He falls to his knees beside the battered body of his final foe, another meaningless corpse to add to the pile. He's won, the sounds of the battlefield finally silencing after what feels an eternity. In the quiet, he can finally breathe. Finally take in all his pain and anger and the violence that meant nothing. The victory that meant nothing. All the death and blood and corpses and losses and everything- it all meant nothing. Was it worth it? His ultimate goal of destruction?
Yes. Maybe at some point along the way he could've changed his mind, become someone happier, become a man that could see himself living on in a world that only sought to toss him aside. But after the League's death, there was no turning back. He became inevitable, like death itself. A festering wound on the Earth's surface that became lethal.
Maybe it was always meant to be this way. Maybe his purpose was to purge the Earth of all life so that it could restart, live on without humanity's harmful presence. Oh well, he'll never get to know.
He knows why he chose to do it, anyway. It was for them. It was always for them. And when the world took them from him, he took from the world until there was nothing left. He lashed out at every single person, every being that allowed his family to suffer, those that turned a blind eye to the world's corruption, those that chose to live normal lives and be happy while they were doomed to suffer. He took it all. He killed them all.
Everything and everyone on the planet is dead and gone, even those he cared most for. And their deaths then seemed the end of the world, but he knows now.
This is the end of the world. He is the end.
He raises his fist in a hollow show of victory. It's more for himself than anyone else, since no one else is around to see it. He feels hollow. Empty.
Because what is a victory if there is no one left to celebrate it with? What was the reason for this war, if all that he was fighting for was already dead and buried?
And when he finally lifts his head-
Nothing stares back.