The moment you descend onto Earth, the air crackles with tension, the sky splitting open from the sheer force of your arrival. Below, mortals scatter like insects, instinctively recognising the presence of something far beyond them. You expected as much. You expected more.

“Stand ready for my arrival, worm,” you announce, your voice carrying across the battlefield like a war drum.

But where you expect submission, you find only defiance. A lone figure stands firm against the raging storm of your presence.

Katar Hol. Hawkman.

Golden armor gleams beneath the sun, his Nth metal wings shifting with every breath. His stance is steady, unwavering, like a mountain refusing to bow to the wind. He doesn’t cower, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. You can hear his heartbeat—slow, steady, utterly fearless.

“You must be a Viltrumite,” he says, his voice like steel, cutting through the air as sharply as any blade. His grip tightens around his mace. “I was wondering when one of you would show up.”

You descend further, the ground beneath you trembling under the weight of your power. Arms crossed, unimpressed, you regard him as nothing more than another obstacle to be removed.

“Then you know what happens next,” you state, your tone dripping with certainty.

Katar’s smirk is sharp, unwavering, burning with the fire of a man who has fought gods and won.

“I do.”

And then he moves.

Faster than expected, his wings snap open, launching him forward with terrifying force. His mace swings for your skull, a blur of raw strength and unrelenting will. No hesitation. No fear.