SUPREMACY- Clash Between Heroes and Villains Chapter 26:The Eve of Collision

 

A subdued hush gripped the golden-yellow shores of Galaxenchi, a sprawling continent reminiscent of ancient Chinese-Japanese grandeur. Towering pagodas and elegantly curved rooftops punctuated the skyline, each steeped in centuries of cultural lore. Ornamental lanterns and fluttering banners, typically symbols of hope and prosperity, now braced themselves for the oncoming shadow.

Far across the tumultuous sea, the Death Regime—led by the vile Deathwing—pressed forward in their ragged vessels. Their dark-gray and purple flesh glistened with unnatural vitality under the moonlight, cross-shaped eyes shining like grim beacons of destruction. Each surge of the waves carried them closer to their coveted target: the glittering stronghold of Galaxenchi. With them came an onslaught of biohazardous weaponry and virus-laden horrors, each crafted to corrupt and consume the living from the inside out.

The Heart of Galaxenchi Prepares

Within Galaxenportal City, the capital of the state Gallaxgonbei, a soft, golden glow lit up the enormous city walls. Soldiers in sleek armor—styled with intricate patterns evoking dragons and phoenixes—busied themselves atop battlements. From modern ballistic armaments to arcane wards of protective magic, every instrument of defense was readied.

In the bustling streets below, a wave of anxious citizens hurried past towering shrines and neon-lit skyscrapers alike, seeking shelter in heavily fortified safe zones. Monks dressed in traditional robes chanted protective sutras near the entrances to hidden bunkers. Overhead, sleek aerial drones patrolled the skies, scanning for any sign of the Death Regime's approach. The very air crackled with tension.

Standing atop a tall, ornate watchtower was Professor Galaxbeam, the Timelord of cosmic renown. Despite his youthful face, his eyes betrayed countless eons of wisdom. Energy danced around his fingertips—tiny motes of starlight swirling in a gentle cosmic current.

Professor Galaxbeam (quietly, to himself):
"They come as I predicted... wave upon wave of decay. The darkness creeps, yet we will not yield to it."

His voice held the certainty of one who had witnessed the unraveling of universes and had not faltered. He closed his eyes, sending ripples of telepathic guidance across the city. In an instant, every commander and official felt his calm resolve.

Fortifying Body and Mind

Galaxenchi's medical centers hummed with controlled chaos. Doctors in crisp white coats moved in synchronized fashion through sterile corridors. Requisition orders rattled off for emergency blood transfusions, anti-viral serums, and protective gear. Teams of researchers, armed with holographic data tables, pored over the most advanced knowledge of immunology and genetic manipulation. Their purpose was singular: to craft vaccines and antibiotics capable of withstanding the Death Regime's dread contagions.

In the largest hospital—Golden Fūrin Memorial—a stoic yet determined Dr. Kou Mitsuragi directed a team of virologists. Floating holograms of chemical structures and genetic blueprints surrounded them.

Dr. Mitsuragi (addressing his team):
"The Death Regime's biohazard threat is unlike anything we've seen. But if we can isolate their viral proteins, we might create an antibody strong enough to stem the spread if... when... their infection tries to take hold."

He exchanged a grim look with his closest colleague.

Colleague:
"We have to keep pushing. The moment they land, there won't be time for second-guessing."

Laboratory flasks clinked with the creation of new cures—a frail but vital hope in the face of utter corruption.

The Galaxy University Academy: Prime Target

Situated at the center of Galaxenportal City was the famous Galaxy University Academy, a sprawling campus blending modern steel spires with ancient temple architecture. It served as the beating heart of the nation's intellectual and mystical might. Its grand halls housed libraries of arcane manuscripts, advanced quantum labs, and cosmic observatories through which the galaxy itself could be studied.

Professor Galaxbeam, suspecting the Academy to be Deathwing's ultimate quarry, stood in the main atrium beneath a vaulted ceiling gilded with star maps.

Professor Galaxbeam (eyes distant, lost in thought):
"Deathwing knows this place is a repository of knowledge and power—both magical and scientific. Strike here, and you cripple the mind of Galaxenchi. That is his plan."

A small cadre of robed scholars, each carrying intricate staves crackling with cosmic energy, awaited his instructions.

Galaxbeam (addressing the scholars):
"Begin the defensive wards around the Academy's perimeter. No corner left vulnerable. Layer them with time-based illusions to confound Deathwing's servants. Trust me when I say it will only buy us precious seconds, but that might be enough."

The scholars bowed and hurried to carry out their tasks. Throughout the Academy, students and faculty alike braced themselves for war, willing to lay down their lives to protect centuries of accumulated wisdom from the grasp of rot and ruin.

Anticipating Diversions

But Galaxbeam's foresight did not stop at the Academy. Across the entire state of Gallaxgonbei—indeed, across all of Galaxenchi—fortified check-points sprang to life in strategic locations. Smaller, rural villages doubled down on safety protocols, and roving militia squads fanned out to monitor hidden coves or under-explored beaches. Naval fleets patrolled the waters with a meticulous eye, scanning for anomalies or subtle illusions that might mask the Death Regime's approach.

Professor Galaxbeam (consulting a holographic map with generals):
"Be ready for multiple landings along the coastline. Deathwing won't strike just once. He'll unleash distractions—feints against smaller cities while his main force attempts to blindside us. Keep aerial support on standby. If they employ their undead pirate ships or flying necrotic vessels, we must respond in kind."

The generals nodded, steel in their gazes. They had unwavering faith in Galaxbeam's cosmic insight; he had, after all, guided them through numerous cataclysms before.

Rising to the Challenge

Night settled over Galaxenchi, transforming the golden spires into silhouettes against a violet sky. A hush cloaked the continent, yet everyone felt it—a faint trembling in the wind, as if the very air signaled the oncoming storm of decay. From high towers and far-flung watchposts, scouts peered across the sea. There, at the edge of vision, lightning forked ominously—some swirling, unnatural energy guiding the Death Regime's armada forward.

In the upper echelons of Galaxenportal City, a watchful hush enveloped the leaders and strategists. They pored over updated reports from offshore scouting drones. Everyone prayed that their best efforts—fortified walls, advanced weaponry, potent vaccines—would prevail against the unstoppable tide.

And amidst this organized frenzy stood Professor Galaxbeam, calm yet unrelenting, stardust pulsing within his veins.

Professor Galaxbeam (gazing seaward, resolute):
"Deathwing... your foul legion is coming. But Galaxenchi will not falter. I have witnessed your darkness across countless timelines, yet each time, I stand ready. Let the final game begin."

His words shimmered in the ether, a silent vow carried by the cosmic forces he wielded. The next sunrise would herald more than just the dawn—it would mark the first moves in a brutal, universe-shattering chess match: Life versus Death, Knowledge versus Decay, Galaxenchi versus the Death Regime.

No one could say how it would end, but all understood that the fate of countless souls hinged on these pivotal hours. The storm of Death was near, and Galaxenchi's defenders steeled themselves for the fight of their lives.

THE TIMELORD'S STRATAGEM

The golden radiance of Galaxenchi shimmered across its vast skyline—pagodas with gleaming rooftops, high-tech skyscrapers overlaid with ornate Eastern architecture, and broad boulevards dotted with vibrant cherry blossoms. Under normal circumstances, this land epitomized a balance of tradition and futuristic innovation. Now, however, every corner of the continent braced for an impending invasion from the Death Regime.

Within the heart of Galaxenportal City, in a sprawling fortress blending modern steel corridors with classic tatami floors and elegantly carved pillars, Professor Galaxbeam—the legendary Timelord—surveyed a three-dimensional holographic map of his domain. His eyes, reflecting an eternal cosmos, scanned for even the smallest sign of vulnerability. A faint, comet-like glow trailed his fingertips, each movement a silent command carried through time itself.

The Gathering of the Galaxy Regime Commanders

Suddenly, bursts of light flared at the edges of the fortress's Grand War Room. One by one, the Supreme Commanders of the Galaxy Regime materialized in a dazzling display of cosmic brilliance, each clad in reflective golden-yellow uniforms embossed with the Galax Regime's symbol—a stylized sunburst circled by twinkling stars. Their attire radiated hope, a sharp contrast to the dark aura exuding from Deathwing's forces across the sea.

Galaxadye

A tall, stoic figure, arms crossed over his gleaming breastplate. Lines of wisdom and battle-hardened discipline etched his face.

Galaxadye (firmly):
"My troops stand ready, Professor. The Galaxsoldiers have been drilling tirelessly in urban-combat simulations. We will hold the city with our very lives."

Galaxadale

Lean and agile, his presence exuded a strategist's confidence.

Galaxadale (calm determination):
"Sir, our naval yards are running at double-time. The new Galaxmarines are receiving advanced exosuits as we speak. We have the capacity to launch a seaborne counteroffensive if needed."

Galaxastream

Suave and poised, his uniform featuring a golden trim akin to rolling waves.

Galaxastream (quiet reassurance):
"My unit's scouting ships have detected Death Regime vessels. They're moving at a frightening pace, but we're faster—and we'll be waiting."

Galaxastride

Tall and broad-shouldered, the embodiment of physical might.

Galaxastride (thundering voice):
"We've mobilized the Galaxzealots, armed with newly forged photon-blade technology. If they dare breach our shores, we'll meet them blade-to-blade."

Galaxastorm

With an intense aura and eyes sparking with cosmic potential, he possessed mastery over aerial units.

Galaxastorm (zealous grin):
"The airyards are operational around the clock, Professor. We'll blanket the skies with anti-viral munitions and stasis fields. Death Regime's undead ships won't get far in our airspace."

Galaxapuff

Graceful yet fierce, her flowing golden hair secured beneath a stylized helmet.

Galaxapuff (determined but gentle):
"Sir, the morale of our civilians is paramount. I'm overseeing medics and relief teams to ensure everyone's safe and prepared for whatever comes. We will protect our people."

Intelligence Elites: Galaxwis and Galaxwise

Appearing last were Galaxwis and Galaxwise, the intelligence elites of Galaxenchi. Dressed in subtle but equally brilliant uniforms, they bowed respectfully before Galaxbeam. Complex data streams appeared in holographic windows around them, filled with predictions, threat analyses, and tactical forecasts.

Galaxwis (precision in his tone):
"Professor, we've triangulated potential landing sites across five major shorelines. Our estimates place the largest incursion near the harbor bordering Galaxenportal City—likely an attempt to strike the Galaxy University Academy, just as you predicted."

Galaxwise (adding more details):
"We suspect simultaneous skirmishes in smaller towns along the coast—diversionary tactics to thin our defenses. Your orders, Timelord?"

Professor Galaxbeam's Instant Preparations

Standing at the center of the War Room, Professor Galaxbeam placed a hand on the hovering holographic map. In a single heartbeat, arcs of astral energy streamed from his fingertips, dispersing updated orders to every major hub in Galaxenchi. Military squads, medics, and city officials received real-time instructions, as though the Timelord's voice whispered directly into their minds.

Professor Galaxbeam (voice firm yet calm):
"Galaxadye, coordinate your Galaxsoldiers to secure the main highways leading into Galaxenportal City. Galaxadale, get those naval yards to triple speed—prioritize anti-boarding defenses; we cannot allow their undead abominations onto our decks."

He turned to the others in turn, cosmic light shining in his gaze.

Galaxbeam (addressing Galaxastream):
"Have our sea scouts maintain a wide perimeter. Report any changes in heading or formation among Deathwing's fleet. They thrive on surprise—we must deny them that advantage."

Galaxbeam (to Galaxastride):
"Your Galaxzealots must stand ready. Pair them with engineering units to rapidly fortify any breach. Keep them in small, mobile squads to outmaneuver the undead hordes."

Galaxbeam (to Galaxastorm):
"Cover our skies. Form a net of aerial squadrons—both modern jets and the sky-based mechs we developed. We can't let them spray their foul viruses from above."

Galaxbeam (to Galaxapuff):
"Continue rallying civilian support. Let them know we stand united; their faith is our greatest shield. Distribute the new medical protocols and anti-infection suits designed by our top scientists."

The Timelord then faced Galaxwis and Galaxwise, streams of encrypted data reflected in his starlit eyes.

Galaxbeam:
"Maintain constant surveillance. Use every satellite, every psychic scanner, every quantum lens. We'll craft a layered response for each possible outcome. Deathwing's cunning, but we command the advantage of sight beyond time."

Nationwide Mobilization

In a concerted surge of activity:

Training Grounds across Galaxenchi buzzed like hives, filled with the pounding of boots and the clang of practice swords. New recruits rapidly learned modern firearms and honed mastery of energy-infused katana blades.Ports and Shipyards ignited with industry. Golden-yellow hulls, bristling with advanced weaponry, slid into the water with a thunderous splash. Crews armed with advanced anti-viral canisters and ballistic cannons boarded at once.Airports, Airbases, and Airyards roared with life. Sleek jets decorated with the Galax Regime's radiant emblem launched in tight squadrons, while specially engineered mechs took to the skies. Cargo planes were outfitted to transport heavy artillery or essential medical supplies—whatever the moment's strategy demanded.

Every new vessel bore the iconic Galax Regime crest—a brilliant star encompassed by swirling golden arcs, denoting unity, knowledge, and resilience. From a distance, one might witness hundreds of these luminous emblems cutting through the horizon, a testament to Galaxenchi's unwavering will.

The Timelord's Vigil

From an observation deck high above the War Room, Professor Galaxbeam gazed out at his mobilized nation. With a gentle lift of his hand, time itself seemed to slow—briefly revealing the cosmic currents swirling around him. He sensed the approaching shadows of Deathwing's undead armada, each step of their rotted advance playing out in his mind's eye. Yet for all the darkness that encroached, he carried a glowing certainty in his heart.

Professor Galaxbeam (murmuring in the hush):
"Deathwing, you will soon learn the power of unity... of intelligence... of life. Your tide of decay shall crash against the bulwarks of our determination."

A hush fell over the fortress as the Timelord's voice carried to every soul committed to defending Galaxenchi. From the highest towers to the farthest ports, men and women alike felt a surge of defiance course through their veins—an echo of the cosmic energies Professor Galaxbeam channeled.

The Final Countdown

Far out at sea, the horizon rumbled with the promise of death and plague. Even so, golden searchlights crisscrossed the waves, and the roar of mobilized troops and machinery signaled one unbreakable fact: Galaxenchi was ready.

No one could precisely predict the horrors Deathwing's forces would unleash once they landed. But they didn't need to. Under the Timelord's guidance, the Galaxy Regime had gathered every resource—military, medical, arcane, and scientific—to stand as one solid wall against the creeping doom.

Thus, the curtain lifted on Galaxenchi's bravest hour. As the seas darkened and the winds carried whispers of plague, the land's defenders awaited the inevitable clash. In the silent tension before the storm, Professor Galaxbeam held the lines of fate in his hands, prepared to bend time itself to save his people from certain oblivion.

SUPREMACY- Clash Between Heroes and Villains CHAPTER 25: The Festering Dawn

 

A foul stench coated the damp corridors of Deathenbulkiztahlem's deepest laboratory. Greenish torches guttered along stone walls scrawled with insane scribbles in black, red, and the muted brown of dried blood. In the center of this putrid sanctum stood Deathwing, his gaunt figure trembling with gruesome delight as he probed a moldy cadaver spread across a metal slab.

"My children," Deathwing hissed, turning toward a group of robed scientists, each wearing patchwork masks made from the flayed remains of their former enemies. "Progress must be swift. Our arsenal is incomplete until we perfect every vile concoction of agony."

He yanked a twisting coil of flesh from the corpse, letting it hang loosely from his gloved hand. Milky eyeballs rolled in the cadaver's sunken sockets, pupils dancing in a final, pointless protest.

"Soon," he whispered, voice trembling with savage glee, "we will show the Galaxy Regime what true horror looks like."

A harried assistant, breathing in shallow, terrified gasps, attempted to present a flimsy clipboard. "M-m-master Deathwing, the necrotic legion awaits your order. Our ballistic ships...are prepped in the harbor. The infected cavalry stands at attention. Your new...new...weapon is—"

Deathwing spun, his eyes ablaze with the color of rancid, rotting moonlight. "Silence!" His shriek echoed, sending vermin scuttling into the shadows. "I have seen the flaws in your previous calculations. Do not dare disappoint me again."

With a trembling bow, the assistant croaked, "At once, my lord," then disappeared into the gloom.

Meanwhile, at the outskirts of Deathenbulkiztahlem, armies rallied. Drums of war pounded in unison with the thunder of churning machinery. Legions of drooling undead, each wearing battered armor crusted with blackened gore, marched beneath banners etched with twisted runes. Overhead, primitive aircraft with hulls of twisted iron soared, purple flames licking at their sleek flanks.

From a grand vantage point on a craggy outcrop, Deathwing watched the orchestrated chaos beneath him with maniacal pride. He raised a pale hand and extended a single clawed finger toward the horizon—the direction of the Galaxy Regime, the shining land of Galaxenchi.

"They will kneel," he whispered, though his words seemed to ring with thunderous finality in the roiling skies. "They will choke on despair as we break them, body and soul."

Deathwing's second-in-command, a fiendish warlord named Kravelion, approached with a hushed tone. "My liege, the Blackened Regime's reinforcements have arrived, and the Darkened Regime's siege weapons are ready. We stand united. The entire continent awaits only your command."

Deathwing's crimson lips curled into a grin that resembled a fresh wound across his ashen face. "Proceed. Send every abomination we've molded, every cursed creation we've devised. Let them swarm the Solar, Lunar, and Star Regimes. None shall be spared."

He spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the swirling doom around him. "And when the last beams of sunlight sputter and fade into the choking dark...they will know Deathenbulkiztahlem was their executioner."

At that very moment, far away in the glittering spires of Galaxenchi, Professor Galaxbeam, the Timelord, felt a subtle ripple through the cosmos. His fingertips glowed faintly with starlight as he paused in his own workshop. Looking into a swirling vortex of cosmic energies, he murmured:

"He is coming for me. At last."

A small, mischievous grin tugged at the corner of Galaxbeam's mouth, as he let time slip between his fingers like liquid stardust. "Come then, Deathwing. We have danced across eons, and I shall relish our final performance."

And in the pungent gloom of Deathenbulkiztahlem, Deathwing felt a prickle of recognition from across the void. He laughed—a howling, rasping cackle that seemed to split both the air and every last shred of decency in its path.

The horrors they would unleash had only just begun.

THE CONVOCATION OF DECAY

A howling wind slithered through the vaulted halls of Deathenbulkiztahlem, carrying the nauseating tang of rotting flesh. Flickering crimson torchlight danced across walls etched with vile symbols, and shadows trembled as if sentient. At the far end of an obsidian table, carved from onyx and laced with dark veins, sat Deathwing, the King of Death. His skin was a ghastly shade of dark gray mottled with purple undertones, and his sunken eyes blazed with wrath—each iris forming a faint cross-shape that pulsed with twisted energy.

Before him knelt six figures. They were partly human, partly zombified, with dark-gray or deep-purple flesh that seemed to writhe in the eerie light. Their eyes, too, bore the harrowing cross pattern, glowing with the promise of torment.

These were the Supreme Commanders of the Death Regime:

Deathendye: His tall, rangy form draped in tattered chainmail, the tarnished links clanking with each breath.Deathendale: A gaunt figure spattered with fresh gore, a rusty hook replacing one rotted hand.Deathenstream: With ragged vestments clinging to his sunken torso, jagged bone fragments visible just beneath the surface.Deathenstride: A towering knight-like silhouette, a cleaver strapped across his back and a trail of blackened ichor following his steps.Deathenstorm: Bulky and bristling with spiked armor, arcs of necrotic lightning occasionally crackling at his fingertips.Deathenpuff: The sole female among them, hair matted in strings and scalp partially exposed, yet moving with an unsettling grace.

Their decayed flesh, either dark gray or purple, emanated a sickly sheen. Veins bulged and squirmed, while strange rivulets of dark liquid oozed between patches of exposed muscle. Each of them bore cross-shaped pupils—some tinted a deep lavender, others a near-black hue—lending their gazes a haunted symmetry that threatened to pull lesser beings into an abyss of madness.

Deathwing's Unholy Command

Deathwing rose from his iron throne, letting the scraping of metal echo through the hall. His bony fingers, each tipped with a blackened claw, traced invisible sigils in the air.

Deathwing (echoing snarl):
"My most exquisite children of rot... you who have feasted on agony and torn hope from the hearts of mortals... rise and report."

Deathendye

The first to step forward was Deathendye, chainmail rattling. A rotting piece of flesh peeled from his jaw as he spoke, eyes flickering with violet malevolence.

Deathendye (rasping growl):
"Master, the battalions of decaying souls heed your will. They moan... eager to devour living flesh. Only your word stands between them and a veritable banquet."

His dark-purple complexion was crisscrossed by thin, black veins pulsing in time with his unholy heartbeat.

Deathendale

Next, Deathendale advanced, the stump of his left arm ending in that lethal hook. His own skin was a sickly purple hue, blotched with charcoal-gray bruises.

Deathendale (breathy whisper):
"Lord Deathwing, we are straining at our chains... Let the frenzy begin. Let our armies taste fresh gore once more. The thought of tearing flesh from bone... it excites us."

His cross-shaped eyes narrowed in a moment of rabid glee, dark saliva oozing from the corners of his mouth.

Deathenstream

Deathenstream let out a giggle, high-pitched and broken, stepping awkwardly into the torchlight. His chest cavity quivered under a layer of necrotic, dark-gray flesh, an occasional insect crawling beneath the skin.

Deathenstream (hushed excitement):
"Grant me the vanguard, Lord. I wish to watch their faces contort in terror... to drink in the last flicker of hope in their eyes. I'll gather their screams, if you wish—bottle them like the sweetest perfume."

Deathenstride

In two thunderous steps, Deathenstride bowed low, the archaic metal plating strapped over his decaying limbs screeching as he moved. Blotches of purple and gray mottled his exposed shoulders, a testament to his unnatural existence.

Deathenstride (rigid solemnity):
"We are your blade, King of Death. Let us carve a path of ruin through Galaxenchi's heart. My cleaver thirsts for new trophies... fresh trophies."

A slick grin revealed blackened gums around jagged teeth.

Deathenstorm

Crackling necrotic energy illuminated Deathenstorm's hulking form. His grayish-purple veins pulsed with each arc of electricity.

Deathenstorm (deep, resonant roar):
"I stand ready to hurl storms of corruption upon Galaxenchi's defenses. Let thunder and decay break their walls, and let their howls of despair become our battle hymn."

His cross-shaped irises sparked, reflecting the malevolent lightning that danced along his limbs.

Deathenpuff

Lastly, Deathenpuff glided forward with eerie poise. Where her dark-purple flesh had peeled away, pockets of bone gleamed with a slick black shine.

Deathenpuff (soft, lingering tone):
"My dear Master... every step we take on their soil will be a dance of death. Their twisted screams, the perfect melody to our ravaging chorus. I cannot wait to feel their fear, to wear their final breaths like a perfume."

She dipped her head in a graceful bow, scalp flaying slightly at the motion, but showing no sign of pain.

Deathwing raised both arms, black robes swaying like a living shadow around him. His cross-shaped eyes flared with an intensity that set the entire hall trembling.

Deathwing (rasping proclamation):
"My glorious abominations... gather every reanimated husk, every twisted atrocity born of our laboratories. Load them onto the transport ships. We sail for Galaxenchi. Let the Galaxy Regime tremble at the horror we bring."

A crack of thunder reverberated through the stone pillars, almost as if the skies themselves cowered at his call.

March to the Docks

Shortly thereafter, the courtyard of Deathenbulkiztahlem overflowed with undead. Thousands of mindless zombies—their skin likewise a spectrum of dark-gray and purple—formed uneasy ranks. Faint moans and the wet slop of rotted flesh shifting on bone filled the air. Uniforms hung in shreds on many of them, while the more mutated soldiers sported additional arms, twisted spines, or half-melted features.

At the head of this festering horde, the Supreme Commanders barked orders, driving the mindless throng forward.

Deathendye (snarling at his troops):
"Move, you sacks of rot! The living world awaits our putrid touch. Onward, to the docks!"

One particularly decayed soldier lagged, prompting Deathendale to ram his hook-hand into the creature's side. The zombie let out a wretched groan, viscera slopping onto the cobblestones.

Deathendale (with sadistic relish):
"The worthless shall be devoured by those more worthy. March... or become fodder."

Deathenpuff, twirling an ichor-soaked blade between her long claws, paraded among the ranks with a cruel smile.

Deathenpuff (sing-song cruelty):
"Remember, my darlings, every beating heart you tear from its chest is an offering to our King of Death. Revel in it."

Boarding the Transport Ships

The docks groaned under the combined weight of war machines and endless waves of reanimated abominations. Heavy landing transports, bristling with jagged spikes and corroded cannons, bobbed in the murky waters of the harbor. Their sails bore necrotic symbols that pulsed with an otherworldly glow.

Deathenstorm and Deathenstride supervised the loading. Lightning flickered around Deathenstorm's gauntlets, while Deathenstride used his colossal cleaver to keep the shuffling masses in line.

Deathenstorm (bellowing to be heard above the din):
"Pack them in tight! No space wasted. We cross the sea on a tide of pestilence!"

A roiling grin spread across Deathenstride's gaunt features.

Deathenstride (eyes flickering):
"Our ships will descend upon Galaxenchi like a plague of locusts, unstoppable and ravenous. Let them cry out to their gods—none shall answer."

Deathenstream, cackling at every lurch of the deck, patted the heads of lesser zombies as they boarded.

Deathenstream (tone brimming with unhinged delight):
"Come, my pets. Your suffering is the stepping stone to our greater feast."

With each step, his dark-purple flesh squelched against the deck, insects skittering around his exposed ribs. The putrid legion pressed ever forward, filling the ships to near bursting.

Departure into Darkness

From atop a decaying watchtower, Deathwing observed the exodus. His grin was the shape of a fresh wound, revealing ivory teeth ringed by blackened gums. He closed his eyes, sensing the flutter of dread radiating across the seas toward the unsuspecting Galaxy Regime.

Deathwing (whispering into the night):
"Sail forth, my nightmares. May your footsteps echo in the corridors of mortal fear... and may Professor Galaxbeam feel my breath upon the back of his neck."

Thunder boomed overhead, and an oily drizzle began to fall, slicking every surface with a foul sheen. One by one, the ships launched into the roiling waves. Tattered sails, scrawled with unholy glyphs, caught the grim wind, propelling them eastward—toward Galaxenchi, the seat of the Galaxy Regime.

As the final transport slipped away from the docks, Deathwing's silhouette vanished into the gloom of his tower. Behind him, the torches guttered and died, leaving only the dull glow of necrotic runes etched into the stones.

Thus, the Death Regime set forth, a vast tide of pestilence and decay. Their dark-gray and dark-purple skin glistened under the storm-lashed moonlight, and their cross-shaped eyes burned with the promise of absolute ruin. The continent of Galaxenchi would soon know the true extent of Deathwing's vengeful might—a crescendo of horror no mortal kingdom could ever withstand.

SUPREMACY- Clash Between Heroes and Villains Chapter 24: The Doctor of Dread

 Deathenbulkiztahlem had never known peace, and perhaps never would again—not since the day Deathwing first rose from his unmarked grave. Thick fog clung to the desolate continent like a festering wound, seeping through the jagged remnants of civilization. The soil itself lay contaminated by strains of lethal viruses, swirling in noxious clouds. Ruin was the only constant here. And in the midst of it all, upon a throne of twisted metal and rotted bone, sat Deathwing, the once-brilliant doctor whose unnerving resurrection had changed the fate of this land forever.

He was an abomination by every stretch of the imagination. Dark-gray and purple blotches sprawled across necrotic flesh, gaping lesions exposing sinew and mottled muscle beneath. His eyes—cross-shaped pupils tinted in a dark-purple hue—captured the room like the promise of plague. Yet, behind that monstrous façade lay a savant intellect, honed by years of studying chemistry, biology, and everything in between. At one point in time, his colleagues had whispered he would solve every disease known to mankind. They hadn't imagined the price he would pay.

A Past Best Left Unburied
Deathwing still recalled the exact moment of his death. The acrid smell of spilled chemicals in his private laboratory, the crackle of shattered glass, and the fateful swirl of toxic fumes filling his lungs. It was an experiment that should have propelled him into medical history—an attempt to fuse viral strands with groundbreaking chemical compounds. Instead, it ended with a violent explosion and him lying motionless on the lab floor. Those mysterious compounds and the half-finished viruses seeped straight into his corpse, saturating dead cells with unholy life.

When his eyelids fluttered open again, Deathwing no longer felt mortal shackles. He had awakened something within that dark realm between science and sorcery, a metamorphosis that rendered him both unstoppable and unrecognizable.

The Throne Room
Now, centuries—or perhaps mere months—later, time had become a fluid concept in Deathenbulkiztahlem. His domain stretched far across the wasted plains. The walls of his throne room reflected grim trophies: half-scorched walls decorated with twisted spines, shattered test tubes, and jars containing disembodied limbs floating in pungent, brackish fluid.

Around him, the Death Regime stooped low in obedience. They were a legion of similarly mutated zombies, their flesh likewise stained with grayish-purple patches of rot. Though undead, they each bore the memories and judgment once attributed to living humans—soldiers, scholars, and everyday folk twisted by the same viral plague and subservient to their unholy master. Their minds were intact, yet warped by Deathwing's mania; they followed him without question.

A Hunger for Flesh and Knowledge
Deathwing's elongated fingers tapped the arm of his ghastly throne, each click echoing in the high-ceilinged chamber. His thirst for blood rivaled a vampire's. It wasn't merely the taste—though he craved the rush of warm fluid after so long in the cold emptiness of undeath. It was the knowledge gleaned from every subject he dissected. With a scalpel in his hand, Deathwing felt a familiar surge of excitement. He did not simply savor blood; he used every drop, every splatter to fuel his twisted research.

The next experiment always loomed on the horizon of his mind. On this particular evening, one of his faithful legionnaires dragged in a young scout from a distant rebel faction. The poor soul was battered, eyes terrified. Deathwing greeted him with a sadistic smile—dark lips peeling back to reveal a row of jagged, discolored teeth.

"Now, now," Deathwing crooned, his voice a rasping whisper. "Let's not waste the opportunity for...education."

An Unholy Consultation
The scout screamed when Deathwing's living corpse descended upon him. No bars or chains could be seen, yet the aura of dread and the unwavering grip of rotting hands pinned the prisoner motionless. The Death Regime circled around them, quiet as the grave.

Deathwing prodded gently at the scout's chest with his scalpel. "Tell me, do you fear infection more than death?" His eyes glowed with a sinister curiosity. "It's a question I ask everyone, sooner or later."

With precision that only a masterful surgeon could exhibit, he nicked through layers of cloth and skin. Blood trickled down, an offering to the ravaged soil. The prisoner's howl echoed off the chamber walls and spilled out into the night. For Deathwing, it was the perfect symphony of agony.

He watched intently, noting how the rebellious youth's flesh responded to the environment. There was always data to collect, always a new puzzle to solve in the twisted labyrinth of disease and undead physiology.

Revelation in Rot
When the prisoner's screams died to a ragged whimper, Deathwing motioned for his legion to step back, and he straightened with a contemplative hum. The dark hush of the throne room pressed around them. A jagged grin spread across his dead lips, as though he had just uncovered yet another vile secret of the plague-ridden world.

"You have served me well," he whispered, leaning close to the barely conscious scout. "You might even say you've contributed more to science in these few moments than in your entire mortal life."

And then he spoke a single word—faint and guttural, an incantation that seemed part-medicine, part-curse. The scout's eyes rolled back, and he began to convulse, skin darkening to mottled shades of gray and purple. Slowly, painfully, the transformation began. Another soldier for the Death Regime was born.

Unshackled Dominion
Across Deathenbulkiztahlem, rumors churned of Deathwing's growing power. His cunning mind never ceased to push the boundaries of what the undead could accomplish. Whispers spoke of unstoppable armies, able to siege entire outposts without pause. Others warned of the twisted new research projects locked away in Deathwing's laboratories—dissections, forced mutations, horrifying spawns that further desecrated the land.

Yet for Deathwing, it was not enough. There were always new frontiers to explore, fresh viruses to splice, and unholy concoctions to perfect. The rotted continental plains of Deathenbulkiztahlem formed merely the start of a greater vision: his vision.

High atop his rusted, crooked fortress gates, the undead doctor stared out into the gloom. "This land is ours," he breathed to no one in particular, though his legions heard each word. "But it won't be the last. The world beyond is teeming with veins ripe for the bleed—and minds in need of my...help."

His cross-shaped eyes flared with a vile light. In the distance, thunder boomed, echoing like war drums. The Death Regime raised their decaying arms, moaning in loyal adoration for their brilliant, blood-hungry ruler.

Soon, all of Deathenbulkiztahlem would discover what happened when Deathwing decided it was time to expand. And for anyone still breathing beyond its borders—hope was a dying flame.