The cryogenic beam struck like a verdict.
A streak of icy blue tore from the hull of the World Engine and crossed the vacuum in a heartbeat. It hit Zod mid-drift, dead center.
The impact punched through him.
Blood scattered into the void, instantly crystallizing as the beam exited through his lower back. The wound was clean—horribly clean. The freezing energy didn't simply pierce flesh; it flooded through tissue and bone, flash-freezing everything in its path.
Zod screamed.
The sound never carried in space, but inside the World Engine, sensors translated the vibration into a distorted echo that filled the command chamber.
The frost spread rapidly from the wound, racing along veins and muscle fibers. Kryptonian physiology attempted to regenerate the damage, but the invasive cold suppressed cellular repair. His already fractured arm hung uselessly at his side.
Then he lost consciousness.
His body drifted.
A blur crossed the void.
Rhael seized Zod by the throat and dragged him back through the ruptured hull as if retrieving discarded cargo.
They hit the deck hard.
Zod's body skidded across alloy plating before coming to rest in a broken sprawl.
Rhael stood over him.
"This," he said calmly, "is your General."
No one moved.
The gathered warriors avoided his gaze. Each time Rhael's eyes passed over someone, that warrior lowered their head without realizing it.
The strongest among them had fallen in seconds.
No drawn-out duel. No prolonged exchange.
One decisive blow.
One beam.
That was the difference.
Zod tried to rise. Pain wracked his body. Frost still clung to his armor, crawling like living crystal across the black plating.
Rhael regarded him without emotion.
"You couldn't withstand my punch," he said quietly. "And you certainly can't withstand what comes next."
No one challenged the statement.
There was nothing to argue.
Zod had trained his entire life for war. He was engineered for combat, hardened by rebellion, sharpened by exile in the Phantom Zone.
But he had not been saturated by sustained solar radiation.
Rhael had.
That was the variable.
Under a yellow sun, Kryptonian biology evolved into something else entirely—strength magnified, senses heightened, cellular regeneration amplified. Zod had power. Rhael had adaptation.
And adaptation won.
"Too weak," Rhael said.
The words were not taunts. They were assessment.
"The Empire fell. If Krypton is to rise again, it cannot be led by weakness."
Silence deepened.
"These are not personal judgments," he continued. "They're strategic realities. Survival of the fittest isn't philosophy. It's law."
He shifted his gaze across the chamber.
"You followed Zod because he was the strongest among you. Because he defied the Council. Because he promised restoration."
His tone hardened.
"But strength has a new standard."
No one breathed.
"I didn't kill you," Rhael added. "All of you attacked me. You're still standing. That wasn't mercy. It was calculation. Krypton cannot afford to waste capable soldiers."
The implication was clear.
You live because I allow it.
Murmurs rippled faintly through the chamber.
They had rebelled once before. They had defied the Supreme Council in the name of Krypton's future. They were radicals by nature.
But radicals still followed power.
A new voice cut through the tension.
Faora-Ul stepped forward.
She had been thrown aside earlier. Now she stood straight, armor cracked but posture unbroken.
"Survival of the fittest," she said evenly. "On the path to rebuilding Krypton, weakness is unacceptable."
Her eyes locked on Rhael.
"I don't know your full designation yet. But you are Kryptonian. You are stronger than any of us present."
She glanced briefly toward Zod's fallen form.
"That is enough."
The chamber shifted.
Zod had been their commander.
Faora was his right hand.
Her words carried weight.
"If he cannot lead," she finished, "then someone must."
No one objected.
The old order had fractured.
A new one stood in its place.
Rhael looked down at Zod one last time, then back at the gathered warriors.
"Good," he said quietly.
The future of Krypton had just changed.