The warehouse was a tomb of shattered concrete and twisted steel. Aeon rose from the rubble, muscles screaming as he heaved a fractured pillar off his body. His lungs burned, each ragged gasp scraping his throat as if the very air had been stolen from the cavernous space.
His once-pristine suit was in tatters, hanging from his frame by threads. Beneath the fabric, a constellation of wounds wept freely, each one a dull, throbbing ache. He could feel the well of his power, once a roaring sun, now guttering like a dying star.
"It's a privilege to fight a renowned hero like you."
A figure emerged from the settling dust, suspended in the air. A closer look revealed he wasn't levitating, but was propped up by four monstrous hands woven from solid darkness. They shifted like living shadow, holding him aloft so he could look down upon Aeon. He was clad in tattered dark robes, and beneath the frayed hem, skin as dark and smooth as obsidian gleamed. His face was hidden behind an ornate Japanese Jōkai mask, its frozen snarl a perfect mirror for the man within.
"I was hoping to find you here, 'First Hand,'" Aeon's voice was a strained rasp. He clutched his side, his ribs protesting as he tried to channel his dwindling power to knit the fractures.
"And yet you dared to walk into my domain…" First Hand's voice dripped with arrogance. Around him, the air shimmered as more dark hands materialized, a forest of coiled, shadowy limbs that flexed and twitched, displaying his terrifying power. "…Alone."
Aeon pushed himself to his feet, his body a symphony of pain. He forced his head up to meet his enemy's gaze. "Your domain? This looks like a rundown warehouse for your little dark club's activities."
A whip-crack of darkness shot toward him. Aeon twisted aside, the evasive maneuver clumsy and slow. The dark fist pulverized the ground where he'd stood, sending a shockwave of debris flying.
"Oh, you stupid heroes," First Hand cooed, his own fist clenching as he guided the assault. The shadowy hands swiped and grabbed, trying to catch Aeon in a crushing grip. "What do you even know of the grand schemes in motion?"
"I can't deny it… you've done some damage." With a sweeping gesture, he sent the hands thrashing through the warehouse, intent on dashing Aeon to paste against the broken floor.
"But far from enough." The hands froze abruptly, and First Hand's masked gaze turned cold. "If I have to sacrifice a small branch to kill one of the 'Seven Greats'…" He let out a low, histerical laugh that echoed unnaturally.
"I would take that deal any time!" His eyes, visible through the mask's slits, seemed to glow with pure malice as he brought the darkness down in a final, crushing blow.
Aeon raised his hands, firing desperate beams of crackling energy. He deflected one hand, evaded another, but he could feel the strength fading from his attacks. His power was a dying ember. He didn't know how much more he had left.
"Oho…" First Hand mused, the giant hand retracting. "How many times have we fought now? Four? Seven? Ten? You are getting weaker, while I grow stronger. I can feel it, you know."
Aeon gritted his teeth, tasting blood and dust.
"I have enough power left to put you down."
"Do you?" First Hand whispered.
Before Aeon could react, a new hand, larger than any before, materialized directly above him and slammed down. The impact drove the air from his lungs and sent him crashing into the far wall with a sickening crunch of stone and bone. He slid to the floor, coughing up a spray of crimson, the world swimming in and out of focus.
"You think no one noticed?" First Hand's voice dropped to a venomous whisper, his eyes flashing dangerously behind the Jōkai mask. "In these five years you've played the hero… did you think we were blind?"
He brought a finger to his chin in a mocking pantomime of thought. "Imagine my surprise when I first saw you bleed on television. Just a speck of crimson on your perfect uniform. 'Aeon? THE Aeon? Bleeding? No… Impossible!'" he sneered, his voice dripping with sarcastic glee.
"But then it happened again. And again. And again. Each battle left you more battered, each victory cost you more dearly. The cracks in the statue began to show for all the world to see."
His voice, which had been a taunting murmur, began to rise, swelling with manic energy. "AND THEN IT HIT ME!" he roared, the mask doing little to contain his crazed expression. "You aren't just tired… you are FADING!"
To punctuate his declaration, a colossal fist—woven from a dozen smaller, grasping dark hands—slammed into Aeon's chest. The impact sent him flying backward, his body cratering the concrete wall before he slumped to the ground, a fresh torrent of blood spraying from his lips. Yet, with a shuddering gasp, he forced himself to his feet once more, his body swaying but his will unbroken.
"And let me tell you a secret," First Hand smirked, his voice dropping back to a conspiratorial tone. "This 'branch'… it doesn't exist."
He began to laugh, a low, unsettling sound that grew into a full-blown, hysterical roar. "This was never a base! This is just a stage! HAHAHA! A STAGE FOR YOUR FINAL PERFORMANCE!" Around him, the very shadows of the warehouse convulsed, coalescing into a swirling vortex of dark hands, a maelstrom of malice preparing for the final, obliterating strike.
Aeon looked at the villain, and through the blood and dust, he smiled. A grim, resigned understanding settled in his mind.
So, that's it… a trap. From the very beginning.
As First Hand gathered his power, the air grew thick and heavy. Aeon inhaled what felt like his last breath. He closed his eyes, blocking out the impending doom, and brought his hands together in front of him. Deep within, he reached for the last dregs of his power, the luminous energy he called the Ether. He pulled it from every corner of his battered body—ceasing the feeble healing of his wounds, letting the pain flood back in, sacrificing every last vestige of enhancement. He felt it all gather, a desperate, brilliant storm converging in his palms.
"If this is the end…" Aeon growled, his voice raw with effort, "…then I'm taking everything with me!"
He forced the coalescing Ether forward, his muscles screaming in protest. A sphere of pure, incandescent energy ignited between his outstretched hands, spinning violently, a miniature star born from his last stand.
"JUST DIE ALREADY!" First Hand screamed, and with a final, contemptuous gesture, he hurled the entire vortex of darkness forward—a tidal wave of shadowy limbs destined to erase the hero from existence.
"HAAAAAAAAAA!" Aeon's scream was not just one of effort, but of defiance, of release.
He unleashed the Ether.
A beam of pure, solar fury met the advancing tide of darkness. For a single, silent moment, the two forces hung in equilibrium, light and shadow warping the air around them. Then, the world turned white and sound ceased to exist, replaced by a pressure that shattered the senses. The resulting explosion was deafening, a physical force that ripped the warehouse apart.
Aeon was flung like a ragdoll, his body smashing against the far wall with a sickening crunch before he collapsed, consciousness extinguished like a snuffed candle. Above him, the groaning skeleton of the warehouse gave way.
Steel beams buckled, the roof caved in, and the entire structure began a slow, thunderous collapse, burying both hero and villain in a tomb of concrete and dust.
***
Beep… beep… beep… beep…
The sound was the first thing to pierce the void—a slow, electronic metronome measuring the seconds of a life he wasn't sure he still possessed. It traveled to Theodore's ears as if from a great distance. Slowly, other sensations filtered in: the sterile scent of antiseptic, the stiff, starched texture of sheets against his skin, a dull, all-encompassing ache that served as the bass note to a symphony of sharper, localized pains.
His eyes fluttered open with immense difficulty, gummed shut by exhaustion and medication. The blurred world resolved into the sterile, muted greens of a hospital room.
And then, it truly hit him. Not a memory, but the pain. A deep, throbbing agony radiated from his entire body. As his vision cleared, he saw the map of his failure etched onto his flesh. His torso was a latticework of gauze and bandages. His right leg was encased in a hard cast, the stark white punctuated by the sinister outlines of placement rods drilled into the bone beneath. His right arm was similarly bound and immobilized. A rigid cervical collar held his neck in a vice, making the simple act of turning his head an impossible feat.
With a grunt of effort, he lifted his left hand—the only limb that seemed remotely functional, though it was bruised and stitched. A habit born of a thousand battles took over. He tried to summon it, to feel the familiar warmth, the surge of luminous energy that had been as much a part of him as his own blood.
But… there was nothing.
Not a flicker. Not a spark. Just a hollow, silent emptiness where a sun had once blazed. The well was not just dry; it was gone, filled in, as if it had never existed.
He exhaled slowly, the simple act sending a fresh lance of pain from his cracked ribs. It hurt, and for the first time in five years, his power was not there to gently soothe the hurt away.
"Well," he rasped, his voice a stranger's, "at least I'm alive."
He let his gaze wander the empty room. Someone had pulled him from the rubble. His memories were a blank slate after that final, desperate release of power. He only recalled a sensation—a definitive, internal SNAP. It was the feeling of a final thread, taut for years, finally giving way. He felt… nothing. Not happy, not sad, not angry. Just a vast, echoing void where his power, his constant companion and curse, used to reside. The Ether was gone. Completely. Not even a single crumb left behind.
"But…" he let out a weak, broken chuckle that tasted like blood and dust. "What now?"
And in the silence of that question, a strange, terrifying, and liberating truth dawned on him.
He was free.
Free from the power. Free from the hate that had festered alongside it. He had always despised the Ether. He believed it was a chain forced upon him by his parents, the illustrious Kimura family. Because of it, his childhood wasn't filled with games and friends, but with brutal training and impossible expectations.
To them, he was never a son; he was a tool, a means to elevate the family's prestige in a world of super-powered elites. And now, with the power gone, the last straw of connection to that cursed lineage had finally snapped.
"Sigh… five years," he mumbled to the beeping monitor.
Five years. Five years as Aeon, one of the "Seven Greats," a paragon standing at the front lines, a symbol for a terrified public.
And now it was over. A quiet, profound regret bloomed in his chest.
The people he had helped, the genuine gratitude in their eyes, had given him a warmth his bloodline never could. That had been real. And now, even that purpose was gone.
"Who am I kidding?" he whispered into the sterile air.
The truth, ugly and raw, surfaced. It wasn't only for the people. A small, foolish part of him—the little boy still waiting in a cold, empty dojo—had always hoped that by destroying the "Black Hand," by becoming the greatest hero, he would finally earn a nod of approval, a shred of pride from his mother and father. That they could be a family again. But he had always known, deep down, that it was a child's wishful thinking.
Tears, hot and shameful, welled in his eyes, tracing paths through his cheeks. The physical pain was nothing compared to this sudden, crushing vulnerability.
"Why…" his voice broke, a raw, guttural whisper torn from the depths of his soul. His face contorted, not from the physical agony, but from the emotional tsunami he could no longer hold back. "Why the fuck did I even get this power?"
He turned his head as much as the collar would allow, pressing his face into the stiff pillow, and wept. He cried for the boy who never had a childhood, for the hero who had just died, and for the man who was left behind, utterly and terrifyingly alone.