The ruined remains of the Necropolis were behind them. The throne room and the training halls, the chambers full of weaponry, armor, and vehicles, as well as the mysterious chamber full of crystals – it all remained far beneath their feet.
Darkseid planned to come back for all of that eventually. Still, right now, there were some pressing matters to attend to back at the inhabited surface of the planet.
After a long, agonizingly slow ascension through the endless set of stairs leading from the Necropolis back to the surface, they had emerged from the gates of living metal.
The halls of the Crucible Arena were the same walls of rusted metal, a labyrinth the size of a city, that held secrets from the minds of the local populace.
Darkseid's towering frame pushed through the faint yellow light of the oil burners of the halls. Behind him were the three Furies, each moving with the slow, measured pace. They were conserving energy, as it was expended throughout the long day.
First, there was the altercation with Mongul's Elite, then they had come back to Apokolips to resurrect the two sisters, and then they had descended into the Necropolis, fought Lobo, and Mongul. And that is all on the same day. Granted, they were all pretty much unscathed, but the toll it took on their bodies was still immense.
The scent of the burning oil had woken them up, the unpleasantness of the smell somehow giving them more energy to walk. Furies spoke among themselves in low voices, discussing the past battles and what they would be doing back at home.
The serene calmness of the atmosphere had eased Darkseid's nerves; he enjoyed the presence of his own warriors with him. It gave him a sense of belonging. They were his warriors, and he was their master.
As their teacher, he was glad to see their improvement as a team; they had come a long way from the simple disciples of Granny Goodness to the lethal team of warrior gods.
Tina walked ahead of the group as the team talked. Her giant triangular shield in hand, her steps echoed in the halls of the Arena like sounds of a siege weapon firing.
Barda trudged beside her, despite her tiredness; each step was solid and assured, her massive mace slung across her shoulder.
Aurelie lingered at the rear, daggers at her side, eyes moving constantly, reading every shadow for movement. She was responsible for their safety as the captain, and while they were on duty, she would make sure that all of them came back home alive.
Eventually, they had reached the entrance of the Arena, one that led directly into a massive square. They stepped out into the open, blinking against the brightness.
The morning had come already; the light of the star engines had invaded the artificial planet's atmosphere. But it was not the only thing that had invaded the square that morning.
A massive army had filled the square to the brim.
Land forces of Warworld, several thousand strong, stood before them like a tidal wave of muscle and metal.
Gladiators in armor of every conceivable make and material. Some were plated with chromed metal, others were bare-chested. But regardless of their armor, their skin was adorned with scars of past battles.
Behind them, rows upon rows of disciplined troops. Conscripts, soldiers armed with long-barreled blasters and shoulder-mounted laser rifles. Their armor was much more modern, made for long-distance combat, a stark difference from the gladiators that were used for close-quarter combat.
At the helm of the army stood three figures.
The first, a woman of immense stature, rivaling the height of Barda. She stood tall and proud, even amidst the tide of soldiers, towering two whole heads above most of them. Her skin was of deep gold color, a similar hue to her late brother's.
Her face bore the same harsh lines, but her eyes, pinkish red, looked at the newcomers with determination. She was said to be sharp and calculating, and far less arrogant than Mongul had been.
This was Mongal, the sister of the fallen Warlord, the head of the Crucible Arena, and the main proctor of the gladiatorial games.
Beside her, armored in red and black metal plate on top of his modern military uniform, stood Chaytil. The general commander of Warworld's army.
He was young, in his thirties, but his prowess was enough to rise to the very top of the chain of command of the army.
His eyes were cold, unfeeling, but even he trembled slightly at the sight of Darkseid approaching. The dreads on his head were waving around with each gust of the artificial wind that flew past.
And behind the two of them, half-hidden behind their presence, stood another woman. Darkseid recognized her. The one who had fled during the slaughter of the Necropolis elites. No doubt the messenger who had run to Mongal and Chaytil, telling them what had transpired in the Phaelosian slums.
Unfortunately for this army and its commanders, they had come too late.
Darkseid stopped a dozen steps from the gathered army. The Furies lined up behind him, taking their formation. They were prepared for the battle, their postures instinctively shifting into readiness. Their exhaustion had vanished, and a rush of adrenaline washed over their bloodstreams.
A thousand eyes fixed on the god ruler of Apokolips. A thousand hearts beat in uneasy rhythm, scared for their lives, uncertain of the outcome of this encounter.
Darkseid stood before the enemy army, his expression unchanged. Stoic and emotionless, with two of his hands behind his back. The aura of regal power surrounded him, coating his presence in the sense of inevitable doom. His heavy gaze was drilling holes through the heads of the enemy generals.
He shifted his gaze to the army behind their backs, as the enemy commanders had fallen prey to paralysis of fear. They did not expect to see Darkseid and his Furies here. They were only preparing for the search inside the Arena, as Darkseid had been last seen entering this place.
The army before him was a mismatch of different soldiers and gladiators. An unwelcome chaos in the army. Military loved discipline, and this mess was not a good sign for the locals.
The gladiators with their crude blades and jagged armor, the conscripts clutching their laser rifles nervously, and the commanders standing tall in their ceremonial armor.
The sudden shift in the air declared the start of the action. Darkseid gathered his magic and powers into one single imaginary fist. He extended his presence over the square, exuding overworldly amounts of pressure, similar in power to the gravitational pull of a black hole.
The entire planet trembled beneath the boot of his presence. The ground shuddered, sending cracks through the metal surface. Towers of the Arena groaned as their foundations protested. The mechanical core deep below wailed under the pressure of an energy that no mortal or machine could withstand.
The gladiators nearest to them collapsed instantly, knees striking the floor with metallic clangs. Darkseid's magical power pressed the enemy to the ground and kept them conscious through the whole ordeal. He needed them awake for what was to come next.
Soon after those behind the gladiators followed, row after row, a wave of submission sweeping outward. Helmets clattered. Blades dropped. Blasters fell from trembling hands.
Even the mighty general commander Chaytil, the right-hand man of Mongul, buckled. His legs gave way despite his desperate attempt to resist.
The whole army now stood on their knees before Darkseid, their heads bowed in terror under the mighty presence of the god.
Only Mongal remained standing.
Her jaw tightened, muscles trembling beneath the immense pressure. Every vein in her body sprang into action, sending adrenaline through her body. Her golden skin strained under the invisible weight pressing down upon her. Her eyes blazed with stubborn fire, yet even that began to flicker as the full measure of Darkseid's might bore down upon her.
Darkseid stepped forward. He shifted his attention to her, and now the full force of his presence fell on her.
Mongal's defiance wavered. She tried to speak, to summon words of challenge, but her voice would not dare to come out of her throat.
"Interesting," Darkseid said, his voice filling the air like a temple bell tolling for the dead. "You show more worth than your late brother had shown me."
Mongal swallowed hard. She felt Darkseid's power wrapping around her with chains, as if an invisible hand had palmed her whole body. She clenched her fists, trembling.
Then, finally, she dropped to one knee.
The clang of her armored knee striking the metal floor echoed like a verdict. The judgment had come down on their planet, and they were sentenced to the lives of slaves.
Darkseid allowed his aura to fade slowly. As it vanished, the Furies behind him straightened. Even though their master's power had spared them from its influence, seeing the effect that Darkseid's power had on others was debilitatingly addictive. It was as if they were part of that power that he wielded.
"Warworld is mine. It will serve Apokolips. Now you shall learn the meaning of the Order." Darkseid declared.
The surroundings had stilled with the golden hue of something piercing the very atmosphere of the moment. Something divine was now paying attention to what was happening at the central square of the Crucible Arena.
It was as if a multitude of eyes and voices had invaded the space around, overloading the senses of everyone present.
"The meaning of Destiny," Darkseid continued his speech.
Another divine presence had descended upon the square. This one was more subtle, less heavy, but it was still noticeable among the sounds of the divine whispers. This presence was content with staying just an observer.
"The meaning of submission," Darkseid finished his piece, as he flared his aura once more, laying a claim on the Warworld before the very eyes of the Order and the Destiny.
He reached into his pockets, pulling out the key gem that he had acquired deep underneath the surface of Warworld.
Its dormant form awoke as he touched the gem with his magic.
Instantly, with a quiet, satisfied hum, the key had vanished from existence. Its essence was now fused with the very soul of Darkseid.
Darkseid felt himself drowning in the sense of triumph and accomplishment. This simple impromptu ritual allowed him to claim Warworld for himself.
This ritual was extremely dangerous for most, as it tested the user before the eyes of Destiny of the Endless and the Lords of Order. Everyone that they would deem unsatisfactory would fall prey to their whims, fulfilling their tasks for the rest of their now eternal lives. They would become their thralls.
But Darkseid knew the limits of his being. He dared to make such a move. And he was rewarded with a whole planet to wield as his weapon.