The room was dark, lit only by a few dim overhead lights casting long shadows against the concrete walls. It was a hidden space, somewhere deep beneath the city, where the screams of the outside world couldn't reach.
At the center stood the man in the black mask.
His suit was sharp, pristine—too perfect for a man orchestrating the chaos that had gripped the city. He stood with a casual confidence, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his head slightly tilted as if listening to something unseen.
Across from him, six figures loomed in the darkness.
Their forms were obscured, silhouettes against the dim lighting. Their breathing was the only sound filling the void, deep and measured, each presence radiating power in its own unique way.
The Black Mask spoke, his voice smooth, amused.
"We've softened them up. The city is raw, bleeding. The Paragons?" He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Stretched thin. Exhausted. Distracted by the mess we made with the fodder."
His head tilted slightly, observing his audience.
"And now, finally, it's time for the real event."
He stepped forward, placing one gloved hand on the long steel table before him.
"It's time for my six favorites to enter the field."
The room remained silent.
Then, one by one, the figures moved.
A low growl rumbled from one. Metal clicked from another. Someone cracked their knuckles, a sound like breaking bones.
The Black Mask's voice remained smooth. Controlled. Certain.
"Go."
"Make them fear us."
The figures stepped forward, disappearing into the shadows.
The city never had a chance.
The Paragons had barely caught their breath after the chaos from the previous night when the real war began.
It started with one man.
And by the time people realized what was happening—it was already too late.
---
The First Strike – The Executioner
Screams tore through the air.
The first victims were civilians, caught in the streets as the Executioner began his rampage. A blur of blackened steel and raw muscle, he moved without hesitation, his colossal cleaver carving bodies in half like they were nothing.
The police tried to respond.
Tried.
Bullets pinged off his skin, the ones that struck true only making him angrier. Stronger.
He laughed. A deep, guttural sound that made the blood freeze in anyone who heard it.
More officers fell, their bodies splitting apart with horrifying efficiency.
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He was a monster in motion—unstoppable. Unchallenged.
Until Timber arrived.
The massive Paragon crashed onto the battlefield like a meteor, his battleaxe already in motion before his feet even hit the ground.
The impact shook the street, splitting the pavement as The Executioner raised his cleaver to block.
CLANG.
The force sent a shockwave rippling outward, shattering nearby windows.
The two men—**both mountains of muscle and power—**locked eyes.
Timber grit his teeth. “You’re done.”
The Executioner grinned beneath his hood. “Am I?”
They clashed.
Axe met cleaver, metal shrieking against metal.
Timber was faster than he looked, stronger than most could comprehend. He fought like a warrior, every swing measured, every movement tactical.
And at first?
It worked.
The Executioner staggered under the blows, forced back step by step. His cleaver was heavier than Timber’s axe, slower, unwieldy.
Timber saw an opening—went for it.
His axe carved across The Executioner’s side, splitting flesh, spilling blood.
The brute let out a roar of pain—
—and then grabbed a wounded officer off the ground and broke his neck in one motion.
The Executioner’s muscles surged, swelling, rippling.
Timber’s eyes narrowed.
Oh.
That’s his power.
The Executioner came back swinging— and Timber barely got his axe up in time.
The impact sent him sliding back five feet, his boots digging trenches into the cracked pavement.
The Executioner laughed.
"Oh yeah," he growled, rolling his shoulders, his wound already sealing itself. "That’s more like it."
Timber wiped blood from his lip.
Shit.
The fight had just begun—and already, he knew this wasn’t going to be easy.
The Executioner took a slow step forward, dragging his massive cleaver along the shattered pavement, the sound a horrifying metallic scrape that sent shivers through the surviving police officers.
Timber rolled his shoulders, flexing his grip on his battleaxe. He could feel the weight of the fight pressing down already—he was winning, but the moment the Executioner killed someone, he came back stronger.
That was a problem.
Before Timber could press the attack again, a circular portal shimmered into existence next to him—a ripple of golden light cutting through the smoky air.
The Tunnel stepped through, twirling his mustache, looking only mildly annoyed.
"This city’s going to shit." His voice was light, but his eyes were sharp as they landed on the carnage. He took in the blood-streaked pavement, the crumpled bodies, and the towering brute standing across from Timber. "Huh. Who’s the big guy?"
Timber didn’t take his eyes off The Executioner. “A dead man walking.”
Tunnel exhaled, nodding. "Yeah, that’s fun and all, but there’s something we gotta handle first."
Timber clenched his jaw. “If you’re about to say some Paragon shit about not causing too much destruction—”
Tunnel waved him off. “No, no. I mean we got a bigger problem. Like, a ‘people are dying’ problem.” He gestured at the wounded police officers and civilians barely clinging to life behind them.
Timber’s grip tightened around his axe. He hated to admit it, but Tunnel was right.
The Executioner was dangerous enough already. If he killed even one more person, this fight could turn completely.
Timber turned to Tunnel, speaking fast. “Listen. He gets stronger when he kills. I can hold him off, but if he drops more bodies, I might not be able to stop him.”
Tunnel raised an eyebrow. "Shit."
Timber gestured to the survivors, his tone serious. "Get them out of here. Take anyone still breathing and portal them the hell away from this fight. Keep them alive. I don't care where—just go."
Tunnel looked at him for a second, then nodded. "On it."
Without another word, he flicked his fingers, tracing an arc through the air. A swirling tunnel of golden energy opened across the street, leading to safety.
He turned to the scattered survivors. "Alright, all aboard the express train to not dying. Move your asses!"
Cops and civilians—some limping, others dragging unconscious bodies—rushed toward the portal.
The Executioner growled, realizing what was happening. His grin widened.
"Oh, no you don’t."
He lunged forward— but Timber was faster.
His axe slammed into the Executioner’s side, carving deep, the force of the hit sending the brute crashing back through a wrecked police cruiser.
CRASH.
Timber took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders.
"Not today, asshole."
The Executioner rose slowly from the wreckage, cracking his neck.
"Fine," he rumbled, a wicked smile spreading beneath his hood.
"I’ll just kill you instead."
Timber grinned.
"Try me."
Timber braced himself, planting his feet wide as the Executioner charged.
The brute’s massive cleaver carved through the air, aiming to take Timber’s head clean off.
CLANG!
Timber met the strike with his axe, sparks flying as metal screamed against metal. The impact sent a shockwave rippling outward, cracking the pavement beneath them.
They broke apart—and then slammed into each other again.
Each blow shattered stone, each attack felt like an earthquake. The Executioner was faster now, stronger now, his body swollen with power from his kills. Timber could feel it—the weight behind his swings had doubled since the start of the fight.
I can’t let this drag on.
Timber ducked under another wild swing, rolled to the side, and brought his axe down in a brutal counterstrike—
—but the Executioner caught it with his bare hand.
For a split second, Timber felt his stomach drop.
The Executioner grinned, his grip tightening around the blade. “Nice try.”
Then he yanked Timber forward—
—and slammed a knee into his ribs.
CRACK.
White-hot pain exploded in Timber’s chest as something snapped.
The force sent him flying, crashing through a streetlight before landing hard on the cracked pavement.
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
Ribs. Broken. Maybe punctured a lung.
The Executioner stalked forward, rolling his shoulders, completely unbothered by his injuries.
“Come on, Paragon. Get up.”
Timber gritted his teeth, forcing himself to his knees. His vision blurred, pain radiating from his chest. His arms felt like lead.
I need one more hit. One clean shot.
The Executioner raised his cleaver, ready to end it.
And then—Timber saw his opening.
With one final burst of strength, Timber lunged forward—not at the Executioner, but at his own axe, still embedded in the pavement.
He ripped it free—and with a roaring, last-ditch swing, he buried the axe directly into the Executioner’s chest.
THUNK.
For the first time all fight, the Executioner staggered.
He looked down at the weapon lodged deep in his chest, black blood pouring down his torso.
Timber panted, barely staying upright. “You’re done.”
The Executioner growled, taking a step forward—
—and then collapsed onto his knees.
His hands grasped weakly at the axe, but the damage was too much. His body was failing.
For a moment, he looked up at Timber, eyes burning with hatred.
"This... isn't... over."
Then, his body slumped forward, finally still.
Silence.
Timber took a shaky breath, finally allowing himself to drop to the ground. His whole body was screaming.
He tried to stand— failed.
Shit.
He was out.
He heard footsteps.
Tunnel’s voice. “Damn, big guy. You look like hell.”
Timber coughed, smirking weakly. “Yeah? You should see the other guy.”
Tunnel crouched next to him, pressing two fingers against his earpiece. "HQ, Timber's down. We need evac."
Timber let his head rest against the pavement.
He’d won.
But he was out of the fight.
And somewhere in the city—the other five were still coming.