In normal circumstances, when Alien X merged with any other power source or entity, the Celestialsapien's abilities would only be diminished rather than enhanced.
This was a fundamental principle of cosmic mechanics that applied universally. Even fusing with the Phoenix Force, under ordinary conditions, would theoretically weaken Alien X's omnipotent capabilities rather than strengthen them.
As long as something possessed the "omnipotent" designation in its truest sense, combining it with another power resulted in dilution rather than multiplication. Mathematical logic dictated that infinity plus anything still equaled infinity—adding finite power to unlimited authority couldn't increase what was already theoretically unlimited.
If something were genuinely, completely omnipotent in every possible interpretation, then fusion with any other force would be entirely unnecessary and potentially counterproductive.
Of course, this general rule didn't account for Ben's current situation—his incomplete Alien X transformation that operated at roughly one-third of full Celestialsapien capacity.
At this precise moment, his power had indeed been dramatically enhanced by integrating the Phoenix Force. The cosmic flames filled the gaps left by Enara and Ouyana's absence, providing the missing portions of reality-warping authority while adding the Phoenix's unique rebirth and transformation capabilities on top.
The fusion elevated Ben to a level approaching—and in some specific applications, potentially exceeding—the omnipotent tier that complete Alien X normally occupied.
And this new combined form certainly, absolutely, undeniably surpassed the power of Bad Ben's five cosmic abstracts working in concert.
When the difference in power levels became too overwhelming, when one combatant possessed authority so far beyond the other that meaningful resistance became impossible, battles paradoxically became simpler rather than more complex.
Strategy and tactics became irrelevant. Clever maneuvering provided no advantage. Extended combat sequences served no purpose.
Just as Bad Ben had casually erased the Cancer Celestials with a dismissive wave—beings who should have required sustained assault from reality-warpers to defeat—Ben now ended this conflict with equivalent ease.
He simply raised one hand, cosmic fingers moving in a gesture that looked almost lazy in its casualness.
The flames of the Phoenix ignited spontaneously from the deepest core of Bad Ben's soul, burning him from the inside outward with fire that consumed essence rather than mere flesh.
Bad Ben's scream was brief, cut off almost immediately as his consciousness was overwhelmed by agony beyond mortal comprehension. His body became a twisted, empty shell—a hollow puppet that had once housed a consciousness but now contained only ash and lingering echoes of what he'd been.
At this moment, neither the power of Death that Bad Ben had stolen nor his authority over Eternity and its promise of infinite existence seemed to provide any protection whatsoever.
If even Death herself could be ended by sufficient force, what hope did someone merely wielding her stolen power have against the Phoenix's cosmic flames?
The irony was almost poetic—Bad Ben had murdered Death to claim immortality, only to discover that the Phoenix represented something beyond death, beyond immortality, beyond the simple binary of existing or not existing.
The Phoenix was transformation itself made manifest. And transformation could unmake anything, regardless of what cosmic principles tried to preserve it.
"What a disappointment," Charmcaster observed from within the consciousness space, her tone carrying genuine regret as she watched Bad Ben's anticlimactic ending through their cosmic viewing screen. "He died far too quickly. We didn't even get to see him struggle properly or beg for mercy while suffering."
She'd been looking forward to watching the arrogant bastard experience some consequences for his insufferable posturing and casual cruelty.
"It really is rather boring," Ben agreed, his voice mixing satisfaction at victory with acknowledgment of her point. "This is exactly why I've never particularly enjoyed using Alien X for actual combat."
He gestured at the ease with which he'd ended what should have been an apocalyptic confrontation. "It's like activating an invincible cheat code in a video game. Enemies die the instant they appear, making everything utterly tedious. What should be a thrilling, challenging battle gets reduced to a monotonous map-running exercise where you're just going through the motions."
The tactical complexity he usually enjoyed, the need to outthink opponents and find creative solutions to overwhelming threats—all of that vanished when wielding power that could simply override any opposition through brute reality manipulation.
It was effective, certainly. Decisive. But profoundly unsatisfying from a combat perspective.
Ben snapped his fingers lightly, the gesture casual but carrying immense cosmic significance.
In an instant, a silent Phoenix cry—felt rather than heard, perceived directly by consciousness rather than transmitted through sound waves—spread throughout the entire Cancerverse.
Accompanied by that soundless announcement, a massive eruption of cosmic fire blossomed across infinite space. The flames spread like rosy dawn clouds rising through the void, painting the darkness with brilliant crimson and gold that carried warmth and renewal rather than destruction.
At that moment, every sentient being in every corner of the universe simultaneously heard the Phoenix's cry and witnessed the fire-waves spreading across their reality like the first sunrise after eternal night.
And then the Phoenix flames descended upon every life that had been infected by the cancer corruption, every consciousness that had been overwritten by the Many-Angled Ones' influence, every body that had been transformed into an immortal servant of cosmic horrors.
On a certain planet in what had once been Kree territory, a small group of Cancer heroes who'd been desperately resisting Lord Mar-Vell's invasion—trying to maintain some scrap of their original identities despite the corruption—suddenly felt the cancerous cells within their bodies reduced to ash.
The malignant growths that had sustained their immortality, that had overwritten their original consciousness with cancerous imperatives, simply burned away. Tumors dissolved. Corrupted tissue was purified. The fundamental wrongness that had transformed them into monsters was erased as if it had never existed.
But the flames—which had casually destroyed cosmic gods and burned through Bad Ben's soul—did not harm the underlying people at all.
The Phoenix fire distinguished perfectly between corruption and core identity, burning away only what shouldn't exist while preserving and even healing what remained.
Cancer-afflicted Wanda Maximoff and Vision stumbled into each other's arms, both sobbing with overwhelming relief as they felt their true selves returning after years of suppression and distortion.
"We're free," Wanda whispered, her voice breaking. "We can finally go back to living normal lives. No more serving alien gods. No more mandatory immortality. Just... us."
"Wait," Vision said suddenly, his tone shifting from joy to confusion. "I think something else is happening to my body. Something strange but not threatening."
His synthezoid form suddenly burst into flames—not destructive fire but transformative light that reshaped rather than consumed.
His vibranium body, which had been partially corrupted by cancer cells attempting to overwrite even mechanical components, melted like iron in a forge. But instead of being destroyed, it was being reforged.
Flesh and blood and organic systems were being constructed from the molten metal, Phoenix flames reshaping artificial life into genuine biological existence.
Vision was being given a new lease on life—not as a synthezoid mimicking humanity, but as an actual living person with a fully organic body.
"It's him!" Wanda grabbed Vision's reforming hand, her voice rising with excited gratitude and wonder. "Ben Parker! He's changing reality itself using the Phoenix Force's authority! Rewriting what should be possible!"
"Yes!" Vision gasped, experiencing emotions with an intensity and clarity he'd never known before.
His new body possessed genuine human physiology rather than merely simulating it through advanced programming. He could feel sensation with unprecedented richness—the warmth of Wanda's touch, the rush of blood through new veins, the expansion of real lungs drawing breath.
"Wanda," Vision said, his voice trembling with emotion that was no longer calculated or simulated but genuinely spontaneous, "we can have children now. A family. Everything we thought was impossible because of my artificial nature—it's all possible now!"
The implications crashed over them both. Vision had been remade as a complete human being rather than a sophisticated machine.
"He didn't just save our universe," Wanda whispered, tears streaming freely down her face. "He fulfilled our deepest, most private wish. Gave us something we never dared ask for because we thought it was fundamentally impossible."
"Ben Parker's kindness..." Vision began, then couldn't find adequate words. "His debt of gratitude can never be fully repaid! How do you thank someone for giving you your dreams?"
Similar scenes were playing out across the entire Cancerverse as Phoenix flames touched every corrupted life and restored them to their original, uncorrupted states—or in some cases, elevated them beyond what they'd been before corruption.
Within the cosmic void where the battle had concluded, before Ben could revert from his Pheonix-X transformation, he raised one hand in a sweeping gesture.
Reality rippled in response to his will and Phoenix authority working in concert.
The defeated Looma, Eunice, and Hela—who'd been scattered across millions of kilometers of space, their bodies broken and near-death from Bad Ben's overwhelming assault—were instantaneously transported to Ben's side.
Phoenix flames washed over them gently, far more controlled than the universe-spanning purification. The fire healed their catastrophic injuries completely, repairing shattered bones, regenerating destroyed tissue, restoring depleted energy reserves.
Within seconds, all three stood whole and healthy, looking around in confusion at their sudden recovery and relocation.
"Let's go," Ben said simply, his cosmic voice carrying warmth despite its otherworldly resonance. "We should head back to our universe. Mission's accomplished—Bad Ben is eliminated, the Cancerverse is cured, and there's nothing left here requiring our attention."
"Wait," Looma protested, her tactical mind already identifying unfinished business. "What about the Earth that was supposed to collide with ours? The antimatter bomb scenario? We can't just leave that universe to die!"
"The Earth in this universe is already destroyed," Ben stated calmly, as if discussing something as trivial as discarding trash. "I eliminated it while cleaning up other loose ends."
His tone suggested this was barely worth mentioning. Destroying a planet to prevent multiversal collision was just another minor task on a checklist, accomplished with the same casual ease as someone might wash dishes after dinner.
He opened a dimensional portal using combined Alien X and Phoenix authority, the gateway shimmering with cosmic fire. "Come on. We're going home."
As they passed through, Ben simultaneously repaired the cosmic fault line that connected the Cancerverse to their reality—sealing the dimensional breach that had allowed this entire crisis to occur in the first place.
The wound in space-time sealed itself behind them, leaving no trace that it had ever existed.
Meanwhile, beyond conventional universe boundaries, at the Time Variance Authority headquarters that existed outside the normal flow of temporal progression, the monitoring stations were detecting dramatic changes.
"The energy readings are subsiding rapidly," Vilgax announced, watching instruments that tracked multiversal phenomena. "Whatever was causing those apocalyptic power spikes has concluded."
Albedo leaned over to examine the data more closely, a sneer spreading across his face as he interpreted the results.
"The vital signs and Omnitrix signal from that insufferable Benjamin have completely disappeared," Albedo announced with obvious satisfaction. "Looks like he's been eliminated. What a pathetically useless fellow—couldn't even survive whatever conflict he encountered."
His contempt for the prime Ben Tennyson was palpable. Albedo had always considered himself superior to any other Galvan, and by extension, superior to anyone wielding Omnitrix technology that he believed should rightfully be his.
"Who was killed?" Maltruant asked quickly, his mechanical voice betraying unusual concern.
"Don't worry," Albedo assured him with dismissive confidence. "It wasn't that muscle-bound idiot Warlord. His signals are still active and moving according to plan."
"As long as Warlord survived," Maltruant said, visibly relaxing back into his seat. "That's what matters for our operation."
The statement confirmed what everyone already knew—Maltruant considered Mad Ben an idiot, a blunt instrument useful only for tasks requiring violence rather than subtlety or intelligence.
But Maltruant's concern wasn't genuine affection or loyalty. He'd entrusted Mad Ben with the critical task of retrieving the Annihilarrgh.
Without that artifact, Maltruant couldn't increase the Chronosapien Time Bomb's destructive power to levels sufficient for destroying all timelines simultaneously across the omniverse.
His ultimate plan—reshaping the entire omnipotent universe into whatever configuration he personally desired—absolutely required the Annihilation Device as an essential component. Everything else was merely preliminary maneuvering.
Albedo observed the expressions of everyone present in the command center and let out another contemptuous sneer.
"Pathetic," he muttered, deliberately loud enough to be heard. "The so-called Benjamin dies, and not a single person here mourns him. Not even token false sympathy. What does that tell you about how little he actually mattered?"
Actually, that assessment wasn't entirely accurate.
At least Eon appeared genuinely distressed by the news.
He slammed his fist on the conference table with enough force to crack the reinforced material, his Chronian-possessed features twisting with regret.
"If I'd known that variant was so utterly useless," Eon lamented bitterly, "I would have drained him myself when I had the chance! Absorbed his Omnitrix's energy signature into my collection! Now his potential power is wasted, scattered across some dying universe where it does nobody any good!"
His frustration was almost comically self-centered—mourning not Ben Parker's death but the lost opportunity to steal his power.
"It's merely the loss of an insignificant pawn," Maltruant stated with mechanical indifference, dismissing the entire situation. "As long as Warlord succeeds in retrieving the Annihilarrgh, our grand plan will proceed smoothly without any meaningful delays."
He rose from his seat, his massive chronosapien body moving with ponderous weight. "And besides," Maltruant continued, his tone shifting to something darker and more ambitious, "we have more important priorities to address."
His attention turned toward the deeper sections of the TVA facility, where the true power resided.
"The power of time itself," he said quietly, as if savoring the words. "That's the ultimate prize."
Maltruant took heavy, deliberate steps, his large and bulky mechanical body making him resemble a walking clock tower. Every footfall produced a deep resonant sound like striking an enormous bell, the vibrations carrying through the facility's structure.
GONG. GONG. GONG.
The Time Bureau staff weren't particularly surprised to see Maltruant walking through their corridors. In a place as fundamentally strange as the TVA—where reality itself was fungible and linear time became a suggestion rather than a law—what was so unusual about a sentient clock that could walk, talk, and harbor ambitions of omniversal domination?
At least he was considerably more comprehensible than Miss Minutes's abstract two-dimensional existence, that strange animated mascot whose nature defied conventional physics.
Speaking of Miss Minutes, Maltruant had to admit he found her strangely appealing despite himself.
Over the years of his infiltration and eventual takeover, this ancient chronosapien—whose existence spanned eons—had encountered a minimalist, modern AI timepiece. And that AI presented itself as an anime-style character, all cheerful enthusiasm and helpful disposition.
Who didn't appreciate good anime aesthetics? Even multiversal conquerors could have preferences regarding art styles.
However, Maltruant had decided that before accomplishing his grand ambitions and reshaping omniversal reality to his specifications, he absolutely needed to close his metaphorical heart. He couldn't allow himself to reveal any genuine affection or emotional attachment.
Not when the He Who Remains Kang, the former administrator of this facility—might still possess the capability to manipulate him through such vulnerabilities.
Maltruant navigated through the facility's maze-like corridors with the confidence of someone who'd mapped every passage, who understood the security systems intimately.
Eventually he reached a private meeting chamber where Kang the Survivor waited, his dark-skinned face unreadable as always.
"Kang," Maltruant began without preamble or social pleasantries, "our plan to destroy Ben Parker's universe has failed catastrophically. The multiversal collision scenario we engineered didn't eliminate the threat as intended."
He paused, allowing the weight of that admission to settle. "One of my operatives—Benjamin, a variant I'd invested considerable resources into positioning—died there permanently. No resurrection, no timeline rewrite, no recovery contingencies worked."
"It failed?" Kang rose from his seat, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Your plan failed?"
He approached Maltruant, closing the distance until they stood mere inches apart. Despite the significant size difference—Kang was human-proportioned while Maltruant towered over him—the survivor projected authority and menace through sheer force of personality.
"You assured me that this operation would succeed," Kang continued, his dark eyes boring into Maltruant's mechanical features. "You guaranteed that Ben Parker would be eliminated or at minimum severely weakened. And now you're telling me we've accomplished nothing except alerting him to our existence?"
"I did make those assurances," Maltruant acknowledged without showing any submission or apology. "But clearly we both significantly underestimated the power of that particular universe's guardian."
His mechanical voice carried no fear or deference despite Kang's intimidation attempt. "Ben Parker proved far more formidable than intelligence suggested. The fault lies in our incomplete information, not in the operational execution."
Maltruant recognized this failure as an opportunity rather than merely a setback—a chance to advance his own agenda within the TVA's power structure.
"I need stronger support and expanded authority," Maltruant stated forcefully, his demand carrying the weight of ultimatum rather than request. "If you transfer full control of the TVA's temporal manipulation capabilities to me directly, I can handle Ben Parker myself!"
His mechanical form seemed to grow larger, more imposing. "Give me complete access to the timeline control systems, and success will be absolutely guaranteed! No possibility of failure!"
Kang remained silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable as he considered Maltruant's proposition.
The truth was, he hadn't yet decided whether to entrust the entire Time Variance Authority to this ambitious chronosapien's control.
Objectively speaking, Maltruant possessed innate temporal manipulation powers as a fundamental aspect of his species. That made him arguably the most qualified candidate for administering an organization dedicated to timeline maintenance and reality preservation.
But Kang couldn't see through Maltruant's true intentions, couldn't read the depths of his ambition or predict how he'd use such authority once granted.
This person—this entity—was fundamentally not under Kang's control. Not predictable. Not reliably manipulable through the usual leverage points.
In contrast, Kang strongly preferred the candidate he'd originally selected for succession: Loki Laufeyson, the God of Mischief from a specific timeline.
Loki was brilliant, certainly. Capable of tremendous growth and understanding. But he was also emotionally vulnerable, driven by recognizable desires for recognition and belonging that could be exploited if necessary.
And at this very moment, unbeknownst to either Kang or Maltruant, Loki was experiencing exactly the kind of character development that Kang had been counting on.
In the Void at the end of time—that cosmic dumping ground where pruned timelines and erased realities accumulated into a salvage yard of discarded possibilities—a figure materialized with an unceremonious arrival.
"PTOOEY!" Loki spat out dust and debris, raising his head to survey the depressingly familiar wasteland surrounding him.
After a convoluted series of clever-but-misguided decisions and well-intentioned-but-catastrophic choices, he'd successfully sent himself right back to the one place he'd been trying to escape.
"Damn it!" Loki cursed, recognizing his surroundings with dismay. "Not again! I was so close to figuring everything out!"
He pushed himself to his feet, brushing off accumulated grime and cosmic debris while trying to maintain some dignity despite his circumstances.
"I really hope that old man with the walking stick shows up again," Loki muttered, half prayer and half sarcastic commentary on his own predicament. "Because I clearly can't navigate this temporal mess without guidance."
Almost immediately—as if summoned by the complaint itself—a hunched elderly figure emerged from behind a pile of discarded timeline wreckage.
The old man dressed in a tasteless green theatrical costume that looked like something a community theater might use for a low-budget fantasy production. The outfit resembled a mermaid warrior's garb, complete with scale patterns and questionable design choices that should have been embarrassing.
But somehow, on this particular individual, the ridiculous costume carried gravitas and authority that transcended its aesthetic failures.
Golden antlers crowned his head, catching nonexistent light in ways that suggested they were more than mere decoration.
The old man leaned heavily on an ornate walking stick, moving with the slow deliberation of someone whose age was measured in centuries or possibly millennia.
"Are you looking for me?" the old man asked, his voice carrying knowing amusement at Loki's predicament.
His eyes sparkled with wisdom and perhaps a touch of mischief that suggested he understood far more about Loki's situation than any first meeting should allow.