The storm reached its peak. Snow no longer fell in flakes but in shards, slicing the air like glass. Gotham's skyline bent under the weight of ice, bridges snapping, streetlights exploding in sparks.
The Frostbearer's roar rolled across the city, shaking foundations. Its three fractured bodies merged again, forming a single colossus that blotted out the moonlight. Its chest burned with the rune-core, every pulse rattling the ground.
The League fought in formation now, driven back but refusing to break. Lantern reinforced a massive dome to hold the storm at bay. Superman hammered at the giant's head, each blow shaking free avalanches of frozen shards. Wonder Woman's blade traced divine arcs, cutting wounds that refused to stay open. Flash blurred around the creature's legs, destabilizing its footing, while Batman's voice guided them through the chaos, sharp and unwavering.
And then there was Oblivion.
He moved differently. Not as a soldier in a formation, but as something older, something colder. He didn't strike to wound—he struck to unravel. Every time his blade touched the monster, a rune sputtered and died.
Runes woven into the marrow. Ancient, pre-Lazarus craft. Anchors. Fragile if you know where to cut.
Oblivion's thoughts were precise, unflinching. He remembered creatures like this. Not this exact one—each was shaped differently—but the principle was the same. A body bound by symbols, animated by hunger.
The Frostbearer noticed him most of all. Its hollow eyes tracked him even when Superman shattered its jaw or Wonder Woman split its knee.
"Ghost… cage-breaker… you should not walk here."
Oblivion's expression didn't change. His eyes—death and charm woven together—met its gaze without fear. "And yet I do."
The colossus struck, a fist the size of a building slamming down. The League scattered. Oblivion didn't move until the last instant, stepping aside so precisely that the blow barely brushed the hem of his coat. His counter was immediate—a slash that cut through ice, runes cracking.
"Right shoulder!" he called, voice sharp enough to cut through comms. Wonder Woman pivoted, her sword piercing exactly where he had spoken. The rune flared, shattered, and the monster reeled, howling.
For the first time, the League realized—he wasn't guessing. He knew.
Superman landed beside him, fists glowing from heat vision burn. "You've fought things like this before."
Oblivion's gaze never left the core. "I've ended them before."
The Frostbearer roared, summoning spears of ice from the ground. Flash dodged, Lantern shattered them, but the storm only grew stronger. Batman's voice cut in: "If it rebuilds faster than we break it, then the core is the key. How do we kill it?"
Oblivion's answer was flat, certain. "You don't kill it. You cut the heart, and cage the rest."
The League faltered. Superman frowned. "Cage?"
But there was no time. The Frostbearer lunged, its chest splitting open, revealing the blazing lattice of runes.
Oblivion surged forward. Blades in both hands, his movements sharpened, every step calculated. The monster's claws slashed down, but he weaved through them, ghostlike. He wasn't faster than Flash, not stronger than Superman, but every strike was placed where it mattered most.
He reached the core. His blade plunged deep, black steel igniting in cold light.
The Frostbearer screamed—not in rage, but in something closer to fear.
Its body fractured, collapsing into an avalanche of frost and shadow. The storm broke, snow vanishing midair. Silence rushed back into Gotham, broken only by the League's heavy breathing.
Oblivion stood within the crater, one blade still buried in the runes. His coat whipped in the last dying winds.
Superman landed beside him, scanning the ice fragments. "Is it dead?"
Oblivion pulled the blade free, sheathing it without looking at him. "No."
The League froze.
Oblivion's voice was calm, steady, as if discussing something inevitable. "You don't kill things like this. It will return. Bound to the cold plane, anchored by what feeds it. The heart is cut, so it sleeps. But it remembers."
Batman's eyes narrowed. "And it remembers you."
Oblivion met his gaze. No denial. No explanation. Just silence, heavy and knowing.
Lantern folded his arms. "So what—you've got history with snow demons now? That's the part where you fill us in."
But Oblivion was already walking away, his coat trailing against the shattered frost. His voice drifted back, quiet but certain:
"You're not ready for that history."
And then he was gone, fading into the city's ruins like a shadow the storm had left behind.
The League stood in the silence, the weight of unanswered questions pressing harder than the cold.