Paragon's ship drifted in the upper atmosphere of the Draathari homeworld, the hull shuddering as it pierced the last layer of storm clouds. Below, the planet sprawled in a patchwork of metallic cities and jagged mountain ranges, all under a sky the color of bruised iron. He hovered in silence, peering down with his superhuman vision, searching for the telltale glint of war fleets or the movement of armies.
There was nothing.
No ships in orbit. No columns of soldiers. No banners or parades of war. Just a world that felt abandoned, as if the heart had been ripped from it.
He already knew why. The Draathari armada had left. The invasion was underway, streaking toward his home-his failure to stop them a fresh wound in his mind. He was alone, and it was by design. No one else would have been sent on a mission like this, and no one else would have survived the journey.
He set the ship down on a deserted landing platform, the city below a maze of empty streets and silent towers. Rain fell in sheets, bouncing off his shoulders and cape as he stepped into the open, boots echoing on the alloy deck. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of metal and distant fires.
Paragon walked through the city, his senses straining for any sign of life. He passed shuttered windows, broken market stalls, and statues of Draathari royalty gazing out over the empty plazas. He felt the weight of every step, as if the planet itself resented his presence.
He entered the citadel, its wide halls lined with ceremonial banners and flickering lights. The Draathari officers waited inside, their armor polished but their faces drawn and bitter. They watched him with open contempt, some with fear, others with hatred. He knew what he was to them: the butcher of their king, the slayer of their prince, a living reminder of everything they'd lost.
He didn't flinch. He didn't speak. He just stood there, rainwater dripping from his hair, fists clenched at his sides.
The silence broke as a senior officer stepped forward, voice low and mocking. "You're too late, Paragon. Our fleet is already on its way to your world. You've failed."
Another officer, younger and sharper, spat at his feet. "You'll never catch them. And even if you did, our champion would tear you apart."
Their laughter was cold, echoing off the stone walls. Paragon barely heard it. He was sinking, lost in the storm of his own mind. He saw the faces of the dead-his enemies, his friends, his people. He saw his home burning, saw himself standing in the ruins, powerless.
He wanted to leave. He wanted to run. But he couldn't. Not now. Not ever.
A cane struck the floor, sharp and sudden. The officers fell silent as an ancient Dreathiri woman approached, her scales faded and cracked with age, her eyes burning with a lifetime of pain. She stopped in front of Paragon, her gaze unwavering.
Without warning, she slapped him across the face. The sound was sharp, the sting immediate.
"Coward!" she hissed, her voice rough as gravel. "You come here thinking you're some savior? You're nothing but a murderer. You killed our king, our prince, and now you stand here like a lost child. You want pity? You want forgiveness? You'll get nothing from us, butcher!"
Her words cut deeper than any blade. Paragon's vision blurred. Something inside him snapped.
He brought his hands together, a thunderclap of flesh and bone. In an instant, the old Dreathiri's skull caved in, her body collapsing at his feet. The hall froze. Then all hell broke loose.
The officers lunged, weapons drawn, but Paragon moved with terrifying speed. He seized the nearest by the throat, lifting him off the ground. The officer's claws raked at Paragon's forearm, but Paragon squeezed until cartilage and bone gave way with a wet, snapping sound. He hurled the corpse aside, sending it crashing into a marble pillar.
Another tried to flee, but Paragon caught him by the shoulder, spun him around, and drove his fist through the officer's chest. Blood sprayed across the floor. Paragon wrenched his arm free, letting the body slump to the ground.
Panic erupted. Some Draathiri tried to fight, others to run. Paragon was everywhere. He grabbed one by the leg and swung him like a weapon, shattering the bones of another officer with the impact. He slammed heads against the stone floor until the tiles cracked, crushed throats with his bare hands, and broke spines with the heel of his boot.
The citadel became a slaughterhouse. Blood pooled in the corridors, running in rivulets down the steps. Paragon's boots left crimson prints as he strode from room to room, hunting down every last Draathiri. He tore open locked doors, ripped vaults from their hinges, and dragged cowering officers into the open, ending them with a single, merciless blow.
He was methodical. Disciplined. Unstoppable.
When the citadel was empty, Paragon stepped out into the city. The rain had become a deluge, masking the sounds of his approach. He moved through the streets, his super vision cutting through the darkness and the downpour, picking out the faintest movements-fleeing civilians, desperate soldiers, anyone who might have escaped the carnage inside.
He found a group huddled beneath a collapsed awning and tore the metal aside with one hand. They screamed, but he silenced them with a single, sweeping blow that sent bodies tumbling like rag dolls. He smashed through barricades, flung vehicles aside, and crushed Dreathiri beneath falling debris.
A squad of armored soldiers tried to make a stand at the city's edge, firing their plasma rifles in vain. Paragon charged through the hail of energy bolts, his body bruised and scorched but unbroken. He tore the first Dreathiri's arm from its socket, using it as a club to batter the next. He grabbed two more by their heads and slammed them together, skulls caving in with a wet, hollow sound.
He did not stop. He could not stop. The rage and pain inside him demanded more.
He moved from city to city, a relentless force of destruction. He toppled statues, shattered monuments, and brought entire buildings crashing down with his bare hands. He ripped apart barricades, crushed Dreathiri warriors beneath the rubble, and left the streets littered with broken bodies.
In one plaza, a group of Dreathiri children huddled behind a barricade, eyes wide with terror. Paragon paused, breath ragged, rain streaming down his face. For a moment, the storm inside him faltered. He saw himself reflected in their eyes-not a hero, but a monster.
He turned away, fists clenched, and let the storm swallow his remorse.
When it was over, Paragon stood alone in the ruins. The rain washed the blood from his hands, but it could not cleanse the stain on his soul. The Draathari homeworld was silent, its cities reduced to graveyards, its people scattered or dead.
He fell to his knees, the weight of his actions crashing down on him. He pressed his hands to his face, feeling the blood and rain mix on his skin. He wanted to scream, to weep, to vanish into the darkness and never return.
But he couldn't. Not yet. Not while the Draathari fleet was still out there, bearing down on his home. He forced himself to his feet, every muscle screaming in protest. He looked out over the ruined city, the bodies strewn like broken dolls, the fires still burning in the distance.
He had become the monster they feared. He had given in to the darkness inside him. But there was still work to be done. There was still a world to save.
He turned away from the carnage, his eyes hard and cold.
The rain fell harder, washing the blood from the streets, but it could not cleanse the stain on his soul.
Paragon walked into the storm, alone and unbowed, his purpose renewed by the ashes of his own destruction.
The war was far from over.
And neither was he.
There was no comfort to be had, he stepped up and let his adaption get him through space.
He tore through the clouds, and went at full speed, leaving the planet behind in miliseconds, ready to rip the fleet apart.
And especially that champion they were talking about.