Predator: Killer of Killers Review: A Triple Threat Anthology of Carnage Through Time

Hype Malaysia

09-06-2025

You know, back when Prey was released in 2022, we were seated here, clamouring for the next logical step: a full-on showdown between the Predator and a warrior in feudal Japan. The setting, the code of honour, the katana clashing against alien tech—it just made sense.
So, did we rub a magic lamp and summon a genie or something, ya'll? Because guess what, when you wish upon a star, your Disney dreams do come true. And in this case, they come wrapped in dreadlocks, holding a spine.
Of course, no one's expecting a jiggling Will Smith cosplaying as Community's Tobias Fünke to show up in this historically brutal franchise (though, let's be honest, that would be hilarious if he just straight-up set the stage and used a right hook on a Yautja warrior). But under the Hulu banner, Killer of Killers makes its intentions clear right from the title. There's no metaphor, no slow burn—this is blood in the snow, mud, and fire kind of cinema.
And that's the hook here. Where Prey stripped things down, Killer of Killers builds it back up into an anthology of carnage, showcasing three brutal matchups across time: Viking berserkers, feudal samurai, and WWII fighter pilots. It's a cinematic gauntlet, and the Predator walks through it like a god of war. So the only question left is: which warriors make it to the final round, and which end up as trophies?
Each chapter in Killer of Killers opens with a symbol: Shield, Sword, Bullet. Not just tools of war, but metaphors for the kind of violence that defines the stories we're about to witness. These aren't just tales of survival—they're meditations on why we fight in the first place. Each human character becomes a mirror to a larger truth: What drives us to kill? Is it honor? Revenge? Duty? Survival? The film doesn't ask us to cheer for bloodshed; it dares us to interrogate it.
'Go forth among the stars and seek only the strongest prey.'
We open with the Viking storyline, titled Shield. Amid the frostbitten echoes of Norse myth, we meet Ursa — a warrior forged in fire, grief, and merciless ambition. She's a towering presence, the kind of woman who doesn't just survive in a world of blood and snow, she dominates it. Her enemies aren't shown mercy. The twin arcs of her metal-rimmed shields dismember them, which whirl like spinning blades in a gruesome ballet. Heads roll. Limbs fly. And through it all, Ursa stands unflinching.
Her son, Anders, follows closely behind, still learning the language of violence. But Ursa wants more than just a fighter—she wants a legacy. And when we learn the story of how her hands were once forced to drive a blade into her own father's chest, it becomes clear: she's not simply hardened by war, she was born into it.
But just when you think you've seen the worst this frozen world can conjure, something else arrives—something bigger, crueler. The cold silence of the tundra is shattered by a different kind of hunter, one with no need for swords or shields. Enter the Yautja.
Next, we journey to feudal Japan, and the title here is Sword—a fitting emblem for this chapter's central wound. We meet Kenji and Kiyoshi, brothers born to a warlord and raised like blades—forged to cut, sharpened by tradition, and destined to clash. From the moment we see them, we know where this is heading: a tragic tale of sibling rivalry. Think Itachi and Sasuke, but with less chakra and more blood-soaked silence.
Kenji refuses to fight for succession, walking away from the legacy that Kiyoshi clings to like a lifeline. But Kiyoshi doesn't hesitate. He fights with fire, draws blood from Kenji's cheek, and carves a rift that splits them for decades. Kenji flees—not just from the village, but from the future everyone carved out for him.
Two decades later, he returns after his father's passing. Still bitter. He wants to close the chapter by confronting his brother. However, the Yautja that stalks this era doesn't care for old grudges or family honor. It doesn't have time to bleed but rather to hunt for sport, not story. And what begins as a long-awaited reckoning becomes a desperate battle for survival…
Finally, we land in 1941, with the chapter titled Bullet—a fitting symbol of speed, impact, and the inevitability of war. Here we meet Torres, a young American with his sights set on the skies. His dream? To be a fighter pilot, soaring above the chaos and danger.
But beneath that ambition lies a reluctance. Torres is enthusiastic about flying, but fixing the machines that keep him airborne? Not so much. We get a glimpse of this when his car breaks down in the middle of a cornfield, and he calls his dad for help. His father, ever the tough but loving man, chides him—a reminder that sometimes you have to fix your own problems before you can chase your dreams.
Soon, Torres is drafted into the Navy, and instead of climbing into cockpits, he's assigned to maintain planes on the ground. The tension between what he wants and what he's given simmers beneath the surface—all while a much deadlier enemy, one from beyond this world, is stalking the skies.
'They shall be your trophies.'
The ideas behind these three stories? Honestly, brilliant. Much like what Prey did with the Comanche tribe, Killer of Killers taps into the power of setting—dropping Predators into distinct, brutal time periods where survival was already a daily war. Each backdrop amplifies the tension, forcing its characters to reckon not just with alien hunters, but with the violence baked into their own worlds.
Just as Prey had a sharp, intentional visual language to explore its themes, Killer of Killers speaks through imagery of its own. Ursa's world is harsh and cold—her face half streaked in red, a symbol of lineage soaked in blood. But once she slays the beast and is submerged in water, it plays like a brutal baptism. A moment of cleansing. In that silence, she's no longer just a warrior—she's a mother mourning the cycle she failed to break. The bloodline she passed down, quite literally.
In Sword, wind carries flowers through the air—serene, wistful, almost dreamlike—as if nature itself resists the violence between the brothers. And when that violence erupts, the flowers vanish. Only when the brothers fight together, reclaiming their bond, do the petals return. It's subtle, but deliberate. A visual metaphor for reconciliation, fragile but beautiful.
There's a quiet irony in these chapter titles. Ursa is the unrelenting Viking warrior who knows only the language of violence. Yet, her chapter is given the title Shield. But she doesn't protect—not really. She leads the charge, pushes her son to kill, and only after blood has soaked the snow does she realize what a shield should have been. It's not about defense in battle. It's about protection in spirit—the kind a mother fails to offer when she's blinded by vengeance.
Similarly, Sword, tied to the story of the two brothers, isn't just about combat. It's about the cut between them—that emotional gash that forms when power and legacy are prioritized over love. The title is as much about what divides them as it is what eventually unites them.
There's real pathos underneath all the blood and fury. Each segment grapples with the violence of its era, how warriors are shaped—or shattered—by their codes of honor. The film isn't trying to be deep in a self-serious way, but it understands its characters enough to give the carnage emotional weight. That's especially true with Ursa, whose pain becomes the film's anchor, even as she's pitted against a hulking beast out of myth. It's no accident that the Yautja she fights is referred to as 'Grendel'—a monster of legend for a people who live and die by the sword. In this world, the Predator isn't just an alien—it's the embodiment of every warrior's final trial.
We were also mesmerized by the sheer silence of Sword. Brief moments of dialogue bookend it—the tension of reunion, the heartbreak of departure—but everything in between is told through motion, breath, and glances. There's a poetry in how Kenji and Kiyoshi communicate: with grunts, gasps, and the clang of steel. The silence isn't empty; it's filled with history, resentment, love, and the aching regret of everything left unsaid. It's desperate at times, deliberate at others. In those long, wordless stretches, you don't need subtitles to understand the weight of their bond. You feel it—like a blade hovering just above the skin.
Then there's Bullet. Torres isn't a hardened warrior. He's not a decorated ace or a battle-scarred soldier—he's a kid who just wants to fly, who barely knows how to fix the very machines he rides. He's the least equipped combatant, and yet he becomes the symbol of momentum, precision, and forward motion. He becomes the bullet—not because he starts out as one, but because he's forged into one through desperation and will.
That's the brilliance of these titles. They're not just labels for each chapter—they're ideals the characters grow into, even if through pain, loss, or complete irony. The shield who kills. The sword that mends. The bullet who learns to aim not with violence, but with purpose.
'Become the Killer of Killers…'
Now, the chapters are eventually bound together in a team-up kind of way. Does it work? Well, honestly, not really. It gave us flashbacks to those Marvel What If…? finale arcs, where every cool solo story gets mashed into a contrived ensemble moment. Sure, it ties the characters together in a grand climax, but it feels like a tonal shift—like a different movie stepped in for the last act. And while it's not bad per se, it lacks the focused emotional weight each story had on its own.
As much as we were in awe, the ending did test our patience. Bringing the three survivors together felt like the film dipping a bit too deep into the 'plot armour' bucket. Even in their individual arcs, we already had to suspend disbelief as each of them managed to take down a Predator solo. But mashing them together into an arena setting? That stretched things a little thin. It's fire, no doubt—but it veers dangerously close to fanfiction logic, where the rule of cool overrides the stakes we'd been taking seriously.
What did work—and work spectacularly—was the deep glimpse into Yautja culture and practice. The real thrill wasn't just watching humans outsmart these alien warriors, but getting a peek behind the mask. Their rituals. Their brutal gladiatorial arenas. Their unspoken code of proving one's worth through blood and fire. We see their leadership, their hierarchy, the almost sacred way they view combat—not just as killing, but as ascension. That's where Killer of Killers is at its most captivating: when it pulls back the curtain and reveals that the monsters are part of something bigger, older, and terrifyingly majestic. Not just hunters, but a civilization defined by challenge, spectacle, and honor.
Much like Prey before it, Killer of Killers draws its creative lifeblood from the stripped-down, survivalist spirit that Dan Trachtenberg reignited in the franchise. Prey took us to the 1700s for a taut, character-first showdown between a young Comanche warrior and a brutal Predator. Killer of Killers feels like its spiritual heir—amplifying that same primal focus, but dialling the intensity up to eleven by throwing us into three epic epochs of human endurance and alien terror.
Because when it hits, it is spine-tingling. The action is creative, animated splendour at its most ferocious. The Viking segment delivers a brutal tracking shot that barrels through blood and snow like a war-drum. The WWII dogfight? Pure adrenaline. It's a fist-pumping moment that finally showcases one of the Predators' most effective forms of combat: aerial warfare, done with ruthless precision. And then there's the swordfight—wooooh. Think intimate samurai choreography meets high-tech horror, as feudal blades clash with cloaked monsters in a blur of steel, speed, and snarling tension.
So, is Predator: Killer of Killers the next Prey? Maybe not quite. It stumbles on cohesion with that final team-up feeling like a forced afterthought. But it stands tall as a worthy expansion of the universe—a brutal, beautiful tapestry of fight, blood, and honor. And honestly, if we could be in any timeline hunting alongside these warriors, it'd be here.
In the end, Killer of Killers reminds us that no matter the era—whether the icy fjords, the cherry blossom groves, or the thunderous skies of WWII—the fight is always about more than survival. It's about what it means to be human when everything wants to tear you apart.
It's wild to think that Dan Trachtenberg isn't just returning with another film later this year—but that it's another Predator movie. That's right, Predator: Badlands, starring Elle Fanning, is gearing up to hit cinemas soon, and honestly, the hype couldn't be higher. After how Prey and Killer of Killers shook up the franchise—bringing fresh perspectives, rich world-building, and a gritty survivalist spirit—there's every reason to believe Badlands will continue that winning streak.
Trachtenberg's touch brought a grounded, visceral energy that redefined what a Predator movie could be, moving away from big-budget spectacle and leaning into tense, character-driven storytelling. If the previous entries taught us anything, it's that these films thrive when they blend brutal action with sharp character arcs and immersive atmospheres.
So, while we're still unpacking the savage mythos and bloody legacy of Killer of Killers, we can already look ahead with excitement. If this is the new era of Predator, then sign us up. We're ready for the hunt. Get us to the chopper.