Darkseid and his Furies were resting after the last round of the tournament; each of them participated in one of the three special matches. The third special match was held between some other gladiators sometime in the middle of the day.
Although they felt quite unsatisfied with the fights they had, as the fights themselves were short and weren't challenging enough. The next round, 1/8th, was scheduled to happen next weekend.
As a result, the group had several days' worth of free time to do their own things. Of course, Darkseid spent the majority of his free time speaking with Suli and Dream through his motherbox, managing his Empire through them. He still had some things to take care of before his assault on H'san Natall. It was almost time.
It was currently the morning after the tournament. The three of them were situated at one of the local hotels meant for international guests. Warworld was a popular destination for fans of martial combat and their gladiatorial programming. Warworld's gladiator fights were a very popular program in the universe; several billion viewers would watch it monthly. With several popular fighters getting astronomical levels of fame.
The hotel that they were staying in was a run-of-the-mill hotel for rich people, with expensive furniture, art pieces, and unnecessary gold design everywhere. It screamed old money, both in old-fashioned designs and its lack of renovations.
After his morning duties were done, Darkseid had escaped the confines of the hotel's stuffed air, accompanied by his Furies.
The air outside was nasty, the smoke of the arena clung to Darkseid's skin like a cloak, and the dust from the star engine would get in the eyes and lungs like an ashen cloud.
He walked at the center of his retinue, his armored boots grinding over dust-covered metal floor. As an Apokoliptian, he felt the heat of the planet radiating from beneath the surface of the town. It felt artificial, its unnatural origin was evident in the makeup of the ground beneath his feet.
The whole planet was made of metal; there was nothing organic on it, no vegetation, no mountains or rivers. Only the joyless towns made of metal and facilities full of slaves. Only the Warzoon elite enjoyed some level of comfort. It made the whole planet feel as though it was built on the lid of a great furnace, cooking in the grease and sweat of its unfortunate dwellers.
Honestly, it reminded him a lot of what was going on Apokolips. Only Apokolips was organic. But the situation was the same overall, people lived in slavery and, or poverty. While Elites had bathed in luxury, milking the less fortunate dry.
In contrast to the posh hotel, the town that they were in, called Crucible town by the name of the arena, was one of the capital cities of the Warworld. It held an important place amongst several cities on the surface of the planet, and was the biggest out of them in terms of population.
It had earned its fame and place thanks to the Crucible arena, housing the majority of the local gladiatorial populace. Including wealthiest clans of the planet, as well as the slave pits that were aimed at training gladiators instead of employing menial laborers like the rest of the Warworld did. Essentially, Crucible Town was the capital of Warworld's spectacle.
The Crucible arena loomed above the horizon, a titanic round coliseum ringed with towers and supporting facilities sprawling around it. The rest of the city was built around it like a half-eaten carcass of a dead animal in the desert. Ragged streets and crumbling buildings were pressed in the shadow of the Crucible.
It was a town of contrasts: the commoners and slaves who shuffled tiredly with their heads bowed, malnourished and sick. And the bright and clean faces that walked beside them, the proud warriors of the clans, who strutted in polished armor and jewelry. The difference between them was not merely wealth but caste, it ran even deeper than ability to buy food, it was built in on a cultural level.
And the city mirrored that in full. The city's run-down streets were unsightly, not worthy of the title of the universal capital of gladiatorial fights. What was the local administration doing? Where was the money that they got from their lucrative programming? Darkseid wondered if his people looked the same way. Seeing Warworld like this had made it clear to him that corruption was the doom of civilization.
Tina was visibly upset, her horns catching the light of a dirty oil lamp on the wall.
"This place stinks of waste."
The others did not answer her. It was true. This was what stagnancy looked like. Desperation. The wheel of civilization no longer turned here, on Warworld. The endless river of gladiators' blood fed its furnaces just like the slaves fed the clans' greed, and they grew fat on victories.
Awhile after they had left the hotel, on one of the side streets, far from the roar of the taverns and constant sick coughs of the slaves, a voice called to him.
"Darkseid."
He turned, hand drifting toward the hilt of his weapon on his back. But it was not an assassin waiting for an opening in his guard.
It was a familiar face. Tina lit up with recognition. This was the gladiator that she had defeated during the first day of the tournament.
A muscular, stubby man stood in the shadow of a broken wall, his face half-hidden by a scarf. But his bright blue eyes were enough to tell him apart from Tina and Darkseid.
Behind him, others emerged, thin, scars and brands still visible across their skin, but all of them held weapons in their hands, the skin of their hands was almost see-through, that's how thin they were.
"We had seen you fight," the man said. "And your power. Will you help us?"
The Darkseid's guards shifted forward, ready to strike down a threat, but he raised a hand.
"Speak," he said.
The man bowed his head slightly.
"I am Kryl-Ux. My people were once part of the Kryptonian Empire, citizens of a colony on the planet Phaelosia that is now dead. We were conquered and dragged here in chains. And now our lives are meant to be fuel for this dystopian world."
The man gestured for Darkseid's group to follow him. Against his better instincts, Darkseid inclined his head to the Furies and stepped into the alley.
They walked through twisting paths, past abandoned warehouses and cracked walls, until Kryl-Ux led them into a concealed cellar beneath a burned-out house on the outskirts of the city. The towers of the Crucible were still visible from here; they were seemingly as tall as the sky itself.
Inside, the air was frizzled with smoke from the fires and sweat from dozens of people gathered inside. Men and women huddled there, most of them scarred and freshly beaten. Crude weapons lined the walls, swords and shields, as well as cheap blasters. It seemed like they were preparing for battle.
"This is what remains of the resistance," Kryl-Ux said. "We have fought for centuries. Crime, banditry, treachery, rebellion — call it what you will, but we did what we needed to do. The clans drain this world dry; Mongul's regime needs to go. They bleed the people, fatten themselves on blood-money, while the strongest live like kings. And we, slaves, and the regular folk, crawl in the dirt."
Darkseid walked slowly through the room, his cloak brushing the cracked floor. He looked at their weapons, their faces, their bodies; they were thin, exhausted, and half-starved. One could almost hear the bones rattle against each other when they shifted.
"And?" His brow was raised expectedly.
Darkseid's reply was short; he had still to hear what they wanted from him.
The man before him, Kryl-Ux, hesitated before saying.
"Yesterday. Two of our people fought your warriors in the arena. The two sisters, Thao-La and Otho-Ra. You must have seen them. You know of our potential of how we fight. Help us and we will join your banners."
Darkseid remembered the two girls who valiantly fought Barda and Aurelie. It was unfortunate that the opponents they faced were them. There was no doubt in Darkseid's mind that had he and his people not been in this tournament, the two sisters would have had a very good chance of winning it all.
But now that he thought about it, the strength to fight his Furies, even if for a brief point, was extraordinary. Did the Phaelosians really have something that went beyond what they should have been able to? They were descendants of the Kryptonians. With access to solar radiation they could have been a very formidable force even in their malnourished state. But Warworld had been stationed in the lightless emptiness of space, far from stars and their influence. What had granted them powers then?
Darkseid was very intrigued; his meta knowledge was silent on the matter. Phaelosians in the original timeline had never amounted to anything of note. They would never gain their independence from Mongul. And Mongul, in turn, would never start being more than a potential threat, attacking Terra a couple of times, but not accomplishing anything worth mentioning.
"What is it?" Darkseid asked, his tone sharpening.
Kryl-Ux opened his mouth, but before he could answer, potentially tattling secrets to more power, the door to the cellar went flying open. A man stumbled inside, panting, blood streaking his forehead.
"Kryl-Ux! Mongul's forces had attacked one of ours!"
The room erupted in shouts.
"What? Who?" Kryl-Ux demanded, seizing the messenger by his shoulders.
"The Sisters," the man gasped, desperately grasping for air while being shaken like a salter. "They are currently raiding their house, and one of ours had come running to us. They're beating them on the street like stray dogs."
Despite being a foreigner in an enemy territory, Darkseid couldn't help but let out a low growl. These girls were now his tickets to more power. And all power would belong to him. In his mind, he had already claimed their lives as his own. Hearing his response, Furies immediately shifted, hands on weapons, their faces hardening like stone.
Phaelosians and Kryl-Ux surged toward the door, desperate fury blazing in their hollow eyes. Kryl-Ux turned to Darkseid, desperation written across his face.
"Please come with us. We will serve you till our deaths if you help us escape this rotten planet."
Darkseid did not hesitate. In one decisive motion, he rushed forward, his cloak sweeping across the dusty air, raising a murky cloud.
"Lead me," he told the desperate rebels. After realizing what he had said, some of them began faintly smiling. A light of hope had shone through their desperation.