Ichigo Kurosaki stood still, gazing up at the swirling gray clouds above, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. His mind swam with fragments of the past few hours, a jumbled mess of battle, revelations, and pain. The weight of everything bore down on him like a crushing force, forcing him to acknowledge two simple truths: where he was now, and the horrifying reality of what had just happened.
Rubble stretched around him in all directions, charred and broken remnants of what had once been the proud Seireitei. The scent of burning reishi lingered in the air, mingling with the iron tang of blood. He was not alone in his stillness—bodies littered the battlefield, some of allies, some of enemies. The echoes of battle still rang in his ears, yet the world felt eerily silent, as if holding its breath.
His hands trembled as he clenched the hilt of his broken zanpakuto. He couldn't process it— none of it.
He had been called to Hueco Mundo by Neliel, only to find himself locked in battle with an unknown Quincy, one who had tried and failed to steal his Bankai. Then came the prison— the damn reishi cage that had nearly left him stranded in the Garganta, helpless while his world was being torn apart. When he finally broke free, he arrived at the Seireitei—only to find it in ruins.
They came like a storm. The Wandenreich.
He had fought their king, Yhwach, in a battle that wasn't a battle at all—just a cruel display of power. He had learned the truth about the origins of his mother. Of his bloodline. Of his zanpakuto . And then, as if the world hadn't shattered enough, his blade was broken in two— only for something… someone to emerge from it.
And now, he was staring at him.
Jugram was dead. Yhwach wounded—His eye gouged out, perhaps not mortally, but enough to surprise him. The one who had done it… the one who had carved through them with such unnatural ease… stood before him.
Ichigo's lips parted, but his voice was barely more than a whisper.
"What… are you?"
The words hung in the air, thick with confusion, with fear.
His question was directed at the man—no, the thing —standing amidst the carnage. Mercer.
Ichigo knew what Tensa Zangetsu had looked like. He had known him. He had fought beside him. And yet, this figure, this… entity was something else entirely.
Mercer's movements were fluid, effortless, as he slowly turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto Ichigo's. There was something unreadable in them, something calculating. Ichigo tightened his grip on his broken blade, forcing his body to stay upright even as pain lanced through his muscles.
"Don't bother, kid. You'll only hurt yourself."
The words were spoken casually, but Ichigo could feel the weight behind them. A warning. A simple statement of fact.
The last remnants of adrenaline drained from Ichigo's body, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion. His knees wobbled, the pain of his wounds finally catching up to him. His vision blurred, dark spots creeping in at the edges.
Mercer took a step forward.
Ichigo tried to lift his blade, but his body failed him. His knees buckled.
Mercer caught him. Strong, steady hands gripped his chest, easing him down into a kneeling position. His breath was ragged, his mind hazy. The only thing he could utter before losing consciousness was a single name.
"Zangetsu…"
Mercer remained still for a moment, staring down at the unconscious soul before him. The weight of the situation gnawed at him. He wasn't supposed to be here. This wasn't his world. And yet, here he was, standing amidst the wreckage of an unfamiliar war.
"I really need to get out of this mess," he muttered under his breath.
But maybe… just maybe… he could use this.
He crouched down, pressing his left hand against the ground. Instantly, he could feel it—the residual energy, the very essence of this world. Reishi. It was everywhere, saturating the battlefield, clinging to the corpses, lingering in the very air.
Slowly, the energy began to flow into him.
The virus within him— Blacklight —reacted instantly. Like a predator sensing prey, it lashed out, attacking the foreign energy at a cellular level. Strands of crimson spread from his veins, intertwining with the reishi, consuming it, reshaping it, forcing it into something new.
The process accelerated. Cell by cell. Atom by atom.
His body was changing.
His vision flickered. Something shifted.
The world around him turned to shades of crimson. Normally, his infected vision only allowed him to see the living and the infected—those who carried the virus and those who didn't. But now… now he saw something different.
Seven figures glowed against the darkened landscape.
Five of them radiated a dull, grayish aura—signs of life, but weak, fragile. He scanned the area. There, near a pile of rubble—bodies lay motionless, blood pooling beneath them. Two had deep gashes carved through their torsos. One's throat had been violently ripped out. The last two… their remains were barely recognizable. Torn apart as if by an explosion.
Then there were the other two.
Brighter. White. Stronger.
His gaze shifted.
One of them—Ichigo. Still unconscious. Still alive.
The other…
A tall figure. Spiked hair. An eyepatch. Blood stained his robes. Still breathing.
Mercer let his vision return to normal, exhaling slowly as he processed what he had just witnessed.
This is going to take some getting used to.
He took a step forward. Then another. His body felt different. Stronger. More in tune with the strange new energy coursing through him.
He moved swiftly, stepping over debris, past the scattered corpses. He needed a way out. A way to disappear from this war-torn hellscape before he got dragged into another fight.
Then—
He stopped.
His new senses flared.
Another white glow.
Lying amongst the rubble—small. Unconscious. Bleeding from the head. A girl.
His instincts sharpened. She's vulnerable. She could have information. She could be useful. Or…
His body tensed. Tendrils coiled, dark and hungry, ready to strike.
Just as he moved to pierce through her—
A spike of awareness shot through him.
A presence. No— several.
His head snapped up.
Movement.
A squad. Advancing toward him. Fast.
His tendrils retracted instantly. His jaw tightened.
"To hell with this," Mercer growled, frustration flickering in his expression. He didn't need another battle. Not now.
Not yet.
Without another word, he turned, slipping into the shadows of the ruined city, vanishing before the approaching figures could reach him.
The tension in the air thickened like a storm ready to break. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed against the shattered remains of the Seireitei as six Soul Reapers rushed in, their forms cutting through the dust and smoke still lingering in the aftermath of battle. Each one bore a zanpakuto at their side, but their focus remained on their primary task—carrying the stretcher that held an unconscious Rukia Kuchiki, her pale face smeared with blood, her body barely rising and falling with shallow breaths.
Leading them was a man whose very presence demanded attention.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a war-hardened soldier, Kensei Muguruma's sharp features twisted in a scowl as he surveyed the devastation. His short, silver-gray hair ruffled in the faint breeze, but his piercing brown eyes burned with frustration. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sealed wakizashi, its H-shaped tsuba glinting dully in the dim light. The stark white weaving around its hilt contrasted with the black sheath attached to his waist.
His jaw tightened as he took in the ruined landscape.
"Damn Quincies… just how much did they wreck this place?"
The bitterness in his voice carried through the empty streets, his annoyance evident. The sight of his comrades—dead, wounded, or barely clinging to life—only added fuel to the slow burning anger simmering beneath his skin.
Then his gaze shifted, locking onto the unconscious figure of Rukia lying amongst the rubble. His sharp senses prickled, his battle-honed instincts flaring as something— someone —felt out of place.
A presence. Faint. Almost masked. But there.
"Everyone, bring Lieutenant Kuchiki to the infirmary," he ordered without looking away from the unseen presence. His voice was cold, controlled. "I'll catch up with you soon."
"Yes, Captain Muguruma!" the Soul Reapers answered in unison, swiftly and carefully lifting Rukia onto the stretcher before moving toward the 4th Division Barracks, where the wounded were being treated.
Silence fell over the ruins.
Muguruma turned his head slightly, his grip tightening around his zanpakuto's hilt. "Whoever you are, come out and surrender. I can still sense you."
For a moment, there was nothing. Then—
A voice, laced with annoyance.
"Fine, you got me. And I just masked my presence very well. How did you even find out?" From behind a collapsed wall, a figure emerged.
Alex Mercer stepped into the open, hands tucked into the pockets of his black leather jacket, his posture relaxed—but his eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the Soul Reaper before him. There was something off about him, something that made Muguruma's instincts scream at him to stay on guard. His presence didn't feel like that of a Hollow or a Quincy. He was something else.
Muguruma's scowl deepened. "Your leaking spiritual pressure says otherwise. Now surrender, or face the consequences of your actions."
Mercer let out a dry chuckle, glancing around at the ruined landscape before fixing his gaze back on the Soul Reaper captain.
"And you all are in any position to pass judgment?" he mocked, his voice dripping with disdain. "Look around you. This whole place is in shambles, and you're still acting like you have control over anything."
His expression darkened slightly, his voice lowering.
"And another thing—you're telling me to 'face the consequences' like I already did something wrong." His piercing eyes locked onto Muguruma's. "I just got here. I was dead, then I woke up in this warzone, and now you're trying to throw me into a jail cell? That's some real grade-A bullshit right there."
Muguruma's patience snapped.
"Don't act like you haven't killed a Soul Reaper or two since your damn Quincy army invaded!" His voice was a growl, his fingers twitching around his zanpakuto's hilt.
Mercer felt a sharp tick form in his head. His jaw clenched.
So that's how it was? He told this guy the truth, and yet he was still getting labeled as some kind of enemy? Granted, he was technically an invader in this world, but not in the way this idiot thought.
Then a thought struck him.
"Soul Reapers?"
His brow furrowed slightly as his mind connected the dots.
"You're telling me you're… what, reapers? Like the guys who ferry souls to the afterlife?" A smirk crept onto his face. "Where's the scythe, then? You don't exactly look like the usual Grim Reapers we talk about back in America."
That was the last straw.
"Tch— that's it. " Muguruma clicked his tongue in irritation. His patience had run dry. He had heard enough.
In a single, fluid motion, he drew his wakizashi from its sheath, the blade gleaming under the broken light filtering through the destruction.
"I don't know who you are, or where you've come from," he said coldly, settling into a stance, "but I will not stand here and let you spit another insult at my fallen comrades."
His spiritual pressure surged, an invisible force pressing against the air like the calm before a hurricane.
"Captain of the 9th Division—Kensei Muguruma." His stance was firm, unwavering. "Prepare yourself."
Mercer sighed, rolling his shoulders as his own body instinctively coiled in preparation. He could already feel the virus within him shifting, adjusting, preparing to react to whatever was about to happen.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Alright, Captain Muguruma," he said, his voice low, a hint of dangerous amusement in his tone.
"Let's see what you got."
And then, like a storm breaking loose, the battle began.