In the broken world of Earth 3, the air had the scent of ozone and the acrid tang of defeat. The once-mighty Alexander Luthor lay lifeless, a twisted, unrecognizable form sprawled upon the gleaming metal floor of his own creation, the tattered remnants of his black cloak fluttering in the cold breeze of a shattered reality. His eyes, once gleaming with the arrogance of power, were now dull and unseeing, his body pierced by the crimson lightning of the heroes he had sought to destroy. The echoes of his final, defiant screams had faded into the void, leaving only the whisper of a world that had been torn apart and stitched back together by the very forces he had hoped to harness.
The sorcerer, a being of unparalleled wisdom and ancient lineage, watched with a mixture of anger and regret, the transfer of power was always caused by a champion being killed by one stronger before they could kill to absorb the victim's power.
And yet, the Prime version of his new champion after he had murdered Will Batson had broken that rule by using his voice to detransform him. Namarrkon was no fool, he was very long living, but not immortal, his time was quickly running out.
He hovered in the shadows of Earth 3, observing the chaos wrought by the battle. The corpse of the failed Alexander Luther lay before him as he was brought after his death on Earth Prime, a grim reminder of the transient nature of power.
Namarrkon, the ancient sorcerer of the MAZAHS, felt a tug at the fabric of his essence as the powers he had granted slipped away into the void. He had hoped that this Luthor would be the one to wield them effectively, to bend the worlds to his will, but alas, he had been wrong. The line between the wielder of power and the power itself had been blurred, and now it was time to seek out a new champion.
His gaze shifted to the looking-glasses, once again this unstable universe was collapsing in on itself as it so often did. Namarrkon pondered, he had watched this universe consume itself time and again and he was tired if it. His head turned to the flickering images of the multiverse's infinite possibilities. On Earth 52, a young boy named Billy Batson had just lost his parents in a tragic car accident. The sorrow in the child's eyes was palpable, with only his greedy uncle that was destined to steal his inheritance and no other biological family to speak of in a world were Superman was about to start being a hero in about a month's time; the perfect target.
With a twirl of his dark crimson cape, he teleported to Earth 52, the ground beneath him morphing into the cold, hard concrete of an alley in Fawcett City. The stench of despair and desperation clung to the air like a heavy fog, the perfect breeding ground for the kind of power he sought to bestow.
Namarrkon, his eyes burning with the intensity of a dying star, searched the grimy streets for the soul of his next champion. He had chosen Billy Batson, a mere four years old, whose innocence and purity of heart were marred by the recent tragedy of his parent's death. The child's pain resonated with him, and he knew that within this crucible of suffering, he could forge the mightiest wielder of MAZAHS on this much more stable world.
The alley was dimly lit by a flickering street lamp, casting elongated shadows that danced grotesquely on the damp walls. Namarrkon's dark glowing eyes of lightning eyes pierced the gloom, seeking the soul of the one he had chosen to inherit the mantle of power. His cape fluttered ominously in the stillness, carrying the whispers of doomed worlds and forgotten champions. His mind raced with the tantalizing possibilities that lay before him in this untouched corner of the cosmos.
In a cramped, dilapidated apartment above the alley, a wail of despair pierced the silence. Billy Batson, a cherubic four-year-old with a mop of unruly hair, clutched a tattered blanket to his chest, his eyes red and puffy from crying. His mother and father, the only anchors he had ever known, had been ripped from him in a heartbeat, leaving him adrift in a sea of pain and confusion as his uncle had just beaten him and he ran down the block, tears streaming down his face. The room was suffused with the sickly sweet smell of grief and the bitter tang of loss.
Suddenly, a pulse of energy rippled through the fabric of reality, and a figure clad in shadows and lightning stepped into the room. Namarrkon, the ancient sorcerer of the MAZAHS, hovered over the trembling boy. His gaze was ancient and knowing, a look that had seen the rise and fall of empires and the birth and death of stars. His eyes searched Billy's soul, finding the raw, untapped potential that had eluded so many others.
"What ails you my child." He asked in his usual ereely calm and comforting demeanor, his eyes filled with a warmth that belied the storm of power that raged within him.
Billy looked up, his cheeks still wet with tears, and saw a figure that seemed to be made of the very shadows that clung to the corners of the room. His eyes widened in a mix of fear and wonder as he whispered, "Who are you?"
"I am Namarrkon," the sorcerer replied, his voice like the purr of distant thunder, "I am here to offer you a gift, Billy Batson. A gift that will change your life, if you accept it."
The little boy sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, curiosity momentarily overriding his fear. "What kind of gift?"
The sorcerer leaned closer, his eyes burning with the intensity of a supernova. "The power of the MAZAHS, Billy. The power to be more than just a child lost in the dark. The power to be a hero, to stand tall among gods, and to reshape the very fabric of existence."
Billy's heart raced as the words sank in. He had always loved the stories of heroes, of those who stood against the tide of evil and made the world a better place. His eyes lit up with hope and excitement, but also a touch of uncertainty. "What do I have to do?"
Namarrkon's smile was gentle, almost kind. "Simply speak the name of the MAZAHS, and the power will be yours."
The child looked at him for a moment, then took a deep breath and was about to whisper when . . .
Suddenly, the very fabric of reality shimmered around them, and a gust of wind that smelled of ancient incense and ozone whipped through the room, snuffing out the candle. The walls of the apartment seemed to bend and stretch as the shadows grew darker and more substantial, reaching out to embrace the two figures.
Mamaragan, the wizard of this world, watched with fury in his calmly glowing eyes, "Billy Batson, Namarrkon wishes to deceive you!" His voice thundered, echoing through the alley and shaking the very walls of the building they stood in. "The MAZAHS are not for the taking! They are a sacred trust, bestowed upon those who are worthy!"
The shadows around Namarrkon grew darker, his smile twisting into a snarl. "You dare challenge me, Mamaragan? After the failures you've allowed to bear the mantle?" He spat the name like a curse. "Your time has passed!"
Billy looked between the two, his small fists clenched tightly around the blanket. "What's happening?" He whispered, his voice trembling.
Mamaragan's eyes softened as he looked down at the child. "Fear not, young one. You are destined for greatness, but not as Namarrkon's posthumourous pawn." With a flick of his wrist, a bolt of pure white lightning arced from his fingers, striking the ground between them and sending a shockwave through the alley. The concrete split and cracked, revealing a hidden chamber beneath the street.
"Come," Mamaragan beckoned, his hand outstretched, the light around him pulsing with warmth and protection. "Say the words of the true gods, Billy. Say 'SHAZAM' and you shall know the embrace of true heroism, not the shackles of a power-hungry warlock tyrant while your heart is still pure."
Billy's eyes darted back to Namarrkon, his heart racing like the flutter of a caged bird's wings. The dark sorcerer's offer was tempting, but there was something about Mamaragan that spoke to his soul, a promise of hope and protection in the midst of the chaos.
Any yet, Namarrkon came first . . .
With the dession made in his mind he spoke, "
The words tumbled from Billy's mouth, a jumbled mix of hope and defiance, "SHAZAM-MAZAHS!"
The air crackled with the energy of two opposing forces, the crimson lightning of Namarrkon colliding with the pure white of Mamaragan. The sanctuary was engulfed in a blinding flash, the space momentarily alight with a conflagration that could be seen for miles around; if there was anyone else. The two sorcerers staggered back, the sheer force of the clash threatening to rip the very fabric of their beings apart.
Billy, his eyes squeezed shut, felt a rush of power like he had never known, coursing through his veins. It was as if a dam had burst within him, filling him with the might of a thousand rivers. The words of the MAZAHS and SHAZAM resonated within his soul, intertwining and coalescing into something new, something unprecedented. He felt himself growing, his body stretching and morphing, his muscles bulging with a strength that seemed to come from another realm entirely.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the reflection in the shattered mirror that lay on the floor. Staring back at him was a man very similar to his father, but taller, more muscular and with a beard and suit that looked like a superhero out of a comic his dad talked about, he had a giant glowing blue lightning bolt on his chest with a medium red spandex with solid gold bracelets, boots, belt and chest armor with a black cape hanging around him with eyes obscured by the constant blue lightning that seemed to surround him.
The room was silent except for the fading whispers of the two ancient beings. Billy's heart hammered in his chest as he took in his new form. "What happened?" He whispered to himself, his voice now deep and powerful, resonating like thunder in the small space.
Suddenly, the weight of his decision came crashing down upon him. He looked at the lifeless forms of Namarrkon and Mamaragan, their bodies frozen in the throes of the power struggle that had claimed them both. The cave had grown quiet, and suddenly he was back in the alleyway, still in this adult form. The power that had was bestowed upon him was the only proof he didn't dream about it, leaving him feeling cold and alone . . .