The Cracked Mirror

Autumn, 1941 — Manchukuo, Occupied China

Even after his cataclysmic battle with Götterfaust, Marvelo-Man's mission was far from over. The war had many faces, and new horrors kept rising in unexpected places.

The latest rumor came in whispers—filtered through terrified spies and half-burned documents. Deep in the mountains of Japanese-occupied Manchuria, an experiment known only as Project Tatsu-no-Kage, or "Shadow of the Dragon," was underway.

Maxwell volunteered to investigate. He didn't expect what he found.

---

The Birth of Weapon Nine

In a repurposed monastery hidden within the freezing ridges of northern China, Japanese military scientists—driven by desperation and nationalistic obsession—poured their dwindling resources into creating their own superhuman.

Their subject was a young man named Katsuro, once a rice farmer. Starvation had hollowed out his village. He was arrested trying to steal food from a military convoy. But instead of being executed, Katsuro was chosen.

For weeks, his body was pumped full of unstable compounds—ghost vine resin, mercury, strained bone marrow from rabid wolves, adrenal extract from tortured prisoners. The monks who had once tended the temple's shrine were forced to chant over him in bloodied garments.

His screams were said to echo for days.

Eventually, Katsuro stopped screaming.

His muscles tightened unnaturally. His reflexes became animal-like. His skin turned deathly pale and cold to the touch. His veins shimmered faintly with a sickly blue glow under moonlight.

But he could barely speak.

His tongue had been partially severed—intentionally. Communication was deemed irrelevant. Only obedience mattered.

He was called Weapon Nine.

---

The Encounter

Max found the base nestled in a valley of white mist. No flags. No signal. Just silence and frost.

Inside, corpses of failed experiments were packed in blocks of ice. Max moved quietly, disgusted, until he stepped into the training yard—and there he saw him.

A pale, shirtless figure stood barefoot in the snow.

Thin, shaking, yet clearly dangerous. His body twitched with suppressed energy. Eyes hollow.

"You... Weapon Nine?" Max asked.

The man looked up, slowly.

"Who... you?" His voice was dry, broken, strained by years of disuse.

"I'm not your enemy," Max said gently.

Weapon Nine blinked slowly. "You lie. You wear... cape. You strong. Same like... them."

Then he rushed forward.

---

The battle was erratic, brutal.

Weapon Nine attacked with feral speed—claws slashing through the air, each movement explosive. He tore through stone like it was paper, ripped down trees with his bare hands.

But there was no coordination. No strategy.

Only rage.

Max blocked his strikes, trying to subdue without killing. "You don't have to do this!"

"SHUT! LIE!" the man shouted. "You all same! You kill!"

As the fight dragged on, Max realized something disturbing:

The longer it went on, the more Weapon Nine's body degraded.

His limbs started to tremble. Blood trickled from his nose. Veins pulsed erratically. His skin cracked along his forearms, revealing blue-glowing muscle beneath.

"You're dying," Max said, horrified.

"No... I kill you first," Weapon Nine panted.

---

He stumbled, but pushed forward again, roaring. Max sidestepped and caught him by the wrist—his bones cracked on impact.

Weapon Nine collapsed.

"You... not... kill me?" he rasped.

"I don't want to."

"Then... I do it..."

Max's eyes widened. "Wait—!"

---

Weapon Nine's body convulsed. His chest began to glow brightly—white-hot light pulsing from his ribs.

He reached into his own chest, claws digging through skin and tissue.

"I... end it now!"

Max leapt to stop him—too late.

There was a scream. A burst of blue-white energy.

Then—

BOOM.

---

Smoke cleared slowly.

Max sat in a crater of snow and blood. Guts clung to his chest. A fragment of skull rested in his lap. His cape was shredded. He was physically untouched—but numb.

He wiped blood from his face. His hand came away red. His breath came ragged.

He sat there for what felt like hours.

He had seen many things in the war.

But not this.

Not a man exploding—by his own will—just to escape what he'd become.

He buried nothing.

He spoke no words.

He simply rose... and flew away.

Alone.