Ross Island. Hangar 4.
The sun was rising, painting the Indian Ocean in streaks of violet and burning orange. Inside the hangar, the silence was louder than the previous night's chaos.
Dr. Iyer rubbed his eyes, the fatigue sitting deep in his bones. He looked at the whiteboard where the equations still lingered—the math of a god written in dry-erase marker.
"He's gone, sir," an army officer said as he walked in. His voice was tight. "The sensors picked up a vertical ascent at Mach 4. He didn't clear it with ATC. He just… left."
Iyer sighed. He wasn't surprised. You don't put a leash on a supernova.
"He left this," Iyer said.
He pointed to the metal table where Valen had sat. A single sheet of paper lay there, weighed down by a heavy steel bolt.
The Prime Minister, Adit Sharma, walked over, his security detail trailing nervously. "What does it say? Is it a threat?"
Iyer picked up the paper. The handwriting was precise, almost architectural, every letter perfectly formed.
"I am not a weapon to be wielded by any country," Iyer read aloud, his voice echoing through the vast metal chamber.
"My purpose is not domination, deterrence, or obedience to borders. My purpose is humanity itself."
"The world is broken. It does not need another gun pointed in a different direction. It needs repair. It needs balance. It needs peace."
"If your goal is the same—if you seek to fix what is fractured and protect life, not power—then we stand aligned."
"I will act. I will intervene. I will protect. But I will not belong to any flag."
"I will work for the whole world. That is the only mission I accept."
Iyer lowered the paper.
"Do not look for me. Valen."
Adit Sharma frowned, looking at the empty sky through the hangar doors. "He thinks he can save the world by himself?"
"No," Iyer whispered, looking at the complex math on the board. "He thinks he has to."
Ladakh. The High Himalayas. 16,000 Feet.
The air here was thin enough to kill. The wind howled through the jagged peaks of the mountain range, carrying snow that felt like crushed glass.
On a ledge overlooking a drop that plunged into absolute darkness, two figures stood.
The Masked Man sat on a flat rock, his legs dangling over the abyss. He wasn't wearing his tactical gear. Just a heavy woolen coat over his black clothes, his breath misting in the freezing air. He held a thermos cap filled with tea.
Valen stood a few feet away. The cold didn't register to him. He wore the black void-suit, the cape fluttering silently in the gale. He looked like a tear in the fabric of the night.
"You called," the Masked Man said. He didn't look up. He took a sip of tea.
"I dialed the number," Valen said. His voice was clearer now, the raspy, tectonic quality smoothing out as he practiced the human tongue. "Three. Two. Three."
"Good. You follow instructions."
The Masked Man set the cup down. He didn't look like a warlord or an assassin. He looked like a doctor conducting an intake interview.
"Sit," the Masked Man said.
Valen sat on the frozen ground. He crossed his legs, his movements devoid of ego. He looked at the Masked Man with large, golden eyes—innocent, curious, and terrifyingly powerful.
"We need to establish a baseline," the Masked Man said, his voice cutting through the wind. "If we are going to work together, I need to know the physics of the tool. No ego. Just data."
Valen nodded. "Ask."
"Speed," the Masked Man said. "What is your max?"
Valen tilted his head, looking at the stars. "I do not know."
"Estimate."
"I traveled from the dying star to here. The distance was… vast. I moved fast. Very fast." Valen frowned, struggling with the concept. "When I accelerate, the light bends. The stars streak. If I push too hard… I feel the 'now' slipping."
The Masked Man stared at him, his face impassive. "Time dilation?"
"Intuition," Valen corrected. "I feel that if I break the barrier of light, I might arrive before I left. I might break the sequence of events. So, I slow down. I stay just below the limit."
"Strength," the Masked Man continued. "Upper limit?"
"I have never found something I could not move," Valen answered simply.
"Durability?"
"I was born in a star," Valen said. He pointed to the sky. "I bathed in the photosphere. The pressure. The nuclear fire. It tickled."
"It tickled," the Masked Man repeated flatly.
"Yes. It felt… warm. Like a blanket."
"Offensive capabilities," the Masked Man asked. "Besides punching."
Valen touched his own eyes. "I can release the fire. From here."
"Heat vision?"
"Condensed solar energy," Valen clarified. "I can focus it. Make it small like a needle, or wide like a river. If I let go… if I use the full potential… it is hotter than the core of the star I came from."
The Masked Man paused. "Hotter than a sun's core? That's millions of degrees."
"Yes," Valen said softly. "That is why I keep my eyes wide. I do not want to burn the air."
Valen touched his chest. "My lungs. I can compress the air I inhale. Super-compress it. When I exhale, the expansion creates a thermal drop. Freeze breath."
"And vision?" The Masked Man asked.
Valen narrowed his eyes slightly. "I can see through these mountains. I see layers. Granite. Quartz. Deep inside… there is a fossil. A fish. From when this mountain was an ocean."
"You can see through matter?"
"I can adjust the wavelength," Valen explained. "I can see the skin, or I can see the bone beneath. I can see the atoms vibrating if I focus. Nothing is solid to my eyes unless I want it to be."
Valen looked up at the night sky. The moon hung full and bright, a silver coin in the dark.
"The moon," Valen whispered. "I see the craters. I see the dust… and I see footprints."
"Footprints?"
"Yes. From the men who walked there. They are still fresh in the grey dust."
Valen then lowered his gaze, looking directly at the Masked Man. He squinted slightly.
"And I see you. Not just your mask. I see the skin underneath. I see the blood pumping in your veins. I see the cells dividing, dying, and rebirthing." He leaned in a fraction of an inch. "If I look closer… I see the atoms buzzing. The empty space between them."
The Masked Man didn't flinch. He didn't look scared. He looked calculated.
"Weaknesses?" The Masked Man looked him dead in the eye. "Sonic frequencies? Magic? Specific radiation?"
Valen thought for a long moment. He searched his body, his memories. "None that I have found."
"You are a sledgehammer," the Masked Man said. "And the world is made of glass."
Valen looked at his hands. "I do not want to break the glass."
"Then you need to listen."
The Masked Man stood up and walked to the edge of the cliff.
"I kill people," the Masked Man said. His voice was calm, transparent. "I have killed warlords, traffickers, murderers. I do it because I am a surgeon removing a tumor. I check the biopsy. I confirm the rot. And then I cut."
He turned to Valen.
"You cannot do that. Not yet."
"Why?" Valen asked. "If they are evil?"
"Because you don't know what evil looks like," the Masked Man said gently. "You see a man holding a gun. Is he a terrorist? Or is he a father defending his home? Is he a monster? Or is he a conscript forced to fight?"
Valen lowered his eyes. "I do not know."
"Exactly. If I make a mistake, one man dies. It is a tragedy," the Masked Man said. "If you make a mistake, a city vanishes. You are too strong to be careless."
The wind howled between them.
"Rule Number One," the Masked Man said, holding up a finger. "Zero casualties."
Valen nodded. "I will not kill."
"You will not kill. You will not maim. You will subdue," the Masked Man instructed. "You destroy the capacity to fight. You break the gun, not the hand. You melt the tank, not the driver. You act as a wall, not a sword. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Valen said. "I am the shield."
"Unless," the Masked Man added, his voice dropping an octave, "I give the order. If I confirm the target is a threat to the species—like a Void Entity or a celestial horror—then you unchain the sun. But only then."
"Agreed."
The Masked Man reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded map. He handed it to Valen.
"Test run," the Masked Man said.
Valen unfolded the map. It showed a rugged, mountainous region. Coordinates were circled in red ink.
"Afghanistan. The Spin Ghar range," the Masked Man said. "There is a fortress deep in the valley. A terrorist cell known as 'The Black Flag.' They have acquired heavy armor and four long-range mobile missile launchers. They plan to fire them at a civilian population in three days."
Valen's eyes hardened. "I will stop them."
"Demilitarize them," the Masked Man corrected. "They have tanks. They have anti-aircraft guns. They have a stockpile of missiles."
"What is the objective?"
"Turn it into a junkyard," the Masked Man said. "I want every piece of metal bigger than a toaster twisted into scrap. But the hearts of the men inside must keep beating. Can you do that?"
Valen stood up. He hovered an inch off the ground, the snow blowing away from his boots.
"I will break the toys," Valen said. "And I will spare the boys."
"Go."
Valen didn't crouch. He didn't wind up. He simply leaned forward and applied his will to gravity.
BOOM.
There was no fire, only a sonic displacement. The air cracked. Valen vanished instantly, a blur of motion shooting upward, tearing a tunnel through the clouds as he banked West.
The Masked Man stood alone on the ledge. He picked up his tea. It was cold.
He looked at the empty sky where the alien had vanished.
"He's learning," he whispered to the mountains.
The Spin Ghar Range. Afghanistan.
The fortress was built into the cliffside, a relic of old wars repurposed for new hate.
Inside the perimeter, fifty militants patrolled. A T-55 tank sat near the heavy iron gates, its turret swiveling lazily. On the upper ridge, a heavy machine gun nest scanned the valley.
The commander, a scarred man named Hakim, walked through the compound. He patted the side of one of the four massive ballistic missile launchers lined up against the canyon wall.
"Tomorrow," Hakim grinned. "We wake the world."
The air above them shivered.
It wasn't a sound. It was a pressure drop. The birds in the valley stopped singing.
"What was that?" a guard asked, looking up.
A gold streak hit the center of the courtyard.
THUD.
Dust billowed outward in a perfect ring. The ground shook, knocking half the militants off their feet.
When the dust cleared, a figure in black stood there. His cape settled around him. His eyes glowed with a terrifying, calm gold light.
"Fire!" Hakim screamed. "Kill him!"
The heavy machine gun on the ridge opened up. DUD-DUD-DUD-DUD.
Large caliber rounds, designed to shred vehicle armor, screamed toward Valen.
Valen didn't move. He didn't dodge.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The bullets flattened against his chest, falling to the ground like dead coins. But the gunner didn't stop. He held the trigger down, the barrel glowing red.
DUD-DUD-DUD-
Suddenly, the noise stopped.
The gunner blinked. He pressed the trigger. Click. Click.
He looked up.
Valen was standing six inches from his face. The distance from the courtyard to the ridge had been crossed in a microsecond.
Valen held up his right hand. He opened his fist.
A dozen smoking, crushed bullets fell from his palm. He had plucked them out of the air before they could even touch his suit.
"Too slow," Valen whispered.
He reached out and tapped the heavy machine gun with one finger. The steel shattered like glass.
Below, the tank turret swiveled. The main cannon roared.
BOOM.
A high-explosive shell flew at him. Valen dropped from the ridge, intercepting the shell in mid-air. He caught it, crushed the explosion inside his fist, and landed on the hull of the T-55.
He ripped the hatch open with a screech of tearing metal.
He looked down at the tank crew-three men paralyzed by terror.
"Out," Valen commanded. "Now."
The men scrambled out of the tank like rats fleeing a sinking ship, diving onto the dirt.
Valen grabbed the tank by the barrel and the chassis.
He lifted.
The thirty-six-ton war machine rose into the air, dust pouring from its treads. Valen pivoted, his boots grinding into the bedrock.
He threw.
WHOOSH.
The tank became a projectile. It sailed over the fortress walls, over the ridge, and disappeared into the clouds, destined for a crash landing miles away in the uninhabited desert.
Hakim, watching his armor vanish into the sky, ran to the missile launchers. "Launch them! Launch them all!"
Valen turned. He saw the four massive trucks. The harbingers of death.
He walked toward them. The militants fired their AK-47s, grenades, RPGs. The explosions washed over him. The shrapnel bounced off. Valen walked through the fire as if it were a morning mist.
He reached the first launcher.
He grabbed the chassis with one hand.
He threw it.
The ten-ton vehicle was launched into the sky with such force that the sonic boom shattered every window in the fortress. It disappeared into the stratosphere.
Valen grabbed the second launcher.
CRACK-BOOM.
He hurled it. The air displacement knocked the nearby militants off their feet. The truck spun into the upper atmosphere.
The third launcher followed. Valen spun and released it like a discus. The wind generated by the throw stripped the paint off the canyon walls.
Then, the fourth.
Hakim watched in horror as his entire arsenal—millions of dollars of equipment—was juggled into orbit. Valen grabbed the final truck. He didn't just throw it; he launched it with a shockwave of kinetic energy.
BOOM.
The sound was deafening. The truck vanished instantly, piercing the cloud layer, destined to float as space junk.
Valen dusted his hands.
The courtyard was silent. No tanks. No launchers. No guns. Just fifty men standing in a crater of their own ambition.
Valen remembered the Masked Man's words. Zero casualties.
"Go home," Valen said. His voice echoed off the canyon walls like thunder.
He crouched and launched himself into the sky, chasing the debris he had just thrown, leaving the men alive, unarmed, and questioning their entire reality.