Looma exploded from the arena like a living battering ram, her four arms pumping as she charged straight toward the colossal Wildebot dominating the Imperial Plaza. The royal guards who had tried to intercept her lay scattered in her wake—some with crushed skulls, others with necks twisted at impossible angles. Her raw power had carved a bloody path through their ranks in mere seconds.
"Finally, something worth smashing!" she roared with savage glee, her four hands interlocking as she launched herself skyward. The meteorite impact of her combined fists struck the mechanical beast with enough force to crater its armored hull, sending shockwaves through its massive frame. The beast staggered but remained operational, its weapon systems already cycling up for retaliation.
The air filled with an ominous whine as the Wildebot's primary cannons charged. In the next instant, death-flame bombs erupted across the imperial capital, transforming the sprawling city into a hellscape of roiling fire. The temperature soared beyond comprehension. Even Looma's battle-hardened skin began to blister under the assault of the superheated flames.
Surrounded by the inferno, Looma could only endure, her regenerative abilities pushed to their absolute limits as she fought to maintain her footing in the sea of fire.
"Red Wind Queen," the Red King mused from his perch atop the towering totem spire, the only structure untouched by the flames below. His voice carried a mocking edge as he surveyed the destruction with cold satisfaction. "But even Looma cannot overcome a weapon weighing tens of thousands of tons."
From his godlike vantage point, he watched the purgatory spread across his domain. This was power absolute—the ability to reshape the world through will alone. Anyone who dared oppose him would burn, just as the city burned now.
He turned his attention back to the three figures standing before him on the platform—Caiera, Brunhilde, and Loki—each one a thorn in his side, each one about to be plucked and discarded.
"So," he said, his voice dripping with arrogant authority, "do you choose to live on your knees, or die standing?"
"I don't choose either option!"
A streak of blue and black sliced through the fire like a falling star, and in the blink of an eye, Ben stood in front of them—fully transformed into XLR8. The Kineceleran's sleek, armored form shimmered in the glow of the flames, his visor reflecting the chaos around him as his claws tensed, ready for action.
The Red King's eyes narrowed as recognition dawned. The symbol on the newcomer chest was unmistakable—the same that had been causing him so much trouble.
"You have quite a repertoire of tricks" the Red King sneered, "but it matters not what freak you become. You cannot stop my army of Wildebots!"
"That's what you think."
Ben's hand moved to the Omnitrix dial, and with a flash of emerald light, his sleek Kineceleran form dissolved into something far more unusual. Where XLR8 had stood, a shape-shifting mass of black and green protoplasm now pulsed with alien vitality.
"What a pathetic creature," the Red King scoffed, genuine disgust coloring his voice. "It doesn't even maintain a humanoid form. What possible use could such a puddle of slime serve?"
He was about to discover exactly how versatile Upgrade could be.
Rather than attacking the Wildebot directly, Ben stretched his malleable form into a tendril and launched himself toward Caiera. Before anyone could react, the black and green biomass had enveloped the Shadow People completely. She let out a startled gasp as the alien substance flowed over her, but the contact lasted only seconds before Ben peeled away again.
In that brief moment, the control implant fused to Caiera's spine had been completely dissolved and absorbed, its neural interfaces severed cleanly without harming the host. The biotechnological parasite that had kept her enslaved simply ceased to exist.
Caiera blinked in amazement as the neurotoxin fog lifted from her mind for the first time in months. Her thoughts felt sharp and clear, no longer muffled by the disk's chemical suppressants.
Ben had already reformed into a compact sphere, rolling toward Brunhilde with liquid grace. "Brunhilde," he called out, his voice carrying an odd harmonic quality through his protoplasmic form, "throw me at that Wildebot."
The Red King still didn't fully comprehend what he was witnessing, but Brunhilde understood immediately. This shapeshifting alien could merge with technology, and now he intended to turn the Red King's own weapons against him.
"I have a way to make you fly much farther," Brunhilde said with a predatory smile, raising her armored leg in preparation for what could only be described as the galaxy's most devastating field goal attempt.
"Wait!" Ben's voice rose in alarm. "At least take your boot off first!"
But Brunhilde had already committed to the kick. Her superhuman strength compressed Ben's malleable form into a perfect "U" shape before launching him across the plaza like a living projectile. He struck the nearest Wildebot with a wet slap, adhering to its hull like alien glue.
The transformation was immediate and spectacular. Black and green circuitry spread across the machine's surface like a viral infection, consuming its original programming and replacing it with something far more sophisticated. Within moments, the entire fifty-meter-tall Wildebot had been completely integrated into Ben's consciousness.
"Is that a Galvanic Mechamorp?" Looma called out, recognizing the transformation process from her past. She abandoned her battle with the machine she'd been pummeling and leaped onto the newly upgraded Wildebot's shoulder with practiced ease.
"Very impressive, my dear!" she shouted over the sound of weapons fire, though her praise carried an oddly possessive undertone that made Ben's enhanced auditory sensors twitch with unease.
"But why not possess the Red King's armor directly?" Looma's tactical mind had already identified the most efficient solution. "It would be much simpler to crush him that way."
"Where's the fun in that?" Ben replied, his voice now amplified through the Wildebot's speakers, carrying enough bass to rattle windows across the plaza.
It was partially true—there was something satisfying about the poetic justice of using the Red King's own weapons against him. But the real reason was more pragmatic: the Wildebots would continue their indiscriminate bombardment as long as they remained operational. Every minute they fired into the city meant hundreds more civilian casualties. The Red King's armor could wait; the immediate threat to innocent lives could not.
He might not be the traditional hero type, but the Red King's casual brutality toward his own people was something Ben couldn't stomach. Some lines couldn't be crossed, even in war.
"Worthy of being my chosen fiancé!" Looma declared with obvious satisfaction, her four arms flexing as she surveyed the battlefield. "Though I do hope you'll save the main course for me. I want to crack that turtle shell with my own hands!"
"Consider it reserved," Ben replied, simultaneously targeting three separate Wildebots with upgraded weapons systems that far exceeded their original specifications. "But first, let's clean up the rest of this mess."
Looma grinned ferally and launched herself across the plaza, her trajectory carrying her directly into the cockpit of a passing scavenger aircraft. The pilot nearly fainted as the legendary warrior crashed through his reinforced windshield like it was paper.
"You're... you're the Red Wind Queen!" the pilot stammered, his hands shaking on the controls.
Looma simply tore the damaged windshield away entirely, treating the military aircraft like a particularly stubborn can of rations. "Evacuate everyone from the palace district," she commanded, her voice carrying the absolute authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. "If this bucket of bolts can carry civilians, start ferrying them to safety."
"But the Wildebots—"
"That one's my husband," Looma interrupted, pointing proudly at Ben's commandeered Wildebot as it systematically dismantled its former companions with surgical precision. "He's got the situation well in hand."
Artillery fire continued to pour down like metallic rain, but the tide of battle had already turned. Above the flames and smoke, the towering totem spire swayed ominously, its structural integrity compromised by the ongoing bombardment.
The Red King stared in mounting horror as his most advanced Wildebot turned traitor, its weapons now carving through his remaining forces with ruthless efficiency. The machine moved with an alien grace that his original programming could never have achieved, each shot precisely calculated to disable rather than destroy—a mercy his own weapons had never been designed to show.
"Even my machines have betrayed me," he whispered, a note of genuine despair creeping into his voice. The irony wasn't lost on him—he who had enslaved so many through technology was now being defeated by that very same technology turned against him.
The psychological impact was devastating. In a twisted way, wasn't this its own form of poetic justice?
Under Ben's enhanced control, the commandeered Wildebot had become something beyond the Red King's wildest engineering dreams. Compared to this technological symphony of destruction, even the Kree Empire's feared battle cruisers would seem primitive by comparison.
Within minutes, the last of the loyal Wildebots had fallen, their smoking hulks scattered across the plaza like metallic graveyards. Ben carefully extracted himself from his host machine, allowing its systems to power down safely rather than leave it as a potential threat.
The Red King's face had gone ashen behind his helmet's visor. The Wildebots had been his final gambit, his ultimate insurance policy against rebellion. Without them, even his advanced armor was merely expensive protection against the inevitable.
He retreated to the base of the totem tower, where a small group of figures waited for him. Ben stood at the center, flanked by Looma in her battle-scarred armor and Brunhilde with her dragon-tooth sword gleaming in the firelight. Caiera and Loki formed the outer edges of their formation, each positioned to cut off potential escape routes.
Behind them, Bill the Stone Man led a growing crowd of former gladiators, their faces hard with righteous fury. The shackles were gone, the control disks destroyed, and for the first time in years, they stood as free beings ready to reclaim their dignity.
"Surrender, Angmo-Asan," Ben called out, using the Red King's true name with deliberate emphasis. "Your dynasty ends here."
"End?" The Red King's voice cracked with desperate fury. "This will not end! Not while I draw breath!"
He whirled to face the assembled gladiators, his mind clinging to the old power structures that had served him so well. "You are all still my slaves! Kill them! Kill them all!"
Bill stepped forward, with deliberate ceremony, he reached up and tore the control implant from his own chest, holding it aloft for all to see.
"We will never again be at your mercy, Angmo-Asan," he declared, and crushed the device to powder in his granite fist.
The symbolic act rippled through the crowd like a wave. One by one, the gladiators followed suit, destroying their own control devices in a cascade of liberation that left the Red King truly alone for the first time in decades.
As Ben had said, war was never a one-man show. Now the Red King was learning that lesson in the most brutal way possible.
But surrender was not in his nature. The madness that had driven him to tyranny would not allow him to accept defeat, even in the face of overwhelming odds. As a man who had ruled through fear and brutality for so long, the very concept of accountability was foreign to him.
"I am the King of Sakaar!" he roared, drawing his double-edged sword with a dramatic flourish. Death-flames erupted along its blade, casting dancing shadows across his armored form. "Do you dare face me in single combat?"
The challenge hung in the air like a thrown gauntlet. "Let all the people of Sakaar witness this final battle! The winner rules the planet! The loser becomes dust!"
Ben's laugh was low and cold. "Clever calculation, Angmo-Asan. But you're not getting out of this that easily."
The Red King's defeat was already assured—this challenge wouldn't save his regime from the rebellion that was already sweeping across the planet. But from Ben's perspective, there was something appealingly direct about settling their conflict with his own hands.
Some debts could only be paid in blood.
The great arena had been hastily cleared of debris, its sandy floor still bearing the marks of the recent battle. No civilians remained in the imperial capital, but the stands were far from empty. Warriors from across Sakaar had gathered to witness what many believed would be the final act of the Red King's reign.
Ben stood at one end of the arena, his hand resting on the Omnitrix dial.
At the opposite end, the Red King cut an imposing figure in his crimson armor, the death-flames of his sword casting hellish shadows across the arena floor. For all his tyranny, he was still a formidable warrior—one didn't hold power on Sakaar for decades without being able to back up threats with action.
Ben activated the Omnitrix, and Four Arms stood in his place, the Tetramand's massive frame and quartet of powerful limbs drawing appreciative murmurs from the crowd.
Looma practically vibrated with excitement in the stands. To see her people's form chosen for such an important battle was an honor beyond measure.
"So you choose to face me as the same species as Looma," the Red King observed, raising his flaming sword in a mocking salute. "How fitting. I'll enjoy breaking you"
The Red King struck first, his blade trailing fire as it cut through the air in a devastating horizontal arc. The weapon bore a disturbing resemblance to Thanos's double-edged sword, but wreathed in flames that burned hot enough to melt steel.
Ben didn't even blink. He simply ducked beneath the swing, his four arms moving with practiced coordination. His lower pair of hands grabbed the Red King's wrists, while his upper arms pressed against the arena floor. With a fluid motion that showcased the Tetramand's natural agility, he flipped backward and drove both feet into the Red King's chest with enough force to send him skidding across the sand.
Before the Red King could recover, Ben was already moving. He lunged forward like a falling meteor, his combined mass and momentum driving the armored tyrant deep into the arena floor.
"Impossible!" the Red King snarled from the crater. "You cannot break my armor! I am invincible!"
Ben tilted his head thoughtfully. "If a hundred punches won't break it, I'll throw a thousand. If a thousand won't do it, I'll throw ten thousand." His four fists began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing speed. "Even if I have to punch you from here to the planet's core, I will crack that shell!"
What followed was less a fight than a demonstration of Tetramand endurance. Ben's four arms became a blur of motion, each fist striking with the force of a pile driver. The sound was thunderous, a constant drumbeat of impacts that echoed through the arena like artillery fire.
In the stands, Loki shot to his feet with pure, vindictive glee.
"Yes! That's what it feels like!" he yelled, throwing both fists in the air, practically bouncing with excitement.
He pointed down at the chaos below. "Back on Earth, he did the exact same thing to me! Smashed me into the ground—nearly cracked my skull open like an eggshell!"
He laughed, loud and unrestrained, for once thrilled to be a spectator.
The memory of his own beating at Ben's hands filled Loki with perverse satisfaction. To see someone else—especially someone as deserving as the Red King—experiencing the same punishment was deeply gratifying.
"I really must arrange for Thor to have a similar experience," Loki mused to himself, already plotting.
Meanwhile, hairline cracks were beginning to appear in the Red King's supposedly invincible armor. The constant barrage of impacts had found the weak points in its construction, and Ben's relentless assault was methodically exploiting every flaw.
The Red King felt his ribs crack as the force of the blows began to penetrate his defenses. Internal organs shifted and bruised as the armor's protective systems failed one by one. Blood began to seep from the joints in his helmet, painting the arena sand crimson.
"This... this is impossible," he gasped, his voice wet with blood. "You cannot... my armor..."
"Why not?" Ben replied, his voice steady despite the continuous exertion. "I told you—if a hundred punches aren't enough, I'll throw a thousand. If a thousand aren't enough, I'll throw ten thousand. Whatever it takes!"
But even as he spoke, Ben could see that the end was near. The armor's integrity had been compromised, and what had once been impenetrable protection was now becoming a prison of shattered metal and failing systems.
It was time for the finishing blow.
Ben raised his upper right arm high, channeling every ounce of his Tetramand strength into a single, devastating strike. But something more than physical power flowed through him—a red energy that seemed to emanate from the very planet itself.
The eternal power of Sakaar. It was an energy that any living being could theoretically learn to harness, but few ever managed to achieve true mastery. For a Tetramand, with their natural connection to raw force and primal strength, it was a perfect match.
In the stands, Caiera and the other surviving members of the Shadow People recognized the energy immediately. It was weak compared to what their ancestors had once wielded, but it was genuine—the power of the planet itself, channeled through a worthy ship.
The red lightning that wreathed Ben's fist seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of Sakaar itself. The very air shimmered with power as the planet's life force gathered around the young warrior, recognizing him as its chosen champion.
At that moment, Ben truly became what the people had been calling him: the Son of Sakaar.
The final punch descended like a falling star.
BOOM!
The impact shattered the Red King's armor like glass, the crimson energy radiating outward in concentric waves that washed over the entire planet. But rather than destruction, the energy brought renewal. Where the red light touched, the poisoned waters began to clear. Dead soil sprouted with new life. The wounded found their injuries healing, and the broken-hearted felt hope return to their spirits.
Across Sakaar, beings of every species raised their eyes to the sky and felt something they hadn't experienced in generations: the touch of their world's living soul, channeled through one who had proven worthy of its trust.
In the arena, the Red King's broken form lay still in the crater, his reign of terror finally ended. Above him, Ben stood silhouetted against the cleansing light, no longer just a visitor to this world, but truly its chosen son.
The crowd's voice rose in unison, a chant that would echo through Sakaar's history for generations to come:
"Son of Sakaar! Son of Sakaar! Son of Sakaar!"
The old king had fallen. The new age had begun.
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