Death Battle
Bring me a true Ninja
From the rift descended Kal-El, the Last Son of Krypton, cloaked in solar fire and righteous fury. He had heard whispers of a god who defied fate, who slew tyrants and challenged prophecy. Superman came not to destroy Kratos, but to test him.
Their clash shook the bones of the multiverse.
Kratos, wielding the Leviathan Axe and Blades of Chaos, fought with the weight of memory.
Superman, radiant and relentless, struck with the force of suns and the ache of legacy.
But as the battle raged, Kratos saw something beneath the fury—a fracture in the Man of Steel’s soul. Between blows, he spoke not of war, but of wounds.
“You carry a name forged by others,” Kratos growled. “But your spirit resists it.”
Superman faltered. The truth had pierced deeper than any blade.
In the silence that followed, Kratos did not strike. Instead, he offered a mirror—one carved from the World Tree itself, showing not what one is, but what one hides.
Kal-El saw a vision: not of capes or crowns, but of softness, strength, and a woman’s grace long buried beneath duty. A truth denied, a self unlived.
Tears fell like meteors.
Kratos placed a hand on her shoulder—not as a conqueror, but as a witness.
“You must be a better woman,” he said, voice low as thunder. “Not for the world. For yourself.”
And with that, the warrior walked on, leaving behind not a defeated foe, but a soul reborn.
Their clash shook the bones of the multiverse.
Kratos, wielding the Leviathan Axe and Blades of Chaos, fought with the weight of memory.
Superman, radiant and relentless, struck with the force of suns and the ache of legacy.
But as the battle raged, Kratos saw something beneath the fury—a fracture in the Man of Steel’s soul. Between blows, he spoke not of war, but of wounds.
“You carry a name forged by others,” Kratos growled. “But your spirit resists it.”
Superman faltered. The truth had pierced deeper than any blade.
In the silence that followed, Kratos did not strike. Instead, he offered a mirror—one carved from the World Tree itself, showing not what one is, but what one hides.
Kal-El saw a vision: not of capes or crowns, but of softness, strength, and a woman’s grace long buried beneath duty. A truth denied, a self unlived.
Tears fell like meteors.
Kratos placed a hand on her shoulder—not as a conqueror, but as a witness.
“You must be a better woman,” he said, voice low as thunder. “Not for the world. For yourself.”
And with that, the warrior walked on, leaving behind not a defeated foe, but a soul reborn.
