The world was asleep.
In the quiet darkness of the early morning, when the moon hung like a sentinel in the sky, a shift occurred. A force—ancient and unstoppable—stirred beneath the earth. It had waited, slumbering for millennia, until the time was right. The land trembled with its presence, as if the world itself could feel the weight of its return.
Azrael awoke, not as a man, but as something far older, far more complex. His memories, scattered and fractured, began to piece themselves together. He felt the weight of countless lives lived, battles fought, and worlds watched over. He was a The Horseman—one split into the Four who had once walked the earth at the dawn of humanity's existence, guiding the balance of life and death, of peace and destruction. But this was not the first time he had walked these lands. No, his essence had been woven into the fabric of existence for ages, taking on different names, different faces. Yet always the same purpose.
Azrael.
The name rang through his mind like the tolling of a bell—a call to action, a signal that the time had come once again.
As his awareness expanded, he could sense the world around him. The distant hum of human civilization, the vibrations of the earth, and the dark whispers of those who sought to upset the delicate balance he had once maintained. Darkseid's schemes, the dark wizards manipulating magic for their own gain, and the ancient manipulator Vandal Savage—all these forces were stirring, threatening to bring chaos once again.
Azrael's memories solidified, revealing the truth of his mission. He was no mere mortal, nor was he simply a soldier of justice. He was the Horseman of Justice, chosen to maintain the delicate equilibrium of life. It was his role, as it had always been, to remove the threats to that balance and bring order where there was none.
He stood in the ruins of an ancient temple—his new form now fully realized. His armor gleamed under the pale light of the moon, dark and intimidating, yet elegant, forged from materials older than time itself. The symbols of the Horsemen adorned his armor, and in his hand, he gripped the Sword of Justice—a weapon capable of cutting through the very fabric of existence.
Azrael looked at the world before him. The city of Metropolis stood in the distance, unaware of the ancient force that had just awoken beneath its surface. He had no illusions. This world, much like those before it, was filled with threats. His purpose was clear—to eliminate the forces that sought to tip the balance in favor of chaos. Darkseid was his first target.
He could feel the influence of the tyrant from across the cosmos, a malevolent presence that threatened to bend the will of entire worlds to his own. Darkseid's quest for the Anti-Life Equation had already begun, and Azrael would not allow such power to fall into the hands of one who sought to control all life. He had seen this before—entire worlds shattered under the weight of tyranny.
In the shadows of the ruined temple, Azrael's senses sharpened. He could feel the whispers—the faint echoes of past lives, of battles fought and won. But those whispers were fading, replaced with the voice of one who had always been his guide. The Spectre.
"Azrael," the voice intoned, ancient and knowing. "The balance is in jeopardy. Darkseid is a threat that must be eliminated, as must the others who wish to disrupt the equilibrium you have fought for."
Azrael's mind shifted, memories flooding back—the times he had been the Horseman of War, Death , Fury, and Strife, each life shaping his understanding of the universe in different ways. But now, as the Horseman of Justice, his mission was clear: restore balance through the elimination of those who would disrupt it.
But there was another thought in the back of his mind—a question that lingered. Could he continue to walk the path of neutrality? His previous lives had not been so focused on the idea of balance through destruction alone. They had fought for peace, for harmony, yet peace had often required harsh measures. This time, would he need to destroy to bring peace?
With the weight of this knowledge pressing on him, Azrael began his journey. His first step took him across the barren landscape toward the heart of Metropolis, where the Justice League would soon sense his presence. He knew they would not understand his methods—heroes rarely did. They would seek to stop him, to question his motives, but he had no time for them. His mission was larger than the concerns of any individual hero or villain.
The Armament of Azrael
Azrael's presence was a shadow in the night, heavy with the weight of cosmic intent. His hand raised, and from the void around him, his armament began to manifest.
The Mask of Death materialized, settling over his face. Its Bone white surface reflecting with a faint, ethereal glow. The sight of it was enough to strike fear into the hearts of even the bravest souls, for it was a symbol of his purpose: to judge, to destroy, and to restore balance. Beneath the mask, Azrael's hollow, infinite eyes reflected the countless souls he had touched, the many lives he had judged. He was no mere man, no hero to be adored. He was a force—a force of nature that could not be bargained with.
The Scythes of Death appeared, twin blades that gleamed like polished silver, their curved edges capable of severing the very threads of fate itself. Azrael gripped them with practiced ease, twirling them in the air with a deadly grace. They were not simply weapons; they were tools of inevitability, instruments to bring an end to all who dared to disrupt the universal balance.
A Whip of Fate unfurled from his arm, its tendrils crackling with energy. It was as much a manifestation of Azrael's will as it was a weapon—a force capable of warping time and reality itself.
The Blade of the Reaper materialized, radiating with dark power. Its massive, jagged form shimmered with an ancient glow, the edges designed to cleave through the very fabric of existence. It hummed with a resonance that carried the echoes of countless battles fought across the cosmos. Azrael's grip tightened as he merged this weapon with the Sword of Justice, the two blades becoming one, an unstoppable force of divine retribution.
Finally, the Steed of Hope materialized—a creature of light and energy, shifting between gold and pure white. It was not just a mount, but a companion in his quest, its presence a reminder that even in darkness, hope remained.
The First Target: Darkseid
The balance of the world was tipping. The very fabric of the universe trembled as Darkseid's schemes took shape. Azrael could feel the tyrant's reach extend across dimensions, seeking to twist the will of all beings to his own purpose. Darkseid's pursuit of the Anti-Life Equation threatened to undo everything Azrael had fought to preserve.
As Azrael stood at the edge of Metropolis, his presence rippling through the fabric of the universe, the heavens themselves stirred. Far beyond the reach of mortal senses, in the distant reaches of the cosmos, the New Gods felt the disturbance.
In the dark corners of New Genesis, where the ancient deities maintained their vigilant watch, a sudden tremor shuddered through the divine ether. Highfather—wise and composed—paused in the midst of a conversation with his council. His eyes narrowed as the power surged like a wave, striking at the core of his awareness.
"Something stirs," Highfather muttered. "An ancient presence. One not seen for eons. It cannot be mistaken."
His mind reached out, probing the cosmic currents, seeking the source of the disturbance. Across the vastness of the universe, he felt the awakening. It was not the call of any god he knew, nor was it the cry of a typical mortal hero. No, this presence was ancient—older than the gods themselves—and it carried with it a weight that transcended even their understanding.
From the heart of the Source—the wellspring of all cosmic knowledge—a voice echoed, ancient and knowing.
"Azrael," it whispered. "The Horseman of Justice has returned."
Highfather's eyes widened in recognition. He had heard the legends, the ancient stories of the Horsemen—beings tasked with maintaining the balance of existence itself. Azrael was not just any god; he was a force of nature, an unyielding bringer of judgment. He had come to Earth, and his intentions were clear.
"We must warn Darkseid," Highfather said, his tone grave. "Azrael's presence is a herald of conflict. He is no ally to any who would disrupt the natural order."
His words were like a signal to the others. Orion, fierce and relentless, stood to his feet, his fists clenched in anticipation. The tension in the air was palpable, a sense of urgency taking hold.
"He cannot be allowed to interfere with Darkseid's plan," Orion growled. "I'll take him down before he causes any trouble."
But Metron, ever the observer, merely studied the disturbance with calm indifference. "You misunderstand," he said coolly. "Azrael's actions are beyond any one of us. He is a force of fate, an agent of judgment, and his path is written far ahead of ours. He will not be moved by mortal conflict."
Highfather nodded gravely. "We must act swiftly, then. Darkseid cannot be allowed to underestimate this force. The balance itself is at stake."
Meanwhile, far from the gods' sight, on the surface of Earth, Steppenwolf had just arrived. The thunderous impact of his descent was like an earthquake shaking the land. He was an imposing figure, armored in jagged, dark armor, his eyes burning with an insatiable thirst for conquest.
Steppenwolf had come to Earth with a singular purpose: to serve Darkseid, his master, and conquer the world. He had been tasked with a mission—to prepare Earth for the arrival of Darkseid, to bring the Anti-Life Equation into their grasp. But as he made his way through the barren landscape, the air around him crackled with a strange energy, and his keen senses alerted him to a presence far more powerful than he had anticipated.
He stopped, feeling the unmistakable pull of an ancient force. Something—or someone—was in the air, rippling through the atmosphere with the intensity of a storm. His head snapped in the direction of Metropolis, where Azrael was preparing to make his entrance. He could feel the weight of the Horseman's presence—a power that transcended everything he had encountered in the service of Darkseid.
"Who dares to challenge the will of Darkseid?" Steppenwolf growled, his fists tightening around the handle of his axe. His lips curled into a wicked grin. "It seems I have an unexpected adversary."
His armor glowed faintly, his sense of urgency rising. He had heard whispers of the Horsemen—ancient beings who could bring death and destruction with a mere thought. Yet this was different. This was not some mere god or mortal to be trifled with. Azrael's presence alone sent a shiver down his spine.
With a determined step, Steppenwolf adjusted his course, heading toward the epicenter of the disturbance, his battle instincts telling him that this would not be a confrontation to take lightly.
Azrael's approach was inevitable, but Steppenwolf could feel the pull of his own destiny, just as the Horseman would feel the weight of his own fate. The forces were aligning, and as Steppenwolf advanced, he prepared for the ultimate clash—the conflict that would shape the future of Earth.
Azrael, his Steed Hope ready, reined in the divine creature, ready to ride. The Sword of Justice pulsed with energy, its form an extension of his will. His mission was larger than any battle. The Justice League, the New Gods, and Steppenwolf would all be obstacles to his purpose, but they were merely steps in the cosmic dance.
With a final glance at the looming city of Metropolis, Azrael set his sights on the horizon, where the forces of darkness, led by Steppenwolf, sought to plunge the world into chaos. His blade flashed as he rode forward, faster than the eye could track. The balance had been disturbed, and it was Azrael's charge to restore it, no matter the cost.
As he prepared to clash with Steppenwolf and whatever threats Earth could muster, the heavens themselves seemed to hold their breath. The universe watched, waiting to see if Azrael would be the harbinger of salvation—or destruction.