1. Initial Reaction and Transformation
Doom Slayer catches the syringe mid-air. His hand is steady, but there's a slight hesitation—a flicker in his stance, a primal instinct flaring up. Something is wrong, and his body knows it.
He injects the glowing red liquid into his neck. The reaction is instantaneous. A violent jolt surges through him like molten lightning. His spine straightens, muscles tighten. The power doesn't seep in—it erupts.
2. Armor's Response
The Praetor Suit, normally an obedient extension of his will, begins to falter. Red veins snake across the surface—artificial and alien, like energy given corrupted form. They pulse with an unstable rhythm, threading through the gaps in the plating like invasive roots.
His chestplate bulges briefly, distorting as if the armor is resisting the transformation. The internal systems sputter, humming erratically. Warning indicators flash, systems reboot and crash, unable to process what's happening. The suit isn't enhancing him—it's fighting to survive him.
3. The Helmet and Visage
The helmet remains, but something beneath has changed. Its visor, once a reflective cold steel, now glows faintly red. The surface ripples subtly, like heat-warped metal.
Tiny fractures spread across the faceplate—deep, glowing cracks leaking soft crimson light. It's not broken, not yet, but it's bleeding pressure. The reflection warps—battlefields seen through it now shimmer like heat mirages. There's no sound of coughing, no voice—but the silent shudder of his body is worse. You can feel the blood behind the glass.
4. The Hands
He raises his hands. Red veins coil and crawl beneath the skin, alive and furious. They branch like a corrupted circulatory system, pulsing brighter with each heartbeat. Faint trails of smoke leak from his fingertips. The skin takes on an ashen pallor, but still glows—dimly radioactive.
Every twitch of his fingers crackles with raw energy, unstable and hungry. It looks like his blood is trying to burn through his skin.
5. The Red Glow and Smoke
The glow isn't just light—it's pressure, heat, presence. It builds from within, bleeding through the seams in his armor. Cracks widen along his back and shoulders, venting deep red light like a furnace ready to burst.
Smoke drifts from his joints in lazy curls, but it's not steam—it's the byproduct of a soul burning too hot. The air warps around him. His chest rises and falls, but there's no mechanical hiss. Just silent, suffocating strain.
6. The Heat and Stance
Despite his armor's thermal regulation, Doom Slayer is boiling. He stands straighter, stiffer—like a man carrying something titanic inside him. His hands twitch involuntarily, his arms jerk ever so slightly, as if the energy is moving on its own. He clamps down on the motion.
He's not out of control. Yet. But the line is thinning.
7. Seeing UltSans and the Souls
He turns his gaze to UltSans. What he sees isn't just a figure—it's a silhouette outlined in the radiance of billions of souls.
His vision blurs. The red glow and smoke cloud his optics, the suit can't filter it. True Human Souls float near UltSans, burning with divine intensity. But Doom Slayer's vision flickers like corrupted data—half-glimpses, doubled images, static lines in his HUD. He can barely focus.
Still, through the firestorm in his body and the static in his mind, his intent doesn't waver: kill, survive, end it. But something is changing. The power from the injection… the presence of the souls… it's awakening something buried deep—something more than rage.
8. Final Appearance Summary
Red energy-veins glowing through armor seams and beneath skin, alive and volatile.
Thin smoke rising from cracks and joints, mixing with the heat distortion around him.
Armor strained and distorted, plates flexing with internal pressure, glowing from within.
Helmet fractured and warping, glowing lines and shimmer distorting his faceplate.
Vision obscured—his own and that of anyone who dares look at him.
Every movement carries weight—like he's holding back a detonation with sheer willpower.
A towering figure of wrath and control, barely holding together a power that wants to consume everything—including him.