The reincarnators launched an unprecedented massacre across every corner of the multiverse. Like wildfire, the catastrophe spread rapidly, igniting widespread panic and unrest. News of the slaughter traveled at the speed of light, drawing immediate attention and fear across dimensions, timelines, and planets.
And yet, what puzzled many was this: most of the major powers within the multiverse remained eerily silent. They chose to watch, not act—refusing to lift a finger to stop the carnage.
Some of these factions were so powerful they could shake galaxies with a thought. But they too seemed to have received some unknown warning or higher instruction. They stood idle, as if the bloodbath in Hell's Kitchen had nothing to do with them.
Among the weaker forces, a passive atmosphere took hold. They saw the giants unmoving and chose to follow suit, watching from afar, unwilling to get involved in this ominous and chaotic conflict.
Many were secretly relieved, believing that as long as they didn't provoke the reincarnators, they'd remain safe from the storm. And perhaps they were right.
At first, the major factions stayed alert. Though they didn't act, they observed the reincarnators closely. The origins of these intruders were unclear, and their power was extreme. Caution seemed prudent.
Behind closed doors, the stronger realms quietly gathered their strength. If the reincarnators dared to challenge them, retaliation would be swift and overwhelming.
But as the days passed, those same factions noticed something strange.
The reincarnators weren't attacking indiscriminately. They targeted only one thing—specific versions of Hell's Kitchen.
Each time they completed a purge, they vanished without hesitation and moved to the next Hell's Kitchen in another universe.
This revelation calmed the nerves of many powers.
Perhaps these intruders weren't interested in them. Perhaps this was personal, a mission, not a declaration of war.
So they looked away. Focused on their own agendas. The massacre became background noise, just another ripple in the endless chaos of the multiverse.
After all, in a realm where entire universes were born and destroyed like sparks in a fire, who hadn't wiped out a few civilizations?
Life, death, destruction—these were accepted as cosmic routine.
If Hell's Kitchen had no one strong enough to defend it, that wasn't their problem.
Some noble forces did attempt resistance. But even they couldn't stand against the might of the reincarnators.
Even the Ancient One, in those multiverses lucky enough to have one, couldn't stop them. And not every timeline had a Kamar-Taj—or a sorcerer powerful enough to protect it.
In the worlds without such guardians, the reincarnators ran wild, as if strolling through a no-man's land. There was almost no effective resistance.
Hell's Kitchens fell one after another, like leaves in a storm. Entire populations vanished in despair. Worlds burned.
And yet… some managed to survive.
Spider-Verse Base — Secret Multiversal Outpost
"Hey Peters! Your favorite snarky neighbor is here—handsome Uncle Ben! Come give me a hug!"
Deadpool's voice echoed through the Spider-Man base camp, dragging behind it the clinking sound of his katanas and the stink of burnt chimichangas.
Behind him, Alex Ray walked in silence.
Alex had received an urgent summons from Spider-Man 2099. There'd been no details—just a brief message: Come. Now.
Deadpool, ever the chaotic shadow to Alex's serious calm, had overheard the call and invited himself along.
"I smell drama," he'd said with a grin. "My favorite flavor."
But the second they stepped into the base, the air changed.
Deadpool's usual antics were met with silence. Not even the usual groans or eye rolls.
Spider-Men lay scattered across the base.
Some curled in corners, clutching at wounds. Others lay motionless on the ground. Their faces twisted in pain, soaked in blood and loss.
The ones still conscious had turned into field medics, frantically hauling stretchers and patching up their comrades with makeshift supplies. The base camp had become a triage center—chaotic, overwhelmed, and grim.
The stench of blood and disinfectant was suffocating.
Deadpool's smirk froze. For once, the Merc with a Mouth had no quip ready.
"…What the hell happened here?" he muttered, blinking in disbelief.
Then he tried to joke it away, his voice thin and strained.
"Is this some cosplay emergency drill? Like, Spider-Doctors Without Borders? No? Because you guys really went all out on the blood effects…"
No one responded.
Deadpool moved forward, squatting beside a Spider-Man lying still on the ground. He tapped the body. No reaction.
He hesitated, then swiped a bit of blood and licked it.
His face changed instantly. The humor vanished from his expression like a switch had flipped.
"That's real," he said flatly. "This… this isn't a skit."
He turned to Alex Ray, eyes wide beneath his mask.
"Are we in some kind of Silent Hill: Spider-Verse edition?"
Alex said nothing. His face was stone.
Seeing no reaction, Deadpool finally broke character. He knelt beside a different Spider-Man—he wasn't sure which Peter this one was. Could've been from Earth-616, 1610, or 90214. Didn't matter.
He cradled the broken body like it was his own brother and cried out in exaggerated grief.
"No! Not my Peter! Who did this to my sweet, sweet web-slinger!?"
Alex raised his hand.
A pulse of invisible force rippled from his fingers.
Deadpool's voice cut off mid-wail. His limbs snapped to his sides, paralyzed in an invisible bind.
His masked eyes widened in confusion. Mute. Trapped.
Alex didn't even look at him.
He walked past the carnage with long, purposeful strides, heading deeper into the facility.
He needed to find Miguel O'Hara—Spider-Man 2099.
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Bonus Chapter - 150 Power Stones
2nd Bonus Chapter - 300 Power Stones
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