The sky split open.
Darkseid descended like a falling god, wreathed in omega flame and the echo of ten thousand conquered worlds. Each step he took scorched the earth. The air bent around him—not from weight, but from will.
Across the battlefield, time itself shivered.
Even the multiversal coalition fell silent. Superman stood frozen. Wonder Woman tightened her grip. The Spectre appeared high in the clouds. The Endless watched. The very multiverse held its breath.
And in the center of it all stood Raga, bare-chested, scorched by battle, his Wheel spinning faster than ever. At his side stood Death, her scythe glowing faintly with the light of endings.
Darkseid's voice was low. Inevitable.
"You were made for me."
Raga's eyes burned gold.
"No. I was made… to defy you."
Clash of Gods
They moved.
Faster than sound. Beyond vision.
The first clash cracked the sky—omega beams collided with the scythe of Death, sending arcs of entropy slicing through the battlefield. Mountains trembled. Reality bled.
Raga swung the scythe once—Darkseid caught the blade in his hand, smoke rising as it scorched his skin.
"You dare bring her weapon to me?" Darkseid growled.
"This isn't her weapon," Raga said. "It's mine now."
He spun, the Wheel adapting to Darkseid's omega aura—rewriting resistance into resonance. Each time the tyrant struck, Raga evolved. His skin reflected the beams. His bones thickened. His speed surged.
But Darkseid was eternal.
He knew adaptation.
So he changed his tactics—pulling from Anti-Life itself.
"I don't need to kill you," Darkseid said. "Just remind you that you are not free."
Raga staggered as a wave of raw Anti-Life Equation washed over him. Words echoed in his skull:
Obey. Serve. Endure. Submit. Accept. You are nothing.
The Wheel faltered.
His knees bent.
The Face of Tyranny
Darkseid stepped closer, towering above him. He raised a hand—ready to strip Raga's identity down to base code.
"You are what I made you. What I planned. What I own."
And then—
Death stepped between them.
Darkseid paused.
"You do not belong here," he said, voice colder than death.
"I always belong where something ends," Death replied.
She lifted her scythe—but did not strike.
"You've stolen too many endings. You've twisted too many fates."
Darkseid sneered. "I am fate."
"You are interruption," she said. "And I am the one who lets the story end well."
Darkseid raised a hand—and for the first time in eternity, he tried to erase Death.
She didn't move.
And his omega beam passed through her like light through shadow.
"I do not die," she whispered. "I wait."
And then she turned… and looked at Raga.
"Get up."
Transcendence
Raga's body shook beneath the weight of Anti-Life.
The words burned his mind.
Obey. Accept. Become Function.
But beneath it, another voice.
Hers.
"You write your own story."
And then—
He rose.
Slowly.
One foot at a time.
The Wheel behind him stopped spinning.
It didn't need to anymore.
Because he had gone beyond adaptation.
He had become choice.
"I am not your weapon," he said.
His voice resonated through every soul on the battlefield.
"I am not your seed. Not your function. Not your outcome."
He threw the scythe to the ground.
"I am the wheel that broke free."
Darkseid's eyes widened.
"Impossible."
Raga raised both arms—energy rippled from his skin, burning with something older than gods.
Not destruction.
Not preservation.
Reclamation.
The power of one who had survived tyranny… and learned to undo it.
The very Anti-Life inside him unraveled. Not as weakness. But as will.
Final Strike
Raga stepped forward.
Darkseid struck him—full power, omega wrath, the fury of a god undone.
Raga caught the blow in his hand.
Unharmed.
He looked into Darkseid's eyes.
"You took everything from me. And I found myself."
Then he struck.
Once.
Straight into Darkseid's chest.
Not with death.
Not with rage.
But with truth.
Darkseid screamed—not in pain, but in recognition.
He saw in Raga the one thing he feared:
A being he could neither rule… nor erase.
And then—
Darkseid vanished.
Not killed.
But banished—pulled by the Wheel's final spin into the multiverse's unmaking edges. A place even Anti-Life cannot reach.
The sky cleared.
The battlefield stilled.
And for the first time in a thousand years…
Darkseid was gone.
Aftermath
The war ended not with fire—but silence.
Parademons fell from the sky like dead insects. The Host of Apokolips vanished. The cracks in the multiverse sealed… slowly, carefully.
And in the center of it all, Raga stood alone.
No Wheel.
No weapon.
Just a man.
Death stepped beside him.
"You changed the story."
"I had to," he whispered.
"What will you be now?"
He looked out across the ruined battlefield. Friends, allies, strangers from a thousand Earths… all standing, watching.
Waiting.
He closed his eyes.
"Not a god."
"Not a weapon."
"Just… free."
She smiled softly.
"Then walk your road."
And she was gone.