The ruins of the astral battlefield still crackled with residual power as Avon Von Deovola stood at its center, blood-red aura pulsing like a second heart. His white lion-like mane shimmered with otherworldly light, the strands seeming to dance with the magic he had absorbed. Golden-red eyes, burning with primal intensity and growing intellect, scanned the collapsing plane with eerie calm.
He was changing.
Not in the chaotic way one might expect from someone who had just devoured the combined efforts of Fate, Zatara, and Etrigan—but with terrifying control. Avon's muscles rippled with newfound power, veins glowing faintly beneath his dark skin. The magical hues that had clashed with his aura now swam through it like predators in a red sea—indigo, violet, and gold, swirling and fusing into a storm of refined energy.
Where once his aura was raw force, now it was intelligent. Streamlined. Predatory.
A deep, low hum emanated from his body, a war drum in harmony with the universe's breath. It was the Limitless ability—alive, aware, and feeding. The "Spoils of War" were many. From Fate, he had absorbed spatial awareness and minor time resistance. From Zatara, a linguistic intuition that allowed him to decipher magical languages. And from Etrigan? Heat resilience. Demonfire now curled harmlessly against his flesh.
Even his wolf form was evolving. When Avon closed his eyes and shifted briefly, the eight-foot werewolf that stood in his place bore white fur streaked with symbols, ancient runes he didn't recognize—evidence of his Aura responding to the magic it consumed. His claws gleamed with a metallic sheen, now capable of tearing through enchanted barriers.
But more important than what changed… was who noticed.
---
In the lower realms of Hell,
A ripple in the astral web reached the throne of Trigon the Terrible. The four-eyed demon lord paused mid-thought, his expression grim.
"Interesting," he rumbled, each syllable causing the bones of damned souls to rattle in the infernal wind. "This… being. This apex wolf. His soul is not aligned to Chaos or Order, yet his presence warps both."
He extended a clawed finger, conjuring a translucent image of Avon, still standing in the remnants of the battle.
"Limitless growth… ah, I see it now," Trigon mused, his voice now an amused growl. "The human science created a godling. A beast with evolution carved into his essence. He is not bound by fate, nor does he yield to demonic law. Such a thing should not exist."
A beat passed.
"And yet, I cannot help but feel amused… and threatened."
From the shadows behind him, a flicker of hesitation.
"You intend to destroy him, Father?"
The voice belonged to Raven, her form cloaked in her hood, amethyst eyes glowing faintly. She had sensed Avon before her father did—his power had lanced through the ley lines like a blade.
"No," Trigon said slowly. "Not yet. This... Avon may serve as a chaos factor. Let him rip through the Council of Mages. Let him challenge the fragile balance of the mortals. In time, he will come to us—or we to him."
"And what if he resists?" Raven asked.
Trigon grinned, all jagged teeth and hunger. "Then we test his strength in fire."
Raven said nothing, but her mind burned with questions. Avon wasn't just a threat. He was a mirror. She had spent her whole life walking a tightrope between destruction and salvation. And now there was someone who danced on that rope, laughing at the winds of fate.
---
Meanwhile, in deep space…
A transmission crackled to life in the throne room of Warworld, a massive fortress of conquest orbiting near a dying sun.
"Play it again," a deep, guttural voice commanded.
The alien monitor displayed the scene—Avon unleashing his Limitless ability, shattering Fate's vortex, and tearing the astral fabric apart.
The Warlord of Warworld, Mongul, leaned forward, expression unreadable. His yellow eyes glinted with something that rarely appeared in his soul: anticipation.
"A mortal... who dares challenge gods? And wins?"
The image looped—Avon's howl shaking the stars, his claws drawing demonic blood, his aura consuming the magic of the old world.
Mongul rose from his throne, his armor groaning with the motion.
"I have seen champions," he said aloud to his gathered lieutenants. "Superman. Gladiators of Apokolips. Even that Kryptonian brat."
He pointed at the screen.
"But this one is different. He doesn't just fight. He grows. Every challenge makes him stronger. He is war incarnate. The kind of war I respect."
A hush fell over the room.
"Prepare the armada," Mongul growled. "Set course for Earth. I will not wait for fate to test him. I will challenge this... Avon Von Deovola myself. Let us see if the apex predator bleeds."
---
Back on Earth, in the ruins of a Watchtower meditation room,
Batman stood before a cracked monitor, the feedback from magical surveillance still distorting.
He had watched it all. The astral collapse. The impossible adaptability. The refusal to be chained.
He didn't say a word. But his mind calculated furiously. Every protocol, every file on Avon, was being rewritten in real time. Limitless growth made him the most volatile asset on Earth—perhaps in the galaxy.
From the corner, Zatanna approached, her face pale.
"You saw it too," she said softly.
Batman didn't turn. "He didn't just win. He evolved."
"We're not equipped for this."
"No one is."
Zatanna hesitated. "What are you going to do?"
The Dark Knight's voice was cold and quiet. "I'm going to plan. Because one day… we might have to stop him."
---
Elsewhere, in the Astral Aftermath…
Avon moved with slow steps across the shifting remnants of the battlefield. The fractured terrain shimmered beneath his feet, dissolving into pools of liquid magic. He raised his claw, watching how the energies danced around his fingers like curious serpents.
His thoughts were a storm. Not of confusion, but of revelation.
He could feel it now.
Not just power—but purpose.
The Hunt, one of his innate gifts, had marked something the moment Trigon noticed him. A universal truth: Trigon feared nothing—and yet, he watched Avon. That alone marked the demon lord for the Hunt.
But something else stirred in Avon's core. The "Spoils of War" fused deeply into his body. He had inherited magic, not as an accessory, but as an instinct. When he moved, runes formed behind his steps. When he exhaled, his aura reshaped the space around him. He was no longer just a beast of war. He was becoming something else.
A martial deity, honed by battle, tempered by challenge.
With each foe he consumed or defeated, his White Wolf Arts expanded. He now weaved magical counters into his strikes—his claws not only slashed, but redirected arcane energy. His aura could form gauntlets, spears, even protective wards.
And deep inside him, The Bite whispered promises of what it would do to demonic flesh.
He smiled.
Let them come.
Trigon. Mongul. Batman's contingencies. The magical world's desperate alliances.
He would face them all.
Because Avon Von Deovola was not a force to be stopped.
He was a force to be understood—and feared.
And as the magical plane finally sealed behind him and he stepped back into Earth's reality, his eyes flashed—golden-red fire, burning with the hunger of evolution.