The sky cracked in half—light and smoke and swirling debris raining over the skyline. From the rooftops to the concrete veins below, the city trembled as if it remembered what fear tasted like.
And in the center of it all stood Nullbreed.
He didn't speak. He didn't gesture. He just walked, boots scraping broken ground, the sigil on his palm glowing like a second heart. Behind him, they followed—dozens, maybe hundreds. Villains who had ruled sectors. Ghosts who had once burned cities for sport. All of them now falling in line behind something worse than rage.
Purpose.
Nullbreed had given them that.
Across the battlefield—a crater that stretched six blocks wide—the heroes waited.
They'd come from all corners. No banners. No symbols. Just names carried by whispers and warning beacons.
Velocity. Titan Quake. Wraithlock. Seraphine. Prism Core. Blade Ghost.
And more.
They stood side by side. No ranks. No formations.
Just grit.
