The gloomy River Styx lay silent in the half‑light, its faint echoes of suffering carried on an unseen breeze. Shapes twisted beneath the water's surface, spectral forms whose mournful cries barely registered in Adrian's mind. To him, the most terrifying horrors were not these phantoms but the nightmares that had already visited his consciousness and taken shape there.
Through drifting mist, Adrian spotted a figure approaching the riverbank, mounted on a tall, noble horse. The woman wore armor of red and gold, and over her helm hung a white veil that fluttered in the sickly air. She charged forward with a grace that reminded Adrian sharply of someone he had once known only in stories.
His breath hitched.
Was that Wonder Woman?
No, the thought faded almost instantly. Her face was familiar yet younger, her expression less hardened than the warrior of legend he had fought once. This had to be another version of her, a Wonder Woman from this timeline, though what she was doing in this shadowed underworld was a question he could not answer.
Before he could ponder further, the small boat carrying Charon's ferryman grumbled against the opposite shore. As Adrian stepped off the vessel, a single gunshot cracked through the eerie silence, echoing like thunder in a storm.
The horse reared, and the armored woman fell to the ground, unconscious.
"What the hell?" Adrian muttered as he sprinted toward her, confusion tightening his jaw. Firearms in this place made no sense, yet here she lay, stunned in the dust.
With a sense of urgency, he activated his super speed and scooped her up before any unknown pursuers could materialize. There were too many questions and too few answers, but one thing was clear: she was likely the key to his escape, and he was not about to let her slip away. With no hesitation, he vanished into the shadows with her in his arms.
Elsewhere, the future Wonder Woman rested at a table in Metropolis, asleep in the midst of a rare reprieve. Continuous duty had left her mind weary, though her body remained strong. As she succumbed to slumber, her thoughts drifted back — not to battles, but to a memory from her childhood.
Even before she reached twelve, Diana had understood one unshakable truth: the greatest forces in the world were not the things humanity knew, but the things it feared, the shadows behind every door. Power hid in unanswered questions and forbidden knowledge, not in plain sight.
She remembered the night of the Hunter's Moon on Themyscira, the brilliant orb that marked the first full moon after the autumn equinox. Curiosity had drawn her deep into the forest, past ancient trees and vines taller than herself, following trails marked with emerald‑glowing phosphorescent moss that witches left behind, guiding those who walked in their wake.
The sounds of insects and the whisper of leaves under her feet had once made her feel connected to the earth, as if she belonged to every living thing around her. She had climbed trees, skirting the shadows, driven by the hunger to see what the elders so vehemently warned her to avoid.
That night at the clearing, the witches danced in circles, chanting a name she had never heard before: Hecate.
Bodies swayed together, limbs twisting and merging in grotesque movements beneath torchlight, ancient incantations turning flesh into something both terrifying and strangely fascinating. Between the trees, Diana watched through half‑closed eyes, unable to tear herself away.
In the center of their circle stood a wooden barrel. At first nothing happened. Then a yellow, viscous liquid began to spill from its seams, bubbling and hissing like a living thing. Hands emerged — slender, delicate, adorned with moon‑shaped bracelets — yet even as they reached outward, the sight sent a chill down her spine.
Then she heard it — a whisper so cold it felt like wind across ice.
"Grab her!"
A voice from the shadows had found her hiding place.
Diana's eyes snapped open, breath quick in her chest.
"It was just a nightmare," she said, bolting upright from sleep.
Zatanna offered her a glass of orange juice. "Did you have a vivid one?"
Supergirl Kara entered beside Green Lantern, concern on her face. "Looks like it wasn't a peaceful rest."
Wonder Woman rubbed her temples, trying to shake off the residue of her dream. "Dreams reflect reality," she said, placing a hand on her knee. "When something weighs on your mind, it often surfaces like this."
Green Lantern tilted his head. "You Amazon warriors don't usually dream, right? You're warriors, not… sleepwalkers."
Diana's lips curved in the slightest smile. "I am human. I may be a warrior, but I walk toward danger with open eyes, not blind bravado."
Kara lifted the juice Zatanna had given Diana only to find the glass empty.
"What?" Diana blinked in confusion.
Zatanna had been deep in thought and took a breath before speaking. "The magical world is collapsing," she said. "Mages aren't just suffering backlash, they're being hunted by something else."
"Something else?" Wonder Woman echoed.
Zatanna nodded, eyes grave. "Someone is collecting torn pages from an old spellbook, trying to unlock clues. Any mage who encounters him ends up in ruin."
In that moment, Clark Kent burst through a nearby doorway, eyes burning with a reddish glow as he seized a terrified man by the collar.
"I know you're a mage," Clark snarled, muscle taut with barely restrained fury. "Don't hide from me, because that will only make things worse."
With force, he slung the man toward the wall. The mage groaned in pain as his body met stone.
Clark's heat vision flared, slicing the room's furniture in half with scorching light. He held up a charred, torn page from the spellbook he had taken from Lana's ruins.
"What magic is this? Where does it come from?" Clark demanded.
The beaten mage choked out an answer, "I… I don't know!"
As he tried to cast a counter‑spell in desperation, agony shot through his throat and body. Flesh warped and twisted; tumors and grotesque growths spread over his form. He writhed and moaned, eyes wide with horror at his own transformation.
Clark's heat vision reignited.
With swift precision, he cut the monster in two.
Observing the pulpy remnants, Clark frowned in confusion. The mage had muttered about magic backlash — a term that echoed through Clark's thoughts, but offered no clarity.
Shaking his head, he turned away and launched himself into the air.
Clouds parted as he streaked forward, rapid and relentless, propelled by rage and revenge.