[FIGHT]
[MERCY]
He stared at the choice for a long, quiet moment.
Then—he moved.
With one deliberate motion, Doom Slayer reached out with his right hand and gripped UltSans by the skull, lifting his head slightly. UltSans, kneeling, barely resisted. His pupils flickered, no longer burning—just fading.
Then came the strike.
Doom Slayer's left arm cut across with impossible speed. The Doomblade carved through UltSans' neck in a single, brutal slash. The sound was silent—but final.
Blood sprayed out in sharp arcs. UltSans' hands twitched, rising weakly to his throat, clutching at the wound as his body trembled.
Then, nothing.
Doom Slayer let go.
UltSans collapsed forward, hitting the ground in a heap. His blood spread slowly beneath him, pooling dark red onto the platform.
Doom Slayer said nothing.
He turned, blade still humming with fresh blood, and began to walk away—step after step, boots echoing through the silent world.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The Doomblade leaked slowly with every step, drops of red trailing behind him.
Then—he stopped.
Something was wrong.
A cold chill crawled across his back like a phantom hand. Not wind. Not magic.
Something else.
He turned to look.
UltSans was no longer on the ground.
He was standing.
No wound. No blood. Just an empty expression. Silent. Hollow.
Then—movement.
A red, ghostly mist spiraled through the air. It wasn't smoke.
It was a shape.
Chara.
Her form, faint and incorporeal, surged toward him like a wraith.
Doom Slayer barely moved before it happened.
A sharp, sudden pang in his chest.
His body froze.
His grip loosened.
The Doomblade slipped.
She hadn't stabbed his flesh.
She went through it.
Her spectral hand had pierced directly into his chest—into his soul.
And squeezed.
All went black.
Silence.
Then—cracking.
Doom Slayer's soul hovered in the dark. A crimson core of raw power, wrapped in the remnants of his will.
It cracked.
Once.Twice.
Then it shattered—splitting clean in half, then splintering into countless glowing fragments, swallowed into the void.
Darkness again.
The next image was cold and clinical.
UltSans, standing in his lab—expression empty, slow footsteps echoing in the metallic space. His movements were slower than before. Not confident. Not proud. Just… methodical.
In his hands, he held it.
Doom Slayer's armor.
Limp. Hollow.
He set it down gently—on a pedestal. Like a relic. Like a corpse dressed for display.
The Doomblade rested across the chestplate, still glistening.
And from its edge—
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Blood continued to fall, slowly, steadily, into the silence.
No words.
No redemption.
Just a monument to what should never have been touched.
Ending: Fight Chosen
UltSans walks away. A demon unchanged, but no longer hesitating.
The hate remains-but now, it is focused.
Not on saving.
On killing.
Even on the edge of hell itself.