What?!
Baraggan sensed something amiss the moment the corpse exploded. Without hesitation, he swung his black great axe, unleashing a massive slash toward the largest writhing mass at its center.
The soaring strike tore through the squirming body, carving a trench dozens of meters long, cleaving the viscous substance, and the Adjuchas trapped within, cleanly in two, a textbook rescue attempt.
Yet, the severed mass seemed utterly unaffected, continuing to envelop the nearby Adjuchas, dragging them toward its center with alarming speed.
Grensor, positioned closest, had his lower half consumed by the flowing, Bordeaux-like ooze, his upper body sinking faster than prey in a swamp.
His eyes, beneath his mask, held a trace of bewilderment as he instinctively cried out, "Baraggan-sama!"
But before his plea could carry far, the viscous mass erupted outward again, sprouting tentacle-like tendrils.
Nnoitra Gilga, recently freed from his shackles, reacted swiftly. Noticing Grensor's desperate glance, he didn't hesitate, shoving a hesitant Adjuchas in front of him as a shield before retreating.
Splatter!
In that fleeting moment, the Adjuchas he'd pushed forward was overwhelmed by the tendrils, letting out a venomous howl.
Even Nnoitra, standing behind, was grazed by the ooze.
In that brief contact, a strange sense of weakness surged within him.
It wasn't like a specific poison or Kidō-induced injury but something deeper, as if targeting the very essence of their "Hollow power" with an irresistible pull.
It felt almost like a law of nature.
Fortunately, the ooze on him was minimal, corroding only a small patch of his steel skin, its side effects unclear.
Acting decisively, Nnoitra sliced off the affected arm with a swift hand-chop, severing the ooze along with it.
The weakness vanished instantly.
Using Sonído, he retreated rapidly, his gaze lingering warily on the writhing, hill-like mass.
Baraggan, far more experienced, had sensed the anomaly from the start and stayed clear.
The unluckiest Adjuchas, those closest to the front, were swept into the squirming creature.
At first, their wails echoed.
But as time passed, their cries grew fainter.
Until, finally, silence fell.
Not just their voices, the massive, mountain-like ooze seemed to reach an absorption limit. The scattered masses began to converge toward the largest one, writhing autonomously.
Then, they compressed.
"Aging!"
The moment he noticed this, the ghostly flames in Baraggan's skull flickered wildly. A thin black mist wrapped around his great axe.
With a sudden sweep, he unleashed a decaying arc across the pale desert.
Hum!
Struck by the power of aging, the conjoined masses split for a moment, only to reconnect even faster, coalescing into a single form.
Even the power of aging was useless?!
Baraggan's ghostly flames shrank to pinpoints, his shock palpable.
Seeing even Baraggan-sama unable to tear apart this malformed creature, the Adjuchas, who had boldly lingered nearby, retreated further, encircling Baraggan like stars around a moon.
Until...
Crack…
A faint crack appeared on the surface of the solidified, egg-like mass.
As the sound stretched, the single line spread like a spiderweb, shattering into fragments across the eggshell's surface.
A pale arm burst forth from beneath, snapping with a crisp sound.
Baraggan's focus sharpened, his gaze fixed on the gap atop the giant egg.
Was it finally emerging?
Less a human hand, more a humanoid claw, it tore through the shell.
Colorless, transparent fluid, like egg white, clung to its streamlined body, outlining distinct muscle contours.
Bone spikes protruded from its wrists, elbows, and shoulders, with crimson fur extending in a V-shape from both shoulders. Its head was fully masked, wild crimson hair spilling from the back, like unrestrained flames.
A curved horn jutted from the mask's brow.
Beneath the mask, its eyes glinted with a hint of madness.
Its pale frame was no larger than a human teenager, perhaps thirteen or fourteen.
Its reiatsu was tightly restrained, poised but un unleashed.
"This is…"
"A Vasto Lorde?"
Nnoitra, at the back of the crowd, stared at the creature's small form, the thought rising instinctively.
Only Baraggan, at the forefront, sensed something different.
"What exactly are you?"
His voice carried a suppressed edge, tinged with barely contained irritation.
To a true Vasto Lorde like him, this forcibly amalgamated being was an insult.
Boom!
A frenzied reiatsu erupted, like electrons leaping in a chaotic magnetic field, sparking fleeting bolts of lightning. The oppressive air felt like a pressure cooker, draining the body and stirring an overwhelming sense of powerlessness from deep within.
Even Nnoitra's single eye widened.
Only the horned humanoid let out a faint, almost inaudible, "…Heh."
In the next instant, its form vanished.
Baraggan raised his axe, swinging at the air.
Thud.
A heavy, drum-like impact struck everyone's chests, leaving them breathless.
A raging gust swept outward, rippling white patterns into the distance.
…
"More! Give me more!"
"It's only just begun!"
"Chōjirō Sasakibe!"
Deep underground, Szayelaporro reveled as if savoring a supreme delicacy, his voice dripping with nauseating satisfaction, his expression increasingly twisted.
Around the mountain-like throne, countless glowing conduits ceaselessly channeled fragmented reiatsu, drawn from various sources, fueling the Frankenstein constructs scattered across Hueco Mundo with their initial energy.
Truth be told, even Szayelaporro hadn't anticipated such results.
A single strike had yielded such an extraordinary harvest.
Though separated from the Forest of Menos by countless kilometers, Szayelaporro could clearly sense, through the reiatsu conduits, the ultra-dense energy Chōjirō had gathered on his Asauchi to sever Frankenstein's head, a force capable of carving a trench dozens of kilometers long in the desert.
Seemingly effortless, it showcased a mastery of swordsmanship brought to perfection.
This was precisely why his gains were so… extraordinary.
"No! It's not enough!"
"That bastard can give me more!"
Szayelaporro muttered through gritted teeth, oscillating between frenzied joy and nervous unease, his demeanor far from stable.
Originally, he'd only intended to kickstart the "Frankenstein Plan" with this opportunity.
But now, "Chōjirō Sasakibe" had shown him the potential to achieve far more in one go.
If smashing Adjuchas into chaotic spiritual fragments, binding them into a massive reiatsu source to form "Frankenstein." mimicked the evolution of a Hollow into a Gillian,
Then selecting a potent reiatsu source as the primary consciousness, elevating "Frankenstein" to a higher level, mirrored a Gillian's transformation into an Adjuchas.
Moments ago, Baraggan's subordinates had been consumed and reformed, undergoing precisely this process.
Naturally, they had evolved to a higher stage.
Per Szayelaporro's plan, these Frankensteins would use their overwhelming power to swiftly eliminate nearby enemies, consuming enough reiatsu before returning to a designated point under his guidance. There, they would devour one another, reaching the ultimate Frankenstein and surpassing Vasto Lordes and all Shinigami.
Thus, gaining the right to touch the enigmatic realm "beneath Hueco Mundo."
But now, Szayelaporro suddenly wanted to alter the plan.
"Enough!"
"It's definitely enough!"
"If I can take down that bastard Chōjirō and the Vasto Lorde by his side…"
"I'll absolutely secure enough reiatsu!"
Szayelaporro murmured, lost in obsession, his lips curling uncontrollably, madness gleaming in his eyes.
"Kill him!"
…
At the same moment Szayelaporro made his judgment, Makoto sheathed his blade, sensing something. He turned to gaze into the distance, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.
He seemed puzzled.
Katori and Tier Harribel approached him.
"What? Found a clue?" Katori, slightly shorter, stood on tiptoe to pat his shoulder, her braided pigtails bouncing.
"Not quite." Makoto said, shaking his head with a sigh. "It's just… it seems Ryoma's group is getting desperate."
If they've resorted to Bankai, someone's probably dead.
He thought as much.
Though he'd lived in this world far longer than his previous life, over ten times as long, his tastes and habits had gradually warped to fit the Soul Society, adapting to its ways.
But when someone close died, he couldn't help feeling regret.
In this alone, he differed from the battle-hardened killers around him.
"Poor things." Katori said, her clear eyes blinking casually, though she averted her gaze with a hint of guilt, much like when she claimed not to have peeked at discarded drafts.
Not just Katori, even Harribel, who in the original story revered sacrifice, showed only indifference at the news.
It was in moments like these that Makoto felt a quiet reassurance: I really am the conscience of the Soul Society.
Such small self-praise was indeed a balm for the spirit.
"Ho… hohoho…"
"Still worrying about others, are you?"
Just as the two spoke, Makoto heard a labored, intermittent wheezing from behind.
His expression sharpened, and he turned around.
There, Szayelaporro's severed head lay on the ground, its mouth gaping. Despite its severed vocal cords and detachment from its body, it somehow produced sound.
The grin on its face was manic and twisted.
"Chōjirō Sasakibe!"
"I owe you my thanks…"
"For delivering such a grand gift."
"I hardly know how to repay you."
"Oh, right!" Szayelaporro's head gnashed its teeth, contorting in a mix of rage, madness, and glee, as if struck by a brilliant idea. "I'll etch your face on my chest!"
"Once I've birthed the Perfect Body."
He exhaled long and slow, his eerie expression subsiding as he spoke deliberately, "I'll let you see it too…"
"The realm beneath Hueco Mundo."
Makoto frowned, puzzled by the head's brazen confidence.
But the moment Szayelaporro's final words fell, his headless corpse, slumped on the ground, began to inflate like a balloon, swelling, tightening, cracking, until it fully disintegrated.
Makoto's pupils narrowed, his gaze sharpening.
Beneath the collapsed body emerged another, eerily similar to Szayelaporro yet subtly different.
A clone?
"Open your eyes, Ciel!" Szayelaporro shouted wildly, his manic laughter paired with a furious glare toward Makoto. "Look closely, Chōjirō!"
"This is what I've prepared for you…"
Crunch!
Before he could finish, a massive foot stomped his head into pulp.
A mess of fluids splattered across the ground.
The man called "Ciel" Stood, wiping his dirtied foot on the sand, his wary eyes scanning the group before him.
Even he seemed unsure of the situation, driven only by a soul-deep vendetta against that head.
"Makoto-kun?" Katori glanced at him, seeking guidance.
Makoto's fingertip grazed his blade's edge.
If Szayelaporro deemed this thing dangerous, then it should be eliminated.
As they considered this, a viscous tsunami surged abruptly, fueled by swelling reiatsu, engulfing their entire area.
Pale great trees, churning white sand, petrified stones, and uprooted roots from below…
It seemed to swallow everything in sight.
But then...
Clang.
A sharp, clear blade's ring cut through.
At the center of the viscous sea covering the desert, a massive bulge rose.
A tall figure in a pure white haori, gripping two others, leapt from the narrow breach, retreating dozens of meters with lingering unease, brows furrowed as he stared ahead.
Sizzle…
A faint corrosion hissed from his clothes.
In that brief contact, Makoto's appearance grew noticeably disheveled.
"Hm?"
Just as irritation flared, he seemed to recall something, subtly glancing at Katori.
Katori, usually wearing a gentle smile, clutched her tattered clothing, the remnants barely covering her. Her usual upturned lips were now flat, her braided pigtails half-unraveled, and the left side of her glasses frame melted like wax. Even her voice turned uncharacteristically cold.
She slowly drew her blade, eyeing the compressing monster before them, and said calmly, "Makoto-kun."
"I'll handle this one."
"You alright?"
---
Hi guys, Elenea here! I just want to announce that starting now I'll be trying to focus on my own original fanfic, which I've been thinking about for the past few days (lol I really mulled this over briefly for a few days and decided I'm going to make it a full novel).
[Worse Than the Devil (DxD)]
Synopsis:
Devil.
An evil and chaotic creature, born from hell, which are often a scapegoat for humans. Blamed for the atrocities they themselves commit.
"The devil made me do it."
A phrase always uttered by humans after committing crimes, casting blame and responsibility for their wrongdoings onto the devil.
But not all humans are like that, for there is one man who would gleefully commit atrocities that would be condemned by all of human history and accept the blame and responsibility for those wrongs with open arms.
His name is Michael, but in stark contrast to the meaning of his name 'Who is like God' he is not a devout man who draws near to God's embrace. Instead… he is the one who sends lost sheep to meet God's embrace much faster.
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Btw, a quick note before you decide to read, if you have a heart as pure as glass, I suggest you don't read this because it REALLY gets dark to early. The first chapter will give you a little idea of what I might explore later on in this fanservice harem-themed world like DxD.
Adios!