Chapter 1: The Sky Tears Open
Metropolis, a city of steel and ambition, had always vibrated with a familiar, almost comforting symphony. It was the electric thrum of commerce coursing through its veins, the distant, mournful wail of emergency sirens cutting through the urban din, and the occasional, reassuring sonic boom that signaled Superman, its protector, patrolling the azure skies overhead. For its citizens, life, for all its daily struggles, held a predictable rhythm. But on this particular Friday afternoon, that rhythm was brutally, irrevocably shattered by a discord utterly alien, a cacophony from beyond their comprehension. The sky didn't just darken; it ripped, violently, like a cosmic canvas torn by some unseen, malicious hand. Violet lightning, thick as ancient, gnarled oaks, arced from nothingness, slamming into skyscrapers, twisting the familiar architecture into impossible, Escher-esque angles for a fleeting second before snapping back with a whip-crack, leaving behind a shimmering, unsettling afterimage, a ghostly scar on the air. This was no mere localized weather phenomenon, no ordinary thunderstorm. This was a dimensional storm, a cataclysm born from a disastrous cosmic pile-up. Doctor Strange, in his earnest but ultimately flawed attempts, had botched a minor protective spell meant to seal a low-level interdimensional anomaly. That magical ripple, instead of dissipating harmlessly, had slammed directly into a spacetime rift, a gaping wound inadvertently left open by Kaguya Ōtsutsuki's desperate, last-ditch escape across realities from the clutches of her own world's heroes. The universe, it seemed, was having a truly abysmal day, and Metropolis, utterly unaware, was now right in the epicentre of its cosmic hangover.
Through the maelstrom, cutting through the swirling energies and the violent atmospheric distortions, a figure descended. He wasn't falling, not truly, but carving a path through the tearing dimensions with an almost predatory grace, his trajectory deliberate and unwavering. It was Sasuke Uchiha. His obsidian hair whipped around him, a dark banner against the chaotic sky, and his dark robes billowed like shadows given malevolent form. His eyes, one a swirling, crimson Sharingan, the other a complex, concentric Rinnegan that seemed to contain the very cosmos, drank in the bizarre tapestry of this new world. Towering metal spires pierced clouds, unlike anything he'd seen in the Elemental Nations. Strange, sleek vehicles zipped through the air without the aid of chakra. The very atmosphere hummed, saturated with latent, untamed energy – it was all profoundly other, yet disturbingly familiar in its potential for corruption. He had come here, drawn by the urgent, almost painful throb of interdimensional chakra anomalies, following a faint, but persistently troubling, trail of warped energy signatures. As he neared the planet's surface, a particular signature pulsed, raw and immense, radiating a chilling sense of dominance, a power that felt both ancient and aggressive. It screamed "threat," a familiar, nauseating echo of the Ōtsutsuki invaders who had plagued his own world for generations, beings who saw worlds as mere stepping stones to power. His jaw tightened, a muscle clenching beneath his pale skin. Another parasitic strain, another world unknowingly vulnerable, another unforeseen menace he was compelled to eliminate. His mission, honed by years of grim necessity, had brought him far from home, but the threat, he knew, remained the same.
Below, utterly oblivious to the cosmic irony unfolding above, Mark Grayson, otherwise known as Invincible, had been enjoying the mundane bliss of a quiet patrol. A little light traffic control at a busy intersection, perhaps stopping a desperate purse snatching in progress. Normal hero stuff. The kind of day where the biggest challenge was avoiding a traffic jam in his flight path. Then, the sky decided to throw its tantrum, and Mark's easy calm evaporated. His enhanced Viltrumite senses recoiled from the sheer chaotic energy, a buzzing, disorienting static that made his teeth ache. But before he could even fully register the astronomical scale of the event, his eyes, scanning the unfolding chaos, snagged on something concrete, something horrifyingly real. A colossal, ethereal being, radiating an ominous purple glow, its fist raised, poised to strike. It descended with chilling purpose, smashing skyscrapers with a casual, almost bored, devastating force. It was clearly a construct, powerful and malevolent, wielded by a shadowy figure. To Mark, the conclusion was immediate, sharp, and terrifying: this wasn't an act of nature. This was an attack. And the stoic, dark-haired figure encased within that inferno of purple energy? He was the villain. And villains, in Mark's increasingly complicated world, were to be stopped. Immediately. No matter the cost.
Chapter 2: The Fury of Misguided Purpose
Mark didn't hesitate. The sheer scale of the purple construct's assault on his city, the casual destruction of buildings he'd flown past a thousand times, propelled him forward with a singular, desperate purpose. He became a blur of blue and yellow, a streak of desperate heroism slamming into the ethereal purple construct like a wrecking ball made of pure conviction. The impact was an auditory assault, a deafening, percussive blast that rippled across the city, shaking foundations already stressed by the dimensional storm. His fists, trained through countless brutal encounters on alien hide and super-strong robots, slammed into the Susanoo's shimmering, almost liquid form. The colossal entity shuddered, a ripple of raw energy passing through its form, like striking a bell of pure force, but it didn't shatter. Not yet. Mark's hands stung, the force of the blow reverberating up his arms, a chilling testament to the Susanoo's unexpected resilience.
"Stop hurting people!" Mark roared, his voice amplified by the speed and sheer intensity of his assault, a sound that carried across the wind-whipped rooftops. There was a raw, undeniable fury in his tone, a righteous indignation at the wanton destruction, but beneath it, an ingrained, almost agonizing protocol hummed. He pulled his punches, a deliberate, conscious act of self-restraint. He was hitting a giant, destructive purple avatar that seemed intent on leveling his city, but he instinctively held back the full, world-breaking power of a Viltrumite. He wouldn't risk civilian lives, wouldn't shatter the Susanoo into a million pieces and send tons of debris, equivalent to small mountains, raining down on the terrified masses below. He just needed to subdue this psychic alien terrorist, make him understand, make him stop. Make him see the humanity, the fragility, he was obliterating.
Sasuke, observing from within the Susanoo's protective, chakra-infused shell, merely narrowed his eyes, a cool, detached analysis playing across his features. He felt the immense force of the impact, a shocking surge of raw power that momentarily vibrated through his own body, but dismissed it with contempt as the arrogance of a predator. "Your energy reeks of arrogance… like Madara," he observed, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, barely audible even to himself within the Susanoo's core. His Rinnegan, ever calculating, ever discerning, processed the raw power signature of this "hero." It was unsettlingly similar to the destructive potential of his most formidable foes, to the very essence of chaos that men like Madara Uchiha embodied. This wasn't a protector, Sasuke deduced with chilling certainty; this was a vessel, he now sensed, for parasitic conquerors—a Viltrumite, their lineage a blight on countless worlds, a species known only for their subjugation and destruction. He didn't know or care about this world's quaint concept of "hero-style" subdual. His purpose was singular, honed through years of brutal experience and grim necessity: threat elimination. Without a flicker of hesitation, his Susanoo's arm moved, a fluid extension of his will, materializing a blade of pure, solidified chakra. He channeled a focused, crackling Chidori into its tip, a piercing, lethal energy, and drove it directly at Mark's spine, aiming for a crippling, decisive blow. He would end this before it truly began, before this new menace could take root.
Mark barely dodged, the razor-sharp energy of the Chidori blade missing his back by a terrifying hair's breadth. A jolt of ice-cold awareness shot through him, not just of the danger, but of the sheer, unadulterated intent behind the attack. This wasn't just a powerful entity; it was personal. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" he demanded, confusion warring with a rapidly growing alarm. This wasn't how villains usually fought. There was no grandstanding, no maniacal laughter, no demands. This was pure, unyielding, surgical destruction. It was personal, and utterly without remorse. And Mark, for all his strength, suddenly felt a very real sense of vulnerability.
Chapter 3: The Unforgiving Dance of Power
The misunderstanding, a chasm of misinterpreted intent, had hardened into an unyielding, brutal clash. The battle escalated with terrifying speed, morphing into a destructive ballet choreographed by two beings who, from their vastly different perspectives, saw each other as nothing less than an existential threat. The Susanoo, for all its immense, towering size, moved with a deceptive, almost fluid grace, each swing of its colossal arm carrying the force of a tectonic shift, capable of reshaping the very landscape.
💥 Sasuke's Arsenal: A Symphony of Destruction
Sasuke, his face a mask of grim determination, drew his ethereal bow. It was a formidable construct of pure chakra and dark lightning, humming with destructive potential, a testament to his mastery over both his own power and the very elements. He loosed a volley of Susanoo Archery, massive arrows infused with a piercing force unlike anything Mark had ever encountered. They struck him squarely in the chest, the impact sending a sickening crack through his bones, a sound that echoed even amidst the chaos. Mark gasped, pain exploding through his chest, sharp as shrapnel. His Viltrumite durability, which had casually shrugged off orbital re-entries and explosions that flattened mountains, was barely holding. His ribs shattered, sharp shards of bone grinding against muscle and lung with every desperate breath, each inhale a fresh agony that threatened to overwhelm him.
Before he could even properly register the agony, before the full implications of such profound injury could set in, Sasuke's left Mangekyo Sharingan flared with an ominous, almost predatory glow. "Amaterasu!" he intoned, his voice cutting through the roar of the wind and the groan of collapsing buildings. Without warning, black flames, impossibly dark, impossibly hungry, erupted from Mark's chest, clinging to his now-damaged blue and yellow suit. This was no ordinary fire; it didn't merely burn with heat, it consumed with an unholy, metaphysical intensity, radiating an unbearable, internal heat that threatened to fuse with his very skin, to meld with his essence, to become a part of him. With a raw, guttural roar of agony, a sound ripped from the deepest parts of his being, Mark was forced to rip off his suit mid-flight, tearing away the iconic fabric. It smoldered and blackened as it tumbled, a tiny, burning scrap, to the shattered streets below, a symbol of his vulnerability. The sudden rush of air against his exposed skin felt like a thousand burning needles, yet it was a blessed, albeit temporary, relief from the infernal black fire.
Sasuke, unrelenting, didn't let up. As Mark struggled desperately with the relentless, unquenchable flames, his Rinnegan pulsed with a subtle, insidious light, and a crushing, alien pressure enveloped Invincible. Genjutsu. Suddenly, Metropolis dissolved. The roar of the battle, the crumbling buildings, the dimensional storm – all faded into a pristine, sickeningly familiar front lawn. Mark wasn't amidst the chaos and destruction anymore. He was back on his childhood home's lawn, frozen in a horrifying, endless loop of his most profound trauma. He watched, helpless, as his father, Nolan, the man he had once idolized, murdered him, tearing him limb from limb, again and again. The betrayal, the helplessness, the visceral pain of that brutal truth, the very PTSD that had haunted his waking hours, slammed into him with a physical, paralyzing force, leaving him screaming into the void of his own torment, powerless to escape the illusion.
💥 Mark's Counter: A Reckoning of Instinct
But Viltrumite resilience wasn't solely physical, a mere measure of bone and muscle. Deep within, fueled by a primal surge of pure rage and instinctual self-preservation, Mark found a sliver of defiance. He broke the illusion. A guttural roar, filled with pain, unadulterated fury, and sheer defiance, ripped from his throat, a sound that tore through the city's cacophony. He launched himself at Sasuke, a blur of pure kinetic energy. It was a Mach 10 Tackle, a full-body ram, a bullet of living muscle that reverberated through the very air. The impact was deafening, the Susanoo rippling violently as it absorbed the blow, its ethereal form momentarily buckling under the sheer, unbridled force. Sasuke, encased within, felt a sharp, brutal jolt that threatened to dislodge him, sending a shockwave through his very being. Despite his layered defenses, despite the formidable protection of the Susanoo, Mark's raw, physical strength was immense, unlike any foe he'd faced. He felt a sudden, sickening crack as his ribcage broke under the force, a harsh, painful reminder of his own fragility. But the fight wasn't over for him; the latent Hashirama cells within him, a silent legacy of past conflicts and desperate measures, immediately began the painstaking, agonizing process of healing, a slow mending from within.
As Sasuke reeled from the unexpected impact, his momentary disorientation a fleeting victory for Mark, Mark clapped his hands together with explosive force, producing a devastating Sonic Clap. The concussive energy exploded outwards, an invisible wave of pure power that shattered windows for blocks around, sending shrapnel raining down, and delivered a painful, disorienting vibration directly into Sasuke's skull. The Rinnegan's focus, usually unshakeable, a pillar of his perception, for a precious second, cracked, a fleeting flicker of disorientation disrupting Sasuke's razor-sharp precision, making him falter, his concentration momentarily broken.
Through the haze of pain, the red mist of his own fury, and the lingering phantom of his trauma, Mark saw them: the tiny, terrified dots below, the crumbling structures, the sheer terror in their faces reflected in the shattered glass. He had an opening, a clear shot. A chance to end this, to crush this seemingly unstoppable threat that had just ripped his ribs and invaded his mind. He could finish it. But a small, stubborn voice in his head, a voice that sounded unmistakably like his mother, whispered: "I won't kill you!" It wasn't weakness; it was a core tenet, a fundamental difference that defined him. His father killed. Mark refused. Instead of finishing Sasuke, instead of pressing his brutal advantage, Mark's eyes snagged on a massive support column of a nearby skyscraper, its steel groaning under the strain of the battle, threatening to topple onto a crowded street where a desperate cluster of civilians huddled, utterly exposed. He veered off, sacrificing the immediate, bloody victory. With immense, straining effort, every muscle screaming in protest, he used his strength to pull the skyscraper away from civilians, redirecting its catastrophic fall into an unpopulated area, the weight of the city block straining every fiber of his being. He had chosen life over vengeance, a path both noble and agonizingly difficult.
Chapter 4: The Arrival of the Man of Steel
Sasuke, his senses still buzzing from the residual effects of the sonic clap, witnessed Mark's inexplicable act of mercy. He watched, with a cool, calculating gaze, as this "Viltrumite" chose to save innocent lives over securing a decisive victory against him. He dismissed it, with a cynical curl of his lip, as a foolish, sentimental weakness, a glaring flaw in what otherwise appeared to be a formidable opponent. His focus narrowed, his Rinnegan glowing with a renewed, dangerous intensity, dismissing the anomaly of Mark's compassion. There was only one way to ensure this "threat" was truly neutralized, one ultimate tactic against such unyielding power, a technique rooted in the very fabric of his world. "Planetary Devastation!" he roared, his voice cold and unwavering, resonating with ancient, terrible power that seemed to ripple through the very air. From the very fabric of the city, chunks of earth, massive slabs of twisted metal, shattered cars, cascading debris, even entire sections of buildings, began to tear free from the ground, drawn together by an unseen, gravitational force. They coalesced around Mark, forming a massive, jagged sphere in the sky, a terrifying, man-made meteor intended to crush him into oblivion, to turn him into a diamond of compacted destruction, a permanent testament to Sasuke's absolute resolve. The air groaned under the strain, the city's foundations trembling as its very substance was ripped from its moorings, spiraling upwards.
Just as the colossal sphere, a horrifying amalgamation of Metropolis's ruins, was about to implode on Mark, a streak of red and blue, faster than any human eye could possibly follow, descended from the heavens. It was an iconic blur, a symbol of hope, a beacon of defiant resilience against the gathering storm. Superman arrived. The Man of Steel, his eyes blazing with an almost impossible light that pierced through the swirling dust and smoke, shot forward with an urgent, desperate speed. He intercepted the plummeting rubble and the nascent gravitational orb, his powerful hands bracing against the impossible weight, fingers digging into the earth and steel. He caught the collapsing mass, muscles bulging, cords standing out on his neck, straining with an exertion rarely seen, but holding it steady, an immovable force against an irresistible one. For a precious second, the destruction paused, suspended in a fragile, horrifying tableau.
"Stand down! Both of you are heroes!" Superman's voice boomed, amplified by his incredible lungs, a sonic command that cut through the chaos and echoed across the ravaged city, a desperate plea for reason in the heart of madness. His gaze was fixed, first on Mark, then on Sasuke, then back again, a silent entreaty to cease the senseless destruction. He felt the immense power of both combatants, a volatile mix he barely understood, but knew must be contained.
But it was too late. Sasuke, his conviction absolute, his gaze locked on the now-three figures caught in the maelstrom, interpreted Superman's intervention as an obstacle, another variable to be overcome. He unleashed a furious volley of Inferno Style, the black flames, unholy and ravenous, burning even hotter, a wave of corrosive energy targeting the struggling Superman and Mark indiscriminately. There was no hesitation, no question of collateral damage; only the objective remained. Simultaneously, Mark, trapped within the gravitational pull, enraged by the unrelenting assault, and seeing no other option to free himself from the crushing weight, unleashed a desperate, sky-splitting punch, aimed at the very core of the crumbling, debris-filled mass that encased him. He poured every ounce of his strength, every bit of his Viltrumite fury, into that single, desperate blow. The devastating energies—Sasuke's infernal black flames and Mark's raw, unbridled kinetic force—collided with the fragile, gravity-defying sphere that Superman so desperately held, caught between two unstoppable forces.
With a blinding, searing flash that bleached the color from the ruined skyline, a temporary, painful white-out that scorched the retinas of anyone watching, and a cataclysmic roar that vibrated through the very bones of the planet itself, the entire structure vaporized LexCorp Tower behind them. Where the iconic building once stood, only a smoking, angry crater remained, a testament to the raw, uncontained, and ultimately tragic power unleashed by three titans whose paths had crossed in a moment of devastating misunderstanding. The air crackled with residual energy, the smell of ozone and pulverized concrete thick in the throat.
Chapter 5: Unwelcome Revelations
Before the last echoes of the cataclysmic explosion had faded into the tattered remnants of the dimensional storm, before the dust could even properly settle over the smoking, still-glowing crater that was once LexCorp Tower, a familiar shimmer appeared in the fractured air. It wasn't the violent tear of the dimensional storm, but a controlled distortion, a ripple of shimmering light, and then, a portal, opening just wide enough for a figure to step through. Out emerged a man with gravity-defying silver hair, a bandana covering one eye, revealing only the other, a swirling Sharingan, honed by countless battles and an uncanny knack for appearing precisely when things had gone catastrophically sideways. It was Kakashi Hatake, the Copy Ninja, his presence a stark reminder that the chaos was not confined to this single, unfortunate world. He took in the devastation, the three powerhouses hovering amidst the rubble, the exhausted look on Superman's face, and let out a long, weary sigh. Even for him, a man accustomed to the absurdities of the shinobi world, this felt like an exceptionally bad Tuesday.
"Sasuke," Kakashi's voice was calm, almost conversational, yet it carried an undeniable authority that cut through the lingering tension, a familiar tone that brooked no argument. "His energy isn't chakra—it's biological. An alien physiology, a species, not a mystical construct. And Mark…" Kakashi's gaze, usually masked by indifference, held a flicker of understanding, perhaps even sympathy, as he looked at Invincible, seeing not a monster, but a young man caught in something far beyond his understanding. "This ninja," he gestured to Sasuke, "saved his world from annihilation, faced down beings of unimaginable power. You both just leveled a financial district out of sheer ignorance." The implication hung heavy in the air, a bitter truth that resonated with the raw destruction around them: the obliteration was mutual, born of misunderstanding and misplaced judgment, not malice. Both had fought with conviction, and both had wrought devastation.
Through the ringing in his ears, through the raw ache of his still-shattered ribs and the lingering phantom pains of the powerful genjutsu, Mark heard another voice. It was a familiar voice in his earpiece, cold and calm, cutting through the chaos with practiced, terrifying precision. It was Cecil Stedman, the enigmatic head of the Global Defense Agency, his handler and, at times, his tormentor. Cecil's voice, usually so steady, now held a hint of urgency, a tremor of genuine concern.
"Grayson! That guy's rated above Omni-Man in multiverse threat databases. Do. Not. Engage. I repeat, do not engage, Mark. Fall back. Immediately."
The words hit Mark like another punch to the gut, colder and more debilitating than any physical blow. Above Omni-Man? His father, Nolan, the most powerful being he had ever known, a conqueror who had single-handedly decimated civilizations and had nearly obliterated Earth itself. And this stoic, dark-haired figure, Sasuke, was considered more dangerous? The very thought was unfathomable, a terrifying new paradigm of power. And he, Mark, had not only engaged him, he had almost killed him, and been almost killed in return. The realization sent a chill down his spine, colder than any Metropolis winter, a cold dread that settled deep in his bones. The universe, it seemed, was far vaster, and far more dangerous, than he had ever conceived.
Chapter 6: The Weight of Truce
A profound, tense silence descended upon the three titans amidst the rubble, broken only by the increasingly urgent wail of emergency sirens slowly approaching the devastation, a distant, human sound against the cosmic quiet. Superman, ever the mediator, ever the embodiment of peace, floated between them, his gaze firm but understanding, a silent arbiter of this new, uneasy peace. The air thrummed with unspoken questions, with the weight of raw power held precariously in check.
Mark slowly descended, his exposed skin still radiating heat from the Amaterasu flames, his suit a charred, ruined mess lying somewhere in the wreckage of what was once a vibrant city block. His shoulders slumped, the weight of the battle and its revelations pressing down on him. "You were gonna kill thousands just to stop me… How's that justice?" His voice was hoarse, raw with disbelief, tinged with a deep, weary anger. The fundamental bedrock of his heroism, the absolute line he drew against killing, against wanton destruction, felt profoundly shaken, even eroded. The line between hero and villain, already blurred by the monstrous truth of his own father, now felt agonizingly, utterly non-existent, a concept utterly meaningless in the face of such raw, self-righteous power.
Sasuke merely scoffed, a dismissive sound, but it lacked its usual sharp edge. He turned away from Mark, his gaze sweeping over the destruction he had wrought with a detached, clinical eye, processing the data. "Hn. You spared me when you could've won. A foolish weakness… or strength." He wasn't sure which. Mark's illogical mercy, his inexplicable choice to save civilians over securing a decisive victory, was an anomaly, a data point to be considered, processed, analyzed. It didn't fit his rigid worldview, his philosophy of brutal necessity and single-minded purpose. This "Viltrumite," this anomaly of a hero, was… different. And differences, in Sasuke's experience, were either a liability to be excised or a tool to be exploited. For the first time in a long time, his unwavering conviction, the very foundation of his being, was subtly, almost imperceptibly, shaken. The certainty he had carried for so long now had a faint, discordant hum.
Kakashi, ever the pragmatist, stepped forward, his visible eye scanning the trio. "Regardless of intent," he interjected, his voice calm, "the consequences are clear. This cannot happen again." He looked pointedly at Superman. "The dimensional fissures are unstable. There's a larger threat. We all felt it."
Superman's gaze swept over them, a deep concern etched on his face, mirroring the growing anxiety in his own heart. His voice, usually so strong, was now lower, more solemn, carrying the weight of impending doom. "Kakashi is right. This was a fracture, a momentary breach that widened into a catastrophe. Other rifts are opening, far more volatile and numerous than before. Darkseid's scouts, always lurking at the fringes of creation, detected your battle. This level of raw power, unleashed across dimensions, is a beacon to him." He paused, his gaze hardening. "He knows. And he will come."
The conflict, born of utter misunderstanding, had raged, and perhaps, by sheer, desperate intervention, a greater one had been averted for now. But the very act of their brutal, public clash had sent ripples across realities, a cosmic signal that resonated far beyond Metropolis, beyond Earth, beyond the Elemental Nations. It had drawn the attention of darker, far more ancient forces, beings who craved dominion over all that existed. The uneasy truce, standing amidst the smoldering ruins of a once-proud city, was just the beginning. The universe, it seemed, was about to get a lot more complicated for everyone involved, and the fate of countless worlds now hung in the precarious balance forged by a single, catastrophic misunderstanding. The stage was set for a true war of the worlds.