Their target tonight was Abner—a former member of Stryker's own strike team.
He had been running for hours, using every ounce of his military experience and the boost from his newly awakened X-gene. Enhanced strength and endurance kept his muscles from cramping, dulled his pain, and kept his reflexes razor-sharp. But even with those gifts, the Hyenas were relentless. Thirteen had pursued him at first. Now, through ambushes, feints, and brutal alley skirmishes, he had whittled them down to five.
But his body was failing. Blood soaked through torn clothing, and every movement pulled at wounds that refused to close. The X-gene kept him on his feet, but exhaustion gnawed at his bones. He knew the truth: one more mistake, and he'd never get back up.
Abner knew the Hyenas' patterns now. Their leader—a gaunt woman whose mind had been altered but not entirely erased—coordinated their attacks with unnerving precision. Her sense of smell was razor-sharp; hiding in the shadows or ambushing was useless. She commanded them with clipped hand signals, pushing them to corral him into dead ends.
The slums worked both for and against him—narrow alleys to slip through, but no escape from their scent-tracking. The police didn't dare intervene; the few bystanders left in the streets vanished the moment they saw movement, and the only scavengers were those dragging away the corpses of fallen Hyenas.
Now the last five spread out, tightening their net. Abner's usual tactic—isolating one target for a quick kill—was no longer viable. They moved in perfect formation, the leader in the middle, heavily guarded.
He didn't have time. His body was slowing, and if Stryker's reinforcements arrived, it would be over.
Kill the leader, and the pack falls apart, he thought. But getting to her means breaking the circle.
He acted without hesitation. Pivoting sharply, he lunged at the flank—slashing at the man to the left rear. The sudden attack disrupted their rhythm. Spinning to his right, he cut down another who lagged half a step behind. The gap opened.
Abner darted through, feinting toward one Hyena before rolling beneath another's swipe. He came up directly in front of the woman.
Her eyes widened. His dagger slashed upward, biting into her abdomen. Her claws raked across his shoulder, but he forced himself forward, breaking past her and vanishing around a corner before the others could recover.
The four surviving Hyenas howled and split to chase him, scattering in their bloodlust. That was their mistake.
Using the maze-like alleys, Abner turned their numbers against them again, isolating each one. Every fight cost him—one shallow cut, another deep gash—but by the time the last fell, his dagger hand was trembling and his breath came in ragged gasps.
Barely conscious, Abner staggered into a shadowed crevice between two crumbling buildings. His enhanced body kept him alive, but every muscle screamed for rest. In the darkness, he sank to the ground, clutching his shoulder, his mind already turning to the next move.
For now, he had survived. But in Negras, survival was only ever temporary.
****
The crimson wasteland stretched endlessly, a scorched expanse of jagged gravel and bare stone. Above, roiling black clouds bled faint, sinister light across the land, staining the ground in hues of blood and rust. The heat here was oppressive—an unrelenting furnace wind that carried the stench of sulfur and burnt flesh.
Through the yawning black cavity opened by the World-Strike Device—a forbidden artifact that could rend the veil between realms—Jue stepped onto the hellish soil. His sharp gaze swept over the desolate horizon, a strange familiarity tugging at his mind.
"Just as I suspected… a place not unlike Hueco Mundo."
Like Hueco Mundo from Bleach, this was a gathering place for lost souls, those denied the Wheel of Reincarnation. But the atmosphere was thicker here, tainted by ancient pacts and demonic law—this was Hell as chronicled in Marvel lore, a dimension ruled by beings like Mephisto, where even death could be bartered.
Jue flexed his left hand, the faint etchings of densely inscribed runes glowing faintly beneath the skin.
"The final component… The Hollowed Left Arm is now complete."
This arm was his magnum opus—a fusion of Aizen's research into Hōgyoku-born hybrids and his own brutal experimentation with Shinigami and Hollow physiology. He had stolen secrets from Las Noches, abducted Shinigami from the Gotei 13, and captured countless Hollows for dissection. The price was exile. Both Soul Society and Hueco Mundo hunted him relentlessly.
The arm's power was terrifying—able to absorb the raw essence of Hollows, convert Shinigami reiatsu into Hollow energy, and even reverse the process. The conversion was slow for now, but it shaved months off the absorption of reishi. In battle, it allowed him to wield both Hollow techniques like Cero and Shinigami Kidō—an unholy fusion that neither faction would tolerate.
His thoughts were interrupted by a ripple beneath his feet. A demon with skin like molten rock slithered just beneath the crust, suppressing its bloodlust as it stalked him. In Hell's hierarchy, this one was still low—a scavenger. But for it, devouring a strong soul could mean promotion to a mid-tier demon, and a life inside the fortified towns instead of the killing fields.
It struck suddenly, erupting from the ground and seizing Jue's ankle. But before it could drag him under, a violent surge of force ripped through its arms. Jue hauled it from the earth as though it weighed nothing.
Fear replaced hunger in the demon's eyes as it dangled in his grasp. Jue's left index finger leveled at its chest.
"Hadō #4: Byakurai."
The concentrated lightning bolt struck with surgical precision, slamming the demon into the ground. It scrambled, trying to retreat underground.
"Earth attribute… predictable."
With a single Shunpo step, Jue appeared before it and drove his knee into its chest, launching it skyward. A second Byakurai lanced through the air, arcs of white electricity dancing over the creature's body.
Its reiatsu was pitiful—barely equivalent to a Gillian-class Menos Grande from Bleach.
"Don't kill me!" the demon croaked. "I'll serve you! One more kill and I'll be mid-tier—let me live and I'll be loyal!"
Jue's gaze was unreadable.
"Your bargaining is pathetic. You're worth more to me dead."
With a single stomp, he crushed its neck. His left arm flared with pale-blue light, drawing the demon's essence into itself. The body disintegrated into spirit particles, its soul core sent hurtling toward the deeper layers of Hell.
Testing the seal, Jue noted he could now trigger Hollow techniques he once mastered—Cero, Bala—but only at a fraction of their true power. Without at least vice-captain-level reiatsu, the arm's full potential remained dormant.
Still, he was satisfied. This trip wasn't about conquest—it was reconnaissance.
Orienting himself using the Ancient One's (Doctor Strange) information, Jue masked his presence and took to the skies. He was now in Mephisto's eastern territory, closest to the human world—a region where demons favored magic over brute force. Such opponents were poorly matched against his assassin's precision, honed during years of being hunted.
Far ahead, a patrol approached—low-tier wind demons under the command of a mid-tier captain. In Mephisto's Hell, such squads roamed daily, their purpose to ensure no rival lord's forces breached the borders.
And Jue had just stepped into their hunting grounds.