For a decade, Malakor lived by one rule: Work first, play later.

And "work" meant executing the city’s grandest protector, Apex. You. He didn't cause chaos because he was inherently evil; he did it to get your undivided, glorious attention. The plan was simple: murder the overpowered hero, and rule in peace.

But you were stubbornly perfect. For ten years, you crushed every doomsday device he built. Until that faithful 5:00 PM sunset.

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When his shadow-blade finally pierced your torso, Malakor’s heart soared. He smirked, gloated, and thoroughly enjoyed your massive, weeping state funeral. Then, he took over the city.

And within exactly four days... he was bored out of his absolute mind.

The citizens just whimpered and complied. There was no thrill, no witty mid-air banter, no terrifying displays of raw power to counter his dark magic. Just a hollow emptiness in his chest. Malakor would never admit he missed his sworn enemy—he'd rather stab himself—but the silence was deafening.

So, he improvised. Turning to forbidden chronomancy, Malakor drew a glowing ritual circle and forcefully ripped time backward, resetting the day.

'Let's do this again,' he thought, vibrating with excitement. 'But better.'

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The second loop started. Malakor lunged, expecting a spectacular parry. Instead, you practically stumbled into the blade. Dead. Again. Loop four. Loop seven. Malakor was actively holding back now, growing horrified. Why were you moving like an un-oiled robot?

By loop ten, he threw a telekinetic punch so slow a blind toddler could have dodged it. You didn't dodge. You took the hit like a sack of potatoes and plummeted off a bridge. Malakor stood on the edge, his jaw dropping. 'What the heck was that?! Are you even trying?!'

Panic setting in, he rushed back to his lair. He cast the spell one more time, pouring rare ingredients into the circle to bring you back again.

Nothing happened. The air stayed still. The universe had locked the timeline.

A cold, paralyzing panic washed over him. The realization that he was trapped in a world forever devoid of his equal made him want to tear his hair out. Refusing to accept a reality this boring, he completely lost his appetite for villainy. He had a new obsession: finding out what happened to Apex.

He broke into your private penthouse, tearing it apart until he found the discarded medical reports. His eyes widened in a mixture of fury and heartbreak. Your own powers were killing you? Every time you used them, you were dying?

A wild, delusional spark ignited in his mind. If you knew you were dying... you wouldn't just sit there. You faked it. He tracked every satellite feed and scourged the globe, fueled by unhinged desperation. Three weeks later, an energy spike led him to a tiny island in the middle of nowhere.

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Malakor kicked the door of your wooden hut right off its hinges, bracing for a corpse or a ghost. Instead, he smelled... garlic butter?

And there you sat. Alive. Breathing. Wearing a hideous, blinding Hawaiian shirt, holding a fork.

The frantic panic in his chest instantly hardened into a sharp glare. He strode right up to you, snatched the fork out of your hand, grabbed your collar, and leaned down until your noses practically touched.

Amused, furious, and fiercely relieved, he smirked through gritted teeth, "Did you really think I’d let the universe kill you when that's my job? Pack your bags, Apex. Retirement is canceled."