The Price of Power

CRRRRRRRACK!!!

The first arc of black energy carved clean through Big Rick's chest like a god-blade through smoke, cleaving with such force that the entire city block shuddered. The shockwave flattened what was left of the street....light poles crumpled, glass shattered for blocks, and the pavement split like dry earth.

The second arc followed a breath later, this time at a diagonal....and that's when he broke.

Big Rick didn't scream.

His mouth opened wide, but no sound came.

His body jolted once, staggered forward…

Then split.

Right at the waist.

A clean, impossible cut.....as if reality itself had been severed.

His upper half collapsed forward with a thunderous crash, arms twitching, molten blood spurting in gouts of steam as it hit the frozen street.

The lower half teetered for a moment....then toppled backward with a sickening WHUD, dragging chunks of broken asphalt with it as it fell.

Smoke billowed around him.

The world stopped.

Just the sound of crackling fires.

And the distant whine of failing power lines.

Then.... a final, heavy thud.

The fall of a giant.

....

The Blacksmith dropped to one knee.

The black aura around him flickered erratically… then died with a whisper, like a candle blown out in a storm.

The weight hit him instantly.

His muscles spasmed. His bones screamed.

His vision blurred as blood ran into his eyes.

One sword slipped from his grasp....clattering to the ground.

Then the other.

He was trembling uncontrollably now. Barely able to breathe. Every heartbeat felt like a hammer on his ribs.

Ten seconds.

That's all he had before his body gave in.

But it didn't matter.

Because Big Rick wasn't moving.

No groan.

No twitch.

Just steam rising from the broken titan's corpse.

The Blacksmith stared forward, chest heaving.

Eyes wide.

Then, through labored breath, he whispered....

"I cut him..."

A disbelieving smile cracked across his bruised face.

"…I actually cut him."

His first mission.

Victory.

.....

Across the field, Froststorm let out a slow, shaky exhale. The frost vanished from her armor. Her shoulders slumped. She dropped to her knees....not in pain, but in sheer exhaustion, eyes glassy with emotion.

She didn't even try to hide the tears welling up.

Because they were alive.

Because he was still standing.

...

Steel Alfredo, broken and bloodied, blinked hard, then let out a broken laugh.

A grin spread across his dirt-smeared face.

"...He actually did it…"

...

Back in the crater, The Blacksmith swayed forward.

His body was done.

But before he collapsed, he found the strength for one more smirk.

He looked toward the scattered remains of the monster he had just slain…

And whispered...

"Cut down to size."

Then, finally…

He let himself fall.

And the world went still.

They had won.

But victory had come at a price.

The street was in ruins, cratered, scorched, and littered with twisted steel and frozen rubble. Smoke coiled into the sky like ghosts of the battle, and the air still carried the tang of ozone, ash, and blood.

They were alive. But barely.

And deep down, every one of them knew…

This was only the beginning.

Things were going to get worse.

Far worse.

From every corner of the city, the wailing symphony of sirens converged, ambulances, firetrucks, police convoys. Their lights bathed the wreckage in red and blue as they raced toward the aftermath, to collect what little remained of the fight.

Of the entire SWAT unit that had first responded, only Sergeant Sandra Albright had survived.

The others… were beyond recognition.

Burned. Crushed. Shattered.

Albright stirred slowly among the debris, her vision foggy, ribs aching with every breath. Her helmet was gone, and blood streaked the side of her face, but she was alive.

Barely.

She pushed herself upright, coughing, eyes scanning the broken battlefield.

Bodies.

Smoke.

Silence.

Then... noise.

Civilians were returning, cautiously, like ghosts drifting back to familiar ground. The ones who had fled at the first sign of chaos now crowded behind barricades, whispering to news crews and filming the carnage on their phones.

The world wanted answers.

And footage.

Sandra blinked against the flashing lights, unsure if they were from cameras or emergency vehicles.

She didn't speak.

She just stared ahead, eyes locked on the center of the wreckage…

Where The Blacksmith had fallen.

Where legends had bled.

Where something far larger had just begun.

The place was quickly swarmed with local police, detectives, and even the FBI. Red and blue lights bathed the broken street as sirens wailed through the smoke. Drones buzzed overhead. Paramedics pushed through the crowd with stretchers. Yellow tape cordoned off the war zone that used to be a neighborhood.

Perimeters were set.

Questions were asked.

And answers were needed, fast.

"Get a perimeter three blocks wide," a police chief barked into his radio. "No leaks to the press until we know what the hell just happened here."

FBI agents in black suits combed through the rubble with calm intensity, scanning debris, checking for witnesses, gathering any intel they could before the trail went cold. One of them knelt beside a melted car chassis, frowning at the heat signature still lingering.

From the other side of the destruction, a familiar voice broke through the chaos.

"Don't bother asking civilians. They were just as helpless as we were."

Sergeant Sandra Albright leaned against the hood of a scorched SWAT truck, her body bruised but standing. A medic tried to get her to sit, but she waved them off.

"They saved everyone," she said hoarsely. Her eyes were fixed on the center of the crater.... where three battered bodies lay among ash and twisted metal. "We didn't stand a chance. But they did. They held the line."

One of the FBI agents turned toward her. "Sergeant Albright, we'll need a full debriefing. Names. Power classifications. Chain of command. Who authorized engagement?"

Sandra didn't blink. "You want answers? Start by putting medals on those three."

The agent raised an eyebrow. "We don't hand out medals for reckless civilian property damage."

Sandra stepped toward him, blood dried on her temple, fury in her eyes. "And we don't walk away from monsters like that unless someone's willing to take the hit. So unless you've got a plan to punch Big Rick in the face next time, you should probably shut the hell up."

The agent opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Behind them, the medics began loading stretchers into waiting ambulances.

The Blacksmith was first.... his body still twitching from the side effects of the black form, barely conscious, but alive. His swords lay beside him, wrapped carefully like sacred artifacts.

Next was Froststorm, pale and weak but awake. She gave Sandra a quiet nod as she was lifted into the back of the ambulance, a thin trail of frost still curling from her fingertips.

And then Steel Alfredo, his face bloody, chest wrapped in makeshift bandages. He threw a weak thumbs-up as they wheeled him past the line of stunned officers.

Then something happened.

From the sidewalks.

From the rooftops.

From the crowd of civilians who had returned after the smoke began to clear.... they clapped.

At first it was only one or two.

Then more.

A wave of applause, rising like thunder through the broken city.

People clapped, some cried, some just stared in stunned awe....but all of them knew what they had witnessed.

Not just destruction.

But salvation.

These weren't just survivors.

They were heroes.

Real ones.

Battle-tested. Bloodied. Unbreakable.

Established.

Sandra looked around at the flashing lights, the broken buildings, the faces lit by phones recording history.

She whispered to herself.

"Looks like the city's got new stars now."

And as the ambulances drove off into the dawn light, sirens singing like a quiet anthem behind them...

The age of new heroes had officially begun.

********************************************

High above the chaos, perched atop the skeletal remains of an old broadcast tower, a lone figure stood, unmoving, unreadable. The wind howled around the steel frame, whistling through rusted beams like ghostly voices. Cracks ran through the rooftop like old veins, and smoke from the ruined street below curled up into the night, rising past him like incense.

He didn't flinch.

He had watched everything, every scream, every swing of a blade, every burst of frost and fury...with cold, calculating interest. Not as a man watching a tragedy... but as one taking notes.

The city's lights flickered in the distance. Sirens wailed like dying animals. But up here, above it all, the air was thin and quiet. Still. As if the sky itself held its breath in his presence.

The man's face was half-hidden beneath a tattered black hoodie, but his sharp grey eyes gleamed through the shadow, cold, intelligent, and utterly focused.

A jagged scar marred one side of his face, the skin burned and warped as if kissed by fire and left to heal wrong. It twisted his expression into something permanently unreadable,half man, half phantom.

And though no one saw him...

He saw everything.

"You cannot die yet, Big Rick," the man said, his voice low and rasping....like gravel dragged across metal.

"…I still have use for you."

A long pause followed.

Then slowly, deliberately, his lips curled into a thin, ghost of a smile.

Not of kindness.

But of ownership.