CHAPTER 2: ONSLAUGHT ON ULTRA PLANET 1

ULTRA PLANET

TRIVIUM

Months after Samuel's wedding on Earth, my siblings and I founded GODLIKE, a school for the gifted—or more accurately, for the reckless, the untrained, and the dangerously unaware. These kids discovered their powers too early, and without guidance, they were accidents waiting to happen. We didn't have time to waste designing some architectural masterpiece, so we bought a mansion. Not just any mansion—a sprawling estate, big enough to house the chaos we were about to unleash.

Now, hundreds of powerful young beings roam the halls, each more unpredictable than the last. We employed teachers, gods in their own right, to mold these raw powers into something formidable. But today? Today is Practical Day—where theory burns away under the heat of real combat.

The sun sits high in the sky as we step onto the training field. It's vast—bigger than any stadium on Earth, a sea of green framed by towering metal bleachers packed with eager students. Their excited chatter rolls over the field like thunder, the anticipation crackling in the air.

This isn't just a school. It's a legacy. When we're gone—me, my brother, my sister—this place will stand as the monument of what we've built. What we've survived.

A voice booms across the field, amplified by unseen speakers.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the first challenger of the day—the one and only Superior… THE OVERMAN!"

The crowd explodes. Cheers shake the bleachers as the teenage boy steps onto the field, his new costume gleaming under the sun. I'll admit—the suit's impressive. Sleek, dark material with glowing streaks of blue tracing his arms and legs, pulsing with every step he takes.

To the students, to the teachers, he's a prodigy. Their golden boy. Maybe it's the fact that he's got more powers than he knows what to do with—strength, flight, energy manipulation, you name it. But to us? To me? He's a cocky, arrogant brat who thinks power equals wisdom.

Overman rises into the air, arms spread wide like some self-proclaimed deity. A smug grin stretches across his face as he fires twin beams of laser from his eyes, carving his name into the field below. The crowd eats it up.

Beside me, Zara scoffs. "This one reminds me of myself when I was mastering my powers. On the battlefield, I felt invincible—powerful, arrogant, untouchable…"

"Pride," Serpent cuts in, his tone flat.

Zara narrows her eyes at him. "I was going to say one of the best fighters a thousand years ago."

"Yes, sister, you were brilliant," Serpent smirks, "But let's not forget—you were also reckless and full of yourself until someone taught you a lesson."

"He cheated."

"Did he? Even after the rematch? He humbled you, Zara. Beautifully."

Zara crosses her arms. "You're just jealous. You never reigned like I did."

"Oh, here we go…" Serpent groans. "For the last time, I'm not jealous."

"We both know you're lying."

Serpent's grin widens. "You conveniently forget I defeated the same guy who wiped the floor with you—twice."

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "You two ever going to stop bickering?"

"Not when your brother keeps poking me," Zara snaps.

"For what it's worth," I say, glancing at her, "he's not wrong. You were a proud, reckless idiot back then. I loved watching you learn that the hard way."

Zara glares but says nothing.

The announcer's voice booms again.

"Alright, people! LET THE MATCH BEGIN!"

Overman's opponent steps onto the field. The contrast between them is stark. Where Overman thrives on attention, his opponent moves with quiet confidence. He doesn't strut. Doesn't show off. Just stands there—calm, focused, a shadow compared to Overman's blinding light.

I've never seen this boy fight, but I've heard the whispers. Fast. Ruthless. Unstoppable.

Let's see if the rumors hold up.

The whistle blows.

I sit comfortably, arms crossed, eyes locked on the two figures squaring off in the center—Overman and Dash.

Overman cracks his knuckles, the muscles in his arms flexing, taut with power. His black T-shirt clings to his frame, the red "O" symbol stretched across his chest like a warning sign. The crowd erupts, chanting his name.

"Overman! Overman! Overman!"

He smirks, soaking in the energy, his confidence radiating. But my eyes flicker to Dash. He stands a few feet away, loose and relaxed, the yellow and red of his suit gleaming under the sun. His fingers twitch at his sides, ready. His eyes? Laser-focused, playful, but dangerous.

The whistle blows.

Overman lunges first, fists swinging like wrecking balls. The air trembles with the force of his punches. But Dash? He's a blur. One second he's there, the next he's gone, leaving nothing but dust in his wake. Overman's fists meet nothing but empty air.

The crowd roars louder, trying to drown out Overman's frustration.

"Come on, Overman! Flatten him!"

But speed isn't something you can punch. Dash zips around him, a streak of lightning on the field, darting in and out, delivering quick jabs to Overman's ribs and sides. They're small hits, barely enough to make a dent in someone like him, but they're adding up. I see the twitch in Overman's jaw, the growing tension in his shoulders.

Overman growls, slamming his foot into the ground, sending a shockwave through the earth. The ground cracks beneath him, but Dash just dances around it like it's a minor inconvenience.

Then Overman snaps. He launches himself into the air, coming down like a meteor, aiming to crush Dash beneath his fists.

But Dash's already gone.

Before Overman even lands, Overman's behind him, delivering a rapid-fire barrage of punches to his back. It's like watching a thunderstorm hit a mountain—fast, relentless, precise. Overman stumbles forward, his breath hitching. The crowd is still cheering, but there's a shift now. A ripple of disbelief.

Dash doesn't let up. He's in Overman's face, then at his side, then behind him again. Overman wings wildly, his strength turning into a liability as he overcommits and leaves himself open. Every time he misses, Dash makes him pay—with a punch to the gut, a strike to the knee, a slap across the face just to humiliate him.

The crowd tries to rally.

"Overman! You got this!"

But it's too late. Overman's breathing hard now, his movements sluggish. Dash sees it. Smells the weakness like blood in the water.

With one final blur, Dash appears right in front of him. Overman swings, desperate, but Wally ducks under it and drives his fist straight into Overman's solar plexus. The hit is precise, ruthless. Overman's eyes widen, the air rushing out of his lungs in a sharp gasp. He drops to one knee.

The field goes silent for a heartbeat.

Then Dash flickers to his side, whispers something—I can't hear it, but the cocky grin on his face says enough. With a final snap of his fingers, Dash delivers a spinning kick to the side of Superboy's head, sending him sprawling to the ground.

The crowd erupts—not in cheers this time, but in stunned silence, broken by a few scattered gasps.

Dash stands over Overman, chest heaving but victorious. The golden lightning crackles faintly around him. The crowd doesn't know what to do. They wanted Overman to win, expected him to win. But speed? Speed doesn't care about expectations.

I can't help the small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Overman's strong, nearly unstoppable. But this? This is a lesson he needed.

Dash extends a hand down to him, grinning. "Good fight, big guy."

Overman glares for a second, then grabs the hand and hauls himself up, breathing hard, pride bruised but intact.

The crowd finally breaks into cheers—not just for Overman, but for Dash too. And as they walk off the field together, I know both of them just learned something important. Power's one thing.

But skill? Speed?

That's another game entirely.

"This was exactly how you disappointed everyone, sister," Serpent mutters, his voice low but laced with venom. His eyes glint with a malicious satisfaction as he turns to Zara, a crooked smile curling on his lips. "They saw you as one of the five bravest kids, but you failed—just like him."

Zara freezes, her fists clenched at her sides. Her jaw tightens as her eyes narrow, burning holes into Serpent's smug face. Without another word, she spins on her heel, her boots crunching against the gravel as she storms off, her anger trailing behind her like a storm cloud.

"Burn in hell!" she spits over her shoulder, her voice sharp, slicing through the air like a blade.

Serpent's smile doesn't falter. If anything, it grows wider. "When will you stop this attitude, Serpent?" I ask, my tone calm but laced with frustration.

"I don't know," he shrugs, his eyes following Zara as she disappears into the crowd. "Maybe I'll stop when I'm dead."

Before I can respond, four guards appear from the edge of the field, their black armor gleaming under the sun. They move with the kind of precision that only comes from years of training—two flanking us on the right, two on the left. Their faces are hidden behind polished helmets, but their presence speaks louder than any words.

"My princes," one of the guards says, his voice filtered through the modulator in his helmet. "Lord Ultron summons you both to the reinforced bunker on the island."

Serpent and I exchange a glance. Ultron doesn't summon us unless it's something serious. Very serious.

"Fine," I say, waving my hand dismissively. "You two on the right—go find Zara. She'll need to hear this too."

The guards nod and disappear into the crowd, their movements swift and silent. Serpent and I stand, brushing dust off our clothes as we make our way out of the training field.

As we walk, I can't help but grumble inwardly. Seriously? Dad couldn't wait until after the matches? The thought gnaws at me. We barely get any time to relax, to watch these kids push themselves to their limits. But Ultron's timing is never random. Whatever he wants—it's important.

The roar of the crowd fades behind us as we step into the corridor leading to the docks, leaving the chaos of the arena behind. But the tension? That follows us like a shadow.

REINFORCED BUNKER, ISLAND

Serpent and I step onto the island flanked by guards. The air crackles with tension as hundreds of armed soldiers await us.

"What's going on here?" Serpent's voice is tense, eyes scanning the regimented guards behind us.

"Nothing yet," I reply, eyeing the guarded entrance to the Reinforced Bunker.

The guards lead the way inside, parting to reveal King Ultron standing before the Alabaster Box, surrounded by a formidable army.

"Father, are you alright?" I ask, stepping closer, my concern palpable.

Serpent and I exchange a glance, bewildered by the scene unfolding before us. Why is Father fixated on the Box?

"It has begun," King Ultron finally speaks, his gaze unwavering on the artifact.

"What has?" Serpent demands, his voice edged with urgency.

"He's demanded the Infinite Weapons," King Ultron answers gravely, turning to face us.

"Who?" I press, my mind racing to grasp the implications.

"And what are these Infinite Weapons?" Serpent interjects, his brow furrowed with concern.

"King Goliath. Ancient artifacts capable of slaying Sentry Giants, celestial beings," King Ultron explains solemnly.

"Why have we been summoned?" Serpent questions further.

"I've called upon you to prepare for war," King Ultron announces, his voice commanding.

"What war?" A sharp female voice interrupts from behind.

We turn to see Zara, fiery and defiant, standing between Serpent and me.

"Goliath has ordered Emperor Erebus to gather all Ancient Weapons for a war against his kin," King Ultron reveals.

"Including the Alabaster Box?" I inquire, a sinking feeling in my chest.

"Yes, Trivium," King Ultron confirms grimly. "The Alabaster Box is among them."

"Can you list the weapons?" Serpent asks, his tone urgent.

"War Gauntlet, Amulet, Fortitude Shield, and the Alabaster Box," King Ultron lists, his expression hardened. "There are ten in total."

"Wait, Erebus is coming here?" Zara challenges, her voice cutting through the tense air.

"If Erebus seizes the Box, our training will be for naught," King Ultron warns sternly. "Protect it at all costs."

"And if we fail?" Zara presses, defiance in her stance.

"The consequences will be dire," King Ultron replies stoically, turning to leave.

"Wait!" I call after him, desperation creeping into my voice. He pauses, meeting my gaze.

"Will you be safe when Erebus arrives?" I ask, concern etched on my face.

"Worry about the Box, not me," King Ultron replies cryptically before striding out of the bunker.

EREBUS

I sit perched uncomfortably on a step leading to the throne, the chair too small for my stature. The grand doors of the palace swing open, and in strides King Ultron, trailed by a legion of soldiers.

Ultron freezes at the sight of me, his expression a mix of shock and defiance. The soldiers tense, swords drawn and shields ready.

"How did you enter, Emperor?" Ultron's voice wavers.

"Through a portal of my own making," I reply, rising to my full height.

"And how long have you lurked here?"

"Long enough. Ultron, we must talk."

"I have no business with you, Erebus. I know you seek the Alabaster Box."

I smirk, descending the stairs with deliberate calm.

"You're correct. But I come in peace. No need for bloodshed."

"Peace?" Ultron scoffs. "You've left a trail of destruction across galaxies. Don't insult my intelligence."

"I don't have time for games. Surrender the box, and your people will be spared."

"And if I refuse?" Ultron steps closer, his soldiers holding their ground.

Ultron challenges me, daring me to act.

I smile serenely. Without a gesture or incantation, a portal materializes behind me. From it emerge Abaddon, Gordon, Jabez, and Agrona.

"Gordon, with me. The rest of you, deal with them," I command, stepping into the portal. Gordon follows without hesitation.

To be continued....