1939 – 1941
The world was unraveling.
Germany's war machine devoured Poland and cast its shadow across Europe. Britain held the line. France fell. The United States watched, cautious, distant. But Max Malone—Marvelo-Man—was already wading into fire.
Not through diplomacy.
Through destruction.
By late 1939, Marvelo-Man had become a ghost in red and gold, striking from the sky, leveling Nazi convoys, obliterating secret research bunkers in the Alps, rescuing prisoners from torture chambers lit by flickering oil lamps. In his trademark red leotard, yellow boots, and golden cape, Max became both myth and warning—a figure of folklore among Allied troops.
But Germany was building something else.
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The Nazi Übermensch
He was known as Valter Krönig, but called himself Götterfaust—God-Fist.
He stood nearly seven feet tall, with flowing blond hair, piercing ice-blue eyes, and the kind of bone structure sculpted from eugenicist wet dreams. His upper body was bare, tanned and rippling with muscle, a bold black swastika painted directly across his chest. From his shoulders flew a crimson cape, long and regal. He wore dark green Axis-issue military trousers tucked into glossy red boots that shimmered like blood.
He moved like a storm, and spoke like a prophet.
Valter was the apex of Nazi science: injected with forbidden serums, raised in seclusion, and educated on Nietzsche, racial supremacy, and destruction. He believed the world needed to be purged and reborn—and he saw in Marvelo-Man not an enemy, but a potential partner.
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The Proposal
The encounter happened in war-torn Eastern Europe. Max had just liberated a prison complex when Valter descended from the sky like a burning star.
He landed in front of Max, hands spread, eyes glowing.
"You are like me," he said in a flawless American accent. "They worship you. But they fear you. They will always fear us."
Max didn't answer.
"We are gods. Let us act like it. You and I—we can destroy this rotten world. Erase the parasites. And build something beautiful. Together."
Max raised an eyebrow. "You want to conquer the world?"
"No. Rule it. Shape it. We can breed a new race. Pure. Powerful. Our bloodline—together—we can populate a new Eden."
Max stared in disbelief. "You're asking me to have kids with you to build a super army?"
Valter grinned, nostrils flaring. "Why not? There is no greater union. Or..." he stepped closer, voice low, "...do you prefer to be worshipped alone?"
"You're out of your damn mind."
"No. I am the future. And you will either be my mate... or my meat."
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The Fight
Valter struck first.
He grabbed a nearby civilian and hurled him like a weapon. Max dove forward and caught the man midair—only for Valter to appear behind him and slam him through a concrete wall.
Max rebounded and countered with a right hook that sent Valter flying into a train station.
Valter laughed as he stood. "Good! Use that power! Show them how little you care!"
He tore a tower from the ruins and threw it—screaming innocents still inside—at Max. Max caught it with one arm, teeth gritted, and lowered it gently to the ground.
Valter rushed in and bit Max's shoulder like a wild animal, blood dripping from his lips.
"What's wrong, hero? Can't stomach real war?"
Max blasted him with a punch that shattered the earth, sent the Nazi flying across the Danube.
Their battle raged across Europe—through Prague, into the Hungarian plains, across the ruins of bombed-out Warsaw. Shockwaves rocked cities. Every punch cracked the skies.
Valter used civilians like bait, like bombs—hurling buses full of people, collapsing hospitals just to slow Max down. But Max adapted.
He saved who he could. Fought where he had to.
And in the end—he outlasted Valter.
In Berlin, at the top of a Nazi monument, Max punched Valter so hard it cratered the sky. The monument collapsed. Valter plummeted into the wreckage, body broken, the swastika on his chest split down the middle.
Max stood over him, panting, bruised.
"You could've chosen to be human," he muttered.
Valter gurgled blood. "I was trying to save it…"
Max turned his back.
And walked into the smoke.
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He didn't celebrate. He didn't speak of the battle. But everywhere in Europe, the name Marvelo-Man spread. Not as a myth. Not as a symbol.
As the man who said no—and made the monsters fall.