All eyes turn to Razer, who has remained silent throughout the proceedings. The blue-skinned alien's tribal markings seem to pulse with internal conflict, and his red ring flickers with unstable energy.
"These philosophical debates change nothing," he says quietly. "We are defeated. Our cause is lost. Our leader is imprisoned." He looks at each of his former comrades in turn. "Continuing to fight a war that's already over serves no purpose except to cause more suffering."
The reaction from his former allies is immediate and vicious. Bleez's aristocratic composure cracks completely, her features twisting with absolute fury. "You pathetic worm," she snarls, her voice rising to a shriek that echoes through the chamber. "You dare speak to us of defeat? You who turned your back on everything we sacrificed for?"
Zilius Zox's multiple eyes focus on Razer with predatory intensity, his voice bubbling with malevolent glee. "The coward finally shows his true colors. Did you enjoy watching us fall while you played hero with your new friends?"
Skallox's massive frame trembles with barely contained rage, his scarred features twisted into a mask of hatred. "Traitor," he growls, the word carrying the weight of absolute condemnation. "You swore an oath of brotherhood to us. You shared our rage, our purpose. And you threw it all away for what? The approval of these bureaucrats?"
Even Atrocitus, who had maintained his dignified composure throughout his own trial, turns burning eyes toward his former lieutenant. "You would abandon everything we fought for? Everything we sacrificed to achieve?"
"I would stop adding to the mountain of corpses we've already created," Razer replies with quiet dignity, meeting their hostility without flinching. "I would acknowledge that our methods, whatever our motivations, have caused exactly the kind of suffering we claimed to be fighting against."
"Coward," Bleez hisses, her wings flaring despite the containment field. "You were never truly one of us. Your rage was always tainted with weakness. We should have seen this coming when you hesitated to execute that Green Lantern's family on Vorn."
"Yes," Zilius adds with sick pleasure, "always asking questions, always doubting. 'Are we sure they're complicit?' 'What about civilian casualties?' 'Shouldn't we verify the intelligence first?' Pathetic."
Skallox leans forward as much as his restraints allow, his voice dropping to a threatening whisper. "When we break free, and we will break free, you'll be the first one we come for. Not the Guardians, not Jordan, not any of these other fools. You. The traitor who sold out his own brothers."
Razer absorbs their hatred without visible reaction, but I can see the pain in his eyes. These beings had been his family for years, united by shared loss and common purpose. Their rejection cuts deeper than any physical wound could.
"Perhaps," Razer acknowledges without defensiveness. "But my weakness prevented me from committing some of the atrocities you embraced willingly." He turns to address the Guardians directly, his voice growing stronger despite the verbal assault from his former comrades. "I formally renounce my allegiance to the Red Lantern Corps. I accept responsibility for my crimes and submit to whatever justice you deem appropriate."
The declaration sends ripples of shock through both the Red Lanterns and the assembled Green Lanterns. It's unprecedented for a Red Lantern to voluntarily renounce their allegiance, and the implications are staggering.
"You bastard!" Bleez screams, throwing herself against her containment field with such force that sparks fly from the energy barriers. "You think this performance will save you? You think these Guardian fools will show you mercy because you've learned to grovel?"
"Traitor," Atrocitus snarls, straining against his containment field with such force that the energy barriers flicker and spark. "You swore an oath of vengeance. You pledged your rage to our cause."
"I pledged my rage to justice," Razer corrects, his voice carrying new strength as he faces down their fury. "But what we became was not justice. It was simply another form of the evil we claimed to fight."
"Justice?" Zilius's laugh is a sound like breaking glass. "You call collaboration with our enemies justice? You helped them hunt us down like animals. You guided their ships to our hiding places. That's not justice, that's betrayal of the most fundamental kind."
Ganthet studies the alien with obvious interest, apparently unaffected by the violent reactions of the other prisoners. "You speak of renouncing your allegiance, but the red light of rage is not easily abandoned. How do we know this is not simply another form of deception?"
In response, Razer does something that silences every voice in the chamber. He raises his ring hand and speaks with absolute conviction. "I, Razer of Volkreg, formally renounce my allegiance to the Red Lantern Corps. I reject the path of rage and vengeance that consumed my soul." His voice grows stronger, more determined. "I choose to bear this ring not as a weapon, but as a reminder of my crimes. Let all who see it know what I have done, what I became, and what I seek to atone for."
The red ring flickers violently at his words, its crimson light dimming as if fighting against his declaration. The energy connection that had sustained him for years begins to alter, transforming from a source of power into something else entirely. Where once the ring had burned with active rage, now it pulses with a subdued, mournful light - like embers of a dying fire.
"No!" Bleez shrieks, her voice carrying genuine anguish now rather than just anger. "You fool! Do you know what you've just done? You can't just reject the red light! It's part of your very essence now!"
"The ring will keep him alive," Atrocitus says, his voice carrying both disgust and grudging respect. "But it will no longer grant him power. It becomes a prison instead of a weapon - a constant reminder of what he was, what he did. Every day he'll feel its weight, knowing he could reclaim its power but choosing not to."
"Impossible," Bleez whispers, her aristocratic composure cracking for the first time as the implications sink in. "To willingly give up that strength, that purpose... it's like choosing to cut out your own heart."
"Madness," Zilius breathes, his multiple eyes wide with something approaching awe. "He's made himself powerless by choice. The ring will torment him with memories of what he could be, but he'll never be able to use it again without betraying his oath."
Skallox stares at Razer in stunned silence, his usual bluster replaced by genuine confusion. For all their differences, none of them had imagined that someone could voluntarily shackle themselves to their past while rejecting its power.
Sayd rises from her position among the Guardians, moving closer to study Razer with obvious fascination. "Your renunciation appears genuine," she acknowledges. "This changes the parameters of your judgment significantly."
"It changes nothing," Atrocitus roars, his rage building to levels that make his containment field spark and flicker. "He was weak. He was always weak. His self-imposed exile from power proves that the red light chose poorly when it selected him."
"Or maybe," I suggest, earning renewed hostile glares from the remaining Red Lanterns, "it proves that even beings consumed by rage can choose a different path."
Kilowog steps forward, his scarred face showing something I've never seen there before. Genuine respect. "Red," he says simply, using what sounds like a nickname that carries no mockery. "Takes more guts to give up power than it does to use it. Makes you a better man than any of these bastards calling you a coward."
The big alien's words hit the other Red Lanterns like a slap. Bleez's wings flare with renewed fury, but there's something defeated in her posture now.
"The red light will sustain him," Atrocitus explains with grudging accuracy. "But it will never again grant him the power to create constructs or channel rage. He has made himself the weakest being in any room he enters, while carrying the eternal reminder of what he once was."
"He has chosen responsibility over vengeance," Ganthet corrects. "A choice that will be considered favorably during sentencing."
The formal proceedings continue with witness after witness stepping forward. Nova Corps officers, civilian survivors, and Green Lanterns all tell the same story: systematic destruction across multiple star systems, worlds consumed by rage-fueled violence, enemies who grew stronger from the fear and anger around them.
After three hours of testimony, the Guardians retire for deliberation. Less than an hour passes before they return, their expressions carved from stone and starlight.
"We have reached our decision," Ganthet announces, his voice resonating through the vast chamber. "Let the prisoners be brought forward for sentencing."
The containment fields hum with increased power as the Red Lanterns are positioned before the assembled Guardians. Each prisoner reacts differently to this moment of ultimate judgment. Bleez maintains her aristocratic composure, though her wings twitch with barely suppressed agitation. Zilius Zox's multiple eyes dart between the Guardians, calculating odds and possibilities with predatory intelligence. Skallox simply glowers, his massive frame radiating sullen defiance.
Atrocitus stands perfectly still, his burning gaze fixed on some point beyond the chamber walls as if he can see through the crystalline structure to the stars beyond. There's something almost peaceful about his posture, the calm of a being who has accepted that his war is over, at least for now.
Razer occupies his own containment field slightly apart from the others, standing straight despite his ordeal. His tribal markings are dim but his eyes burn with a different kind of fire now. Where once there had been the wild rage of the red light, now there's something more focused, more dangerous.
"Atrocitus of Sector 666," Ganthet begins formally, his ancient voice carrying across the chamber with the weight of cosmic law, "your crimes represent a fundamental threat to galactic civilization. Your actions have destabilized entire star systems and caused suffering on a scale that defies comprehension. However, your motivations, while misguided, spring from genuine grievances that this council acknowledges."
The partial validation draws murmurs from the assembled crowd. To hear the Guardians acknowledge any legitimacy in Atrocitus's cause sends ripples of unease through the Green Lantern ranks.
Atrocitus shows no reaction to these words, his burning eyes remaining fixed on that distant point beyond the chamber walls. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the weight of eons spent nursing hatred.
"Your acknowledgment changes nothing," he says quietly. "The blood of my people still cries out for justice. The fact that you recognize the grievance while maintaining the system that created it only proves the depths of your hypocrisy."
"Nevertheless," Sayd interjects, her voice cutting through his words with surgical precision, "recognition of injustice does not justify the perpetuation of greater injustices. You are sentenced to imprisonment on Ysmault under maximum security protocols."
The announcement strikes the chamber like a physical blow. Ysmault, the desolate world where Atrocitus had originally been imprisoned eons ago, represents more than just incarceration. It's a return to the beginning of his cycle of rage.
"Ysmault?" Atrocitus's voice carries genuine surprise, then shifts to something approaching dark amusement. "You're sending me back to the seat of my power? To the world where I forged the Red Lantern Corps and built our central battery?"
"Precisely," Sayd interjects, her voice carrying cold calculation. "The damage you inflicted upon that world when you created your battery needs to be undone. The planet's core has been corrupted by rage energy, turning it into a beacon that calls to every angry being in the galaxy. You will spend your imprisonment helping us reverse that contamination."
Atrocitus stares at her for a long moment, then begins to laugh. It's a sound like grinding stone, harsh and bitter. "Clever. You want me to undo the very foundation of everything I built. To watch as you dismantle my life's work piece by piece while I'm powerless to stop you."
"The alternative," Ganthet says with quiet finality, "is to leave Ysmault as a permanent source of rage contamination that will continue spawning new Red Lanterns for eons to come. Your choice is simple: help us cleanse the world you corrupted, or watch it become a eternal monument to your failure."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you will remain in solitary confinement while we attempt the cleansing process without your knowledge," Appa Ali Apsa states flatly. "The work will take centuries longer and likely kill thousands of our people in the attempt. But it will be done."
Atrocitus considers this, his burning eyes fixed on some distant calculation. "You would sacrifice Guardian lives to undo my work?"
"We would sacrifice whatever is necessary to prevent more beings from suffering as you have," Ganthet replies. "The question is whether you will add their deaths to your conscience, or help us minimize the casualties."
The challenge hangs in the air between them. Atrocitus's expression shifts through several emotions before settling on something cold and final.
"Let them die," he says simply, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "Every Guardian who perishes attempting to cleanse Ysmault will be a monument to your failures. Their blood will water the seeds of rage I planted in that world's core." He leans forward as much as his restraints allow. "I will not lift a finger to help you undo what I built. Let your people burn trying to fix your mistakes. It's fitting justice."
The refusal hits the chamber like a physical blow. Several Guardians exchange glances, and I can see genuine anger flickering in their ancient features.
"So be it," Ganthet says, his voice carrying the weight of absolute finality. "You have chosen to add mass murder to your crimes. The deaths of every being who dies in the cleansing process will be laid at your feet."
Atrocitus smiles, and it's a terrible thing to see. "I accept that burden gladly. At least I die knowing that my rage will outlive me, that Ysmault will remain a wound in the universe that never truly heals. My final gift to a cosmos that has forgotten what justice looks like."
"The entity known as the Butcher will be contained separately in a null energy matrix designed to prevent its influence from reaching you or any other being," Ganthet continues with clinical precision. "You will remain under constant surveillance by dedicated Guardian oversight. The sentence is life imprisonment without possibility of parole."
Attention turns to the remaining Red Lanterns. Bleez receives a sentence of solitary confinement in the Sciencells of Oa itself, where her aristocratic protests fall on deaf ears. The specialized containment protocols are designed to slowly drain the rage from her system while keeping her in complete isolation from any source of emotional energy.
Zilius Zox's multiple crimes across dozens of star systems earn him transportation to the prison mines of Thanagar, where his grotesque form will spend centuries breaking rocks in the planet's deepest shafts. His protests about cruel and unusual punishment are met with stony silence.
Skallox, whose brutish nature had made him one of the most violent Red Lanterns, receives a sentence to the gladiatorial pits of Warworld. The specialized facility there will pit him against the universe's most dangerous criminals in combat designed to either break his spirit or end his life.
"The separation is necessary," Sayd explains when the sentences are announced. "Isolated from each other and from sources of rage, their connection to the red light will gradually weaken. These are not rehabilitation facilities. They are containment measures designed to ensure these criminals can never again threaten galactic peace."
"So no chance of freedom?" Carol asks from beside me.
"Their crimes were too severe," Ganthet replies with the measured tone of absolute judgment. "Some acts cannot be forgiven, only contained. These beings chose to become instruments of terror and destruction. They will spend the remainder of their lives paying for that choice."
Finally, attention turns to Razer. The blue skinned alien stands straight despite his ordeal, his tribal markings dim but his eyes burning with a different kind of fire now. Where once there had been the wild rage of the red light, now there's something more focused, more dangerous.
"Razer of Volkreg," Appa Ali Apsa announces, his voice carrying particular weight as the Guardian who had been most critical of emotional beings throughout these proceedings, "your crimes as a member of the Red Lantern Corps are significant and cannot be overlooked. However, your voluntary renunciation of the red light, your obvious genuine remorse, and your actions during the final battle create mitigating circumstances that affect your sentence."
"I understand," Razer replies quietly. "I am prepared to accept whatever punishment you deem appropriate."
But there's something in his tone that suggests acceptance without submission, a quality that seems to catch the Guardians' attention.
"You are sentenced to imprisonment in the Kyln," Ganthet declares, his voice carrying the weight of cosmic justice. "This is not a rehabilitation facility, but a maximum security prison for some of the most dangerous criminals in the galaxy. You will serve alongside beings such as Drax the Destroyer and the notorious bounty hunter Lobo."
The sentence draws gasps from several assembled Lanterns. The Kyln's reputation as a hellish prison where only the strongest survive is well known throughout the galaxy.
"Twenty five years," Sayd adds, the number falling like a hammer blow. "With review possible after fifteen years, contingent upon demonstrated rehabilitation and cooperation with prison authorities."
Razer absorbs this information with outward calm, but I can see the impact in the way his shoulders tense. Twenty five years in the galaxy's most dangerous prison is essentially a death sentence for most beings.
"The sentence seems harsh," he observes quietly, his voice carrying no plea for mercy but a simple statement of fact.
"Your crimes were harsh," Appa Ali Apsa responds without emotion. "The suffering you helped inflict across multiple star systems demands appropriate justice."
"And yet," Razer continues, his voice growing stronger and more dangerous, "I notice that none of these proceedings address the fundamental negligence that created the situation in the first place. The warlord Mongul who destroyed my village, who killed my wife Ilana along with thousands of other innocent beings, was allowed to operate freely in our sector for years while your Green Lantern focused on 'more pressing matters.'"
The words strike the chamber like a physical blow. Even renounced, even facing decades in prison, Razer's anger at the Guardians burns with undimmed intensity.
"My rage may have consumed me," he continues, meeting each Guardian's gaze directly, "but it was born from legitimate grievance. Your Green Lantern knew about Mongul's raids. He had reports, intelligence, pleas for help from dozens of worlds. But he chose to prioritize politics over protection, diplomacy over decisive action. While he negotiated with senators and attended ceremonies, my wife burned alive in our home."
The statement hangs in the air like a challenge, transforming what should have been a moment of submission into something approaching an indictment. His voice carries the controlled fury of someone who has moved beyond blind rage into something far more terrifying: cold, focused anger backed by absolute moral certainty.
"Ilana died because of your failures," he states with quiet finality. "Because your system values order over justice, procedure over protection. While I accept responsibility for what I became, I will never forgive the negligence that made those actions feel necessary. No amount of imprisonment will change that truth."
"Your feelings toward this council are noted," Ganthet replies with careful neutrality. "They will not affect your sentence."
"I wouldn't expect them to," Razer responds with quiet dignity. "But they are part of who I am, and who I will remain. Redemption doesn't require forgiveness of the unforgivable."
The silence that follows is broken by the activation of transport protocols. Two Guardians approach Razer's containment field, their expressions unreadable as ancient stone. "Razer of Volkreg," one intones formally, "you are hereby remanded to Kyln Authority for immediate transport and incarceration."
The containment field shifts, becoming mobile as escort drones materialize around him. Razer doesn't resist as he's led away, but he turns back once to look at the assembled Lanterns. His gaze finds mine, and for a moment I see not the rage-fueled terrorist he had been, but something else entirely. Someone who had chosen his own damnation rather than continue on a path he knew was wrong.
"Remember," he calls out, his voice carrying clearly across the chamber despite the distance. "Justice delayed is not always justice denied. Sometimes it just takes longer to arrive."
Then he's gone, led through the crystalline corridors toward whatever transport will carry him to twenty-five years of hell. The chamber feels strangely empty without his presence, as if something vital had been removed.
It's in that emptiness that the real weight of our situation settles over everyone present. With the Red Lanterns dealt with, with cosmic justice served, we're left facing a truth that no amount of legal proceedings can address: the Green Lantern Corps is dying.
Not literally. The rings still function, the constructs still form, and will power still flows through those who possess it. But the Central Power Battery, the heart of everything we represented, lies in fragments across Oa's plaza. Every Green Lantern in the universe knows it. They can feel the absence like a missing tooth, a constant reminder that something fundamental has been broken.
Through the chamber's transparent walls, we can all see the answer to our unspoken fears. Empty space where majesty once stood. Fragments of crystal catching the light of Oa's sun like broken dreams. The physical manifestation of hope reduced to debris.
"This is the real crisis," Carol says, her voice cutting through the heavy silence. "Not the Red Lanterns, not the trials. It's what comes next. How do you rebuild not just the Battery, but faith in what the Battery represented?"
That's when I step forward, realizing I've been waiting for this moment. The weight of cosmic responsibility settles around me like a visible aura, and when I speak, my voice carries harmonics that seem to resonate with the very structure of Oa itself.
"The Battery isn't gone," I say, and every eye in the chamber turns to me. "It never was."
Ganthet's ancient features show confusion. "The Battery was destroyed, Jordan. Its crystalline matrix shattered beyond any possibility of reconstruction."
I shake my head. "You're thinking about it wrong. The Battery was never the source of power. It was just a focus, a way to help people believe that will could triumph over fear. But the real power has been inside me since Ion and I merged."
I start walking toward the chamber's exit, and everyone follows. "I am the Battery now," I say simply. "Ion's consciousness, the collective will of every being who ever chose hope over despair, it's all here, flowing through me. But it was never meant to stay in one person."
"Jordan," Ganthet calls out as we move through the crystalline corridors. "What exactly are you planning to do?"
I glance back at him, then at the other Guardians whose ancient faces show mixtures of curiosity and concern. "I'm putting things back the way they should be. The way they were always meant to be."
"That's not an answer, poozer," Kilowog rumbles, his massive form keeping pace despite his obvious confusion. "You can't just walk out there and wave your hands around. The Battery took eons to construct."
"Kilowog's right," Tomar-Re adds, his scholarly mind clearly working through the implications. "The crystalline matrix alone required precise harmonic frequencies calibrated across seventeen different dimensional planes. Even with Ion's power, the technical knowledge required—"
"You're all still thinking about it wrong," I interrupt, though not unkindly. "The Battery wasn't built through technical knowledge or dimensional engineering. It was built through will. Through the collective belief of billions of beings that hope could triumph over fear."
K'roc's multiple eyes narrow as he studies me. "The power you contain is immense, Jordan, but creation on this scale... are you certain you understand what you're attempting?"
"I understand more than I ever wanted to," I reply quietly. The weight of Ion's consciousness presses against my thoughts, showing me glimpses of cosmic truth that my human mind can barely process. "Every Green Lantern who ever wore a ring, every being who ever chose courage over cowardice, their will is part of this. The Battery was never just Oan technology. It was a manifestation of universal hope."
"But the precision required," Appa Ali Apsa interjects, his voice carrying the authority of eons. "One miscalculation could destabilize the entire power matrix. The risk—"
"The risk is worth it," I say, stopping to face them all. "Because without the Battery, without that symbol of hope standing proud on Oa, the Corps dies. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. Fear wins when hope has nowhere to anchor itself."
Sayd steps forward, her expression thoughtful. "You speak of symbol and manifestation, but these are abstract concepts. The Battery served practical functions—power distribution, ring recharging protocols, sector communication networks..."
"All of which will work exactly as they did before," I assure her. "Better, actually, because instead of drawing power from a static construct, they'll be drawing from something living. Something that can grow and adapt and respond to the needs of those who serve justice."
The procession resumes as we emerge into the main corridor leading to the plaza. Other Green Lanterns fall in step behind us—some curious, some skeptical, all drawn by something they can't quite identify. Their rings pulse with subdued light, responding to energies they don't fully understand.
"Hal," Carol says from beside me, her voice quiet enough that only I can hear. "Are you sure about this? You're talking about fundamentally changing how the Corps operates, how power itself flows through the universe."
I meet her eyes, seeing the concern there. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. Ion isn't just showing me what's possible. It's showing me what's necessary. The old Battery was a crutch, a way to centralize power and control it. This is about setting it free."
We reach the plaza where the Central Power Battery had stood for eons. Its absence is now marked only by a circular depression in the crystalline ground and scattered fragments that catch Oa's sun like broken stars. The assembled crowd spreads out around the empty space, maintaining a respectful distance as if approaching something sacred.
I descend slowly, my feet touching down in the exact center of where the Battery had been. The moment my boots make contact with the scarred ground, the change begins. Green energy erupts from my form in waves, washing over the plaza in concentric circles that make the crystal fragments sing with harmonious resonance.
The energy touches the broken pieces of the old Battery, and they start to respond. They're not just glowing now, they're moving. Lifting themselves from the ground and floating toward me. It's like they know what needs to happen.
"What's happening to him?" someone whispers from the crowd.
"He's giving it back," Kilowog says, his gruff voice filled with awe. "The poozer's giving the power back to where it belongs."
I spread my arms wide, and the energy pouring from me gets stronger. My human form is still there at the center of it all, but something's changing. I'm becoming more than flesh and blood. A bridge between what's mortal and what's infinite.
"For billions of years," I say, my voice carrying something different now, "the Guardians built their Corps on one simple truth. That will can overcome fear. But they made it about control, about channeling that power through rules and regulations."
The crystal fragments are coming together now, finding their places in a pattern that's both blueprint and living thing. But this isn't the rigid perfection of the original Battery. This is organic. Alive.
"They forgot that will isn't something you harness," I continue. "It's something you share. It's not about one person having all the power. It's about everyone choosing to hope, choosing to fight, choosing to never give up."
The new structure is taking shape around me. Not the towering spire that had stood before, but something that grows like a tree of pure light. Its roots go deep into Oa's core while its branches reach toward the sky, each one pulsing like a heartbeat.
Ion's vast consciousness begins to separate from my human awareness, and I feel the approach of a goodbye that's both heartbreaking and necessary. Through the cosmic entity's infinite perspective, I can sense every soul that has ever contributed to the great work of hope. Every parent who sacrificed for their children, every dreamer who reached for the impossible, every being who chose light over darkness.
"I can feel them all," I say, tears streaming down my face even as cosmic power continues to flow through me. "Every Green Lantern who ever lived. Every being who ever chose to hope when hope seemed impossible."
And there, in the vast tapestry of consciousness that Ion represents, I find what I've been searching for without knowing it. A familiar presence, warm and steady and infinitely loving.
"Dad?" I whisper, my voice breaking with emotion.
Through Ion's cosmic awareness, Martin Jordan's essence touches my mind one final time. Not as a construct or a memory, but as part of the fundamental force that drives beings to reach beyond themselves, to sacrifice for others, to choose courage in the face of impossible odds.