Kl'rt was being systematically dismantled.
But his pride wouldn't allow him to accept it.
In a one-on-one fight, he was absolutely confident he could defeat any of them—Bill, Caiera, this impostor pretending to be King Sakaar, even the real King of Sakaar himself. With his arsenal of combined abilities, he should have been unstoppable. Invincible.
But three-on-one was different. His four eyes could barely track all the incoming attacks. After Peter neutralized his most powerful advantage—the gravity manipulation that should have let him control the battlefield—it became impossible to compete against Caiera's Old Power and Bill's divine lightning simultaneously.
Bill was privately grateful that Ben hadn't loaded too many alien forms into Peter's replica watch. If the kid had access to Way Big's size or Feedback's energy absorption, this fight would have been significantly more complicated.
While that thought crossed his mind, his hammer descended again in a thunderous arc. CRACK! Lightning cascaded across Kl'rt's body, electrifying the Stinkfly wings sprouting from his back and leaving them smoking and useless.
Caiera followed up with brutal efficiency—a left roundhouse kick transitioning seamlessly into a right whip kick, both strikes enhanced by the Old Power. Every blow carried armor-piercing force that bypassed the chimera's enhanced durability and struck directly at his vital organs. The pain was intense enough to make Kl'rt taste bile.
Under the coordinated assault, the Super Skrull warrior was utterly overwhelmed.
"If you have any courage at all, fight me one-on-one!" he roared between impacts, his voice cracking with desperation and rage. "What's so impressive about three ganging up on one?!"
Bill's response was to swing his hammer harder, the golden weapon becoming a blur of motion.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
Each impact resonated like a bell, the sound echoing across the battlefield.
"Bro, think about it logically," Peter said, his Gravattack form pulsing with gravitational waves that kept Kl'rt pinned and off-balance. "If you didn't transform into this chimera thing and we fought one-on-one, that would be fair. But you did transform, absorbing like ten different alien powers, and we're still fighting you one-on-one from our perspective. So really, you changed for nothing, right?"
The logic was absurd but somehow compelling.
Caiera's eyes flashed with tactical insight. She was a master combatant, and in a flowing sequence of cloud hands—deflecting techniques from ancient Sakaaran martial arts—she pushed all four of the chimera's arms aside simultaneously. His guard completely open, she drove her elbow into his solar plexus with devastating force.
THUD!
The impact folded Kl'rt in half, his breath exploding from his lungs.
"You possess the same powers as King Sakaar," Caiera observed, her tone almost disappointed, "but you lack something fundamental. Something more."
She was referring to mastery, to growth potential. The chimera had absorbed the raw abilities of multiple alien forms, yes, including the Four Arms' instinctive combat knowledge. But he hadn't demonstrated Ben's capacity for rapid learning and adaptation—the ability to observe an opponent's techniques and immediately incorporate superior versions into his own fighting style.
She'd seen Ben learn the Old Power in minutes during their first real fight, then surpass her own mastery within hours. That kind of evolution separated true warriors from mere vessels of borrowed strength.
Power that stagnated, no matter how impressive initially, would eventually be surpassed and abandoned.
Based on that assessment, Caiera no longer considered Kl'rt a genuine threat. Just a temporary obstacle to be removed.
"Send him to the Null Void Realm," Bill said, his tone businesslike.
He was being considerate of Peter's sensibilities. If this were his own decision, he would have simply crushed the chimera's skull and been done with it. No need for imprisonment when execution was cleaner.
"Oh, right!" Peter's Gravattack form brightened with realization. He fumbled for the Null Void Projector at his belt, activating the device with a thought.
Reality tore open, revealing a swirling vortex of purple-black energy—the gateway to the prison dimension where the worst cosmic criminals were contained. Peter grabbed the barely-conscious Kl'rt and hurled him through the portal like discarding garbage.
The chimera's form tumbled into the void, and the gateway sealed behind him with a sound like tearing fabric.
"I almost forgot about this thing," Peter said sheepishly. "If I'd remembered earlier, I could have just thrown him in right at the start."
Caiera shook her head. "It's not that simple. The Null Void Projector does open a passage to the prison realm, but the gravitational forces involved are comparable to a black hole's event horizon. Without proper preparation, we could easily get dragged in ourselves."
"Really?" Peter's planetary form rotated with confusion. "I didn't feel any gravitational pull at all."
"First, you're currently Gravattack," Bill explained patiently. "Gravity manipulation is literally your entire existence right now. Second, the sheriff installed stabilization devices to minimize the effective range of the portal's attraction field. It's a safety feature to prevent friendly-fire accidents."
The stabilizers made the projector much safer for general use, but also meant it couldn't be relied upon as a primary weapon. Any opponent with enough mobility could simply avoid the portal's relatively limited range.
"Enough discussion," Caiera interrupted, her silver features set with determination. "We need to end this riot before more people die."
Compared to the Skrull Empire—which at least operated according to comprehensible political motivations—Caiera was far more concerned about the Incurseans forces. Those fanatics embodied chaos and disorder, attacking targets randomly with no strategic objective beyond spreading mayhem. They were genuinely lawless, representing one of the most unstable elements in galactic civilization.
"I think I saw Uncle Norman and Harry going after that Milleous guy," Peter offered uncertainly. "Maybe with Captain Rogers?"
Bill and Caiera both nodded, confidence evident in their expressions. They'd fought alongside Norman Osborn and Steve Rogers enough times to trust their capabilities.
"They should be able to handle it," Bill said.
They were wrong.
In a isolated corner of the Behemoth Star Ring, a figure in white Plumber uniform lay unconscious on the metal floor.
Steve Rogers. Captain America. Out cold.
Norman Osborn stood over him, silently removing his own face. The holographic mask deactivated, revealing pale, elongated features—too many joints, eyes that reflected no light. An Highbreed in perfect disguise.
"One down," the creature said with satisfaction.
Another Highbreed emerged from the shadows, its gaze lingering on Steve's unconscious form—specifically on his posterior, which remained prominently elevated even while prone. "With this one neutralized, only the Incurseans Empire remains uninfiltrated."
"Hmph." The first Highbreed made a dismissive sound. "Those incompletely evolved inferior lifeforms..."
He shook his head, genuine distaste evident in his body language. The Highbreed held all other species in contempt, categorizing them as "lower lifeforms" worthy only of assimilation or extinction.
But even within that hierarchy of disdain, there were gradations.
The Incurseans occupied a special position near the absolute bottom—so pathetic that even transforming them into orc-servants felt like a waste of resources and effort.
"Those creatures are already doomed by their own madness," he continued. "We don't need to pay them any attention. Their extinction will happen naturally, probably within decades, when the major empires finally get tired of their chaos and unite to annihilate them completely."
The timeline for assimilating the three major empires would take possibly decades or centuries—careful, methodical infiltration couldn't be rushed. But the Incurseans? They'd probably self-destruct or provoke someone powerful enough to glass their homeworld long before systematic conversion became necessary.
"Though I don't mind accelerating their demise," the Highbreed added thoughtfully. He produced a facehugger organism from his container, attaching it to Steve's face with practiced efficiency. The parasite's tentacles burrowed into neural tissue, beginning the conversion process.
Then he placed a holographic mask over his own features, the technology distorting his appearance until he looked identical to Steve Rogers—down to the last detail.
The second Highbreed observed the transformation, then frowned slightly. "Wait. Something's off."
"What?"
"Your posterior isn't prominent enough. Steve Rogers has a distinctively elevated gluteal structure. You need to adjust your body shape to match."
"..."
On the opposite side of the Behemoth Star Ring, almost as far from the previous scene as possible, the real Osborns—father and son in their white and green Neo-Goblin armor—were systematically carpet-bombing Emperor Milleous's position.
Pumpkin bombs rained down like apocalyptic hail, their distinctive laugh-inducing explosions vaporizing Incurseans warriors where they stood. The masked soldiers defending their emperor were blown to ash and vapor, their bodies offering no resistance to the advanced ordnance.
Milleous didn't spare his casualties a second glance. In his worldview, Incurseans citizens were expendable slaves—tools to be used and discarded without remorse.
"You useless wastes!" he screamed while fleeing, lashing out with kicks at the two zombie-like figures shambling alongside him in worker's coveralls. "I went through considerable effort to hire your Vreedle family! You're not here to freeload! KILL THEM!"
"Yes, yes, Emperor Milleous, sir," Octagon Vreedle mumbled while firing his weapon at the sky with terrible aim. "I really do want to kill them. Honest."
The two Vreedle brothers—least favored of Ma Vreedle's countless clones—had been assigned to bodyguard duty precisely because they were considered expendable. Smart enough to follow basic orders, stupid enough not to cause problems.
"Don't say that, Rhomboid," Octagon was thin and small, marginally more intelligent than his brother—though that was an extremely low bar. "If we kill our employer, Ma will twist our heads clean off our shoulders. You remember what happened to Hexagon."
"You're right," Rhomboid said miserably, his already-low spirits plummeting further.
"Don't be sad." Octagon fired a laser blast that, through sheer luck, actually hit Harry's glider and sent the young Osborn spinning. Taking advantage of that momentary success, he reached into his messenger bag and withdrew a small black box, holding it up like a precious treasure. "Anyway, we'll be free after this job's done. And don't forget what we managed to steal."
Rhomboid's eyes lit up with childlike glee. "The Ash-to-Ash Incinerator!"
"Exactly!" Octagon's grin was manic and disturbing. "So why don't we just press the button right now? Think how pretty everything will look when it burns!"
His finger moved toward the activation switch.