Pov Varyx.
The ramp hissed shut behind him, sealing out the frozen wasteland of Pluto's dark side. Varyx stood in the dimly lit corridor of his vessel, all four arms still clutching the vial. He made his way into the command center. Placing the vial on a platform within sight, he booted up the spaceship and took of the surface of Pluto.
As the spaceship broke free of the dwarf planets gravitational pull, a holographic display bloomed before Varyx, a three-dimensional map of known space, color-coded by territorial control, neutral zones, danger zones, and war zones. The pale blue glow of Coratian territory dominated the display, a massive sphere of controlled space encompassing thousands upon thousands of systems.
His large eyes scanned the star chart, among the vast territory of the Coratians lied several dozen danger zones scattered around the territory, star systems deemed to dangerous for the current Coratian technological might. The star system he was in was also considered as such, If he hadn't cut a deal with Radae, this star system would have been avoided like the plague by all Coratians.
Varyx continued to look for a star system to conduct his research, his four arms flicking between controls as he zoomed, rotated, and filtered the holographic chart. He needed a location unsuitable for life, yet not so extreme that his equipment would fail. Somewhere remote, outside the usual Coratian patrol routes, far from prying eyes and regulatory surveillance.
After hours of searching, a cluster of faintly glowing dots, nearly unremarkable on the map, marked a small system tucked at the edge of a pale blue sector. Its center was a white star, almost identical in temperature and spectral class to Corth Prime, the cradle of Coratian civilization. A small, icy planet orbited near the outer edge, barren, silent, untouched. Perfect.
Analyzing the distance. The system was approximately seventy-three light-years from his current location, not too far, not too close. With his spaceships capability, he could space jump seventeen light years at a time, but only about three times before the ships energy reserves drops below five percent.
Varyx expanded the star chart again, filtering the overlay to show neutral paths— areas not owned by any forces, these areas are used for energy refueling, negotiations and trade. Several neutral zones dotted the space between him and his destination, glowing soft amber on the holographic display. He plotted a course that would take him through two refueling stations, both well-established and relatively discreet.
With a course set, Varyx immediately set out on the path. The journey took six days. Two refueling stops, four jumps, and countless hours staring at the vial containing the kryptonian's blood. When Varyx finally arrived at the remote system, the white star burned bright against the void, casting harsh light across the barren ice planet below.
He set up his research station on the surface within a day, a modular laboratory that extended from his ship like metal roots digging into frozen soil. The equipment hummed to life: gene sequencers, cellular replication chambers, molecular synthesizers, all top-tier Coratian technology acquired through the centuries of scientific discovery and a few questionable transactions.
As the systems initialized, Varyx felt the weight of what he'd done settle over him like a heavy cloak. He had abandoned his post in the Empire without authorization. Had stolen property of the Empire. The Coratian Empire didn't look kindly upon desertion, especially not from high ranking officials with access to classified information and cutting-edge equipment.
He was a traitor now. A gambler who had bet everything—his career, his reputation, his freedom, perhaps even his life—on a single vial of alien blood.
If this failed, there would be no returning to Coratian space. The Empire would brand him a deserter and a thief. They would hunt him down, drag him back to face tribunal, strip him of his rank and titles. His name would be erased from the historical records, his contributions forgotten, his family dishonored for generations. Compared to that scenario, the original demotion seemed like a blessing.
His primary hands trembled slightly as they set up the first experiment. He forced them still. There was no turning back now. Only forward.
The first month, Varyx attempted detailed structural analysis. Using the most powerful microscopy equipment available, he examined the cellular architecture, searching for weaknesses, entry points, or mechanisms he could exploit. But the cell walls were unlike anything in the Coratian biological database—layered, dense, and seemingly designed to resist intrusion. Every scanning attempt revealed only impenetrable barriers.
The second month brought cloning experiments. He created growth chambers with precise nutrient solutions, attempting to culture tissue samples from the blood. But the cells refused to divide at all. They remained in stasis, neither growing nor dying, as if waiting for some trigger he couldn't provide. No matter what variables he adjusted—temperature, pressure, chemical composition—the cells remained locked in perfect dormancy.
By the third month, frustration gnawed at him. He tried viral vector injection—introducing modified Coratian viruses designed to interact with the cellular machinery and trigger replication. The viruses simply dissolved on contact, as if the cells possessed some inherent defense mechanism that neutralized foreign biological agents. He attempted enzymatic breakdown using dozens of different catalysts, hoping to at least understand the cellular structure better. But the enzymes had no effect whatsoever—the cell walls remained impenetrable, refusing to yield their secrets. Nothing worked. The cells remained as inert as stone.
The fourth month saw him attempting synthesis—using advanced scanning technology, he mapped every externally observable protein, every surface marker, every detectable molecule. But when he tried to reconstruct even a simple cell wall based on these external observations, the result was nothing more than inert organic slurry that bore no resemblance to the original's properties.
Five months. Six. Seven.
The research logs grew longer, filled with failed experiments and dead ends. Varyx's movements became mechanical, his four arms working the equipment with decreasing enthusiasm. He had traveled seventy-three light-years, burned through his savings, gave up his position in Coratian society—all for a sample that refused to reveal its secrets.
By the eleventh month, doubt crept in like frost. Not doubt about the creature's power—he'd seen that with his own eyes, watched four motherships vanish from his sensors in what was estimated to be microseconds. No, what gnawed at him was different, more insidious.
Perhaps the power hadn't been biological at all. Perhaps it had been the armor, some technology he didn't understand. Perhaps he'd stolen the blood of an ordinary being, and the real secret—the real source of that devastating power—was locked away in that suit the creature wore. Perhaps he had destroyed his life chasing the wrong answer.
And if that was true, then Radae had known. The god must have known.
Varyx's secondary hands clenched into fists as the realization settled over him. Radae had fought the Kryptonian. Had studied it. Had understood what made it powerful. And when Varyx had come begging, desperate for answers, willing to trade everything for just a sample of its blood—the god had simply given it to him.
And Radae had probably been amused by it all.
"Curse you," Varyx whispered, his voice a low rasp in the empty laboratory. One of his primary hands slammed against the workstation, the impact reverberating through the metal. "Curse you, Radae."
The god had played him for a fool. Given him the blood of an ordinary creature—powerless without its technological armor—and watched as Varyx destroyed his entire life chasing an answer that didn't exist. It was exactly the kind of cruel joke a god would find entertaining. The mighty Admiral Varyx, conqueror of star systems, reduced to a laboratory exile studying nothing.
Varyx sat at his workstation, staring at the containment unit with hollow resignation. Minutes passed in silence. Then, gradually, his breathing steadied. His clenched fists slowly relaxed.
He forced himself to think. To analyze rather than rage.
The blood couldn't be from an ordinary creature. It couldn't be.
Varyx had conquered hundreds of star systems over three and a half centuries. He'd seen countless species, studied enough biology to know what was normal and what wasn't. And this? This was not normal.
Every other organism he'd encountered would have showed some response to the methods he'd employed. Chemical compounds triggered reactions. Viruses broke down cellular walls. Environmental changes forced adaptation.
But this blood? Nothing. Eleven months of exhaustive testing, and he'd gotten nothing.
That wasn't the signature of an ordinary creature. That was the signature of something so fundamentally different that conventional analysis was meaningless.
Varyx's secondary hands moved across the console, pulling up his accumulated data. Months of readings, all showing the same pattern: perfect stability. No degradation. No mutation. No response.
The cells weren't dead—dead cells decayed, but they weren't dormant in the usual sense either.
Varyx straightened in his seat, his large eyes refocusing on the containment unit with renewed intensity.
Whatever this blood was, it wasn't ordinary. The very fact that it had resisted every form of analysis proved that. An ordinary creature's blood would have broken down by now, would have shown something under his examination.
This blood was special. He just hadn't found the right key yet.
He had one option left. One final experiment before admitting defeat.
Radiation bombardment.
It was a last resort—crude, unpredictable, and often destructive. He had avoided it because radiation exposure typically destroyed organic samples rather than revealing anything useful. But he had nothing left to lose.
Varyx moved the containment unit into the radiation chamber, a sealed compartment lined with energy-focusing panels. His four arms worked the controls, setting parameters for a controlled burst. He would expose the sample to high-spectrum radiation similar to stellar output—wavelengths that ranged from ultraviolet to gamma.
He hesitated for a moment, one hand hovering over the activation panel. This was it. His last chance. If this failed, he was simply a traitor who had gambled and lost.
He pressed the button.
The chamber hummed as radiation flooded the space, invisible but measurable on every instrument. The interface display monitoring the blood remained connected through shielded cables, showing readings in real-time.
For the first ten seconds, nothing changed. The same flat lines, the same stable readings.
Then the alarm chimed.
Varyx's large eyes widened as he watched the interface display come alive. The flat lines spiked upward. Cellular activity surged—three hundred percent. Five hundred. Eight hundred.
The temperature of the sample began rising. The blood wasn't breaking down under the radiation.
It was absorbing it.
"By the twin moons," Varyx whispered, all four arms frozen over the controls.
He increased the radiation intensity, pushing the output higher. The readings climbed further. The cells were thriving, drinking in the energy like parched roots finding water.
He switched the spectrum, focusing the bombardment to match the wavelengths of the white star burning outside his laboratory. The moment he did, the activity intensified even more. The blood sample began to glow faintly within its container, a soft luminescence that pulsed with rhythm.
Varyx's breathing quickened—short, rasping gasps of revelation.
He pulled up the comparison data from his initial scans, overlaying them with the new readings. Under radiation exposure, the cells didn't just survive—they transformed. They became denser, harder, stronger.
Then Varyx noticed something else. Something that made his breath catch.
The energy readings.
His secondary arms flew across the console, pulling up the power consumption data. The radiation chamber was outputting 10.47 kilowatts of focused stellar-spectrum radiation.
But the blood sample wasn't just absorbing that energy.
It was amplifying it.
The cellular output showed 10,470 kilowatts. A thousand times the input. The glow intensified, shifting from soft luminescence to brilliant radiance.
"Impossible," Varyx breathed, his eyes fixed on the display. "That violates every law of thermodynamics..."
He reduced the radiation input by half. The cellular output adjusted proportionally—still a thousand-fold amplification.
He watched the readings for several minutes. Then something changed. The amplification factor began to increase. Slowly. minimally. But unmistakably rising.
The cells were becoming more efficient. With every passing moment, they were learning to extract more power from the same amount of radiation. Adapting. Optimizing.
And then he noticed something in the containment chamber itself.
Varyx leaned closer to the observation window.
The blood was moving. The cells were clustering together, no longer separate but joining into a mass. The mass was growing, taking shape.
The glow pulsed steadily. Rhythmically.
The form continued to develop. What had been liquid blood was now solid tissue, organized and structured. It grew larger with each passing moment, roughly the size of his fist now.
The more it grew, the brighter it glowed. The more efficient it became at converting radiation into power.
Varyx stood frozen, watching.
The cells were building something.
The amplification factor continued to rise.
Varyx's primary hands gripped the edge of the console as the weight of his discovery crashed over him.
This wasn't a fool's gamble. This was the discovery of a lifetime. Of a millennium.
He stood there in silence, all four arms trembling.
He had found it. After nearly a year of failure, after betraying the Empire, after gambling everything on what seemed like madness—he had finally discovered the key.
(Author note: This process is kinda similar to how H'el was born in DC comics, as H'el was a clone made by the combined blood of several kryptonian, after they were exposed to a multitude of different solar radiation. Obviously im not gonna do that and make the 'clone' op, but i think its not too outrageous that a white star would have such an effect (The white star will given the clone additional set of powers as well). Also im gonna stick to regular years from now on a.k.a 365 days, 12 months. The process of creating a calendar for every new planet is too much of a drag.)