Two years had passed since Hex Nocturne had arrived on Earth. Two years in a world far removed from the endless wars and collapsing universes that had once defined his existence. A world where humans, fragile and weak in comparison to beings from countless other realms, thrived on simplicity, on small joys, on fleeting celebrations.
It was October, and the city was alive with energy. Lights blinked from windows, colored paper and lanterns swayed in the wind, and the streets were flooded with children laughing behind masks and costumes. Earth's humans had many names for this festival, but this one called itself Halloween. Strange, Hex thought, the way these people clung to illusions of happiness in a world that would eventually crush them. But there was beauty in their ignorance, he realized, in their soft laughter, their tentative joy. It was the kind of beauty he had sworn to protect after failing so catastrophically in his own universe.
Hex moved through the crowds silently, a shadow among shadows. His coat, dark and heavy, rippled with the faint whisper of Aetherion that coursed along his spine, invisible to every mortal eye around him. Every step he took was measured, controlled, precise. He did not speak, did not acknowledge the laughter, the sugar-scented air, the costumes that made humans believe themselves safe. Safety, Hex knew, was a lie. It was temporary, fleeting, fragile.
And he had learned, the hard way, that monsters came when one least expected them.
Tonight, they had come.
The presence arrived as a distortion first—a ripple in reality so subtle that only those with attuned senses could perceive it. Hex's sharp eyes caught it instantly. Something unnatural had emerged from the shadows at the edge of the city. Something wrong. Hungry. Dangerous.
A Ruinborn.
Hex's jaw tightened. He had studied these creatures across the multiverse, traced their origin to experiments that defied ethics, time, and nature itself. Ruinborn were born to destroy. Not just strong, not just fast—they were evolution incarnate, capable of rewriting themselves in response to attacks, learning instantly from every strike, adapting with terrifying speed. Their bodies could twist and transform, muscle and bone realigning with each breath, each motion, making conventional combat useless. One strike might succeed once, but the next would fail. One plan might work today, and the Ruinborn would evolve to nullify it tomorrow.
And here one stood, towering above the rooftops, its form flickering in and out of coherence as if reality itself hesitated to hold it together. Its bones glinted under the streetlights, sharpened into jagged serrations. Muscles swelled like molten steel beneath malleable skin. Its scream tore through the night, a cacophony of agony and rage that sounded like a thousand creatures dying at once. Rain lashed against its frame, bouncing off as if hitting iron, yet the creature advanced with fluid grace, a predator unconcerned by gravity or weather.
Hex's hand moved first.
He didn't flinch, didn't hesitate. Aetherion hummed faintly beneath his skin, invisible currents resonating with his elemental affinity—Shadowflare, a rare synthesis of darkness and solar energy that bent light, manipulated perception, and burned with radiant heat only he could control. It flowed through him effortlessly, shaping itself around muscle and bone, extending from his arms, fingertips, and even his eyes.
With a single, swift motion, Hex's hand sliced through the storm. A line of invisible energy followed the arc, pure, deadly, instantaneous. The Ruinborn froze. Its body twisted midair, halted in impossible balance. For a heartbeat, the world seemed suspended. Every raindrop, every scream, every flickering light paused, bound in the tension of the predator meeting the predator.
Then, with a precision that would have been impossible for anyone else, the Ruinborn's torso split apart. Clean. Perfect. Silent. The two halves dropped to the pavement with wet thuds, steam rising where rain met blood.
Hex didn't flinch, didn't blink. He merely observed. He had seen this before.
Seconds passed.
Muscles twitched. Bones cracked. Flesh flowed. Organs rewove themselves, stitching together with a speed that made logic meaningless. Within moments, the Ruinborn had reformed, standing whole again, its jaw stretching far beyond normal limits, the clock-mark on its forehead faintly glowing.
Hex tilted his head. "…So you can regenerate," he murmured, quietly, deliberately. Not a challenge. A statement.
The Ruinborn snarled, taking a measured step forward, its body twisting unnaturally as it recalibrated. Its clock-hand ticked forward. Hex noted it immediately. Every tick was a record, a learning curve, an adaptation in progress.
He spoke again, his voice calm, measured, but each word carrying weight. "If I remember correctly, my brother fought one of you once. He said you weren't just strong, not just fast. You adapt. You learn. You evolve against anything that strikes you."
The Ruinborn's head tilted, almost curiously. Its body rippled under Hex's gaze, muscles contracting, reforming.
Hex's voice sharpened. "Anything that hits you once, you learn it. Anything that harms you, you rewrite yourself against it. The only way to destroy you is to erase you completely. Leave no trace. Not a fragment of flesh, not a memory in matter. Because if even a piece survives, you'll regenerate. Instantly."
The monster's grin widened, its clock-hand moving with silent inevitability. Hex exhaled slowly, letting the rhythm of the storm match the rhythm of the creature's adaptation.
"And that mark on your forehead?" Hex continued, voice low and deliberate. "It's a timer. Every rotation, every tick, is you learning something new. Strength. Speed. Defense. Awareness. And if it ever completes a full rotation—back to twelve—you adapt to me. Not my attacks, not my techniques, but my very existence. Every strategy, every thought, every action I can conceive, you will become immune to it. Then nothing I do will matter."
Rain fell harder. The city itself seemed to hold its breath. Cars skidded, people screamed, children tripped over their costumes, and every human life in the vicinity became a fragile, living ornament for the battle about to unfold. Hex's fists clenched. He was not reckless. He was not heartless. Every civilian was his responsibility. Every child, every laugh, every fragile, fleeting joy deserved protection, no matter how much the storm of violence around him might erase it.
"I see," the Ruinborn hissed, voice like jagged glass. Its body shifted preemptively, muscles warping, blades forming along its forearms. "Then fight, mortal."
Hex's eyes narrowed, and the world seemed to dim around him, the Aetherion in his body coalescing into visible, swirling shadows edged with radiant heat, flowing around his form like a living cloak. Every hair on his body stood on end. Every nerve was a conduit. Every thought was a weapon.
"In that case…" he said softly, almost to himself, "let's see what you're really capable of."
The Ruinborn charged, a living hurricane of bone and muscle and rage. Hex didn't move—at least, not immediately. He let it close the distance, reading its motion, letting his Aetherion sense the patterns of adaptation, the rhythm of evolution in progress. Every movement, every twist, every rotation of that clock on its forehead was data to Hex, feeding into his combat instincts.
When the creature was almost upon him, Hex extended his hands. Shadowflare flared outward. Darkness and heat coalesced into a field of molten shadow, invisible but crushing, altering the very structure of space around him. The Ruinborn hit it with full force, and for a heartbeat, everything shook. A shockwave ripped through the streets, sending cars skidding, pedestrians flying, costumes drenched in rain and terror.
The monster faltered. Only for a moment. Then it adjusted. Adapted. Learned. It reared back, claws slicing through the rain, teeth snapping at the invisible edge of Hex's power. Every strike, every block, every parry was observed, recorded, recalculated. Within seconds, the Ruinborn was almost unstoppable, moving with an unnatural, fluid grace that defied everything Hex knew about combat.
But Hex was not human either. Not anymore. Not fully. Two years of Earth had tempered his Aetherion, refined his Shadowflare, integrated his cosmic memory of battles across universes. He was the perfect predator, and this Ruinborn was prey.
And Hex smiled.
"Then let's see just how strong you are," he whispered.
The night exploded. Energy, rain, blood, shadow, and fire collided as Hex and the Ruinborn became two forces of nature, tearing reality itself along the streets of a festival city. Every moment, every movement, every breath became a test of adaptation versus strategy, instinct versus knowledge, evolution versus mastery.
Above them, the storm raged. Around them, humans screamed, ran, ducked. Hex fought not only to destroy a monster but to protect this fragile world, this soft, fleeting life he had chosen to defend.
And somewhere, deep inside the core of his being, Hex Nocturne remembered. The universe he had lost, the family he had failed to protect, the grief that had burned him into what he had become. Every strike was not only survival—it was vengeance, it was love, it was purpose reborn.
And the Ruinborn would learn, one way or another, that Hex Nocturne was no ordinary man.