Red Zone, Manhattan
A man draped in a weathered, hooded gray jacket slumped onto his knees, his posture a portrait of utter defeat after a prolonged and grueling battle waged against the very creation that had once seemed like his masterpiece. His arms had been viciously torn from his body, leaving only brutal stumps from which strange, crimson tendrils clung desperately—fighting to staunch the relentless flow of blood like a macabre substitute for flesh and bone. With every ounce of his remaining strength, he glanced back at his relentless adversary: an African-American man whose body was sculpted for combat, accentuated by a darker, battle worn leather jacket that matched the steely glint in his eyes.
With a voice cold and derisive, his foe declared, "Welcome to the top of the food chain." Those were the final words ever uttered by the man once known as Alex Mercer—if he was known by that name at all. In a vicious display of power, his enemy yanked him forcefully by the collar of his tattered jacket, hoisting him off the blood-slicked ground. Raising his right hand, he willed it to contort into a deadly metallic claw, its edge gleaming ominously in the scant light before it descended to deliver a series of savage, unrelenting slashes fueled by a seething, uncontainable rage.
In between each tormenting strike, an all-too-familiar sensation enveloped him—a sensation that echoed in the final, despairing moments of all those he had defeated. He recalled the terrified resignation in Cross's eyes, the forlorn acceptance that had marked Greene's last breath, and the same final dawning realization that every enemy he had consumed had experienced in their last heartbeat.
As he was slowly drawn into the nightmarish, monstrous black ooze—the twisted offspring of his own making—his mind raced through the shattered recollections of his past. Every desperate act—the struggle to redefine himself after emerging from a lifeless morgue, the endless cycle of killing, consuming, and assuming countless identities in a futile search for truth—converged into a single, crushing revelation. He was nothing more than a virus masquerading in human form. He remembered a fleeting moment of elusive redemption when he had saved a teetering populace from imminent annihilation, striving to live with a semblance of humanity, only to falter and lose faith as he recognized the inexorable nature of evil woven into the human spirit. Even his audacious plan to force an evolution in humanity —ironic in its intent to catalyze a new age by unleashing a force he had once sworn to halt— had crumbled into failure.
Yet, even as despair and inevitable doom swallowed him, he harbored no regrets. Deep within the recesses of his mind, as life ebbed away, a torrent of haunting questions emerged:
How did it come to this? Where did I go wrong? And what awaits me now? In his final, fleeting moments, these questions coalesced into one last, poignant, dying wish:
I HOPE THINGS WOULD BE DIFFERENT IN ANOTHER LIFE
And then, swallowed by the consuming darkness, he vanished into nothingness. The last vestiges of his being were devoured by the entity that had extinguished his life—and with it, the remnants of his grand designs to doom humanity into a monstrous new age… or so it seemed.
In a distant place
The earth was ripped apart beneath them, its shattered surface echoing the chaos above where a storm of oppressive grey clouds roiled in anger. The relentless downpour had finally begun to relent, as if exhausted by the clashing forces battling on its scarred stage. Amid this grim theater, two warriors fought with savage determination. One, an orange-haired youth bedecked in bloodstained, tattered black garb, desperately struggle for survival against his relentless foe—a towering, long-haired man in his middle years, his thick mustache a testament to hard-fought battles, clad in a contrasting white uniform and draped in a ragged brown cloak. They embodied the eternal conflict of yin and yang.
At the furious peak of their savage duel, the older warrior lunged with a primal, deadly ferocity, his right arm arcing his sword in a lethal upward swing. The young fighter valiantly raised his weapon in a feeble parry, yet the impact was like a tidal wave of fury that overwhelmed him. In a heartbeat, the elder seized the youth's hair and thrust his blade with cold precision.
"This time, I'll pierce you—don't think your blut vene can save you," he sneered with a twisted smile that belied his murderous intent.
"I'll unleash my power—" the old man began, his voice quivering with a mix of defiance and desperation. But before he could drive his counterattack home, the battle was interrupted by another commanding voice.
"It's time, Your Majesty."
A second combatant emerged—a slightly older, golden-blonde youth whose hair cascaded a bit longer, resembling the very essence of light. He wore the same uniform and a flowing white cape, his presence as authoritative as it was enigmatic.
"You can no longer remain in the schatten bereich . Return to wandenreich ," the blonde man insisted, his tone layered with both duty and grim inevitability.
"No way. There must still be—" the older fighter started, only to be halted by a sudden memory as realization struck him like lightning.
"I see now… Sosuke Aizen. It must be one of his devious tricks. He managed to warp my perception in the brief time we crossed paths."
He spun to face the blonde man, his eyes blazing with a mix of anger and reluctant understanding.
"Haschwalth, why didn't you warn me?"
"I knew telling you would have been futile," Haschwalth replied coolly, his voice echoing with resigned certainty.
With nothing left to argue, and his plan partially fulfilled, the elder warrior exhaled a heavy sigh—a blend of satisfaction and bitter defeat.
"Oh well… let's move."
Turning away, he left the battered youth, whose ragged breathing filled the gloom as he cried out in futile protest.
"WAIT!"
He halted, shock and pain contorting his features as he surveyed his wounded state. His voice, hoarse and seething with anguish, rose again.
"Do you truly think I'll let you escape after what you did to Soul Society?"
But his words were drowned by the thunder of their footsteps, and his threats rang hollow in the oppressive air as a colossal, foreboding shadow descended before them.
"I SAID STOP!"
Without a moment's hesitation, reviving every last spark of defiant will, the young man sprinted forward, sword clutched tightly in his trembling hand, ready to launch a counterattack. Haschwalth intercepted swiftly, parrying the incoming blow with precision. In a shattering display of force, the parry split the young man's sword in two; the larger fragment spiraled violently into the air, severing from its hilt, leaving him grasping at remnants of hope.
"Farewell, Ichigo Kurosaki—"
Before his taunting farewell could be completed, both he and Haschwalth were struck by an unforeseen and surreal occurrence. The dismembered blade compressed mid-flight, imploding into a sinister mass of black ooze. As if in a grotesque vision of doom, Haschwalth caught a glimpse of his own end—a nightmarish future where a gigantic claw impaled him. Unyielding, he raised his sword and shield, igniting his blut vene in a desperate stance against the oncoming assault, every fiber of his being charged with the intensity of impending doom.
In an unknown dimension
The world seemed to be tearing itself apart from the inside out; skyscrapers cracked ominously one after another, the sky twisted into a blinding light, and the ground fractured into countless pieces. A man, resembling the old man from earlier but much younger, stood and watched the unfolding chaos with a heavy heart. Suddenly, a thick, black ooze emerged from behind him, bubbling with an unsettling awareness.
"You must be ravenous after traversing through time and space. Perhaps I could offer myself to satisfy your hunger," he spoke, his voice tinged with resignation and a flicker of doubt. "There's little reason to remain in this doomed world of mine, yet I hesitate. Please, act swiftly lest this place consumes you first."
With a mix of resolve and uncertainty, he extended his hand towards the ooze, which swiftly latched onto him. It pierced into his arms, slowly engulfing him as he stood, torn between acceptance and regret. As the ooze consumed him, it reshaped itself into a new form—a man clad in light-blue jeans and a jet-black hooded jacket, concealing his features. It was Mercer, the one who had been devoured before, now thrust into unfamiliar surroundings. Kneeling, he clutched his head, overwhelmed by the old man's memories and the tumult of emotions they stirred.
Where am I?
He noticed an unsettling familiarity about this place: the crumbling skylines resembled Manhattan, yet they lay horizontally, and the sky glowed crimson instead of blue. Everything around him, even inanimate objects, teemed with a disturbingly human-like essence. His hunger still gnawed at him, and the influx of information left him reeling. Mercer crouched, a cry of anguish escaping him. Suddenly, tendrils erupted across his body, reaching out in desperation and uncertainty. They seized everything within reach—from pebbles to massive debris—pulling it into Mercer's form like a voracious black hole until both he and the remnants of this world vanished.