.
The camera zoomed in slowly.
In the dim, flickering light, a blurred figure swung a massive warhammer, each swing followed by the sickening crunch of shattered bone and the wet splatter of torn flesh.
As the image came into focus, the figure became unmistakable.
It was him.
The murderer Deadpool.
His entire body was soaked in blood. A twisted smile of sick satisfaction curled his lips, as though the massacre unfolding before him was nothing more than a casual performance.
The ground around him was littered with mangled corpses and torn limbs—a grotesque, apocalyptic nightmare made real.
After landing one final, devastating blow, the killer Deadpool froze.
Slowly, he tilted his head upward.
In his bloodshot eyes flickered a strange, conflicting light—a blend of boredom and yearning. Boredom with the endless cycle. Yearning for... something else. Something new.
"Interesting," he muttered, his voice rough, dry. "Another fan fiction universe? How ironic..."
He raised a brow.
"But then again... how many new toys does this place offer for me to carve up?"
Suddenly, he dropped the hammer with a loud clang.
"Hello, readers in front of the screen—and the author," he said, waving lazily as if hosting a late-night show.
"To many of you, I may still be a stranger. But allow me, during this brief moment of silence, to peel back the curtain and reveal the real me behind the madness."
His words were disturbingly calm—eerily intimate. Like a confession whispered into the ear of someone who couldn't escape.
The tale of the killer Deadpool didn't start off differently from any of the others.
Same name. Same healing factor. Same mad antics. A punchline in an eternal loop.
Until one day, he accidentally stumbled past the boundary—the forbidden one.
The fourth wall.
That was when he awakened.
And realized... they were all fictional.
He was fiction. A toy in someone else's sandbox.
Rage and despair collided in his soul like a supernova.
He swore he would no longer dance on the strings of fate.
He would burn the stage down.
Thus began the first massacre.
He struck down hero after hero—Wolverine's stubbornness, Iron Man's tech brilliance, Captain America's shield of virtue, even the Sentinels' raw, unrelenting power. None could stand before him.
But every time the universe reset.
It was like hitting a restart button—nothing changed.
Everything returned.
And the anger inside him only grew.
That's when the killer Deadpool began to truly understand: the only way to break the loop... was to end all life.
Everyone.
Everything.
So came the second massacre.
Far more brutal. Far more final.
Blood painted the cosmos red.
Still, it wasn't enough.
No matter how many he killed, something always reset the stage.
And then came the realization.
The real enemies weren't the characters.
It was the writers. The screenwriters. The authors.
The ones who controlled it all.
The ones who created the rules he was forced to live by.
He was just a speck of ink in their script. A footnote.
And they kept bringing him back, resurrecting him, forcing him into new plotlines for their amusement.
So he decided there was only one true solution:
Kill the author.
But that wasn't easy.
He'd need a way into the real world. The one beyond fiction.
Maybe… there was a Plan B.
Maybe there was a better way to erase everything.
If every fictional character came from the writer's inspiration, then logically, destroying the source of that inspiration would collapse the character along with it.
That thought thrilled him.
It was so insane—it had to work.
But there was one small problem.
In order to target the inspirations behind characters, he'd need to understand the entire landscape of the literary universe.
Even for someone like Deadpool... that meant learning.
Reading.
Studying.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
"Ugh. Studying is torture," he grumbled.
But then an idea struck.
What if he just killed all literary characters instead?
Why bother identifying their origins if he could just slaughter them en masse?
So he broke into the literary multiverse.
And the killing resumed.
He butchered Don Quixote, Sherlock Holmes, Mulan, Captain Ahab, Pinocchio, Snow White...
A bloodbath through classic fiction.
But once again, he failed.
The inhabitants of the literary world fought back and drove him out.
Even after endless slaughter, endless resets, endless effort—he still hadn't escaped.
But that didn't mean he would stop.
He would never stop.
If the world couldn't be freed from manipulation, then he would simply keep killing to deny them their happy endings.
All for Marvel.
And just now...
He spotted something new.
A strange ripple in the multiverse.
A world unlike the others.
A fan fiction universe.
"A fanfic world, huh?" he said, amused. "I've killed a few fanfic protagonists before... most of them are morons who use their power to harem-hop like it's some dating sim."
"But maybe this one... maybe this protagonist can take me somewhere else."
"Somewhere real."
He grinned beneath his mask.
Deadpool had tried to locate fan universes before, but they were elusive—buried too deep.
Now that he'd found one, he wasn't going to let it go.
Time to see if this protagonist can survive me.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
"Achoo! Who's thinking about me again?" Alex Ray rubbed his nose with a puzzled look.
He lifted his head and looked at the man standing across from him.
A faint smirk curled at the corner of his lips.
"So... we finally meet—Loki, God of Stories."
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2nd Bonus Chapter - 300 Power Stones
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