The Warworld was a hollow artificial planet armored in black metal, its surface adorned with scars from old combat and space taking its tax on it. Seemingly endless amounts of missile silos punctured the otherwise smooth outer layer of the Warworld, jutting toward the void of the cosmos. This weapon of death was capable of reducing worlds and star systems to ash, making it a legendary weapon in its own right, infamous throughout the universe as one of the most dangerous ones.
Even now, dormant, the sight of the Warworld was humbling to anyone capable of imagining the capabilities of this metal planet. Although a relic of a long-gone era, the secrets to its creation lost to the flow of time, it was still one of the mightiest weapons in the universe, perfect for annihilation.
Warworld was created by a warlike race that lost control of it through infighting and civil wars. Through their misguided lust for power, they had allowed someone else to sneak in and create a single key that activated the whole world. Thus, the power became exclusive to one man who took on a name – Mongul I.
Aeons later, Mongul MDCCXCI was holding the reins of the planet, enjoying the prestige and privileges that came with the title of its ruler. This was his legacy, his birthright, and his dream. He wanted to conquer the universe, and the Warworld was the key to that. The planet was used as a training camp, a prison, and an arena. Here, prisoners and enslaved, Warzoons or not, were forced to fight in gladiatorial matches for the Mongul.
Warworld, under its outer layer, was hollow, housing billions of people, most of them Warzoons, but there were others, like Phaelosians.
The Warzoon society was divided into clans and warrior groups with a harsh warrior code, where succession and disputes were settled through brutal tournaments overseen by judges.
They loved fighting, it was all they ever knew. It was practically all they had to enjoy in their lives. And Darkseid had an opportunity to see that for himself.
After he had arrived here, he watched as representatives of various clans gathered in the arena's terraces, armored from head to toe, their weapons clashing against shields, prepared for mortal combat. While the terraces were full of the elites, the less fortunate dressed in rags were sitting on metal benches, enduring through the lack of comfort and amenities.
Darkseid felt the eyes on him as he took his place amongst numerous gladiators, old and young. He was flanked on both sides by his Furies.
Some gladiators were testing him already. Sneers behind their helmets, whispers of doubts and mockery, taunts filled with xenophobia and glee. What business did an alien have in their tournament? All of those attention seekers who wanted to get Warworld for themselves. The proud Warzoons would never let an outsider win on their turf, not unless they no longer breathed.
The arena that the tournament was hosted in was at the heart of the war-world, close to its center. A structure larger than cities and even small nations, built of metal and crystal to last thousands of years. Corridors upon corridors lit with furnace light, walls engraved with battle scenes spanning millennia.
The Crucible Arena was a magnificent monument of warrior culture. One could smell blood before he could see it; the stench of it was rusted into walls and floors, baked in with fire and washed over with sweat and dirt. This whole place reeked of battle lust and desperation.
Darkseid and his Furies had gotten here on invitations that Lobo had gotten for them. It took the mercenary a better part of two months, but it was time well spent. They had trained together and on their own, preparing for this tournament and for the future war.
At last, the gates had opened, and the Emperor of Apokolips had entered the coliseum amongst the other participants of the tournament.
The roar of the crowd struck like lightning, and thunderous applause rang off the metal walls. Tens of thousands of voices, raised in one primal cry, shook the very core of the gladiators entering the death ring.
Above, the star engines blazed, creating their artificial light. Despite being encased in metal outer shell, the planet was not permanently cast in the dark from lack of natural light. The day and night cycle was created with the light from the star engines and warmth from the star forges below the surface.
The colosseum was open to the artificial sky. The warmless artificial light poured down like judgment upon the Warzoons and their slaves.
The arena floor stretched out for a square kilometer — a wasteland of jagged metal separated by occasional rocks and sandpits, yellow rivers, and mechanical constructs designed to kill.
In the highest seat opposite the gates sat the Tournament Judge, the housekeeper of the Arena. Robed in black and gold, mask gleaming with a cruel radiance. The Judge's voice, surprisingly feminine, amplified across the coliseum, rang out from the sound amplifiers:
"Behold the participants of the Grand Tournament. Let the Glory and Blood crown the winner. Let the losers taste the sourness of fleeting victory. Let's enjoy the show!"
Darkseid stepped forward from the faceless crowd of the gladiators. His armor gleamed black, adorned with his sigil, the Omega symbol. His Furies took their positions behind him. In his hand, he carried his guan dao polearm, Noctyrn, that he had forged from his soul, the tip of its blade still faintly glowing with the memory of fire, lava, and darkness that it was created in.
The crowd hushed following gestures of the Arena's workers. The judge had surely recognised him; there should be no ruler in the whole of the universe that didn't know who he was or how he looked. Of course, the sister of the Mongul would know how he looked, as she would know how to greet him.
He let the silence stretch and Mongal, the judge, act. There was no reason to hurry, as there was no reason to act first. He would let the crowd drink in the sight of him and his people. Warzoons respected only strength, and he would show them one that they hadn't seen yet, far greater than what they could even dream of. He would show them strength so absolute that it would capture their heart in primal fear.
"People of the Warworld!" Mongal had roared, standing up from her seat. "Behold the ruler of Apokolips Empire, Darkseid! He came to seek glory amongst our people! Not as a ruler, but as a warrior. Not as a sovereign, but as a slave to our law. Today, he entered the Crucible of his own free will. Today, he should prove his worth before the clans."
Mongal paused, basking in the roar and applause of the audience.
"I hereby declare the first round of the tournament to be a 'free for all"! It's you against everyone else; eliminate as many people as you can! 64 fighters with the most eliminations will pass into the next round. One that eliminates Darkseid will pass regardless of the number of his eliminations."
She sat back down in her seat, satisfied with her improvised speech, immediately gesturing for her aids to come closer to her. She wanted to deal with a surprise that was the arrival of a rival ruler.
The crowd roared again. The Crucible Arena had come to life with sounds of battle.
Other gladiators roused by the crowd started a brawl. Some of them targeted Darkseid and the Furies.
Furies were prepared for action. Barda had immediately swung her massive mace horizontally, sending three of the opponents flying across the fighting arena. The three of them crashed into the wall and fell unconscious.
"Bring it on!" Barda shouted. She was in high spirits.
Aurelie decided not to wait for their enemies to attack and charged into the battle herself. Her swift strikes were downing enemies like a lawnmower would cut grass. Most of the fighters present couldn't even follow her at her speed.
The captain of the Furies felt adrenaline filling her up with a pleasant rush of fight rage, a feeling that became somewhat familiar to her. In fact, all three of the furies had felt similar effects on her ever since Darkseid had accepted them into his personal bodyguards. This battle rage not only would exhilarate them, but it would also sharpen their senses and reflexes. Aurelie felt grateful for their lord; the potent magic of Darkseid had a positive effect on their battle prowess. She allowed herself a smile, something that he was catching her doing more often these days.
The last fury, Tina, the tank of the group, had taken on some of the heaviest strikes from people aiming at Darkseid.
"Over my dead body, scum!" She roared, scaring some of the low-spirited enemies. She was a massive, burly warrior; her physique alone was enough to influence the minds of their enemies. Her fighting style was a mix of unarmored punches and kicks, mixed with strikes from her long horns.
Darkseid was satisfied with their performance. They did their job perfectly, as they were here, so he won't be bogged down with endless hordes of low-level opponents by his lonesome.
"Enough!" Mongal was swift to react. The outcome of this brawl was obvious; she needed to do something fast, before most of the fighters would fall in the first round, leaving them with a skeleton of a tournament. She gestured to one of the figures standing behind her.
From the shadows behind her seat, a hulking figure emerged. It was a humanoid, male, with massive muscles, clad in rough armor that was protecting its joints, shoulders, and head. His torso was broad, and the skin underneath his armor was scaled, black as volcanic glass. His limbs stretched too long, almost reaching the floor, clawed and jointed like a reptile but bipedal like a humanoid. Lizard head, jaws lined with fangs that dripped with steam and mucous saliva, eyes burning with feral rage.
The crowd howled in anticipation and started chanting his name, invoking bloodshed.
"Ridge! Ridge!" a chant flew across the arena, as the lizard man jumped into the action.
"This one is mine." Darkseid had calmly said loud enough to be heard over the cries of the crowd. His eyes didn't leave the figure of the new fighter that was rapidly closing in on their location on the battlefield. His fingers tightened around the handle of his guandao weapon. Noctyrn gladly responded, the handle heated up in anticipation of his first real battle. Darkseid and his weapon leapt into action together as one.
The monstrous lizard roared in frustration as it slammed its clawed fists and legs into the spot where Darkseid had previously been standing. A meter away, Darkseid slashed, aiming at the lizard. Cracks spread in the air as if lava erupted from a volcano.
Lizardman's skin suddenly grew several blunt spikes, intercepting Darkseid's weapon from directly impacting him.
"Fool," Darkseid whispered loud enough for Ridge to hear him. Ridges on the skin of the lizard man started melting rapidly. "You are no match for a god."
The opponent tried to jump back, only to be yanked back by Darkseid's arm. Apokoliptian Emperor had no intention of allowing his opponent to escape direct combat with him. He tightened his grip on the arm of the opponent; a moment later, a loud snap indicated broken bones.
Despite the injury and the discrepancy in power levels, Ridge didn't panic and tried to fight back, jumping up and kicking Darkseid in the face. He twisted his torso in the air, launching his long prehensile tail behind. Most of the opponents did not anticipate an attack with a tail.
But not Darkseid. He was a war veteran, someone who lived and breathed with combat. He had seen various xenos before; a tail used in combat was nothing new to him. But he allowed the strike to impact the amor he was wearing. It safely bounced off of it.
He caught the tail with his arm, and a new snap was heard at the arena. Ridge jumped back from him, now nursing his left arm; his tail was a bloody mess twisted in an unnatural angle. Still, he was prepared to fight to the death.
Unyielding loyalty was drilled into the lizardman from his childhood years of being a gladiator slave. He did not survive the hellish training and countless battles in the arena to die today.
No, Ridge would survive. He forced himself upright, letting his arm and tail hang free. His wounds would heal, but he would not return to being a slave. His claws gouged deeper into the steel surface of the floor; he staggered forward. His scales cracked, and multiple ridged spikes rose from underneath his skin.
Darkseid smiled; such ferocity was deserving of recognition.
"You stand," the Apokolips Emperor said, his voice calm merciless. "Come at once."
Ridge immediately lunged forward, healthy arm outstretched, prepared to strike, claws ready to sink into the skin of the enemy, to tear at the dark god.
Noctyrn sang in Darkseid's hands; his soul was appreciating the enemy's foolish courage. Darkseid swung his weapon once more, and the blade of the polearm descended in a single, cruel arc. Fire erupted on the strike, crushing scale, bone, and the loyal resolve of the opponent. The lizardman's body crashed to the arena floor.
Silence fell on the arena for the briefest moment, the crowd and the small number of the gladiators that were still standing, spared by his Furies. Then the crowd erupted in roars, their bloodlust sated, their doubts silenced by spectacle.
The Emperor looked down at the fallen lizard man, its twitching claws still digging at the ground as if trying to rise. Perhaps, there was more to gain from this planet aside from its weapons.