Nyra stood just inside the threshold of the pocket dimension, the heavy alloy door thudding shut behind her with a sound that felt far too final. She took a deep breath, the air here tasting of ozone and old parchment. It was supposed to be the office of a living legend, a sanctuary for the man who had held the line for five centuries.
Instead, it was a tomb of bureaucracy.
She dropped her bag near the entrance, the strap hitting the floor with a soft thud. As she slowly scanned the room, the word "awful" didn't even begin to cover it. It was a physical manifestation of burnout. Papers were scattered across the floor like snow after a particularly violent winter storm—expense reports, casualty lists, and city planning permits swirling in disorganized drifts.
The medals were what hurt the most to look at. They were symbols of glory, history, and lives saved, yet they were tossed aside like pocket change. Some were scratched, their gold plating flaking away; others were entirely buried beneath stacks of unread documents. Open books lay overturned, their spines cracked and pages folded as if someone had been desperately searching for an answer they never found. A broken chair rested against the far wall, a heap of splintered wood that looked like it had lost a fight with its owner centuries ago.
For the strongest hero alive, the place looked like a total, crushing defeat.
"Well," Nyra whispered, her voice echoing in the vast, messy space. "I suppose this is what happens when you live long enough to see your victories become paperwork."
She didn't wait for an order. Nyra had spent her life cleaning up messes—usually Asm's literal or metaphorical ones. She rolled up her sleeves, preparing to do some chores (yay in sarcasm).
She began to move. Paper by paper, she sorted the chaos. She didn't just pile them; she categorized them by date and urgency, her hands moving with the practiced efficiency of a former intelligence operative. Books were gathered and stacked properly on the shelves, their titles finally visible. Medals were polished with the hem of her shirt and placed neatly on a display table. She pushed the broken chair into a corner and cleared a wide, clean path through the center of the room.
When she finally stepped back, the office wasn't perfect, but it was orderly. It was calm. The silence of the room felt lighter.
She wiped her hands on her trousers and glanced down at the man still sprawled on the floor. Up close, he didn't look like a god. He looked like a man who was very, very tired of being alive.
"Well then," she said, her voice dripping with the dry sarcasm she used to mask her nerves, "time to wake up the hero we all know and love… Ultraman."
She stepped closer, reaching out a hand to shake his shoulder.
Before her fingers could even brush the fabric of his suit—he vanished.
The air didn't just move; it cracked.
A terrifying, suffocating pressure washed over Nyra's senses, a psychic weight so sudden and violent that every primal instinct in her brain screamed at her to flee. Danger. Monster. Apex Predator. Her heart skipped a beat as a familiar, icy dread crawled up her spine.
For a split second, her mind flashed back to what happened to her parents that night and the same presence she felt.A presence surfaced in her memory—a dark, void-like aura that shouldn't belong to a human.
Asm's aura.
It wasn't a visible thing, but Nyra felt it unmistakably. It was the feeling of being stared at by an abyss.
Then, the world shifted. Ultraman appeared directly behind her.
The pressure he released was immense, a physical force that made the floorboards groan. He wasn't just standing there; he was dominating the space. Nyra spun instantly, her combat training taking over before she could think. She threw a punch fueled by desperation and adrenaline.
Nothing. Her fist met only air.
He disappeared again, a flicker of deep silver and dark blue.
"You're quick," a voice murmured, echoing from everywhere at once. It was a refined, cultured voice—deep and resonant with a sharp, unmistakable British accent.
Nyra didn't answer. She summoned Shadow on instinct. The darkness beneath her feet surged upward, forming jagged blades and projectiles. She struck out in a 360-degree arc, her shadows lashing at the empty air, trying to find a target. Ultraman dodged every blow with an ease that was insulting. He moved as if space itself were bending to accommodate him, stepping through the gaps in her attacks like a man walking through a light rain.
Nyra's breathing grew heavy. Her lungs burned. That speed… it was dragging her back into the past. It was the night her parents died. The night she saw the way Asm moved when he finally snapped. The sheer, crushing helplessness of being outclassed by a monster.
Her fear didn't break her this time. It snapped into a hard, cold resolve. She fought harder, her shadows expanding until they filled the center of the room, creating a web of darkness.
Suddenly, the world turned upside down.
In a move so fast it bypassed her vision entirely, Ultraman slammed her to the ground. He pinned her effortlessly, his grip firm but calculated, holding her wrists in a way that signaled the fight was over without actually causing injury.
"Easy now, love," he said with a clear and calm voice. "It's quite alright. You seem a bit shaken. My sincerest apologies if I gave you a bit of a fright."
The pressure vanished instantly. The "monster" aura was replaced by the smell of old tea and leather.
Nyra gasped for air, her heart hammering against her ribs. As the panic faded into a burning embarrassment, she realized she was pinned to a very clean floor by a man who looked like he was about to offer her a biscuit.
"I—I'm sorry, sir," she said hurriedly, her face flushing. "I acted on instinct. You surprised me."
Ultraman laughed, a warm, booming sound that shook the room. He stood up and offered her a hand, pulling her to her feet with a strength that felt like being lifted by a crane. He began brushing dust off his sleeves, looking around the room for the first time.
"No harm done," he said with a bright smile. He noticed the organized medals and the stacked books. "Ahh… I do miss the old days, you know? When things were simple. When I could flatten an entire city with a single punch and everyone just cheered."
He sighed, a long, nostalgic sound that seemed to carry the weight of five hundred years.
"But now," he added, his eyes sharpening behind his goggles , "I appear to have grown even stronger. Age has a way of concentrating power, doesn't it?"
His expression turned deadly serious. He stepped into her personal space, his presence looming. "That power I felt from you earlier.... It felt like you have been with someone, which strength could rival a monster, the scent of that person still lingers on you. Tell me, girl, are you working for the Demon Lord?"
Nyra stiffened, her face becoming a mask of professional indifference. "I don't know what you're talking about, sir. I'm just a Backup I have never met with the demon lord or someone that could rival him maybe it was a coincidence you never know what could happen when u are walking on the street."
Ultraman studied her for a long beat. He was looking for a flinch, a tell, a lie. After a moment of silence that felt like an hour, he suddenly beamed.
"Very well then! Keep your secrets for now. You've done a marvelous job with the dusting. You may go home for today."
Nyra blinked, caught off guard by the sudden dismissal. "Go home? But I just got here. I haven't even seen the training schedule."
"In my line of work," Ultraman said calmly, his voice firm and authoritative, "all I require is loyalty. And perhaps someone who knows how to file a tax return without weeping. You've shown me the latter. We'll work on the former tomorrow."
He waved a hand dismissively, ushering her toward the exit. "Off you go. Mind the step."
Before she could protest, he gently but firmly pushed her toward the door. It slammed shut and locked with a series of heavy, mechanical clicks.
Silence reclaimed the office.
Then, a corner of the room that was perfectly clean seemed to bleed. A hooded woman stepped out from the shadows, her movements silent and predatory. Her voice was smooth, like silk over a blade.
"So," she asked. "How was she? Is she worth the trouble?"
Ultraman didn't turn around. He walked over to the table and picked up one of his polished medals, looking at his reflection in the gold.
"Hm. Quite good," he replied, his voice cooling into something much more dangerous. "Far too good, actually." He glanced over his shoulder at the hooded woman. "Your son must have been a true monster to make her react like that. She fights like someone who expects to be killed by the person she loves."
The woman stiffened, her hands clenching at her sides.
Ultraman's tone hardened, the authority of five hundred years of combat ringing in his voice. "Have someone follow her. Not to watch her—to protect her. Certain individuals in the Agency are already attempting to find a reason to kill her.
The woman scoffed, a bitter sound. "And why should I follow your orders, 'Lord of Heroes'?"
Ultraman didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. He just stood there, his goggles reflecting the swirling blue light of the dimension.
"Because," he said with terrifying calmness, "you don't wish to die. And more importantly, you don't wish to see her die."
The air in the room went sub-zero. The pressure returned for a fraction of a second, enough to make the hooded woman bow her head in involuntary submission. She said nothing more, turning and dissolving back into the darkness.
Ultraman remained alone in the center of the orderly room. He was the Lord of Heroes, the man the world called the strongest person alive—the one legend said was even stronger than the Hero herself.
He looked at the papers Nyra had neatly filed.
"A mother who abandoned her son and is now using him as a pawn with out his knowledge, what a hero she is, she is more of a monster than him if I do say so myself, what is this world really turning into," he whispered to the empty room. "This is going to be a very long century."