up his arm and making every bone ache.
His arm went numb—temporarily paralyzed by the sheer force of opposing Marcus' kick.
"Worth it," Clark muttered, shaking feeling back into his fingers.
Steppenwolf had it worse.
The general lay on the ground, his body smoking, armor cracked in multiple places. He'd taken the full force of both attacks—Marcus' kick and Clark's punch—and somehow survived.
But survival wasn't victory.
"This is pathetic," Marcus said, walking toward them both. "I held back considerably, and you still couldn't make this interesting."
He looked at Steppenwolf with something like disappointment. "You're weak. All of you from Apokolips—you talk about Darkseid's glory and the universe belonging to him, but you can't even put up a decent fight."
Marcus raised his hand, and the Paracesis Prime materialized—the holy blade that could cut through anything, even conceptual defenses.
"Since you're useless as entertainment," Marcus said flatly, "you might as well die."
Steppenwolf tried to raise his electro-axe, tried to mount one final defense.
The Paracesis came down.
SLICE.
Space itself parted around the blade. The electro-axe—forged from Apokoliptian steel, capable of cutting through starship hulls—split in half like rotted wood.
And Steppenwolf split with it.
The blade didn't just cut his body. It cut through the living metal armor, through bone and tissue, through the very concept of "wholeness" that kept him together.
Steppenwolf separated into two pieces, top and bottom, with perfect surgical precision.
For a moment, his eyes were still aware, still conscious. He saw Marcus standing above him, saw Clark watching with grim satisfaction, saw the sky of Earth that would never belong to Apokolips.
Then the light faded.
Steppenwolf, General of Apokolips, died on a backwater planet, killed by a being whose name he'd never learned.