Kurosaki Ichigo floated in a silent, featureless expanse, his mind struggling to grasp the chilling reality of his surroundings.
An endless void stretched in every direction—a black deeper than any night, without stars, horizon, or sound.
He could not feel the weight of his own body, only the terrifying isolation.
"Where in the hell is this place?"
He murmured, the sound immediately swallowed by the immensity.
The last thing he remembered was the blinding, final clash.
He'd poured everything he had—every ounce of his mixed heritage, every spiritual molecule—into that one catastrophic blow against the source of his bloodline: Yhwach, the progenitor of all Quincy.
It had been a battle that fractured the very fabric of existence, and when the dust settled, the only sound he registered was… nothing.
A morbid thought clawed its way into his consciousness.
"Am I really dead this time?"
The question hung unanswered in the silent abyss.
With no gravity to anchor him, no light to guide him, Ichigo simply surrendered, allowing himself to drift aimlessly.
Time became a meaningless concept—a span of agonizing nothingness that could have been moments or millennia.
Then, a voice.
It was gravelly and warm, carrying a distinct, playful New York lilt that cut through the silence like a beacon.
"Hmm? Well, lookie here. How'd a character from a Japanese anime end up floating around inside my comic universe?"
Ichigo's eyes snapped open.
He immediately spun towards the source of the sound, his instinct—honed by a lifetime of battles against the unknown—flaring.
Floating before him was a kindly-looking, bespectacled old man with a full head of white hair and a mischievous grin.
He wore a simple green sweater and appeared utterly at ease in the terrifying blankness.
"Who are you, old man?"
Ichigo demanded, his guard immediately up.
"Did you die as well?"
The man threw his head back and let out a hearty, booming laugh.
"Well, I have died,"
He conceded with a twinkle in his eye,
"...but not really."
Ichigo's brow furrowed in confusion.
A nonsensical answer, yet the man's presence felt undeniably powerful.
"Don't bother with such little things, young man. My name is Stan Lee. People do like to call me The One Above All, or OAA for short. This, my boy, is my universe. And since you're here, I can offer you a fresh start. Do you want to be reborn in it?"
Ichigo felt a surge of hope, followed instantly by suspicion.
"Are you a god? If you can revive me, then you can send me back, right?"
He didn't want a new life; he wanted his old one.
Stan Lee stroked his chin, his expression turning thoughtful.
"Hmm… Well, I can. But are you really okay with me sending you back? Your world, young man, has already been entirely destroyed by… Yhwach, your grandfather. There's nothing left to go home to."
The words struck Ichigo like a physical blow.
His world, his friends, his family—gone? All his sacrifice, all his power, had been for nothing?
A raw, desperate fury ignited in his chest.
"Then please! Send me back!"
Stan Lee observed the desperate determination in the young man's eyes and smiled faintly.
He had a sudden, brilliant idea.
"He destroyed your world, but I, being The One Above All, can fix it. I can weave it back together. Do you want my help?"
Ichigo was no fool.
Even a reality-bending old man wouldn't offer a favor of this magnitude for free.
"What do you want as payment?"
"Ah, a practical young man. I like that,"
Stan Lee chuckled.
"My little universes... they're getting a bit dull, you see. I've run out of ideas. I will fix your universe, put it all back the way it was, but maybe… I'll put a few interesting things inside it, too."
"Something interesting?"
Ichigo repeated, an unmistakable sense of dread washing over him.
Stan Lee waved a dismissive hand.
"Nothing bad, I promise you. Well, maybe. But I'll give you a way to fix things if they become too much of a nuisance. You'll be my Agent. How about that? Go back, live your life, and be ready to deal with my little plot twists."
Ichigo realized he was trapped between an existential void and a cosmic architect with writer's block.
"Alright,"
He sighed, accepting the inevitable.
"I don't really have a choice, do I?"
Stan Lee just shook his head, that familiar, impish grin spreading across his face.
"Then I'll be your agent,"
Ichigo finalized.
Stan Lee nodded, then, in a casual, creator-god motion, he pulled a massive, ethereal pen out of nowhere and scribbled on a colossal, invisible whiteboard floating in the void.
Ichigo felt a sudden, indescribable influx of power—a whirlwind of foreign energies and concepts being forcefully woven into his very soul.
"Okay, I've given you a few upgrades that should help you in the long run,"
Stan Lee announced proudly, ticking off his list in the air.
"Let's see… I gave you the Deadpool Healing Factor—you know, to bounce back from the really nasty ones. An Omega Level Mutant Gene like Magneto's, which means you can control all forms of magnetism. Wolverine's Adamantium Bone Structure, to make sure those bones stay nice and sturdy. The Phoenix Force, just a little spark for now, for those true existential threats… And finally, the Mystic Arts, because sometimes you just need a little sorcery."
Ichigo was reeling.
He had been given an array of overwhelming powers—the abilities of heroes and forces from an entirely different reality.
But the old man was quick to add a caveat.
"Everything will start from scratch. You'll be what we call a latent overpowered character. It will all be sealed away, waiting to be rediscovered and trained, in conjunction with your existing abilities, of course! You're getting a clean slate, but with maximum potential."
Stan Lee clapped his hands together, his demeanor turning from creator to stage director.
"Alright, showtime! I'm sending you back to your universe, to the moment it was just starting to go wrong. Remember, I have your back, so don't worry too much about anything."
A blinding white light consumed Ichigo, pulling him down, down, down through a torrent of memories and sensation.
He woke up with a gasp.
The smell of wood polish and sweat filled his nostrils.
He was lying on the familiar, polished floor of a dojo.
"Wait… why am I being a kid again?"
He thought, pushing himself up on tiny arms.
He looked down at his small hands, a rush of disbelief and horror washing over him.
He was perhaps nine or ten years old.
The clarity of the past, his true past, hit him like a physical shock. He knew exactly where he was and what day this was.
Today was the day.
Today was the day that his beloved mother, Masaki Kurosaki, would be killed by the Hollow Grand Fisher.