CORE CITY CHRONICLE: 3 Legends meet the King.

 

The rain in Core City never falls by accident. It is measured, like the hum of the anti-shockwave lattice that threads the towers, like the pulse across several buildings shelter the citizens, like the emerald rhythm in Xeahule’s chest as he steps into Dragon Road. Neon billboards cast green and violet over wet asphalt. Jungle leaves, high on cable rails, sway without wind.

Reality wrinkles open above the Steel Citadel and leaves three silhouettes where the night should be. One descends with cape and certainty. One arrives grinning, aura crackling like a storm that wants to be loved. One lands as if he missed a step on a quiet staircase.

Their names belong to other worlds. Their reasons do not matter.

Xeahule does not breathe; he resonates. His voice is a ripple of photons across the square: You came to my home. You will not leave it standing.

Superman speaks first, because he always does. “If your power threatens peace, I will stop you.”

Goku tilts his head, delighted. “Show me everything. Don't hold back!”

Saitama scratches his cheek. “This won’t take long, right? I left stuff on the counter.”

Deterix watches from the precinct rooftop, cloak hanging like a shadow over steel. He does not shout. His voice travels the private line, low and iron-sure: Brother. End it clean.

The first impact is not a detonation; gods tuned this city against that. It is a fold in silence as Superman’s fist meets Xeahule’s forearm. Pressure blooms and dies at once. Clark blinks at the angle of his own wrist and then at the green light outlining the man who caught him. Xeahule rolls his shoulder—Wing Chun efficiency—turns an attack into absence, and drops a rising palm beneath the Kryptonian sternum. A crater ripples the pavement without shattering it. The lattice drinks the force like rain.

Goku arrives as a golden blur. Xeahule does not watch the blur; he watches the fractions between. Plank-time steps. Inside-line parries. Bone-deep economy. Elbow, wrist, throat, hip—each touch lands, each touch matters. Goku laughs even as he skids backward. “You’re fast. Faster and stronger than—heh—than I thought.”

Saitama walks. His punch is the quiet kind, like closing a door. Xeahule meets it with a half-step and a short hook, changes the angle, guides the force into the street where it diffuses against god-built rules. Saitama’s eyes narrow a fraction. “Huh.”

Citizens press hands to glass all watching nearby. As the news cast is recording the fight. The city chants, mouths shaping a single name Xeahule.

They try together. Heat vision carves lines through rain; Xeahule is already elsewhere. A Kamehameha thick as a train roars down Dragon Road; Xeahule’s hand negates it, green against blue, matter erasing into ordered nothing. Saitama commits to serious, at last—the kind of punch that ends stories. Xeahule plants and takes it, emerald flares crawling his skin. His bones do not break. His smile is small and without mercy.

Enough, his light says.

Superman comes again with the full weight of a star. Xeahule enters the clinch, not to wrestle, but to dismantle. Joint stack, hip cut, drop—Kryptonian mass becomes lever and then crash. Clark rises, bleeding solar light. Xeahule’s next two strikes are surgical: a nerve. A node. The heat in Superman’s gaze gutters. He falls. The lattice sips the force; nothing collapses but certainty.

Goku sheds play. Silver flows over him like a river finding its old bed. Ultra Instinct is not speed; it is rightness. He moves without choosing. Xeahule moves before choosing becomes possible. Green meets silver and writes a new math in air. For a long handful of heartbeats the city sees only light describing fists. Then Xeahule redirects a weightless step into gravity and brings Goku down with a palm that writes stop on the world. Stones ripple. Breath—the kind mortals need—rushes back into Goku’s lungs as a ragged laugh. He does not stand again.

Only Saitama remains on his feet, dust on his cloak, an annoyance in his eyes like an itch he cannot name.

“Okay,” he says. “That was decent.”

Xeahule’s answer is not a sentence. It is green; it fills the square; it is hunger and decision. He draws from soul and memory, from every hour he suffered to become a king, from every meal that re-kindled his flame. His hands lift. The air around them unlatches. What he holds is not a beam but a verdict.

Across every tower, the lattice brightens—aware, bracing—and holds.

Superman, stubborn even broken, dives through the heart of the blast that begins. His silhouette becomes outline, then ash, then less than ash. Goku rises on instinct alone and throws his last wave into a sea that does not reflect. It vanishes. He vanishes. Saitama does not dodge. He has never had to. The emerald erasure takes him slowly, because Xeahule wills it to be a lesson and not a blink. For a heartbeat the bald hero looks almost curious.

Then there is only rain, and the soft thunder of a city resetting its pulse.

Xeahule lowers his hands. The emerald dim does not fully leave him; kings do not fully lower their crowns. Deterix steps down from the roof, boots speaking weight into stone. He stands beside the victor and looks where the others are not.

His voice is for Xeahule alone. “You ended it clean.”

Xeahule’s reply vibrates through steel and vine and building: This is the price of crossing Core City.

The rain continues. It always does.

 

CORE CITY CHRONICLE: Even Legends can still learn a lesson.

 

The night tasted of neon and wet metal. Dragon Road glowed like an artery. Somewhere high, a dragon-bird coasted between monorail lines, whispering its ancient name. Xeahule stood in the open where three streets met, palms loose at his sides, the green flicker of his Soul tracing each knuckle.

The rift opened like a sigh. Three legends stepped through.

Superman landed with the easy authority of someone who saves. “We don’t want trouble,” he said, meaning it.

Goku hovered, hair already rising, grin bright. “C’mon. I definitely do.”

Saitama looked at the empty food stall to his left. “Do they do discounts after closing?”

Xeahule’s voice was light bending, not air. You’re far from your skies. Turn around.

Deterix was a shadow on the Police HQ parapet, hands folded, face unreadable. The gods’ lattice hummed in the bones of the city, ready to drink shock and leave only story.

Clark threw the first punch to test and to warn. Xeahule let it arrive and then wasn’t there. His counter was a thread through a loom. Shoulder, elbow, wrist, pivot—Clark learned the cost of overcommitment and skid in a clean arc that refused to break the street. He rose with a line of red at the lip and something like respect in his eye.

Goku didn’t wait. He arrived as motion; Xeahule met him with the kind of defense that is not retreat but argument. The Wing Chun centerline is a blade; the Xolic step is a vanishing. Goku laughed even as forearm met forearm and the meeting made sparks like first snow across neon. “You’re reading me,” he said, delighted. “Read this.” Blue washed over him. He vanished. He reappeared on the backbeat; Xeahule’s palm was already there, greeting him with gravity. Goku found himself through a holo-sign and into a safety net that unfolded from a tower like a flower.

Saitama lifted his fist, slow as boredom. Xeahule’s answer was a half inch of movement and a rearranged future. The punch went where Xeahule had been; the street did not shatter; the lattice drank the tantrum of physics and twined it into nothing. Saitama blinked. “Huh,” he said, slightly impressed, which for him was praise.

They circled. Rain drew borders around their feet and then erased them. The city chanted without sound.

When they came together, it was a knot of styles tied by a single mind. Clark’s shots, big and clean, found only guard and consequence—Xeahule’s return strikes were small and mean, breaking rhythm and balance without breaking bone. Goku, golden then silver, learned that speed collapses when the other man stands inside time. Saitama, irritated now, hit as if the world were a wall with a switch; Xeahule flipped the switch first.

The fight lasted longer than the first time because Xeahule allowed it to. He learned them. Respect, in his code, required demonstration.

“Stand down,” Clark said once, breathing hard in ways that reminded him he was under a yellow sun and still not invulnerable to doubt.

“Nope,” Goku said cheerfully, dropping into Ultra Instinct’s clean poise again. “This is the best.”

Saitama rubbed his shoulder. “You’re kind of a hassle.”

Xeahule did not lift the X Blade. It pulsed faintly miles away, severed from matter and always within call, but this was a night for empty hands. Weapons are crutches, his light said. My fists are enough.

They tried to end it in unison. Heat vision lit rain into rubies. A Kamehameha stretched like a comet. A serious punch made the air choose a direction and keep it. Xeahule’s Soul rose emerald and answered all three in a line a child could have traced. He moved once, and that once included a dozen places. He was palm on Clark’s face, turning beam aside into harmless color; heel on Goku’s knee, erasing a stance; shoulder against Saitama’s forearm, converting absolute into angle.

When the light un-brightened, they were on the ground. Not dead. Not erased. Finished.

Clark propped himself on an elbow, stared up through rain, and found himself smiling despite the cut on his tongue. “You could have killed us.”

Goku lay on his back with rain in his eyes, laughing. “He didn’t need to.”

Saitama sat cross-legged, cloak heavy, as if waiting for an apology from the weather. “So… you win.”

Xeahule’s glow dimmed to a king’s simmer. He offered Clark a hand and then Goku one; Saitama waved him off and stood without taking it, pride intact in some quiet corner. Xeahule’s words buzzed the lattice and the bones of buildings and the waiting hearts behind the building glass: Leave my city. Bring your best back to your own skies. Train. Grow. But do not come here again with careless hands.

Clark nodded, serious and grateful. “Understood.”

Goku floated up, winced, grinned. “Let me find a new ceiling. Then we’ll see.”

Saitama shrugged. “I’m going home.”

They went. Not defeated by humiliation, but by fact.

Deterix dropped from the parapet and landed at Xeahule’s side with a thud the city was happy to carry. He looked at the road where three legends had learned something and at the man who had taught them.

“You gave them mercy,” he said.

“I gave them the truth,” Xeahule answered, light soft as rain. They wouldn’t have survived the other lesson.

Deterix’s mouth tilted, almost a smile. “And Core City?”

Xeahule turned his head. People of the city came out surrounding them. Cheering and chanting Xeahule! Xeahule! As Xeahule can feel the chant in his bones, in the lattice, in the rain.

Core City stands, he said.

And the night, satisfied, went on.

 

Part I – Xeahule vs Omni-Man & Mark

Dragon Road was alive with light. The neon veins of Core City pulsed, winding through towers draped in steel and jungle vines, as markets hummed and voices carried into the night. Families sat beneath bioluminescent trees, vendors sold glowing fruit, warriors patrolled their streets.

Then the air trembled.

A ripple split the sky above the Steel Citadel, tearing through the stars. From the wound descended a figure of blood and iron. Omni-Man. His cape fluttered with arrogance, his mustache catching droplets of Core City’s gentle rain. His eyes swept the living city with contempt.

“You’ve built paradise,” he growled, voice low, venomous. “That makes it mine to cull.”

The streets went silent. Even the wildlife in the jungle high-rises stilled.

And then came a voice — not spoken, but resonating, a vibration that threaded through every stone and soul.

“Not tonight. Not ever.”

Xeahule stepped forward, his body wreathed in steady emerald fire. His green Soul aura pulsed like a second heartbeat, neither wavering nor flaring — a king’s calm, the rhythm of inevitability.

Omni-Man sneered. “I’ve slaughtered armies. You are one man.”

Xeahule tilted his head, expression unreadable. “I am King.”

The Viltrumite lunged. His fist carried the weight of collapsing mountains, the speed of lightning. Xeahule caught it mid-swing. For a fraction of a fraction of time, Omni-Man’s eyes widened. Then Xeahule pivoted his shoulder, using the Viltrumite’s momentum against him, and drove his palm into his ribs. Bone cracked like dry wood.

The lattice woven into Core City absorbed the shock, but the street dented beneath them. Omni-Man reeled, coughing blood.

The King pressed forward. Elbows, knees, fists — each strike surgically placed, each blow not just power but intent. Xeahule dismantled Omni-Man piece by piece.

“You’re strong—” Omni-Man spat blood.

Xeahule’s aura flared brighter, emerald fire consuming his form. “You are weak.”

He raised one hand, emerald flames spiraling into a condensed orb. The air bent around it. The rift above seemed to shrink. Omni-Man’s eyes widened as realization struck.

Xolic Blast.

The street erupted in green fire, swallowing the Viltrumite whole. Flesh, bone, arrogance — erased. Omni-Man was gone.

The people gasped in awe. But the sky split again.

Mark Grayson landed, older, stronger, his body humming with Viltrumite power. Blood-red aura burned around him, eyes glowing with rage.

“You killed my father,” he snarled. “Now face me at full power.”

Xeahule straightened, emerald aura humming. “Then die as he did.”

They collided in the air, faster than the eye could follow. Their fists blurred, slamming into one another with enough force to bend space. Mark pressed forward with desperation, throwing himself harder than his body could handle. Xeahule absorbed it all, bones unbroken, emerald fire unwavering.

Mark screamed, launching a final desperate strike. Xeahule caught his wrist, leaned close.

“You fight to prove yourself. I fight because I must.”

Emerald fire surged. The Xolic Blast consumed Mark whole, erasing him from existence. Silence followed.

From the precinct’s balcony, Deterix stepped forward, his Gorgothic voice rolling through the streets:
“Core City stands. Our King defends.”

From another perch, Axl the Time Warrior narrowed his eyes, arms crossed, dual aura faintly flickering. He had studied every motion. Every strike. Every choice. His father hadn’t faltered once.

But then the sky trembled again — not one rift, but many.

​

 

Part II – Axl’s Trial of Time

The stars tore open. Dozens of portals yawned above Core City, bleeding figures of every shape and era. Time-walkers, tricksters, warriors from across universes.

• Trunks, sword humming with ki.

• Silver the Hedgehog, psionics blazing.

• Bill Cipher, unfolding geometries of chaos.

• The Doctor, sonic screwdriver whirring.

• Rick and Morty, stumbling from a green portal.

• Tracer, blinking through the air.

• The Flash, lightning trailing in crimson arcs.

• Kang the Conqueror, armor bristling.

• Zamasu, immortal, sneering godhood.

• Dormammu, vast and dark, eyes burning.

• Dozens more — magicians, assassins, time demons, gods of clocks and strings.
   

And they all pointed at Axl.

The boy stepped down from his perch, dual-colored aura igniting in red-blue waves. His father’s hand brushed his shoulder.

“This is a death battle, not a sleepover. Get your ass moving, bud.”

The crowd laughed nervously. Axl smirked. “Yes, Father.”

He drew his Time Blade, the air around it warping, and the first wave charged.

 

The Slaughter

Trunks slashed downward with his sword. Axl froze time. The blade hung still. Axl circled behind him, blue aura blazing, and struck the Saiyan’s back with a blow that ruptured his heart. Trunks collapsed before he could breathe.

Silver screamed “It’s no use!” and hurled debris. Axl detonated a red spark inside his chest. Silver staggered, eyes wide, before a second explosion consumed him.

Bill Cipher twisted reality, laughing. “You think you can trap me, kid?”

Axl raised his palm. A Blank DDC card shimmered, runes glowing. Bill’s laughter cut short, his form unraveling as he was dragged into the crystal-bone prison, screaming. The card glowed with a mocking hum.

The Doctor stepped forward, pleading. “You don’t need to—”

Axl detonated him. Two hearts burst at once. The screwdriver fell. Silence.

Rick raised a plasma cannon, slurring obscenities. Axl froze time, plucked the gun away, and resumed. The cannon detonated in Rick’s arms, vaporizing him instantly. Morty wailed. Axl’s eyes narrowed. The boy was swallowed into a DDC card.

Tracer blinked mid-air. Axl froze her between steps. She gasped once before being shredded by a blue-empowered kick that ripped her apart.

Flash blurred across Dragon Road. For an instant, he seemed unstoppable. Then time stopped. Axl strolled up to him, studying the speedster’s frozen form. “I own time.” He drove his blade through Flash’s chest, lightning dying with him.

Kang raised his arsenal. Red explosions bloomed in his armor, tearing him apart piece by piece until only blood remained.

Zamasu sneered. “I am immortal—”

Axl sliced him a thousand times in frozen time. When it resumed, the god collapsed into ribbons. A final red detonation consumed what remained.

Dormammu towered, voice shaking the skyline. “I AM TIMELESS.”

Axl’s red-blue aura flared as he raised a Blank DDC card. The prison howled, dragging the demon’s vast soul into its crystal-bone lattice. Dormammu’s roar echoed and died.

 

Epilogue

One by one, they fell. Gods, demons, tricksters — erased, exploded, or trapped forever in the DDC cards. Dragon Road lay littered with ash, corpses, and glowing cards humming with bound souls.

Axl stood in the center, Time Blade dripping with blood and light, chest rising steady. He had not faltered once.

Xeahule and Deterix stepped forward.

Deterix: “He studied. He struck. He slaughtered. A Xolic heir.”

Xeahule (grinning): “Told you, boy. Death battle, not a sleepover.”

The citizens erupted in awe, chanting both names: Xeahule! Axl!

The King and his son stood together, green and red-blue fire painting the night. The multiverse had tested them. The multiverse had lost.

 

 

 

 

 

Core City Chronicle: Deterix’s Gauntlet

Prologue – After the Time Trial

Dragon Road still reeked of ash and ozone. The corpses of time-walkers littered the streets, and two Blank DDC cards pulsed faintly where Bill Cipher and Dormammu had been imprisoned. Citizens whispered in shock, pointing to the King and his son, who stood like gods in emerald and dual auras.

But the night wasn’t done bleeding.

Another ripple split reality, lower this time, jagged and sharp. From it stepped not titans, not gods, but gunmen. Dozens. Scores. Their footsteps rang heavy on the neon stone.

Axl (narrowing his eyes): “Father… I think this one’s for him.”

He tilted his head toward the third figure on Dragon Road — Deterix, trench coat catching embers, yellow eyes glowing beneath the mask. He cracked his neck, checked the chamber of his hand cannon, and chuckled.

“Bout time I got the spotlight.”

Moxx whispered in his skull: “Heh, don’t embarrass us, meatbag. Gunslingers are supposed to be quick.”
Zock added: “Or at least sexy. You’ve got one of those nailed, big boy.”

Deterix smirked. “Keep yappin’, I’ll use you for bottle openers.”

Xeahule folded his arms, emerald fire dimmed to a simmer. “Do it clean, brother. Core City’s watching.”

Axl smirked. “Don’t make us bail you out.”

Deterix spat a laugh, raising his Kukri blade and resting it casually against his shoulder. “Relax. I’ll make it fun.”

 

Wave One – The Anime Gunslingers

The first squad stepped forward.

• Vash the Stampede, long red coat snapping in the wind, silver gun already spinning in his hand.

• Jigen Daisuke, fedora tipped low, cigarette dangling, revolver drawn before anyone blinked.

• Spike Spiegel, hands in pockets, eyes lazy, cigarette smoke curling, but his finger already brushing the hammer of his pistol.
   

Vash grinned nervously. “Look, I don’t really want to—”
Jigen cut him off: “We’re here to kill. Don’t talk.”
Spike exhaled smoke. “Just don’t bleed on my jacket.”

Deterix’s mercury blood pulsed faintly in his veins. He rolled his shoulders. “Cute intros. You boys done flirting?”

Moxx snorted in his head: “Oh, you would.”
Zock: “He’s already wetting himself. I can smell it.”

The first shot cracked. Jigen’s revolver barked like thunder. Deterix moved — not fast like Axl, not infinite like Xeahule, but with ruthless, efficient grace. The bullet hissed past his cheek. He fired back with his hand cannon, mercury-tipped rounds blasting chunks of neon stone where Jigen had stood.

Spike weaved in, shooting from the hip. Deterix slashed his bullets in midair with the Kukri blade, the crystal edge sparking with emerald light. One round grazed his Xolic arm — the bone flared pink, Zock cackling: “Ooo, tickles.”

Vash raised his revolver, heart torn between mercy and duty. Deterix saw the hesitation. He moved — point-blank, fist slamming into Vash’s gut, mercury bullets loading themselves into his other pistol. He whispered: “Sorry, Redcoat.” And fired. Vash dropped, groaning, not dead but finished.

Spike flicked his cigarette away, serious now. “Not bad.” He rushed, hand steady. Deterix met him with blade and gun, sparks filling the night. For a second, it looked even — until Deterix headbutted Spike, then shot him through the thigh. Spike fell, laughing even as blood spread. “Figures…”

Jigen tried one last desperate headshot. Deterix caught the bullet in his Xolic arm. Moxx chuckled: “That all you got?” Deterix shot Jigen twice in the chest, leaving him smoking on the stone.

Wave one, down.

 

Wave Two – Sci-Fi Legends

The second squad arrived, heavier footsteps shaking the road.

• Robocop, pistol drawn, targeting systems locking.

• Terminator (T-800), eyes glowing red.

• The Mandalorian, rifle humming with energy.

• Boba Fett, jetpack roaring as he landed beside him.
   

Deterix exhaled, spinning his Kukri blade. “Oh, the cosplay squad. Let’s dance.”

Bullets and plasma screamed. Deterix ducked behind cover, guns blazing. His mercury rounds punched through Terminator’s steel chest, sizzling as liquid metal filled the wounds. Robocop staggered as Deterix’s blade sheared through his armor plating.

Boba Fett launched a rocket. Moxx screamed in his head: “Behind you, dumbass!” Deterix spun, slashing the rocket midair. The explosion tore the street apart, smoke blinding the field.

When it cleared, Fett was already on the ground — his helmet caved in by Deterix’s elbow. The Mandalorian tried to raise his rifle, but Deterix fired a shot of liquid mercury straight through the barrel, detonating the weapon in his arms.

Robocop limped forward, monotone voice glitching. “Dead… or alive…”
“Neither,” Deterix said flatly, and fired three mercury rounds into his head, shattering the visor.

The Terminator staggered last, half its face missing. It raised its shotgun. Deterix twirled the Kukri blade once and decapitated it with a single strike.

Wave two, gone.

 

Wave Three – Assassins & Marksmen

The third squad arrived, quieter, deadlier.

• John Wick, suit pristine, eyes cold, guns drawn.

• Deadshot, helmet shining, sniper rifle slung.

• Bullseye, flicking a blade between fingers.

• Revolver Ocelot, spinning twin pistols with a smirk.
   

John spoke first, calm as death. “I don’t care who you are. You killed my dog—”
Deterix blinked. “…I don’t even know you, pencil-boy.”

Bullets sang. Deadshot’s sniper cracked, Bullseye’s blade cut the air, Ocelot’s revolvers danced. Deterix weaved through them, his Xolic arms glowing as Moxx whispered trajectories and Zock screamed warnings. He deflected Bullseye’s knife with the Kukri blade, then shot him point-blank in the face.

Ocelot spun, laughing. “You’re good! But are you stylish?”
Deterix shot him in both knees, then blew him backward with a mercury round. “Stylish enough, cowboy.”

Deadshot repositioned. Axl, watching from the sidelines, muttered: “He’s fast… but not faster than Father.” Xeahule smirked: “He doesn’t need to be. He’s clever.”

Deterix ricocheted his own bullet off a neon sign — the shot struck Deadshot in the throat. The sniper fell, choking.

That left John Wick. He strode forward, reloading calmly. “You should have run.”

Deterix smirked. “You should’ve picked a prettier tie.”

They collided in a brutal, close-range firefight — pistols clashing, blades scraping, fists trading blows. Wick landed two body shots, but Deterix’s silver blood closed the wounds instantly. Wick’s eyes widened.

“Not human…”

Deterix slammed his Kukri blade through Wick’s chest, whispering in his ear: “Neither’s your ex.” He shoved him down, dead.

Wave three, gone.

 

Wave Four – Wildcards

The last squad arrived, ragged but fierce.

• Django, chain still dragging, revolvers blazing.

• Faye Valentine, pistol twirling, lips curling into a smirk.

• Jonah Hex, scarred face grim, twin pistols raised.
   

Faye stepped forward, hips swaying. “Well, aren’t you tall, dark, and bulletproof. Buy a girl a drink before you shoot her?”

Deterix chuckled. “Baby, after I’m done, you’ll be begging for seconds.”

Xeahule pinched the bridge of his nose. “Even in a death battle, he flirts.”
Axl laughed softly. “That’s Deterix.”

Django fired first. Deterix rolled, fired back, and blew Django’s revolver apart. Hex aimed steady, but Zock screamed in his head: “Left, idiot!” Deterix spun, shot Hex through the scarred side of his face, and dropped him instantly.

That left Faye. She smirked, raising her gun. “Guess this is it, handsome.”
Deterix sighed. “Shame. I kinda liked you.”
He fired. So did she. Both bullets crossed midair. Her shot grazed his cheek. His tore through her chest. Faye staggered, smiled bitterly, and collapsed.

Wave four, gone.

 

Epilogue – The Smoker Still Stands

Deterix wiped his blade, reloading his pistols calmly. Moxx chuckled: “Well, that was foreplay.”
Zock: “Bet he’ll need Vanguard next round. Wanna put money on it?”

Xeahule stepped forward, emerald fire faintly glowing. “You held Core City tonight, brother.”

Axl nodded, smirking. “Messy, but effective.”

Deterix blew smoke from his pistol. “Messy’s fun.”

The crowd erupted, chanting all three names now — Xeahule. Axl. Deterix. The defenders of Core City.

​

 

Core City Chronicle: War of the Multiverse Gods (Extended Duels)

 

Clash One: Odin, the All-Father

The first to descend was Odin, spear Gungnir humming with cosmic fire, ravens shrieking overhead. His one good eye blazed like the forge of dying stars.

“King of Core City,” Odin thundered, “you defy gods as if you are above them. I will teach you humility.”

He hurled Gungnir. The spear tore through the sky, warping reality with each spin. Xeahule tilted his head and let his emerald aura flare. The spear struck his chest — and stopped. The point did not pierce. It quivered, trapped against unbreakable bone.

“Your forges make toys,” Xeahule vibrated. “Mine is permanence.”

He snapped the spear in his hand like brittle glass and drove a palm into Odin’s chest. The All-Father staggered. Xeahule followed — elbow to jaw, knee to ribs, emerald aura burning each strike deeper. Odin swung his fists, power of Asgard in each blow, but Xeahule weaved through them, countering with surgical precision.

Finally, Xeahule’s fist rose high, green Soul fire roaring, and he struck Odin down. Bones cracked, the All-Father’s body crumpling. One-eyed defiance dimmed into silence.

 

Clash Two: Zeus, the Storm-King

The sky split with lightning as Zeus descended, crown of sparks burning around his head, thunder booming with his every breath.

“You dare slay Olympus’ kin? You dare face me, the father of gods?” His voice cracked the air itself.

Bolts rained like spears, splitting towers. Citizens screamed. Xeahule raised his hand, emerald fire flaring, and caught the lightning in his palm. He crushed it. The sparks fizzled into emerald embers.

“Your storms,” he said softly, “are raindrops against me.”

Zeus roared and charged, fists wrapped in thunder. Xeahule advanced calmly, weaving through the storm. Each bolt cracked harmlessly against his aura. Each punch Zeus threw was countered — wrist snapped, elbow redirected, jaw shattered by an emerald hook.

At last, Xeahule caught Zeus by the throat, lifted him high above the plaza, and crushed his crown of lightning with his free hand. Sparks died. He drove Zeus into the ground, leaving the storm-king broken, crownless.

 

Clash Three: Ra, the Sun God

The heavens blazed as Ra descended, his form radiant, wings of solar fire stretching across the horizon. His presence made the citizens squint, shielding their eyes.

“Child of dust,” Ra intoned, “I am the eye of the sun. To defy me is to defy light itself.”

He spread his wings, searing towers and jungle alike. Xeahule leapt, emerald fire burning brighter to meet solar flame. They collided in the air, emerald fist meeting sun-blazing talon.

The shock blinded the night. Core City’s stabilizers groaned under the force. Ra clawed with wings that could slice worlds, but Xeahule countered with devastating strikes: hammer-fist to shoulder, knee to gut, elbow to beak.

Ra shrieked, flames spraying. Xeahule seized his wing mid-sweep and tore it free. Fire spilled across the sky. With one final kick, Xeahule sent Ra plummeting into a neon tower, which absorbed the impact without collapse, as gods had built it to.

Ra lay motionless, light extinguished.

 

Clash Four: Shiva, the Destroyer

Shiva danced down from the rift, blue skin glowing, multiple arms whirling in impossible rhythm. Each hand held a weapon: trident, drum, flame, blade.

“Creation, preservation, destruction,” Shiva said serenely. “All are mine to command. You are but one note in my dance.”

He moved — a blur of limbs, each strike carrying divine inevitability. Xeahule stepped into the storm, emerald aura forming a shield around him. Each strike was parried, redirected, countered. A trident thrust slid past Xeahule’s ribs as he drove a green-lit fist into Shiva’s side. A flaming palm met an emerald forearm and guttered out.

Shiva spun, blades whistling. Xeahule ducked, driving a knee into his chest. Bones cracked. Shiva’s serene face twisted in shock. Xeahule’s counterstrikes came faster, harder — a chain of elbows and punches dismantling the god’s rhythm.

Finally, Xeahule drove both fists into Shiva’s chest. Emerald fire erupted, piercing through. Shiva collapsed mid-dance, silenced.

 

Clash Five: The Living Tribunal

The earth shook as the Living Tribunal descended, three faces glaring with eternal judgment, golden scales in hand.

“Xeahule of Core City,” it boomed, “your existence violates the balance. You will be unmade.”

Its hand, vast as a continent, descended. The people cried out. Axl clenched his fists, ready to leap.

Xeahule raised one finger. The emerald spark stopped the Tribunal’s hand mid-fall.

“Your laws do not bind me.”

He leapt, emerald aura spiraling, and struck the Tribunal’s hand with a single punch. Golden metal shattered, fragments raining down like stars.

The Tribunal reeled, roaring. It tried to rewrite him, words of cosmic law etching across the air. Xeahule’s green fire flared brighter, the words dissolving before they could take form.

He punched again, emerald fist driving through the Tribunal’s chest. The god of judgment screamed as its golden form cracked, light spilling out. Then it fell, broken.

 

Clash Six: Galactus, the Devourer

The city dimmed as Galactus loomed, vast and hungry, his voice shaking the planet.

“I am hunger. I am eternity’s end. You are prey.”

Xeahule did not flinch. He leapt skyward, emerald aura blazing like a comet, and slammed his fist into Galactus’ helm. Metal cracked. The giant reeled, clutching his head.

Galactus swung, hand the size of mountains. Xeahule dodged, spiraling upward, driving punches into his chest, each blow detonating with emerald fire. The cosmic titan groaned, staggering.

Finally, Xeahule gathered his power and hurled a Xolic Blast directly into Galactus’ face. The explosion consumed his helm, tearing through his form. Galactus collapsed into the neon seas, his hunger silenced.

 

Clash Seven: Darkseid

From the rift stepped Darkseid, his gaze already glowing with Omega beams. His voice was gravel, absolute.

“You cannot stop tyranny. You cannot stop Darkseid.”

Omega beams lashed out, twisting through the air, bending reality itself. They struck Xeahule square in the chest. The King did not fall. His bones did not break. His aura flared emerald, consuming the beams until nothing remained.

Xeahule exhaled, a soundless vibration. The beams fizzled into ash.

Darkseid’s eyes widened. Xeahule stepped forward, slow, deliberate. Each step shook the tyrant’s resolve. Then Xeahule punched. Emerald fire erupted. Darkseid staggered, ash spilling from his form. Xeahule punched again, and the god of tyranny crumbled into dust.

 

Finale: The One Above All

Silence fell. The gods lay defeated. The sky dimmed. And then presence descended.

No shape. No face. Only will. The One Above All.

It pressed down on Core City like an ocean crushing an ant. The people gasped, unable to move. Axl froze. Even Deterix wavered.

Only Xeahule stood tall. His emerald aura hummed calm.

“You made universes,” he said, his voice resonating through creation. “But you did not make me.”

The will descended to erase him, to unwrite his existence. Xeahule’s green fire flared brighter. He raised his fist.

The towers pulsed in rhythm. The jungle leaned. The moons froze.

He punched.

The One Above All rippled, flickered, and dissolved like smoke in emerald wind.

 

Epilogue

Core City stood untouched. The people roared. Axl stepped forward, awe in his voice: “You… you killed the gods themselves.”

Xeahule rested a green-lit hand on his son’s shoulder. “Remember this, Axl. Gods write worlds. Xolics endure them.”

Deterix laughed, thunder shaking the plaza. “Not even eternity can cage you, brother.”

Xeahule “Are we done dealing with ass clowns? If so lets get a drink.’

And in that moment, across multiverses, even gods learned to fear Core City.

Core City Chronicle: Crown of One

Prologue — After the Heavens Burned

Dragon Road steamed where divinity had died.

The gods had come like weather, and the King of Core City had ended them like rumors. Now the neon veins of the city pulsed calm again. Vines draped from skyways. Towers breathed. Music tried to creep back into the streets.

Xeahule stood where judgment had shattered. Emerald soullight washed the stone around his bare feet, steady as a heartbeat. To his right, Axl the Time Warrior leaned on his scabbard, blue-red halo thinned to an ember. To his left, Deterix adjusted the weight of his hand cannon and the Kukri Xolic blade at his hip. His fused Xolic arms — Moxx (a bright, sardonic silver) and Zock (a wicked pink) — hummed in his nerves, gossiping in his skull.

Moxx purred: “City’s quiet again. Did we miss last call?”
Zock snickered: “I could go for last rites.”

From balconies and skybridges, the citizens watched their guardians. They didn’t cheer yet — superstition hushed their throats. On nights like this, the multiverse listened.

It answered.

The sky folded. Not like a tear; like teeth.

Portals irised open above Dragon Road. Power fell through in squads — not pilgrims, not peace. Predators. Tyrants. Nightmares.

Axl exhaled. “Father… round three.”

Xeahule’s green smolder never wavered. “Then we dance.”

 

Squad I — The World-Breakers

They landed like meteors and lined up like a firing squad.

Doomsday snarled, bone spurs wet with memory.
Thanos, Gauntlet glittering, smiled as if the night were his.
Beerus, bored and beautiful, flicked imaginary dust from his sleeve.
Sauron strode in black mail, his mace dragging sparks across the street.
Sephiroth drifted to the flank, Masamune trailing a cold hymn.

“King,” Thanos said, admiring the Gauntlet’s glow in his palm, “you’ve made a very loud universe.”

Xeahule rolled his shoulders, emerald haze deepening. “And I made it harder to die in. Want to test that?”

Doomsday tested first.

He charged — a grey avalanche. Xeahule met him with a step so sharp it carved a new angle into the night; his forearm sank into Doomsday’s throat, his knee jolted the monster’s pelvis sideways, a green flare writing break through invincible cartilage. Doomsday swung wild. Xeahule slipped inside the arc and hammered six emerald blows into a single rib. The rib forgot the meaning of matter.

Doomsday fell to a knee.

“Interesting,” Beerus murmured.

Thanos snapped.

Nothing happened.

The stones lit and screamed and reached for rules; Xeahule’s aura answered with a low emerald growl and every rule curled up and slept.

“Ah,” Thanos said softly. “Outside the edit.”

“Outside your reach,” Axl added, almost apologetic.

Sauron surged, mace howling. Xeahule caught the haft on his palm, wrenched — armor shrieked; the Dark Lord pitched forward. The King’s elbow descended once. Black steel concaved like a drum struck by a god. Sauron’s helm split. His body forgot to stand.

Sephiroth ghostswept in, Masamune whispering for a throat. Deterix stepped to intercept — blade met blade. Sparks spun and died in the lattice air.

Sephiroth’s smile barely tilted. “You’re not the King.”

Deterix’s voice went low and lazy. “I’m the flavor.” His Kukri slid along the long sword with a kiss of green. He shoved, fired two mercury rounds point-blank into Sephiroth’s hip, and headbutted him for manners. The One-Winged Angel floated back, amused and bleeding starlight.

Beerus yawned and lifted two fingers. The street behind Xeahule unmade itself in a clean purple bite. The anti-shockwave lattice drank the wound; the city held. Xeahule turned his gaze to the God of Destruction.

“I like the color,” he said. “Mine’s better.”

Beerus vanished and reappeared with a palm at Xeahule’s heart. The King didn’t parry. He took it. His bones didn’t break. Beerus’s ears twitched — surprise, then delight.

“Finally,” Beerus breathed, and struck again.

They blurred. Palms, knees, shoulders. Beerus floated on economy; Xeahule walked on inevitability. Purple annihilation cracked against emerald permanence and found no purchase. Xeahule’s counters were short and cruel — a thumb along a tendon, a heel to a shin, a knuckle pressed where gods forgot they were mortal.

Beerus skipped back, pupils thin. “Enough foreplay.”

“Promise?” Xeahule asked, and smiled. He stepped through space — not teleportation, not speed; decision — and his fist kissed Beerus’s jaw. Green language wrote itself in the air: Sleep.

Beerus did, folding into the street like a silken cat.

Doomsday roared back to full and leapt. Xeahule didn’t even look; Axl raised one palm, blue ticking once. Time froze for everything that wasn’t a Xolic. In the sculpture of that moment, Axl set three red motes in Doomsday’s chest and stepped away. Time resumed. Doomsday imploded quietly, the lattice sipping the tantrum, the body learning humility molecule by molecule.

Thanos lifted the Gauntlet again, tired of spectacle. “My turn.”

He swung reality like a hammer.

Emerald withstood it.

Xeahule crossed the distance in a breath and closed his hand over Thanos’s bejeweled fist. “Nice bracelet,” he said, dry. With the other hand he tapped the Titan’s sternum — not hard; exactly. Thanos’s breath shook. The Gauntlet dimmed. Xeahule’s grip crushed metal and myth. Gems squealed. Something older than color gave.

Thanos staggered, unarmed. Deterix shot him in the kneecap out of principle.

“King,” Thanos said, on one knee, “if I had met you earlier, we’d have shared the universe.”

“Unfortunately for you,” Xeahule said, emerald steady, “I eat alone.”

The Xolic Blast blossomed in his palm and erased the Titan where he knelt.

Sephiroth glanced between the three defenders, smiled like a hymn’s last note, and lifted Masamune for one beautiful, doomed cut.

Axl’s time blade flashed once; the long sword fell in two perfect pieces.

Sephiroth looked down, surprised enough to laugh. “So this is what it feels like.”

Deterix’s bullet completed the sentence.

Squad I ended.

Xeahule rolled his neck, green fire steady. “Next.”

 

Squad II — Hell & Hunger

The street chilled.

Mephisto arrived with a contract. Trigon unfolded six burning eyes and a father’s malice. Spawn walked out of the smoke wearing a cape that remembered nightmares. From the edges, a Predator clan clicked applause while Alien Queens traced glossy crowns above sewer grates.

Deterix popped the magazine on his hand cannon and fed a line of shimmering silver slugs — a finger prick each, mercury drawing itself into bullets. “All the exes in one place,” he murmured. “Hot.”

Moxx sighed in his head: “If hell had hinges, you’d flirt with them.”
Zock crooned: “I’d flirt with that cape.”

Mephisto’s smile bared civility like fangs. “King. A game. Wager your city against my dominion. We’ll—”

Xeahule walked through the devil’s words and struck him in the mouth.

Civility shattered. The devil skidded across Dragon Road on his back, contract fluttering after him like a shameful scarf.

Trigon thundered rage — a red cathedral of it. Axl lifted two fingers and the cathedral slowed to a crawl; the boy stepped through the red storm, placing little red detonations in each of Trigon’s eyes the way a careful tailor sets buttons. Time resumed. The demon god howled without eyes.

“Card,” Xeahule said — a single word, not a plea; a verdict.

Axl drew a Blank DDC from his sash. The crystal-and-bone lattice woke hungry, runes whispering. Axl bled energy into it and lifted the card like a judge lifts a gavel. Mephisto lurched to his knees and tried to become smoke. The prison’s geometry did not believe in smoke. It believed in souls.

Mephisto’s howl cut off as the card drank him.

Trigon tore the air open with blind claws. Axl set the yawning card in front of him like a mirror. The demon stumbled into his own judgment and bled into bone. The card glowed a low, angry red and then went quiet.

Spawn stared at the place where devils had been and tipped his head to Xeahule. “I’m not with them.”

“Good,” Xeahule said. “Help us cull the bugs.”

The Predator clan obliged first, shots like hot coins, cloaks blinking in and out as they hunted for angles. Deterix laughed — a low, delighted sound — and ran into them with guns barking. Mercury rounds ate cloaks; the Kukri kissed mandibles. A Predator’s spear found Deterix’s shoulder; Zock pealed with gleeful outrage and the pink arm squeezed the shaft to paste. “Get your hands off my man,” she cooed, and Deterix buried the blade in the hunter’s chest for emphasis.

Axl carved lanes through chittering Aliens, blue time-slices neatly separating queens from throats. A hiss swelled behind him — a queen pounced; Moxx screamed in Deterix’s head, “behind the kid!” — and the Gorgothic shot once without looking. The queen’s crown exploded into wet handwriting.

“Thanks, uncle,” Axl said, never turning.

“Buy me coffee,” Deterix replied, already shooting the next nightmare.

Spawn tore a Predator mask off and threw it into an Alien jaw, then opened hellfire along a skyline where more were creeping. Xeahule stepped under the rain of acid and simply existed; it could not know how to burn him.

When the last mandible stilled and Spawn’s cape folded like a napkin, the hell soldier nodded again. “King.”

“Soldier,” Xeahule returned. “Leave by the door you came.”

He did.

Two red cards pulsed at Axl’s hip, heavy as verdicts.

“Drink after this?” Deterix asked, wiping blood off the Kukri on a fallen cloak.

“Shia Bar,” Xeahule said. “If any fool is still alive to stop us, he’ll die disappointed.”

 

Squad III — Horror & Heroes

They came louder and stranger.

Freddy giggled with knives for fingers and rules for clothes.
Jason padded in with wet patience and a machete that remembered teens.
Ash Williams sauntered up with a chainsaw hand and a grin that wasn’t entirely sane.
DOOM Slayer wasn’t a person so much as a concussion heading for a problem.

“Whoa,” Ash said, seeing Deterix. “Nice chin. You moisturize with gun oil?”

“Depends who’s watching,” Deterix said. “Wanna buy me a drink after I shoot your friends?”

Freddy tittered and tried to whisper sleep across Dragon Road. Axl tilted his head. “No.”

Time froze inside Freddy’s tricks. The dream bent like tin in a furnace and fell out of the sky as dead sparkles. Freddy’s grin went brittle. “That’s rude.”

Axl walked to him, eyes very calm, and detonated a red mote in his chest. “So am I.”

Jason swung for Axl’s neck. Xeahule caught the machete in his palm and pushed. Unstoppable met unmovable. Jason slid back a meter, boots squealing on stone, then toppled. The King placed the blade across the killer’s chest and drove a green fist down. A mask cracked; a legend leaked.

DOOM Slayer punched Deterix before words could be invented. The impact threw the Gorgothic a dozen meters; he landed in a low crouch and laughed, delighted.

“Marry me,” Deterix said, and shot the Slayer in the visor until the glass complained. The Slayer kept coming. Deterix slid under a haymaker, rolled up the back of a fallen Predator, and emptied a mercury clip into the Slayer’s spine. The big man barely noticed. Deterix met him at clinch range with sharp knees, the Kukri finding meat between plates, Moxx whispering angles like a lover. The Slayer slammed him into a column. Zock squealed and fired a pink shock along Deterix’s arm; the next stab drove deeper. The Slayer staggered. Deterix spun the Kukri once and buried it at the base of the skull with a grunt that sounded suspiciously pleased.

Ash revved his chainsaw and looked around at the corpses. “Okay, I did not sign the waiver for this party.”

“Door,” Axl said, opening a clean blue line in space.

Ash saluted with the saw. “Groovy.” And left.

“Man has taste,” Deterix said, panting.

Moxx sniffed: “So do you. Unfortunately.”

 

Squad IV — The Last Gambles

Power coiled. A hush fell that didn’t belong to mortals.

Two presences unfolded: The Beyonder, curious as a child with a hammer, and Zeromus, hate congealed into shape. Between them fluttered Sephiroth’s wounded ghost — proud, silent, already learning from losing.

“Fascinating,” the Beyonder said, studying Xeahule’s aura. “A constant no equation dissolves.”

Zeromus hissed wordless annihilation.

Axl glanced to his father. “Card?”

“Not yet,” Xeahule said. “Let them try to write.”

The Beyonder tried. Reality tilted like a barstool under a liar. Core City’s anti-shockwave lattice braced hard, groaning. Xeahule’s green rose, calm and absolute, and the tilt corrected. Where the Beyonder’s thought pressed, the emerald field said no with the patience of a mountain.

“Delicious,” the Beyonder murmured. “What if I—”

He never finished. Xeahule was already there, fist on the white god’s brow, pressing him backward across the sky like a thumb rubbing a smudge off a mirror. The Beyonder reached for more universe to throw; Xeahule’s next punch convinced the universe to sit down. The white one folded, surprised to discover he had edges, and fell out of himself.

Zeromus rushed the vacuum. Hate becomes gravity when it forgets the rest. It tried to become everything in the same second. Axl stopped that second and pulled it longer until Zeromus had to choose a shape for each frame. Then he set red detonations inside the choices. Hate learned anatomy in a hurry and didn’t enjoy the class.

“Now,” Xeahule said. Axl bled power into a DDC card. The prison’s lattice thrummed with ancient appetite. Zeromus’s howl went thin and then quiet as the crystal-bone web drank him like a dark star drinks a scream.

The Beyonder stood again, hand to his jaw, smiling like a new believer. “I had to know if anything could resist.”

“And now you know,” Xeahule said.

“I do,” the white god agreed, and bowed — not in submission; in respect — before untangling himself from the night and leaving it cleaner.

Sephiroth’s ghost wavered on the fringe. He met Axl’s gaze and inclined his head, a duelist’s promise for a rematch in some other music. Then he was gone, too.

Silence came honest at last.

The three defenders stood amid it, breath visible only because the night wanted proof that something mortal still lived in kings.

 

Epilogue — Shia Bar

The city started breathing again — first the towers, then the streets, then the people. Doors opened. Laughter crept back in on shaky feet. Dragon Road glowed like a river of neon forgiveness.

Axl adjusted the two heavy DDC cards at his hip; their runes pulsed like sleeping embers. “I saved the big ones,” he said. “Felt right.”

“Good boy,” Deterix drawled, cleaning the Kukri on a dead god’s cloak. “Your old man raised you with taste.”

Zock cooed in his head: “And a backside.”
Moxx made a scandalized sound: “We are in public.”
“Yeah,” Deterix said aloud, smirking at nothing. “We are.”

Xeahule’s emerald dim lowered to a halo. He turned his face toward a sign three blocks down where a lacquered script glowed SHIA BAR in a permanent dusk tone.

“Last rule of the night,” he said, voice carrying on a ripple that held the street. “No one fights in Shia Bar. Not gods. Not devils. Not me.” He started walking, and the city parted like silk. “Break it, and the universe forgets you ever breathed.”

Axl fell in at his right shoulder, Deterix at his left, boots ticking a confident metronome. The crowd didn’t cheer. They bowed.

At the door, Xeahule paused and looked back once, emerald eyes holding the world that had thrown everything it had and learned a hard truth.

He grinned — a small, dangerous thing. “If there’s anyone left with a death wish,” he said, “make an appointment.”

Deterix slung an arm around his shoulders and added, “Bring flowers. I love flowers.”

Axl rolled his eyes, deadpan. “And a mop.”

They stepped into Shia Bar. The night outside kept its manners. The multiverse, for once, listened.

And somewhere far above, where editors once believed they held all the pens, a blank page stayed blank — because the Xolic who walked into a bar didn’t need rewriting. He already was the rewrite.

There is one King of Core City. And his name is Xeahule.

 

Core City Chronicle: After the War, a Drink

Shia Bar — No Fights, Only Life

The door creaked open on Shia Bar, and the whole universe seemed to bow its head.

Neon lanterns flickered low, glowing soft purple and green. The air smelled of grilled meat, spilled alcohol, and incense that only Gorgothics could tolerate. At the bar, polishing a glass that didn’t need polishing, stood Mr. Logic — scowling, bored, but alive.

He saw Xeahule enter first — emerald aura simmering low, eyes heavy from victory — then Axl, cards clinking at his belt, and Deterix, guns still smoking, coat shredded.

“Really?” Mr. Logic muttered, setting the glass down harder than necessary. “You three again. Can’t you take your apocalypse mess somewhere else?”

Deterix leaned on the bar, grinning. “Miss us, sweetheart?”

“Like I miss hemorrhoids,” Mr. Logic snapped.

Axl smirked. “That’s a yes.”

Xeahule’s green lit a chair as he sat. “Logic. Three drinks. No talk of fees.”

Logic grumbled but moved. “One Xolic Elixir for the walking nuke, one 1:11 bomber for trench coat boy, and… what are you drinking, time kid?”

Axl leaned back. “Water. I have work later.”

“Pathetic,” Deterix said, already knocking his bomber back. The glass smoked. “This is how real men melt their insides.”

“You’re not real men,” Moxx muttered in his head.
Zock purred: “He’s my real man.”

“Stop flirting with my organs,” Deterix muttered aloud.

“Again?” Logic sighed, dropping their food: a platter of sushi glowing faintly with alien light, honey BBQ wings sizzling, and a bowl of spicy noodles hot enough to kill a normal Gorgothic.

Xeahule tore into wings like a soldier coming home. “Good,” he rumbled. “Better than godflesh.”

“Did you just compare my cooking to gods?” Logic squawked.
“Favorably,” Xeahule replied. “Don’t ruin it.”

 

Family Arrival

The door slid again. Kiraki burst in first, lime-green Soul glowing faintly, sarcasm already dripping.

“Dad, you just wiped out gods and now you’re… eating wings? Really?”

Xeahule smirked over a bone. “Even gods don’t make sauce like this.”

She rolled her eyes, sat beside Axl, and stole a sushi roll. “I swear, this family measures victories in calories.”

Behind her stumbled Vexx, his yellow aura tripping over the carpet before he faceplanted into a chair.

Deterix barked a laugh. “Smooth entrance, sunshine.”

“Shut up,” Vexx groaned, rubbing his head. “I’m tactical, not coordinated.”

“Tell that to the chair,” Kiraki muttered.

Xeahule wiped sauce from his chin, smirking. “Children. Sit. Eat. This is what survival tastes like.”

Vexx brightened when he saw Axl’s hip. “Wait — those are the DDC cards from tonight, right? Who’d you bag?”

Axl smirked, pulling the two glowing cards free: one pulsing with Bill Cipher’s laughter, the other heavy with Dormammu’s silence.

“Decent,” Vexx said, impressed. “We’re gonna duel later. You and me. Soul-on-soul. Unless you’re scared?”

Axl smirked. “Scared you’ll trip and lose again?”

The twins bickered, Kiraki poking, Vexx snapping, while Xeahule just leaned back, sipping his Elixir.

“Children arguing means I won. If they were silent, I’d worry.”

 

The God of Death

The bar door didn’t open this time. It shivered.

Death Devom stepped through as if the room had always belonged to him. A battered hat shadowed his eyes, one a collapsed star, the other white as a void. Beside him floated Brimstone, his wife — smoky, sensual, adoring. Her fingers traced his sleeve like every touch was worship.

Mr. Logic stiffened behind the bar. “Oh, great. Him.”

Death Devom’s voice was a soft bell toll. “Sandwich.”

Logic scrambled, pale. “Yes, sir. Extra mustard, no delay.”

Brimstone kissed her husband’s jaw, eyes heavy with fire. “Darling, you’re perfect when you eat. Do that thing with the crumbs again later…”

Xeahule raised his glass in respect. “Brother of endings.”

Devom tipped his hat. “Brother of permanence.” He sat, and the bar itself leaned toward him in reverence.

Deterix whispered to Axl, “That guy creeps me out more than your dad.”
Axl whispered back, “He creeps out everyone.”

Brimstone giggled, overhearing. “Good.”

 

Hoski on TV

Screens above the bar lit. Hoski, one of Xeahule’s queens, appeared, sharp in her coach’s jacket, hair tied, eyes blazing.

“And that’s why the Dragon Core Hockey Team is going to smash Retro City in the finals! You hear me, Retro? We’re coming for you!”

Fans screamed in the background. Hoski grinned like fire.

Deterix raised his glass. “That’s a queen who could coach me into bed.”
Kiraki threw a sushi roll at him. “That’s my mom, you creep!”
Moxx chuckled in his skull: “Shame you missed.”

Xeahule smirked faintly, sipping. “She trains them harder than I fight. Retro City should forfeit now.”

 

Scarlet’s Arrival

The door opened again. Scarlet 1:11, crimson hair blazing, hips swaying, eyes only for Deterix.

“Miss me, lover?”

Deterix almost spat his drink. “Scarlet!” He jumped up, pulling her in, kissing like the war hadn’t ended until now.

Moxx sighed: “Here we go.”
Zock crooned: “Finally some action.”

Scarlet sat on his lap, swiping his bomber for herself. “You boys looked hot killing gods. I nearly passed out just watching.”

“Stick around,” Deterix smirked. “We might duel for dessert.”

Xeahule smirked. “This bar survives everything but your flirting.”

Scarlet giggled. “And you survive everything but her wings,” she teased, pointing at Xeahule’s plate.

 

Closing — The King’s Line

The table buzzed with laughter, insults, and sarcasm. Vexx spilled his drink; Kiraki mocked him. Axl carefully organized the cards like a scholar. Deterix whispered something filthy in Scarlet’s ear. Brimstone adored Devom, who adored his sandwich. Mr. Logic muttered about quitting, even as he refilled glasses.

Xeahule sat back, eyes steady, green aura calm.

“We broke the multiverse tonight,” he said. “And what remains? Wings, drinks, and family. That’s enough.”

He lifted his Elixir. The others raised theirs — glass, bottle, cup, even sandwich.

“To Core City,” Axl said.
“To surviving,” Deterix grinned.
“To flavor,” Moxx muttered.
“To sin,” Zock sang.
“To my King,” Brimstone whispered.

And Xeahule — King of Core City, breaker of gods, father of warriors — smiled faintly.

“To tomorrow. If it’s dumb enough to come.”

The bar roared in laughter, neon light humming soft. Outside, the city dreamed.