The Super Power Saga (Book 1): Super Powers of Mass Destruction Read online

  SUPER POWERS

  OF

  MASS DESTRUCTION

  The Super Power Saga

  Book One

  by Jaron Lee Knuth

  Also by Jaron Lee Knuth

  After Life

  Fixing Sam

  Demigod

  The Infinite Life of Emily Crane

  Nottingham

  The NextWorld Series

  Level Zero

  Spawn Point

  End Code

  The Super Power Saga

  Super Powers of Mass Destruction

  Book Two (Coming Soon!)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © by Jaron Lee Knuth

  First Edition 2017

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons

  Attribution - NonCommercial - ShareAlike

  3.0 Unported License

  PROLOGUE

  VIGO

  He could move mountains with his bare hands and no weapon had ever pierced his skin, yet the Americans still resisted his rule. Their cities were nothing more than rubble and their people were starving, but the so-called superheroes kept fighting back. They kept yelling about their freedom and the tyranny of the Zharkovian empire, but that was pure nonsense. He was bringing them safety. He was bringing them security. He was bringing them a life without super powers of mass destruction threatening them every day.

  Vigo knew that his family was the only thing powerful enough to keep the peace. His mother and father had brought an end to King Krieg's march across Europe in the Second World War, unifying Russia and the Neo-Nipponese. But his parents made the mistake of allowing the corrupt politicians to continue their greedy ways across Europe and Asia. Vigo knew the war he had started wouldn't have even been necessary if his mother and father had taken their rightful place as rulers, like the Oshiro dynasty had done in Neo-Nippon. Now there were superheroes and supervillains all vying for control of their own corner of the world. But they were no match for him. He possessed the super strength of his mother, and the invulnerability of his father. His two sons possessed these powers as well, and also the ability to fly, granted to them by his wife's genetics. He would march his army into every country, and they would all bow before him, or they would die. And his family would rule the world forever, continuing their legacy as each generation grew stronger, adding more powers with every marriage and every birth.

  He felt pride as he watched his soldiers march through the streets of Boston without firing a shot. The bombs and rockets supplied by the Neo-Nipponese had done most of the work for him. The bombing had turned the infrastructure of the city into a mess of gnarled steel and crumbled stone. The citizens crawled out from under their broken city and pledged their loyalty. Men took a knee as he passed them, women reached out and begged for his mercy. As it should be.

  Vigo's mere presence caused a state of awe among the masses that surrounded him. Impossible to cut, his black hair was woven into a nest of braids to make it more manageable. His beard was the same, tightly knit into a regal sculpture that sat upon his impossibly wide chest. His muscles rippled under his uniform, an all white, skin tight costume that hearkened back to the days when they called him a superhero. His cape blew behind him, caught in the winds that rushed across the flattened city. With his fists planted firmly against his hips and his chin cutting into the air, he was the personification of might. He would have been happy remaining in that moment of glory, that timeless second of peace and victory, but of course there was always someone who had to revolt.

  Fireballs rained from the sky, exploding among his troops like a biblical wrath. It took Vigo by surprise, and for a moment, he just stood and watched as the attack consumed his soldiers. Those that weren't immediately burned to a crisp flailed around, flames encompassing their flesh until their blackened corpses fell to the ground.

  When his wits returned to him, Vigo took note of the arc the fireballs were flying from. He launched from the ground with a leap, cracking the earth below him. He hurled himself through the air, twirling his arms to push himself farther, until he landed a few blocks away. His feet cratered the street, sending out a wave of concussive air that cast aside the debris. He peered through the smoke and dust that was ever-present in the aftermath of the attack, and he saw his enemy. Standing at the end of the street, hands burning with demonic fire, was the supervillain known as Plasmax.

  Vigo wasted no time. He knew the key to defeating most of the men and women with SPMDs was taking them out before they had a chance to use them. He rushed in, bounding down the street with three long strides, his legs pushing him forward like coiled springs. Just as he reached Plasmax, he reeled back one of his fists, ready to smash it straight through the supervillain's chest. But Plasmax took him by surprise. One of his flaming hands sprayed fire into Vigo's face, and Vigo felt something for the first time: Pain. A stinging, searing, powerful pain.

  Vigo fell to his knees, trying to wipe the flames from his face, but the super-powered fire engulfed his beard. He grabbed the edge of his cape and wrapped it around his face, smothering the flames. When the pain subsided ever so slightly, he opened his eyes and saw the look of shock on Plasmax's face.

  “I... I hurt you,” he mumbled, more to himself than Vigo. “You... you're supposed to be invincible.”

  Vigo said nothing. Using Plasmax's shock against him, he launched himself from the ground, snatching Plasmax's wrist and twisting. The bone snapped. Plasmax cried out, flames bursting from his mouth. Plasmax spun toward Vigo, lifting his other hand to attack, but Vigo spun around behind him and shoved the flat of his palm into Plasmax's elbow. The arm broke in two, dangling from the joint. As Plasmax fell to his knees in pain, Vigo grabbed the supervillain's jet-black hair and reeled his head backward.

  “It's a pity,” Vigo said, staring down at Plasmax's face. “With powers like yours, you could have been a useful addition to our family. I may have even produced a daughter, just for you.”

  Plasmax began to laugh. It was a strange, whimpering laughter that Vigo found disconcerting.

  “You won't be laughing when I trot you in front of a television camera and rip out your heart for all the world to see. Maybe then these foolish Americans will understand my threats are real. Maybe then they'll-”

  Plasmax began to laugh even harder, this time from deep within his stomach.

  Vigo tugged on the pitiful man's hair again, trying to shake some sense into him. “What's so funny, fool? Don't you understand what's about to happen to you?”

  “Oh, I understand. It's just... it's you. You look... ridiculous.”

  Vigo touched his face and watched the black flakes fall from his burnt skin. He felt the singed hairs of his beard barely covering his face. His head was bumpy and bald on one side.

  Vigo's anger grew from mere annoyance to a rage he could not contain. He cast back his head and roared into the sky loudly enough for the heavens to shake. He lifted Plasmax over his head with both hands and spread his arms apart, tearing the body in half.

  There was a light so bright it scorched the sky and an explosion so great that it broke the earth.

  1

  AZAKOR

  Rain poured over his golden armor as a lightning bolt flashed across the sky, reflecting in the eyes of the soldiers that gazed up at him. The men and women who wore the uniforms of the south watched their Guardian commander descend with both
fear and awe, yet it was their respect that he still yearned for. They fought no battles together. They took no lives, saw no sacrifice. His war was cold. For the most part, it was a time of peace, and his army was nothing more than a show of force, a symbolic gesture of the might of the Zharkovian Empire.

  Azakor knew this was for the best. It was what his father had died for so many years ago. So that his family could rule over all the domains of the empire, so that no government of men and women could ever allow their greed and ignorance to once again put the world at risk. They would keep order and justice throughout the globe for the rest of time, and the people would be forever grateful.

  But something inside of Azakor stirred. The diplomacy his mother had taught him ruled his life. He knew the customs and traditions of every domain. He knew the right way to bow and the proper way to greet the domini of the world. He knew how to settle disagreements with his mind and his words. He knew how to get his way without flexing a single muscle. But when he stared out over his army, and he heard his name announced upon his arrival, “Azakor Zharkov the Morningstar, Guardian of the South, son of Vigo Zharkov the Paramount, grandson of Imperator Konstantin Zharkov the October Guard!” he felt the spirit of a warrior awaken.

  As his feet touched the mud that surrounded the work camp, his troops fell to one knee with their heads bowed. He tapped his fist twice against the star-shaped crest on his armored chest, the salute of the Guardians. The general of his army arose from the group and rushed to his side. He was only a few years older than Azakor, but the gray speckled throughout his hair and the wrinkles upon his brow made him appear lifetimes older than the smooth, ageless skin of Azakor's invulnerable body. Azakor removed his helm and revealed his jet black hair, tied into an intricate maze of braids. A servant took the helm from Azakor as another raised a large umbrella above him.

  The general stood outside of the umbrella, rain pouring across his face as he said, “Greetings, my liege. I've surrounded the work camp with a single legion of soldiers, but I awaited your arrival to approach.”

  Azakor stared across the muddy fields at the wooden walls of the camp. It didn't look any different than any other camp, simple and without needless adornments. The camp produced textiles, mainly blankets and clothing, and had done so productively for many years. They never missed a deadline, often overproducing their quota.

  “You're sure of your intel?”

  “Yes, my liege. One of their own has turned in a book of teachings to the local constabulary.”

  “Teachings?”

  “A bible, my liege.”

  Azakor let out a long sigh. The empire had created a system that was quite self-sufficient and usually did not require his interference. But the imperator insisted he involve himself personally with things like this, no matter how trivial Azakor thought the religious laws were. He found them to be a sign of weakness, if nothing else. If the imperator was truly confident in his omnipotence, he wouldn't fear the existence of mythological beings. The laws against such practices only seemed to serve the imperator's pride, his arrogance.

  “This is an affront to the imperator,” the general said, “a disgrace to the empire itself. We must-”

  Azakor raised his hand. “I will tell you what we must do.”

  The general bowed his head as if he were expecting Azakor to strike him down. “My apologies, my liege.”

  Azakor continued to stare across the field, considering his options. In the back of his mind, his father's voice cried out for blood, screaming orders to burn the camp until the ground was black with ash. It would strike fear into anyone else that dared rebel against the empire.

  But in the front of his mind, his mother's voice was soft and full of reason.

  “I will speak with them.”

  The general looked as shocked as he was confused. “Speak to them? But, my liege... this treasonous act cannot go unpunished. Your troops have been awaiting your orders for sometime now. They want to avenge the imperator's pride.”

  Azakor flashed a look of anger toward his general. He knew the old man had fought in the Super Power War, claiming many countries in Asia alongside his father, and he most likely despised taking orders from someone who was not only younger than him, but completely inexperienced in war.

  “Tell me, General... marching my troops out here, in full view of the camp, hours before I was to arrive... what were you hoping to accomplish?”

  “My liege, I didn't-”

  “You didn't what? No wait... let me tell you what you did do. What you did was give them ample time to hide or destroy every piece of evidence I would need in order to deal out an appropriate punishment.”

  The general produced a small book from inside his jacket and summoned his most defiant voice. “The bible that the worker gave us is evidence enough. I was nearly ready to march these soldiers in there myself, but the imperator insisted that you handle it personally.”

  Azakor snatched the book from the general's hand and looked at it as if it were a pathetic oddity. So much trouble for such a tiny thing.

  “Did you think me incapable of dealing out the punishment myself?”

  The general mumbled, “No, my liege. I didn't... I only meant...”

  “Do you think me too weak to handle a religious cult? Do you think the super powers of the Zharkovian Empire are inadequate to deal with something as insignificant as this?”

  “My liege, I meant no offense. I only meant to offer my own suggestion, my counsel to you as your general.”

  Azakor pushed the umbrella to the side, snatched his helm from the servant, and lifted himself into the air, hovering for a moment as he looked down upon the old man. “General, if I want your counsel, I will ask for it. Otherwise, follow my orders without question or I will find someone who will.”

  Azakor set his helm upon his head and shot across the field, toward the work camp, leaving the mortal man standing in the mud. The rain poured against Azakor even harder as he neared the walls of the camp, his cape dragging behind him, soaked with water. He landed with a gentle splash in the puddle that had formed in front of the great oaken doors that barred entry into the work camp. He tapped a single finger against the doors. The wood rattled as if a giant were pounding on it. It did not take them long to remove the bar and open the door.

  A small, elderly woman poked her head out between the doors and peered up at Azakor. Her eyes grew large when she recognized him. She immediately fell to one knee, letting out a tiny sound of pain as her old bones creaked.

  “My liege.”

  “Rise, woman. Where is the master of this camp?”

  “I am the master,” she said, her voice shaking as she tried to lift herself from the mud.

  “How long have you run this camp?”

  “Twenty-three years. The old master died of pneumonia. He was my husband.”

  Azakor stared at the woman for a few moments before he finally growled, “Are you going to invite me in?”

  “Of course, my liege,” she said, making a motion in the air with one of her fingers to alert the doorman to open the doors wider. “What brings the Guardian of the South to our doorstep? Are you displeased with our work?”

  Azakor stepped through the door and scanned the camp. Small wooden huts surrounded a small courtyard with the camp's well. He could see against the far wall a large warehouse for their goods.

  “I've come because of this,” he said, throwing the bible down into the mud.

  He watched the faces of the workers. The old woman didn't react at all, practiced at remaining stoic, but the men by the door betrayed themselves. They exchanged looks of fear with knowing glances to each other.

  “I don't know what that is,” the woman said.

  Azakor continued walking deeper into the camp as he said, “You know that worshiping any gods is against the laws of the empire. Do you have any idea the trouble you've caused the people of your camp, just so you could tell them fairy tales?”

  “I promise you, we have do
ne nothing wrong. Please, if you'd just-”

  “You have an invincible imperator that loves you. You have a Guardian that protects you, that looks down upon you from the heavens that you're praying to. What comfort does that book bring you that we don't?”

  The old woman stopped for a moment, almost as if she were considering his question. “Don't hurt them. It isn't their fault. My husband was the one that insisted on teaching them the old ways. I've continued out of respect for him. I'm the one who you should punish.”

  That was all he needed. An admission of guilt. The law didn't require it. He was a Guardian. He could do anything he wanted. But for his own conscience, he needed to know.

  He snatched the woman's neck and squeezed, crushing her windpipe before he dropped her corpse onto the ground. The men and women of the camp began to scream, running in every direction. He walked calmly back to the doors and barred them shut again, breaking the gears that lifted the lock.

  He took his time murdering them all. He tore hearts from the chests of men. He broke the spines of women. He crushed children under his boot. He ripped off limbs and split open skulls and disemboweled bodies.

  When he had finished, and the screams of anguish subsided, he broke open the doors of the camp and floated across the fields. He let the rain pound against him, washing the blood and gore from his armor.

  When he landed among his troops, he searched out the general. “Send the men in to clean up the corpses. When the rain stops, burn the bodies. Then send a message for relocation. I want this work camp repopulated by the end of the week.”

  He noticed a strange look upon the face of the general, something like shock, but more disoriented. He didn't have time to question him before a young man shot through the sky, landing hard on the ground in front of him, with his head bowed. Even without seeing the golden skin of the boy's face, he recognized the braided pony tail hanging over his shoulder and the symbol of the Zharkovian Empire on his cape.