The ship hovers over Czarnia, a planet that looks more like a carcass than a living world. Through the window of the command throne, I see the cracks on its surface, the gray and brown hues of a soil that was once something more, now reduced to rubble and silence. The hum of the engines fades as the robots adjust to orbit, and I sit here, feeling the weight of the classic armor pressing on my shoulders. The red and black metal reflects the dim light of the room, the tubes in my arms pulsing with a faint hiss at every movement. Restored—98%, the system says, but 100% with this armor. Still, my hands—or rather, my tentacles—tremble slightly. It's not the body. It's the mind.
I am Vilgax now, but I'm not him. Not the original, at least. In my past life, I was just a guy with a TV, a fan who cheered at this villain's dramatic entrances, laughed at his over-the-top lines, and rooted for him to give Ben a hard time. Now, I'm here, in his body, on his throne, about to descend onto a planet he claimed like someone buying a used car—without even checking its condition. Czarnia was a whim of the original Vilgax, a post-massacre trophy, picked up from some intergalactic broker after Lobo left it in ruins. He never came here. I'm the first. And that terrifies me.
I glance at my reflection in the helmet's visor, now lowered over the throne. The eyes glow red, intense, cutting through the room's gloom like blades. The mask hides any trace of doubt, but inside, my stomach—if I even have one—churns. What if I'm not good enough for this? What if I can't be the Vilgax the universe fears? In the show, he was imposing, a force of nature—even when he lost, you felt the impact. Me? I'm an imposter with stolen memories and armor that feels heavier than it should. The Super Soldier Serum gave me strength, the armor gave me presence, but the aura? That I have to build. What if those down there—whoever survived—realize I don't know what I'm doing?
A beep interrupts my thoughts. The system flares up in the corner of my visor, golden letters floating into view:
"Update: Villain Aura unlocked. +5 points to Conqueror's Gacha. Current points: 5."
I pause, blinking—which isn't easy with this mask. Villain Aura? When? Then I remember: the way I ordered the ship to Czarnia, my deep voice echoing, the drumming of my fingers on the throne as I planned to use this dead planet. Maybe the system thinks I'm starting to fit the role. I let out a dry laugh, muffled by the mask. "Five points for style? Alright, I'll take it." It's not enough for a roll—10 points is the minimum—but it's a start. Maybe if I impress these survivors, I'll earn more.
"Sir, we're ready to land. Life signs confirmed—a small group, armed, but primitive," a robot says, hovering beside me. Armed. Primitive. That could be good or bad. I stand, the floor trembling under the armor's boots, and take a deep breath—the filtered air in the mask tastes metallic, something I'm already starting to ignore. "Land the ship. And open the main ramp. I want them to see me arrive," I order, rolling my shoulders. If I'm doing this, it's going to be with impact.
The ship descends with a roar, metal groaning as we touch down in an ancient plaza—or what's left of it. Through the window, I see broken columns, crumbling stones, and a group of figures approaching, makeshift weapons in hand. My heart races, but the armor hides any sign of weakness. The ramp begins to lower, the hydraulic hiss cutting through the silence, and I step to the edge, the robots floating behind me like an honor guard. Czarnia's air hits me—dry, thick with dust and a faint burnt smell. I take my first step, the boots crushing the cracked ground, and raise my head. Time to be Vilgax.
There they are—a handful of Czarnians, pale as ghosts, red eyes glinting in the dim light. They're few, maybe ten, but they look tough, forged by years of survival. At the front, a brute stands out—tall, broad, with scars crisscrossing his bare chest and a scrap-metal axe in his hands. He must be the leader. He stares at me, eyes narrowed, and I feel the weight of the moment. This is the test.
"I am Vilgax," I say, my voice amplified by the armor, echoing through the ruins like thunder. "Czarnia is mine. I bought this planet after the massacre, and now I've come to claim it. You will serve me." I pause, letting the words sink in, then continue, trying to channel the Vilgax I admired on TV. "In my empire, the strong and the clever have a place. Join me, and you'll have power, resources, a purpose beyond crawling through these ruins."
The brute—Zorak, I hear someone mutter—steps forward, axe swinging loosely in his hand. He sizes me up, his red eyes flickering with something between contempt and curiosity. "Vilgax, huh?" His voice is hoarse, roughened by years of dust and rage. "You say you bought Czarnia, but you've never set foot here before. You show up now, all shiny in your armor, thinking you can boss us around?" He spits on the ground, the wet sound echoing off the stone. "You talk about strength, but all I see is a rich guy who paid for a dead planet. Prove you're strong, or you're nothing to me."
A chill runs down my spine, but the armor keeps my stance steady. He doubts me. Of course he does—I show up out of nowhere, after years, and expect them to bow just because I say I'm the owner? I try to keep control, improvising. "My strength built an empire of six worlds," I retort, stepping forward, the ground cracking under my weight. "I've crushed armies, broken kings. Czarnia is just the beginning of what I can offer you—a place among conquerors, not the forgotten."
Zorak laughs, a harsh sound that cuts through the air. "Pretty words. But I've seen real strength—Lobo was strength, and he gutted us. You? You're just a stranger with robots and fancy armor. If you want me to follow you, show me that strength now, or get off my planet." He raises the axe, not to attack—yet—but as a challenge. The others behind him murmur, some gripping their weapons tighter, others just watching.
The negotiation crumbles right there. I can feel it—he's not going to bend with promises alone, and I'm not ready to fight. Not yet. My fist clenches, the armor's tubes humming with the tension, but I hold still, the red visor locked on him. "You'll see my strength," I say, low, almost a growl. "But on my time." I step back, signaling the robots to prepare. I'm not forcing this now—not with so few points in the gacha and a body I'm still learning to wield.
Zorak grins, a crooked, defiant smirk. "Then come back when you're man enough to fight, Vilgax." He turns his back, the others following, and I'm left standing there, the owner of Czarnia, rejected on my first attempt.
Zorak turns his back, the scrap-metal axe dangling loosely in his right hand, his broad shoulders swaying with each arrogant step. The other Czarnians follow, some chuckling under their breath, others throwing contemptuous glances over their shoulders. "Come back when you're man enough to fight, Vilgax," he said, those words cutting like poisoned blades. My chest tightens, the rational part of my mind screaming at me to retreat, to plan, to wait—the instinct of a fan watching everything from afar. But then, something ignites. A flame that isn't mine. A deep, ancient rage rises from the core of this body like lava, burning away any hesitation.
The original Vilgax—the true owner of this flesh, this name—isn't dead. He lives in me, in the memories I don't control, in a pride I've never felt before. He bubbles up, boiling, a presence taking shape in my tensed muscles, in my eyes glowing brighter through the armor's visor. "Humiliated? By this worm?" his voice echoes in my head, deep and sharp, laced with a contempt that makes my blood pulse. He won't tolerate it—the abandoned challenge, the spit on the ground, the idea of someone questioning the name that bent worlds. My fist clenches, the armor's tubes humming loudly, injecting a hot surge that makes my arms tremble. "You dare?" I growl, and the voice isn't just mine—it's his, resounding like thunder trapped in the mask.
My vision darkens for a moment, the visor flashing red, and I feel him pushing me—no, possessing me. "I will not be dishonored," he mutters, and my body spins before I can decide. "Zorak!" I shout, the sound amplified by the armor, exploding through the ruins like a sonic wave. The ground vibrates, small stones bouncing with the force of my voice. He stops, his shoulders stiffening, and turns slowly, his red eyes glowing like embers in the dim light. "You want strength? Then come take it!" My hand rises, the tentacles writhing under the metal, pointing at him like a sentence. "I accept your duel. Here. Now." The robots behind me shift, weapons humming, but I silence them with a sharp gesture. This is mine. Ours.
Zorak drops the axe, the weapon clanging dully against the cracked stone. He grins—a fierce, toothy smile, sharp teeth gleaming like blades under the faint light of Czarnia's twin moons. "Finally, something worth my time," he snarls, his hoarse voice thick with savage glee. He crouches, shoulders hunching like a predator, muscles bulging under his pale, almost translucent skin. He's pure Czarnian power—a brutal force shaped by Lobo's plague, with bones hard as steel and regeneration that makes him nearly immortal. I know he's stronger than me, physically. This body, even with the Super Soldier Serum and the armor, can't match his feral genetics. But the original Vilgax has faced bigger things, and that experience—that living memory—guides me like an invisible master.
He charges without warning, a blur of motion, hands spread like claws, black nails tearing through the air toward my chest. The ground shakes with his leap, and I dodge to the side on pure instinct—orchestrated by the old Vilgax. The armor creaks as I spin, the red metal scraping stone, and his strike hits empty air where I stood. The force is absurd—the impact shatters the ground, sending up a cloud of dust and shards like a bomb went off. "Fast for a rich boy!" he taunts, his voice mixed with an animalistic growl, already turning toward me. He doesn't stop, coming again with a wild punch, his right arm slicing the air like a hammer.
I raise my arms in a cross, blocking, and the impact hits me like a quake. My boots slide back, carving deep grooves in the stone, and I feel the armor's tubes vibrate under the pressure. My teeth grind—or whatever I have under this mask—and the shock reverberates up to my shoulders. He's a mountain, each blow carrying force that could crush a tank. But the original Vilgax whispers in my mind, calm and cold: "Watch his patterns. He's brute strength, not brains. Wait for the moment." I take a deep breath, the metallic air of the mask filling my lungs, and brace myself.
Zorak charges again, his red eyes sparking with a mix of rage and excitement. He roars, a guttural sound echoing through the ruins, and leaps, his muscular legs propelling him like a beast hunting prey. He tries to grab me, his wide arms closing like an iron trap, nails aiming for my throat. I duck, sliding under him, my chest brushing the ground as the armor absorbs the friction. My right fist swings up, striking his knee with a dry crack—a precise hit, trained by years of battles I never fought. He staggers, the roar turning into a grunt of pain, and for a second I think I've gained ground. But he recovers fast—too fast. His leg straightens, tendons tightening like cables, and he spins toward me with a sloppy, brutal backhand.
The blow grazes my left shoulder, and I'm thrown sideways, the armor screeching as I crash into a broken column. The stone cracks with the impact, dust falling like fine rain, and I stand, the visor flashing alerts: "Integrity: 92%." "Damn it," I mutter, but the old Vilgax laughs in my head. "That's nothing. He's predictable. Use it." Zorak doesn't give me time to think—he comes again, teeth bared, saliva dripping like a rabid dog. He leaps higher this time, hands clasped in a downward strike, aiming for my head with force to bury me in the ground.
It's lethal. I see death in that move—his muscles flexing, the air bending with his speed, the intent to shatter me like glass. My heart races, sweat beads under the armor, but the original Vilgax takes the reins. My body moves like it's his, reflexes honed by decades of war. I dive to the side, rolling through the dust, the armor groaning as his hands slam the ground where I was. The impact craters the stone, rocks flying like shrapnel, and the sound is deafening—a thunderclap that makes the Czarnians step back, eyes wide.
"Now!" the old Vilgax's voice roars in my mind, and I feel him guiding me, his instincts merging with mine. I spring up, the tubes in my arms humming loud, almost screaming as I trigger an internal command in the armor—a trick he knew, one I feel like an echo. The implants fire, the metal expanding with a snap, and my muscles swell, pushing this body's limits. The Super Soldier Serum amplifies, the armor channels, and the original Vilgax's rage adds the final touch. My right arm surges, tendons stretching the red metal, and I throw everything—every ounce of strength, will, and the weight of who he was—into a single punch.
Zorak barely has time to turn. My fist slams into his head dead-on, mid-leap as he tries to counter. The impact is cataclysmic. A boom tears through the air, a shockwave hurling dust and stones everywhere, and his head explodes in a spray of blood, bone, and flesh. Chunks fly like a grenade went off, splattering my armor, the ground, the watching Czarnians. His body collapses, heavy as a fallen mountain, the ground shaking with the dead weight. A suffocating silence falls, broken only by the hiss of the tubes in my arms as they cool, steam rising from the overheated metal.
I stand there, panting, my arm still outstretched, the fist dripping dark red. He's not getting up. Lobo's plague grants regeneration, but the virus he left on Czarnia—a detail in the original Vilgax's memories—weakens healing from blows this devastating. One full, crushing strike, and Zorak is done for good. I look at my fist, the armor's visor streaked with blood, and feel the old Vilgax recede, a satisfied echo in my mind.
The silence hangs like a shroud over Czarnia's ruins. Zorak's headless body lies at my feet, a heap of pale flesh and lifeless muscle, blood trickling in dark streams through the stone's cracks. The air still hums with the echo of the punch, bits of his head scattered like debris from a war that ended too fast. My right arm throbs, the armor's tubes hissing as they cool, the red metal stained a darker shade. I take a deep breath, the filtered air of the mask mingling with the metallic scent of blood, and feel the old Vilgax quiet in my mind, pleased with the display. He wanted this. I needed it.
"Robots," I say, my deep voice slicing through the silence, amplified by the armor in a tone that brooks no hesitation. "Take the body to the ship." The floating drones hum in response, descending like mechanical vultures. Two extend articulated claws, their metal gleaming under the faint moonlight, and grab Zorak's corpse—one by the waist, the other by the broad shoulders. The wet sound of dripping blood accompanies the motion as they lift him, his weight making the drones' motors buzz louder for a moment. They glide back to the ship's ramp, leaving a trail of dark drops on the stone, and I watch for a moment, the armor's visor tracking their path with cold precision.
Then I turn to the survivors. There they stand, ten or twelve of them, frozen among the broken columns and rubble, red eyes wide, hands still clutching makeshift machetes and clubs. Some tremble, others stare at me with a mix of fear and defiance, but none move. Dust still lingers in the air, clinging to my armor, and I step forward, my boots crushing the ground with a dry sound that echoes like a warning. The visor glows, reflecting their pale faces, and I lift my head, letting the original Vilgax's presence—now blended with mine—fill the space.
"I am Vilgax," I declare, my voice rumbling through the ruins like contained thunder. "Owner of Czarnia. I bought this planet after the massacre, and now I'm here to claim it. You've seen what happens to those who defy me." I point with my right arm, still dripping blood, toward where Zorak fell, the gesture slow and deliberate. "Spread the word to all who remain on this dead world: the owner has arrived. I'll stay in my ship for three days. Anyone who wants to leave this broken planet, anyone who wants a place in my empire, come to me. The strong and clever will have their place. The weak…" I pause, the visor fixed on them, letting the silence finish the threat. "The weak don't interest me."
The Czarnians exchange glances, some muttering softly, others gripping their weapons tighter. I don't wait for a reply—I don't need one. The point's been made, sealed in Zorak's blood. I turn my back, the invisible cloak of my aura heavier than ever, and start walking toward the ship's ramp. The ground shakes with each step, the armor creaking faintly as the tubes in my arms adjust, and the sound of the robots working inside the ship echoes in the background. The fight left me drained—this body's still adjusting, and the weight of the old Vilgax's possession left a buzz in my head—but I keep my posture straight, chin high. I can't show weakness. Not now.
Then something stops me. An instinct, maybe, or the old Vilgax nudging me. I glance to the side, the visor swiveling with a soft click, and I see her—a girl among the survivors, half-hidden behind a broken column. She's young, but not fragile. Pale skin like the others, red eyes burning with an intensity I can't place, black, wild hair spilling over her shoulders. She's tall, curves noticeable even under her makeshift clothes—a natural strength shaped by this hostile planet. Beautiful, in a way that stands out even in a place like this, but it's her gaze that catches me. It's not fear, nor the pure hatred Zorak had. It's something else—curiosity, maybe, mixed with a fire that says she doesn't bend easily.
Our eyes lock for a second—the red visor of my armor against her red eyes. She doesn't look away, her lips pressed into a firm line, the machete in her right hand hanging loose but ready. I don't say anything. I don't need to. The old Vilgax whispers in my mind, "This one has potential," but I brush him off for now. I take one last step, climbing the ramp, the metal groaning under my weight, and enter the ship without looking back. The door starts to close, the hydraulic hum drowning out the Czarnians' murmurs, but her image lingers in my head—a piece I don't yet know where to fit.