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The air above the Peruvian highlands was thin, but Hawkman’s wings cut through it effortlessly. The wind howled around him as he descended toward the ruins of an ancient Incan temple, its stone structure half-buried by centuries of encroaching jungle. Even from this altitude, he could see the footprints—fresh, leading inside.

They were here.

Carter Hall narrowed his eyes behind his hawk-shaped helm, scanning the terrain below. He had spent the morning lecturing his students about the Muisca Confederation and their legendary offerings to Lake Guatavita. Now, he was about to make history himself—by stopping a team of mercenaries from stealing something that should have remained undisturbed.

The Idol of Viracocha.

A relic from an age long before Spanish conquest, before the rise of the Incan Empire itself. Some said it was just a statue, but Carter knew better. He had held it before, in a life lived centuries ago.

He tucked his wings close and dove, the ground rushing up to meet him. At the last moment, he spread them wide, letting the updraft slow his descent. The moment his boots touched the ancient stonework, his hand was on the handle of his Nth metal mace.

He strode forward into the ruin.

The Battle of the Ages

The first mercenary never heard him coming.

With a single, fluid motion, Carter swung his mace upward, catching the man beneath the chin. He was out before he hit the ground. The second turned just in time to see his partner fall. He reached for his rifle—too slow. Hawkman’s wings snapped outward, a single powerful beat sending him across the room. He crashed into the man, lifting him off his feet and slamming him against the crumbling stone wall.

Two down. More ahead.

They weren’t ordinary thugs. Their weapons were modern, military-grade. That meant someone with serious funding was behind this.

A bullet ricocheted off his shoulder plate. Carter turned, spotting three mercenaries taking cover behind a fallen column. He reached for his belt and pulled a throwing axe—bronze, shaped in the style of ancient Egypt.

A gift from Khufu’s artisans, centuries ago.

He let it fly. It spun through the air in a deadly arc, striking one gunman in the shoulder and sending him tumbling. The second took aim. Carter was already moving, wings propelling him forward in a blur. He landed atop the column, driving his boot down on the man’s weapon, crushing it.

The third mercenary pulled a combat knife—a bad idea.

Carter twisted his wrist, and his mace transformed, its Nth metal shifting at his command. The morning star at its end collapsed inward, reshaping itself into a curved khopesh. The blade gleamed in the dim torchlight of the temple as he brought it up in a defensive stance.

“You really think you’re going to win this?” Carter asked, voice low.

The mercenary lunged. Carter sidestepped, deflecting the blade with a practiced parry. The man swung again. This time, Hawkman caught the strike with his gauntlet, twisted the knife from the mercenary’s grip, and sent him sprawling to the ground with a single punch.

Fool.

He pressed forward, his instincts guiding him deeper into the temple. Memories of past lives flickered at the edges of his mind. He had fought in places like this before. Defended treasures, led armies, built empires. This was just another battle in a war spanning centuries.

The True Prize

At the heart of the temple, Carter found the artifact.

The Idol of Viracocha sat upon an ancient pedestal, glowing faintly in the flickering torchlight. Even through the centuries, it remained untouched by time. Gold, inlaid with lapis lazuli and turquoise, its eyes shimmering with something beyond mortal craftsmanship.

He could feel it—the power within.

Behind him, a voice rang out.

“Step away from the idol.”

Carter turned.

A tall figure stood in the shadows, flanked by four more mercenaries. But this one wasn’t just another hired gun. His armor was sleek, reinforced with alien technology. A Thanagarian disruptor rifle was slung over his shoulder.

Carter’s grip tightened on his mace.

“You’re working with the Gordanians,” he said coldly. “Selling artifacts to warlords now?”

The man smiled. “The past belongs to the highest bidder.”

Carter launched himself forward.

The battle that followed was fierce. The enemy’s technology was powerful—but Carter was older than any of them could imagine. He dodged plasma blasts, using his wings to maneuver through the temple’s narrow halls. He disarmed opponents with a flick of his wrist, wielding his weapons with the skill of a dozen lifetimes.

A spear from his days in Ancient Greece—thrown with deadly precision. A curved dagger from the Mughal Empire—used to disable a high-tech gauntlet. A Mongolian bow, strung with modern Nth metal-tipped arrows—firing faster than the mercenaries could react.

One by one, they fell.

At last, it was just Carter and the leader.

Hawkman drove his khopesh into the enemy’s disruptor rifle, slicing through it with ease. The mercenary had just enough time to realize he had lost before Carter’s fist crashed into his jaw.

The man collapsed, unconscious.

Carter took a breath. The temple was silent again.

A Guardian, Not a Thief

He turned to the idol.

So much power, and so much history.

He had seen its creation. Had fought to protect it centuries ago. And now, once again, he stood between it and those who would misuse it.

Carefully, he lifted the artifact. He would see it placed in a museum—one where no warlord or thief could ever take it again.

As he stepped out into the night sky, wings spreading wide, Carter Hall allowed himself a rare smile.

History was safe once more.

For now.