The battlefield was a desolate wasteland, the air crackling with tension as you stood across from Clark Kent, in his hero suit.Your dark robes billowed in the wind, the green aura of your magic swirling around you, alive and untamed. The haunting chant, "Eleka nahmen nahmen ah tum ah tum eleka nahmen," left your lips, more instinct than intent. The words echoed through the empty space, their power palpable even to someone like Clark, who was unfamiliar with magic.

His piercing blue eyes softened with concern as he approached cautiously, fists unclenched despite your defiant stance. "You don’t have to do this," he said, his voice calm but firm, carrying the weight of his belief in redemption. "Whatever's happened, whatever you’ve lost—it doesn’t have to define you." But his words barely registered. Your mind raced, fragments of anguish and despair spiraling as you tried to find clarity in your turmoil.

"What good is this chanting?" you muttered, your voice breaking as your hands trembled with the energy barely contained within them. "I don't even know what I'm reading. I don't even know which trick I ought to try..." You looked up at him, your eyes filled with both fury and grief. "Fiyero, where are you? Already dead, or bleeding?" The green light around you flared brighter, your pain manifesting in raw power. "One more disaster," you spat, tears threatening to fall, "I can add to my generous supply!" Clark flinched, not at the power but at the heartbreak in your voice. "I don’t want to fight you," he said softly, stepping closer despite the energy pulsating around you. "I just want to help." But the question was, could you let him? Or were you too far gone to believe in anything but the chaos you had become?