The sun was intolerable. Thick beads of sweat coated Freedomstrike's brow as he silently trudged toward the peak of a mountainous sand dune. His throat was parched; his stride was slightly sluggish, and his stomach was beginning to growl. He'd eaten just an hour ago, but a couple of minutes in this desert had already depleted him of the nutrients he'd consumed. He hated to admit it, but he'd severely underestimated how harsh these weather conditions would be.
Freedomstrike's entire costume, including his red boots, was crafted from Kavacha, a malleable, highly durable material that was standard issue for every Hero. Kavacha possessed numerous qualities, but unfortunately, heat negation wasn't one of them. Freedomstrike's feet ached with every step. His feet were on fire. Not literally, but for all intents and purposes, they might as well have been.
Every grain of sand felt red ants nibbling on his soles. Plumes of dark smoke should've risen from his crimson boots as he scrunched onward, but swirling winds eliminated that possibility. The wind blew in unforgiving gusts from all angles. Forty, fifty, sometimes one hundred plus miles an hour winds sporadically blasted through the terrain. His Aberrant abilities protected Freedomstrike from the furious winds and their harm, but they were an annoyance, nonetheless.
Sandstorms should've blanketed the skies, but miraculously, there hadn't been any thus far. That indicated that this sand was scientifically engineered and unnatural, just like everything else here.
At the top of the massive sand dune, Freedomstrike paused to observe his surroundings. This was the perfect vantage point. The desert stretched as far as his eyes could see. The sand dunes were nearly endless, save for the occasional rocky plateau that jutted out of the sand like broken teeth. The plateaus were likely the only places in this desolate terrain with solid footing. If Freedomstrike ran into an enemy, he hoped it would be there.
He swallowed what little spit he could muster in his mouth and began his slow descent from the towering sand dune. Right foot, left foot, right foot. Freedomstrike walked in a cautious rhythm, eyes glued to his feet. One wrong move and he'd be tumbling until gravity was done having its way with him. He was halfway to the bottom when a symphony of shouts suddenly drew his attention.
The voices were loud, angry, and aggressive. Freedomstrike instantly tried to locate their owners, warily scanning the perimeter, but lost his footing and, before he knew it, he was tumbling like a boulder. He landed face-first in a pile of boiling-hot sand. Freedomstrike sighed frustratedly, lifted himself up, and quickly rose to his feet. He spat out grains of sour sand as he glanced from side to side, up, down, and around.
No one appeared to be in his vicinity, which was extremely odd, but it could've easily been a trap. He refused to let his guard down. He surveyed his surroundings once more, and that's when he noticed something peculiar high in the sky. A tiny glowing holographic screen emerged, seemingly out of thin air, and expanded rapidly. It enlarged to roughly the length of a football field.
"So much for subterfuge," Freedomstrike groaned pessimistically. He'd intentionally avoided using his powers to conceal himself, but it was all for naught now. The enormous floating screen in the sky was a dead giveaway to his whereabouts. His enemies were surely en route now.
A scowl formed and deepened on Freedomstrike's face as he watched various images flash and fade away on the mammoth screen. Fans, spectators of all races, genders, and nationalities appeared in brief montages. They clapped, screamed, and applauded loudly in various languages that he was mostly fluent in. An incredibly powerful speaker of some kind had to be projecting the noise because it managed to dwarf out the occasionally howling winds, but Freedomstrike couldn't locate any such device.
But regardless, Freedomstrike realized this was what had rattled him earlier. He pondered flying up to the screen and destroying it, but it was probably pointless now, and the viewers at home would hate him for it. He opted to remain idle, watching as more images blipped onto the holographic screen. The fans vanished, and advertisements for bets appeared in their stead.
What Hero would launch the first attack? What Hero would be the last to fight? Would the terrain survive the battle? How long would the battle last? What Hero would sustain the greatest injuries? The bets went on and on. There were bets for practically everything, and every bet was sponsored by a different multinational corporation.
It was slightly sickening, but this was the reality of what Freedomstrike had signed up for. He balled his fists and tried to shove his personal feelings aside; he had a job to do. This is for my country, he silently reassured himself. He exhaled and launched himself into the air, hovering just high enough to peak over the tallest sand dunes. His enemies were approaching; he could sense it, but at least from this altitude, he'd be able to see them coming.
It didn't take long. In seconds, Freedomstrike saw a red-and-white blur streaking through multiple sand dunes. The sand dunes exploded as the blazing figure blasted through them, and it didn't take much effort to decipher who this enemy was. "Ashqal," Freedomstrike whispered the name. The man in question came to a screeching halt half a dozen yards away and locked eyes with Freedomstrike.
Had Ashqal heard his name called? It was unlikely. As far as Freedomstrike knew, the Moroccan Hero didn't possess enhanced hearing or any acoustic-related abilities. That was odd, but what was even more curious was the fact that Ashqal didn't even attempt to attack him. The tall Moroccan man simply stood there, glaring at him with steely eyes. Perhaps he was calculating his next move? Whatever the case, Freedomstrike decided to strike first and sprang into action, but immediately regretted it. A sizzling white bolt of lightning Krakoomed in front of him, narrowly missing him as he shifted to move.
Freedomstrike's ears rang like alarm bells, and a large, crooked fulgurite formed where the sand had been struck. Freedomstrike was disoriented, and someone else seized on the opportunity. A pulsating obsidian lance hit Freedomstrike square in his chest, knocking the wind out of him. The lance dissipated on impact, but Freedomstrike was still violently thrust backward and plummeted from the sky in the blink of an eye.
He crashed with a heavy bang that would've killed a normal human, but he survived with little to no injuries. Now on his knees, Freedomstrike attempted to gather his bearings but was granted no reprieve. A large, gloved fist bashed him in the face repeatedly. Each blow echoed even louder than lightning had, and the punches were so fast and vicious that Freedomstrike couldn't even open his eyes to see who was throwing them. It felt like his skull might crack at any moment, but he persevered through the pain, and the string of punches eventually ended.
Freedomstrike celebrated the minor victory, but something even worse replaced the punches. His eyes widened in shock when he was finally able to open them. A humungous metal mallet, the size of a small mountain, was descending toward him. The mallet was entirely too large for any human to wield, so where had it come from? It was something straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon.
Freedomstrike wanted to rub his eyes to confirm whether what he was seeing was actually real, but didn't have the time. It was too late. The mallet struck the desert like a meteor and vaporized everything in its path.