Winter, 1942 — Poland
The world thought it knew the price of war.
Marvelo-Man had fought across Europe and Asia. He had seen cities crumble, bodies burn, ideals twisted into weapons. But nothing prepared him for the hidden truth buried behind barbed wire and brick ovens.
The mission was simple: destroy a munitions train near Kraków. But Max heard something in the air—a strange silence beyond the trees. A silence that breathed, like lungs about to scream.
He followed it.
---
It wasn't on any map. Surrounded by electric fences and armed towers, the camp resembled a prison—until Max saw the people inside.
Thousands of men, women, and children. Emaciated. Shaved heads. Sunken eyes. Numbers tattooed on forearms. They moved like shadows, guided by barking dogs and rifle butts.
Max had never heard of Auschwitz.
He would never forget it.
He hovered above a smokestack—ash coating his boots—and peered into the crematorium.
He vomited.
Below, soldiers dragged bodies like garbage. Gas chambers disguised as showers. Children separated from parents. Screams muffled by concrete.
---
As Max descended silently into the camp's main yard, the sudden whine of alarms shattered the stillness. A dozen guards scrambled to their posts. Machine guns opened fire from a tower.
Max walked through it.
Bullets ricocheted from his chest, face, arms. But the sound wasn't what stopped him.
It was the soldiers—rushing toward the gas chambers.
They weren't trying to defend themselves.
They were trying to kill the remaining prisoners before he could stop them.
"No," Max growled, and he vanished in a blur.
He appeared in front of the lead soldier and shattered his rifle with a single slap. His other hand drove into the soldier's chest—snapping ribs, puncturing lung.
He grabbed another by the leg and hurled him through the crematorium wall. Max moved too fast for them to react, tearing the weapons from their hands, ripping doors off hinges to free those inside.
He smashed through the concrete corridors, dragging stunned survivors out before the flames could reach them. His heat vision sliced a path through the smoke. He grabbed a gas truck mid-explosion and hurled it into the sky where it detonated above.
Within minutes, the soldiers were dead.
---
German reinforcements arrived from the outskirts. They found the camp in ruins.
Max didn't wait.
He charged.
He turned their tanks into twisted scrap. Tore through sandbags and bone alike. Every shout in German fueled his rage. He killed them all. One by one. Face to face. No mercy.
And when the last one gurgled blood onto Max's boots, Max realized his fists were shaking.
He looked around.
Blood. Ash. Silence.
---
It took less than twenty minutes.
Every German soldier in the camp was dead.
Max stood alone in a courtyard soaked with blood, surrounded by freed prisoners too shocked to cheer. His cape, torn and stained. His hands, red.
He looked down. At the mangled bodies. At what he'd done.
He'd never killed like this before.
Not out of necessity.
Out of rage.
One old rabbi walked up to him, gently placing a trembling hand on Max's arm.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Max said nothing.
He looked toward the rising smoke.
And wept.
---
He couldn't save all the camps. But he saved this one.
He carried survivors on his back, flew them to hidden safehouses, and exposed the truth to the Allies.
America had its reasons for silence.
Max no longer cared for reasons.
He knew what evil looked like now.
And he knew what it had cost him to face it head-on.