Certainly. Below is your rewritten narrative with Origenius del Alba (Alba) as the first Hollow ever born, and his story deeply interwoven with the Soul King's dismemberment—a tragedy that shattered the only friendship he ever had and set him on the path that follows.
"Is there any meaning to existence anymore..."
In the endless abyss of Hueco Mundo, where the sky holds no sun and the sands remember no footsteps, despair is law, and hunger is the only truth. Hollows are born not from life, but from loss—a soul so broken it devours itself.
But there was one who did not come from death.
He was the first.
Before the realms took shape, before the Shinigami enforced balance, before Hollows learned names like "Adjuchas" or "Vasto Lorde"—there was Origenius del Alba.
They called him Alba, the Dawn of Hollows.
Born in a time when souls had no shape, no order, only chaos and instinct, Alba awakened from the stillborn silence of the Void. His form coalesced in the earliest fractures between worlds, an anomaly—neither living nor fully dead. His mask cracked before it ever hardened. His body—pure reiryoku and grief.
And in that emptiness, there was one other.
A being of light, a friend who radiated harmony. The one who would later be revered, dissected, and chained by the names of others:
The Soul King.
They walked side by side when time had no rhythm and death had no purpose. They didn't speak at first, for there were no words, but Alba remembered the silence between them as comforting. The Soul King drifted, enigmatic, an anchor of order. Alba followed—heartbroken even then, though he hadn't yet known what it meant to lose.
They were balance, chaos and stillness, hunger and serenity, shadow and soul.
Until the Shinigami came.
Until they tore the Soul King apart—not killed, but dismembered, his parts sealed to prevent his return. One fragment for the skies. One for the earth. One for the rhythm of time. A god, rendered into gears for a machine that would never stop spinning.
Alba had been there. Screaming. Bleeding. Powerless.
And when they left him behind, alone with the silence again, he fell into madness.
He didn't remember how many eons passed before he stirred again. Hueco Mundo had formed in his absence, a shadow world forged from the rot of broken souls. Hollows had multiplied, crawling like insects, devouring each other to evolve.
But Alba didn't evolve yet. But his memory is solid, he still remembered.
And that made him different.
He walked among the Gillian, unnoticed, a myth hidden in plain sight. Where others fought for dominance in a hive-mind frenzy, he stood still—silent in the storm of voices. When he moved, it was not out of hunger, but purpose. The battles he fought weren't for survival, but revenge against the order that stole his only light.
Within the writhing mass of a Gillian, he consumed the minds of thousands until his soul reigned supreme. The transformation came not in an explosion of power but a compression of essence—an implosion of ancient might.
He became an Adjuchas, not by clawing, but by remembering.
His form was sleek and brutal—obsidian armor etched with runes of forgotten languages, his mask fused into something closer to a crown than a prison. His crimson eyes saw through the lies of evolution, the false promise of peace, the rot of stagnation.
But evolution was not his goal.
Reconstruction was.
He hunted, not for power, but for pieces—shards of the Soul King's essence scattered through dimensions. Every battle, every Hollow devoured, brought him closer to fragments of truth buried beneath layers of violence.
And then he saw him—Barragan, the skeletal tyrant who claimed dominion over Hueco Mundo. Time incarnate, decay embodied.
A liar wearing death like a crown.
The battle shook the dunes, but Alba didn't flinch. As Barragan's Respira rolled like a black tide, Alba remembered the Soul King's warmth. That memory—singular, sacred—burned the miasma from his path. Where others rotted, he endured.
Clash after clash, blow for blow, their fight raged. Barragan wielded inevitability; Alba answered with defiance so ancient it defied logic. His ceros cut through decay. His claws cracked bone. His reiatsu pressed down like gravity turned inside out.
And when Barragan fell, coughing dust and rage, Alba looked down—not in triumph, but pity.
"You are not death," Alba said, voice low. "You are the memory of something long since dead. I remember the first silence. You were not there."
He walked away before the emperor's bones finished crumbling.
The Vasto Lordes came next, all of them—Grimmjow, Starrk, Ulquiorra, Nnoitra, Nelliel, Szayelaporro, Harribel—drawn by whispers of a Hollow who predated their world. Together, they struck like a storm. Together, they fell.
With each battle, Alba's body refined. Not bloated with power like Yammy. Not scientific like Szayel. Efficient. Precise. Beautiful.
When the final Vasto Lorde knelt in exhaustion, Alba's mask cracked—not from damage, but choice.
He tore it off.
Not as an act of surrender, but evolution. Not into an Arrancar, but into something new.
His skin bore pale sigils that pulsed with ancient reiatsu. His hair fell in obsidian waves. His eyes—black sclera with white irises and slit pupils—burned with a depth of loss none could comprehend.
He looked to the broken throne Barragan once held and said, "This is not power. It's scaffolding. I'll build the world the Soul King dreamed of."
The Hollows who watched called him "El Amanecer"—the Dawn.
But he had another name.
Origenius del Alba, the First Hollow, the Forgotten Friend, the Mourner of God.
And though he wore a king's mask now, though his voice echoed like prophecy, he still heard a whisper in the wind, soft and silent:
"Is there any meaning to existence anymore?"
He had once asked it, kneeling over the shattered pieces of his only friend.
But now?
Now he would answer it.
One world at a time.
What will Alba do when he finds the final fragment of the Soul King… and it whispers that it no longer remembers him?
Would he rebuild the god… or destroy the very idea of one?
Hueco Mundo held its breath.