Erick Costa, enveloped in the twisted wreckage of the armor—dark gray plates now cracked like broken eggshells, bluish reflections dulled by dust and dried blood—felt the weight of exhaustion like an anchor dragging his soul to the depths. He was tired, exhausted, a flaming beacon flickering on the threshold of extinction. Interminable minutes had passed since he fought Lobo, each second an eternity of contained pain and fury. The city around him, once an ordinary Gotham city block with Victorian facades and streets paved with black asphalt, was now a devastated battlefield: buildings with crumbling walls like sandcastles after a merciless wave, trees twisted and charred like black skeletons against the snow that still fell, stubborn and pure, contrasting with the chaos. The entire block—an area of about 600 square meters that once housed closed shops, evacuated apartments, and lampposts now toppled like fallen sentinels—was destroyed, smoking craters marking the ground like lunar scars, debris scattered like confetti from a macabre party. The snow, once a white blanket of winter innocence, now melted into muddy puddles mixed with blood and soot, steam rising like souls ascending from an urban hell.
He realized, with a painful clarity that cut deeper than any blade, that he hadn't inflicted any serious damage on Lobo. His attacks—balls of ionized plasma, flaming punches condensed into bursts of heat that melted metal and evaporated snow—seemed like mere scratches on a living mountain. Perhaps that double blow he'd landed on the Czarnian's head, concentrating plasma into two simultaneous fists, creating a detonation that lit up the sky like a premature rising sun, had been the closest thing to a triumph. At that instant, Lobo's skull had smoldered, gray skin blackened in an irregular circle, but now... now it was as if nothing had happened. The Czarnian's regeneration was a biological abomination, cells recombining at speeds that defied known physics—veins pulsing with black blood that instantly coagulated, tissues intertwining like threads of an eternal tapestry. Erick was already beginning to run out of breath, his chest heaving in shallow, irregular breaths, as if his lungs were punctured bags trying to catch wind. The energy of his elemental—still young, immature, a newly born flame in a universe of hurricanes—was becoming increasingly difficult to gather. His flames, once roaring like infernal furnaces, now flickered weakly, like candles in the wind, the orange glow fading to a pale yellow, the heat dissipating into the icy air.
Even standing with the weight of the armor proved extremely difficult and challenging, the hydraulic actuators humming in protest, compensating for the muscle exhaustion amplified by Venom A. The serum still circulated in his veins, forcing muscles to contract beyond human limits, but the rebound loomed like an inevitable shadow—veins dilated to their maximum, cracked bones creaking with every movement, internal organs throbbing as if about to rupture. This caused Erick to lose his guard even more, his defense crumbling like a sandcastle under the tide, allowing Lobo to land more blows. Each impact from the Czarnian was a symphony of destruction: hairy fists colliding with the E10 alloy like pneumatic hammers, vibrations reverberating through Erick's body, already fractured ribs giving way even further, sending waves of agony that made him see stars on the helmet's HUD.
Erick, panting, his breath escaping in short gulps that fogged his inner visor, stared at Lobo before him. The Czarnian spun the chain like a madman, the serrated hook whirling through the air with a deep, menacing hiss, barbs gleaming in the dim light of the remaining lampposts. His red eyes were vibrant, mad, wells of insanity reflecting a perverse glee, as if all the devastation around him—collapsed buildings, streets cracked into veins of exposed asphalt, snow mixed with flaming debris—were mere entertainment, a stage set for his sadistic amusement. Thick, disheveled beard trembling with each spin, wild hair whipping through the air, gray skin sweaty and marked with soot that evaporated with the residual heat of battle. Lobo was the embodiment of primordial chaos, a being who reveled in destruction like an artist in his masterpiece.
Erick, amidst the fatigue clouding his mind, mentally thanked Kid Flash for evacuating a good portion of the people from that area—the yellow blur still visible in distant flashes, guiding civilians away, adjacent streets now empty of innocent souls. Thanks to this, Erick could loosen up more, without the constant fear of collateral damage, but even so, it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain his composure. His elemental thrusters in his feet trembled, the fire weakening, and the armor—569 kilograms of E10 alloy, overloaded actuators—felt like an iron prison dragging him down. Lobo threw the chain once more, the hook cutting through the air like a living scythe, barbs dripping a corrosive fluid that hissed as it touched the asphalt. Erick instinctively dodged to the left, his body tilted at a precise angle calculated by the neural link, the hook passing centimeters from his shoulder, scraping the plate and leaving a superficial mark that the HUD registered: 87% integrity.
Without losing momentum, Erick hurled a ball of condensed plasma—elemental flames ionizing the surrounding air, the temperature escalating to thousands of degrees in seconds, the bluish-white orb shining like a miniature star. The ball struck Lobo squarely in the chest, exploding on contact with a detonation that released a blinding light, illuminating the entire area as if stadium floodlights had been activated simultaneously. The overwhelming heat radiated, melting metal from nearby posts, evaporating snow within a twenty-meter radius, the air crackling with residual energy. Lobo was pushed back, his skin smoking, but he laughed—a guttural sound that cut through the roar of the explosion.
Erick flew to the left of the Czarnian, taking advantage of the moment of imbalance, hurling more plasma balls in sequence—smaller, but concentrated orbs, exploding on contact and creating a chain of detonations that obscured vision. He approached, thrusters roaring weakly, and landed a punch on Lobo's face—armored fist colliding with the bearded jaw, the impact throwing the Czarnian's face back at a forced angle, beard whipping, a trickle of black blood spurting. Lobo only laughed louder, his red eyes dilated with insane ecstasy. "Let's play, are you starting to get tired already? At this rate I'll lose my enthusiasm," he growled, his voice hoarse and provocative, like a cosmic playground bully.
Without pausing, Lobo retaliated: an upward uppercut struck the chin of Erick's armor, metal screeching, the HUD flashing with concussion alerts. He gripped Erick's legs to prevent him from taking off—hairy fingers digging into the thigh plates, natural splinters of gray skin slightly piercing the E10 alloy. He began spinning Erick at high speed, the air howling around, snow and debris flying in a vortex, and hurled him with brutal force. Erick flew like a projectile, colliding with a building—red brick facade crumbling in a cascade of dust and rubble, the impact reverberating through the armor, inner ribs screaming despite the protection. Luckily, the E10 alloy held up well—brutal density absorbing the shock, actuators redistributing the kinetic energy, integrity dropping to 82%. The evacuated building partially collapsed, upper floors creaking in protest.
Erick, amidst the rubble—cracked concrete all around him, exposed rebar like the bones of a dead giant—gasped inside his helmet. Exhausted, each breath a struggle against compressed lungs, his vision blurred by sweat and internal bleeding. It was becoming increasingly difficult to lift his body—destroyed bones, ruptured organs, blood leaking in quantities that Venom A temporarily stemmed, but his mind remained blank, thoughts fragmented like broken glass. The only thing keeping him standing was the serum, breaking human limits at the cost of an imaginary rebound—imminent organ failure, systemic collapse. He contemplated those precious seconds to breathe, the HUD clock counting down: 8 minutes to Superman. He prayed, a mental whisper: Hurry up.
But the pause ended abruptly. Lobo dug through the rubble with hairy hands, bricks flying like leaves in the wind, and gave Erick a toothy grin—sharp, yellowed by the missing cigar, his beard twitching with a low laugh. He began to pound his face—fists colliding with the helmet in a rhythmic barrage, each blow echoing like hammers in a forge, creating a crater that sank even deeper into the ground. The visor cracked, the HUD flashing errors: 75% integrity, systems overloaded. Erick felt his body being decimated—blunt impacts piercing E10, hitting flesh, breaking already fractured bones, bursting parts of internal organs like water-filled balloons. An immense pain, beyond the human threshold, that didn't even allow him to scream—only muffled grunts, his vision darkening into black edges.
Lobo raised his arm once more, clasping both hands in a hammer-like shape, and brought it down with all his might—the blow creating a cloud of smoke that obscured the light from the remaining lampposts, the impact sinking Erick even further, the ground yielding like wet clay. He whispered close to Erick's ear, his voice hoarse and taunting: "So, kid, what's wrong with you, finished?"
Erick, trapped inside the armor, now a prison of shattered metal, felt his body limp and inert. The glow of the red sensors on his helmet faded, the power failing. Lobo lost interest, releasing him disdainfully—the body falling to the ground like a discarded doll, trapped in the horribly deformed armor: crumpled plates, creaking joints, a cracked visor revealing half-closed eyes. Lobo turned, sniffing the air, his red eyes searching for the next diversion. "What a bore," he muttered, his voice echoing in the post-battle silence.
But at that moment, as Lobo walked away, the air heated up. It heated up intensely, the temperature rising at a tremendous rate—snow melting into puddles that evaporated instantly, air crackling with dry heat, wind blowing away as if fleeing a living furnace. Lobo stopped, nostrils flaring, and turned slowly. When he looked back, he saw Erick crouching, his body trembling like a leaf in the wind, completely destroyed—armor deformed, blood oozing from cracks, his right eye swollen to the point of almost being blind, his nose bleeding profusely, cuts on his neck oozing dark red. But his right hand, a clenched fist, glowed orange, which soon turned blue and then white—as if he were holding a small star, energy condensing into a pulsating core. The glow intensified, heat radiating in waves that distorted the air like mirages, snow melting and evaporating across the entire block, wind finally blowing at high speed, causing a localized climate change, clouds of vapor rising like ascending souls.
Lobo grinned, his teeth glistening. "Finally, kid. I thought you'd given up."
Erick moved like a blur—as fast as possible, elemental thrusters roaring one last time, armor humming in overdrive. Lobo easily saw the movements, cosmic reflexes allowing him to dodge—but Erick didn't aim to hit; he aimed to impact. He struck Lobo's stomach with an open chest, his fist coated in star energy colliding with the furry skin. The light intensified as it made contact, as if all the accumulated energy expanded into a contained supernova. The glow spread, illuminating the sky, the block, banishing shadows as if a small sun had been born there. Terrifying silence for 0.001 seconds, followed by a devastating explosion—a sound like thousands of bombs detonating simultaneously, shockwave expanding, debris flying in a 50-meter radius, buildings trembling on their foundations.
Erick was in the middle of it, the catalyst—his right arm, used as a focal point, completely mutilated, broken into several pieces, torn flesh and exposed bones, but still intact thanks to the armor that had absorbed the bulk of the rebound. Part of his helmet was missing, revealing a swollen face, his right eye closed by the swelling, his nose bleeding, cuts on his neck oozing. Part of the armor's chest plate was completely missing, exposing torn skin and bulging veins. The armor, made of E10, behaved strangely—a dense alloy melting in spots, but solidifying rapidly, anomalous properties that Erick questioned in his clouded mind: perhaps the plasma had temporarily altered the molecular structure.
He knelt, a profound weariness washing over him like a black tide, his lungs soaked in blood, coughing dark red through his cracked helmet. He looked up, hoping he had at least taken down the hunter—the block now a hell of smoking craters, evaporated snow, air hot as an oven. But he heard footsteps and a laugh—from the smoke, predator's red eyes approached, gleaming through the dust like infernal headlights. Erick felt his soul freeze, a cold the elemental couldn't fight. He knew that nothing he had done, nothing he had tried, nothing could even hurt that demon, that monster. From the smoke and dust emerged Lobo, completely naked now—clothes shattered to ashes, watch missing from his wrist, melted into a shapeless mass. Approaching slowly, footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence, he spoke with a smile: "There, that's what I was looking for. You managed to give me an impressive impression for a mortal, for a worm. You really showed me what you came for."
And from Lobo's stomach—the stomach where Erick had struck—Erick could see a grotesque hole, exposed entrails falling out like living snakes, but recombining, rushing back in at high speed, skin closing like a curtain of living flesh. "You really managed to hurt me, you managed to draw my blood. Congratulations. Congratulations. Except it didn't change the outcome, you worm. It didn't change the outcome. That was a beautiful night. I promise to have a lot of fun with your girl; she'll really be the dessert of this lovely dinner."
Lobo lifted his foot, ready to stomp on Erick's head as if he were an insignificant worm—boot crushing the air above, shadow falling on his swollen face. Erick, under the effect of Venom A, felt the rebound approaching like an avalanche, but at that moment, the pain was immense, beyond tolerable, not allowing even a scream—only a resigned silence, blue eyes fixed on the predator, soul screaming in mute defiance.
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