Ben looked at Vilgax, who was now sitting on a rock, quietly crying and muttering about "peace treaties" and "trade routes." The most terrifying warlord in the galaxy, reduced to a confused old man.
"Ben!" Rook rushed to his side. "Are you injured?"
"Because," Ben said, "I didn’t beat him. I un-made him. I reached into his soul and told him his entire life’s purpose was a lie. That’s not fighting. That’s… being a god. And gods don’t stay heroes for long."
Axiom lowered its hand. The single wing folded, and the galaxy in its chest dimmed.
"Rook," Ben whispered, wiping blood from his lip. "Don’t ever let me use that one again."
The time bomb’s hum turned into a scream. Reality was collapsing into a single point. But Axiom raised one hand. It didn’t punch. It didn’t blast. It defined .
The first finger moved. The temporal wave stopped two inches from Ben’s chest.
Then, a voice—soft, ancient, and utterly alien—whispered from the core of the Omnitrix. Not the one you want. The one you need.