Senkaimon
Only a handful of Soul Reapers were dispatched to the Senkaimon after Shinji filled them in on what transpired. Most of the dispatched personnel came from the 4th and 12th Divisions, where casualties from the Wandenreich invasion had been minimal. Overseeing the retrieval of corpses was the 12th Division Captain and President of the Shinigami Research and Development Institute, Mayuri Kurotsuchi.
Unlike the other Soul Reapers, Mayuri always adorned himself with thick, exaggerated makeup. His face was covered in black paint, leaving thin, jagged white lines stretching up his face, with a stark white nose at the center. He wore a long, golden headdress that curved back towards his mid-back, the symbol of the 12th Division painted on the backside. From beneath his chin, two strands of his mask extended in opposite directions. At his side stood his lieutenant, Nemu Kurotsuchi, an artificial human he had engineered, whom he regarded not as a daughter, but as his "greatest creation."
Accompanying them was the 4th Division Captain, Retsu Unohana. A serene, soft-spoken woman who addressed everyone with honorifics, her demeanor masked the truth that even among captains, her strength was terrifying. She had a slender, youthful appearance with piercing blue eyes and long, flowing black hair, always worn as a large braid draped over her front. Beneath her standard captain's shihakushō, an obi concealed a well-endowed bosom. Despite her gentle disposition, those who truly knew of her past feared her above all others.
"When you requested my presence, I assumed it was another Quincy desperately seeking an escape route," Mayuri remarked flatly, his golden eyes scanning the carnage before him. "I didn't expect to bear witness to such an unsightly spectacle."
"Ara, I thought such grotesque displays were to your liking, Mayuri-dono?" Unohana responded with a warm, almost amused smile.
"There is nothing to smile about in this mess… and I despise such honorifics. It's Mayuri Kurotsuchi to you."
Without another word, Mayuri crouched beside a dark, viscous substance smeared across the blood-stained ground. He wiped a sample onto his gloved fingers, rubbing it between his thumb and index finger as he brought it closer to his eye. His gaze sharpened with intrigue.
"Interesting…" he muttered.
Unohana peered over his shoulder. "What is it?"
"This black substance left behind by our dear intruder… It contains traces of Quincy reishi." Unohana's eyes narrowed. "Are you suggesting that the perpetrator—"
"I would appreciate it if you refrained from interrupting my explanations," Mayuri gently scolded, waving a dismissive hand before continuing. "As I was saying, this sludge has three distinct properties—two of which I can already identify. First, there is an overwhelming presence of reishi, characteristic of the Quincy. The second…" he paused dramatically, his lips curling into a sinister grin, "contains remnants of a zanpakutō's essence—more precisely, that of Ichigo Kurosaki's."
Unohana inhaled sharply. If that were true, then this 'intruder'…
Ichigo was still recovering from his battle against Yhwach. His zanpakutō had been shattered, with its upper half completely missing.
Could this intruder have manifested from that broken fragment before engaging Kensei and Shinji?
Her mind raced through possibilities, but before she could voice her thoughts, Mayuri continued, "And then there is the third property—one I cannot yet classify. This energy shifts between Quincy reishi and zanpakutō spiritual pressure, almost as though it exists in a state between the two. Perhaps with further study, I can discern its nature."
Unohana folded her arms. "Then it is not a great time to be indulging your curiosity."
"For once, I agree." Mayuri straightened, nodding to his lieutenant. "Nemu, have them transport the bodies to my laboratory."
"Understood, Mayuri-sa—"
She stopped mid-sentence.
A low, distant horn reverberated through the air. A deep, rhythmic chugging followed—a sound none of them had heard in this realm before. The soul reapers turned toward the Senkaimon, confused, while three individuals among them felt their blood run cold.
A train? Impossible!
The realization struck Mayuri, Unohana, and Nemu simultaneously.
"EVERYONE, FALL BACK!" Mayuri bellowed, his voice laced with urgency.
The remaining Soul Reapers immediately leaped backward, but some, frozen in shock, hesitated. Nemu moved in a blur, grabbing them by their collars and dragging them to safety.
The sound of grinding metal and hissing steam grew deafening. The air trembled as a dark, monstrous train erupted through the Dangai passageway at impossible speed, its crimson headlights casting long, jagged shadows across the courtyard.
Unohana and Mayuri reacted instinctively, raising their hands in unison.
"BAKUDŌ #81: DANKŪ!"
Twin barriers of translucent energy manifested, their surfaces rippling from the sheer force of the incoming entity.
The Kototsu, the guardian of the Dangai, had been twisted into something unnatural. "Brace yourselves!" Unohana warned.
The impact was immediate. The corrupted train slammed into the barriers with the force of a warhead, a deafening explosion rippling outward. Shockwaves tore through the courtyard, shattering nearby stone structures as dust and debris filled the air.
As the dust settled, what remained was a wreck of the Kototsu, its grotesque, biomass infused form tangled in the shattered remnants of its own destruction. Though the Senkaimon stood intact, the sheer force had embedded the wreckage into the gate itself, sealing it in a grotesque barrier of its own flesh.
Lowering his hand, Mayuri strode toward the wreckage, his golden eyes alight with curiosity. He dipped his fingers into the dark liquid oozing from the remains, rubbing it once more between his thumb and forefinger.
"This is confirmation," he mused aloud. "Our interloper is capable of assimilating living beings and replicating their powers at will."
Unohana frowned, her mind turning to something far more troubling. A being that can consume, replicate, and reconstitute power…
She had fought countless men in her long existence—slaughtered them, studied their strengths, and savored their weaknesses. But there had only been one who truly embodied death itself.
A flash of blood-soaked ruins.
The sound of steel clashing against jagged, broken edges.
The young, feral boy, his face streaked with crimson, eyes alight with raw, unbridled hunger. A jagged sword, chipped and worn, its edges tearing through flesh like brittle parchment.
The ghost of a smirk formed on her lips as the memory faded. For the first time in centuries, an opponent had emerged who could rival that insatiable hunger.
"… I don't think I can even win against him," she murmured under her breath. Mayuri glanced at her with intrigue, but said nothing.
Their interloper was loose, and whatever came next… was beyond even their worst expectations.
Ishida Family Archives, Ishida Residence, Karakura Town
Scattered books lay across the wooden floor, their spines bent, pages splayed open in chaotic disarray. Some were centuries old, their parchment worn with age, while others bore modern bindings, their crisp edges now marred by the mess. The dim lighting of the archive cast elongated shadows over the clutter, giving the room an eerie, unkempt stillness.
A middle-aged man knelt on the floor, his hands moving deliberately as he gathered the fallen books, placing them back onto the shelves one by one. His movements were methodical, yet there was an undeniable tightness in his jaw, an unease clouding his usually sharp gaze. His mind wandered with every book he picked up, his thoughts cycling through the name he dared not say too loud.
Uryu…
The name left his lips in a breathless mutter, barely above a whisper. He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. Focus. There was no time for sentimentality.
Then—a shift in the air.
A slight distortion rippled through the archive, warping the very reishi in the space. Before he could react, a thunderous thud echoed across the room, shaking the shelves.
Ryūken Ishida stiffened. In an instant, his hand twitched—and with practiced ease, he summoned his Heilig Bogen, a sleek, compact bow perfect for close-quarters combat. Without a second thought, he pressed his back against the bookshelf, his sharp blue eyes scanning for the intruder.
The archive was silent once more, save for the slow, methodical steps he took as he maneuvered behind the cover of towering bookshelves. Who dares trespass in my home?
His grip tightened on the bowstring as he moved. The spiritual pressure in the room was… wrong. Twisted. Something about it sent a foreign sense of unease through him. It wasn't
Quincy. It wasn't Shinigami. It wasn't even Hollow. What in the world…? He exhaled slowly. Then, in one swift motion, he turned the corner—
"I suggest you put the weapon down. You're creeping me out."
Ryūken's blood ran cold.
A sharp, foreign pressure pressed against the nape of his neck—something edged. He didn't need to look to understand the situation; the intruder had him dead to rights.
Slowly, carefully, he let his bow dissipate, the shimmering light of reishi fading into nothing. His heart pounded in his chest, but outwardly, he remained composed. With measured control, he turned around to face the intruder.
The man standing before him was clad in a black leather jacket, worn and dusted with remnants of battle. A gray hoodie was pulled over his head, shadowing part of his face, though a pair of piercing eyes gleamed from underneath it. His left arm, which had previously been a blade, morphed back into a human hand as he lowered it.
Ryūken's eyes flicked downward, taking in the biological abnormality. That wasn't a weapon… that was his body itself. A chill crawled up his spine. Just what the hell is this thing?
The intruder smirked slightly, his voice edged with disinterest.
"First things first; where am I?"
Ryūken studied him for a moment before responding.
"You're in Kitakawase Prefecture, Karakura Town. Specifically, the archives of the Ishida residence." His voice was firm but laced with irritation. "My name is Ryūken Ishida, and you are trespassing on my property."
The stranger gave a slight tilt of his head, as if barely interested in the introduction. "Name's Alex Mercer. And it's not nice to meet you."
Ryūken exhaled sharply through his nose. "Good to know you, Mercer-dono. Now leave." But instead of turning on his heel, Mercer merely narrowed his eyes.
"This feeling…" he muttered, almost to himself. Then his gaze locked onto Ryūken with keen interest. "It's the same as when I consumed that guy with golden hair. That means you must be one of those 'Quincies' those Soul Reaper wannabes were talking about."
Consumed?
Ryūken's mind immediately snapped to attention. Did he just say 'consumed'? His expression darkened, his analytical mind working rapidly. Mercer had spoken of Quincies as
if he were an outsider, yet he had firsthand knowledge of Soul Reapers? And what did he mean by 'that guy with golden hair'?
His fingers twitched. There was something deeply unsettling about Mercer.
After a moment, he spoke, his tone laced with cold detachment. "I detest being called a 'Quincy.' And those 'Soul Reaper wannabes' you speak of are exactly what you think they are. But tell me…" His voice grew sharper. "What do you mean 'war-torn'? What happened there?"
Mercer folded his arms, amusement flickering in his golden eyes.
"How about a trade? You tell me what you are, and I'll tell you what happened in Soul Society. Seems fair, doesn't it?"
Ryūken narrowed his eyes. A deal? A Quincy and an anomaly exchanging classified information over a polite conversation? It was absurd. And yet…
His mind flashed to Uryu.
If this Mercer had already consumed a Quincy before, what was stopping him from seeking another? What if he had already crossed paths with his son?
A weight settled in his gut.
"Fine. But I'll add a condition," Ryūken said evenly. "Tell me what you are, and I'll tell you what I am. Otherwise, the deal is off."
Mercer smirked, cracking his knuckles as if entertained. "Deal."
The rhythmic pattern of rain against the archive's windows filled the room with a dull, steady hum. Droplets trailed down the glass in twisting patterns, distorting the world beyond into a watery blur. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged parchment and damp wood, mingling with the faint tension still lingering between the two men.
Ryūken Ishida exhaled, settling into a chair near one of the grand bookshelves. He folded his arms, leveling Mercer with a sharp, analytical gaze. The intruder, though undeniably dangerous, had proven to be more than just an ordinary threat—his presence alone carried an unsettling weight. And now, the deal was in motion.
With the quiet authority of a man well-versed in history and tragedy, Ryūken spoke first.
His people, the Quincy, were once scattered across the world, born with a singular purpose— to eradicate Hollows. For centuries, they hunted the creatures relentlessly, purging them wherever they lurked. Yet their crusade came at a cost. By disrupting the delicate balance of souls, they unknowingly threatened to unravel the cycle of life and death itself.
The Shinigami—those self-proclaimed arbiters of balance—saw them as a threat. A war ensued, one that ended with the systematic slaughter of his kind. The Quincy, once a proud lineage had been reduced to mere remnants, living in secrecy to avoid the fate their ancestors had suffered.
Ryūken's voice remained even, though Mercer could detect a subtle bitterness lurking beneath.
He spoke of his arranged engagement to Masaki Kurosaki, a fellow pure-blood Quincy. Their fates had been decided for them—two bloodlines bound together for the sake of lineage preservation. Yet everything changed when Masaki encountered a Soul Reaper battling an artificial Hollow. The infection nearly claimed her life, forcing an unforeseen Hollowfication upon her. The process bound her to the very race their people despised.
Her fate led her elsewhere—to Isshin Kurosaki, the Shinigami who had fought to save her life.
Ryūken, bound by duty, chose another path. He married Kanae Katagiri, another Quincy of lesser status. From their union, a son was born—Uryū Ishida.
But tragedy struck again.
The Quincy's ancient king, Yhwach, enacted the Auswählen, a cruel rite that stripped Quincy of their power to fuel his own resurgence. Kanae was one of his victims. Masaki, too, perished because of it.
His wife was taken from him, not by war, not by disease, but by the very god their people once revered. And in that moment, something inside Ryūken fractured. He became cold, distant—unyielding.
Perhaps it was grief. Perhaps it was hatred. Whatever it was, Uryū bore the weight of it. And for years, Ryūken let him.
Mercer leaned back against the nearby shelf, arms crossed. The story he had just heard was steeped in ancient bloodshed, a tale of kings, betrayals, and supernatural war. But to him, it all boiled down to something painfully familiar.
A scientist by trade, he once stood at the pinnacle of viral research. He and his team had developed the Blacklight virus, a weaponized strain derived from its weaker predecessor, Redlight. The project had been buried under the watchful eye of Blackwatch, a secret military branch specializing in biological warfare.
When the time came to cover their tracks, Blackwatch purged their own research team. Mercer, desperate to keep the knowledge from being erased, attempted to escape with a vial of Blacklight. But his efforts ended in failure—gunned down in cold blood.
Fate had other plans.
As his dying body collapsed onto the vial, the virus spilled into him, rewriting his DNA, mending his wounds, resurrecting him—at the cost of his humanity.
With no memory of who he was, Mercer awoke to a new existence. He had become the virus.
At first, he believed he was humanity's savior—he fought against Blackwatch and the infected hordes that plagued New York. He stopped a nuclear detonation from wiping the city off the map. But one year later… he lost faith.
Humanity was selfish, corrupt, beyond redemption. He set his sights on evolving his kind, creating a world where only the strong survived. He unleashed a second outbreak, a war that nearly turned the city into a graveyard.
And in the end, he faced James Heller—a soldier whose family had been destroyed because of Mercer's actions.
In his final moments, as Heller consumed him, Mercer wondered…
Was it all worth it?
The downpour outside had worsened, hammering against the windows with renewed fury. Neither man spoke for a moment, allowing the weight of their exchanged pasts to settle between them.
Mercer didn't know what to think of Ryūken. He had seen men like him before—detached, calculating, hardened by loss. And yet, beneath that frigid exterior, there was something else. Something familiar.
Ryūken, in turn, couldn't fathom what Mercer had done. The sheer scope of his actions— saving and dooming an entire city in equal measure—was beyond comprehension. And yet… he understood the why.
Selfishness. Worldly desires. The ever-looming shadow of loss.
He had seen it before. In humans. In Quincy. In himself.
It was then that Mercer revealed his final piece of information.
"While I was in Soul Society, I ran into Yhwach."
Ryūken's eyes snapped to him, sharp and piercing.
"I fought him. Intervened in his battle against Ichigo Kurosaki. Took his left eye. Killed his right-hand man, Jugram Haschwalth."
The doctor's breath hitched. His hand instinctively clenched into a fist.
To injure Yhwach, the progenitor of their kind, the Quincy's god incarnate… that was an unheard-of feat.
"You fought Yhwach? And survived?" Ryūken whispered, his voice barely audible over the rain.
Mercer's golden eyes narrowed. "I had to. But he escaped through some shadow bullshit. I got thrown into the Precipice World. Been trying to get out for two months."
A tense silence followed. Then—
Mercer's expression shifted.
Something was off. A flicker of instinct—a presence.
His muscles tensed. Without warning, he turned to leave.
Ryūken stepped forward, a rare urgency gripping his usually-calm demeanor. "Wait. What are you—"
Mercer stopped in his tracks. Then, without turning back, he asked—
"Ryūken… where's your son right now?"
The doctor's blood turned to ice.
Uryū.
It hadn't been long since he last saw him, sifting through his desk, searching for something— answers, history, purpose. Judging by his behavior, he could make an educated guess…
"He may be by the riverbed. Why?"
Mercer's gaze darkened.
"That old bastard. They're coming for him."
Something in the way he said it sent a chill through Ryūken's spine. Coming for him? Then it clicked.
The Vandenreich.
Yhwach's empire. They were going to conscript his son.
Ryūken shot up from his seat. His heart pounded against his ribs, but he kept his expression composed. "I'm coming with you."
Mercer studied him, reading the underlying tension in his normally cold demeanor. A smirk flickered across his face, but it wasn't mocking—it was knowing.
"Fine. But keep your distance. You don't want to get caught up in this." Without another word, the two vanished into the rain.