Chapter 1: The Psycho Power Throne
The Britannian transport ship carved through storm clouds like a blade through silk, its hull trembling against violent winds that seemed to mirror the turmoil within. Inside the cramped passenger compartment, Bartley Asprius pressed his sweating palms against his knees, each breath coming in sharp, stuttering gasps. His reflection in the porthole window showed a man on the precipice of his own execution—pale, hollow-eyed, haunted by the specter of Prince Clovis's death and the mysterious terrorist known only as Zero.
The aircraft shuddered as it began its descent, and Asprius felt his stomach plummet alongside it. Through the intercom, the pilot's voice crackled with static: "Approaching Area 12. Prepare for landing."
Prepare for landing. Or prepare for death.
Asprius dragged his gaze to the window and gasped. Below stretched what had once been Australia's endless desert—now transformed into a sprawling fortress of steel and concrete that seemed to devour the horizon. Massive testing facilities erupted from the scarred earth like metallic tumors, their towers belching smoke and flame into the blood-red sky. Weapons of unimaginable destruction thundered across the wasteland, turning sand into glass, rock into vapor.
But it was the coastline structure that made his blood freeze—a towering citadel of black stone and crimson banners that seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, as if the very architecture thirsted for conquest.
The landing pad rose to meet them with a bone-jarring impact. Steam hissed from the aircraft's hydraulics as the doors split open with a mechanical shriek. Asprius stumbled out on unsteady legs, immediately assaulted by the acrid smell of burning fuel and something else—ozone, sharp and electric, like the air before a lightning strike.
A phalanx of soldiers stood at attention, their uniforms bearing the dreaded skull-and-flames insignia of Shadaloo. But it was the figure in black who commanded attention—a lieutenant whose very presence seemed to bend shadows around him.
"Mr. Asprius." The man's voice cut through the industrial din like a scalpel. "Lord Bison awaits."
Lord Bison. The name alone made Asprius's knees nearly buckle.
They marched through corridors that reeked of fear and ambition. Through reinforced glass windows, Asprius glimpsed horrors that would haunt his dreams—if he lived to have any. Fighters engaged in brutal combat that went far beyond training, their bodies crackling with unnatural purple energy. In shadowed laboratories, prisoners writhed in agony as scientists pumped them full of experimental psycho-power serums, their screams echoing off sterile walls before being abruptly silenced by explosions of violet flame.
One man caught Asprius's eye—a test subject whose body convulsed as psycho energy coursed through his veins. For a moment, their eyes met through the glass. The prisoner's mouth opened in a silent plea for mercy just as his body erupted in a brilliant purple nova, leaving nothing but charred shadows on the chamber walls.
Asprius vomited.
The lieutenant didn't even pause.
Finally, they reached the throne room—massive doors of black steel adorned with golden skulls that seemed to leer at him with hollow sockets. As the doors groaned open, a wave of oppressive heat washed over them, carrying with it the metallic taste of psycho power.
There, upon a throne carved from obsidian and inlaid with crimson gems, sat the fallen prince himself.
M. Bison.
Even seated, his presence dominated the cavernous chamber. The infamous red military uniform clung to his powerful frame like liquid fire, while his cape cascaded down the throne's steps like spilled blood. His peaked cap cast shadows across features that had once been noble, now twisted by absolute power into something far more terrible. But it was his eyes that made Asprius's soul recoil—twin pools of psycho energy that seemed to burn with the fires of a thousand conquered worlds.
The air itself seemed to thrum with barely contained violence.
"Ah, Bartley Asprius." M. Bison's voice rolled through the chamber like distant thunder, each word carrying the weight of mountains. Purple energy flickered at the corners of his eyes as he smiled—an expression that held no warmth, only the promise of annihilation. "You must be... exhausted from your long journey."
He gestured with casual grandeur, and immediately a Shadaloo operative materialized from the shadows, placing a simple wooden chair before the obsidian throne—a deliberate insult, placing crude wood before imperial stone.
"T-thank you, my lord," Asprius stammered, his voice barely a whisper as he approached the chair on trembling legs.
M. Bison rose from his throne like a dark god ascending, his cape billowing dramatically as psycho energy rippled through the air around him. Each footstep echoed like a death knell as he began to circle his prey with predatory grace.
"Tell me, Asprius," he began, pulling a remote from his coat with theatrical precision, "what did you think of my dear father's pathetic display of weakness?"
The walls came alive as a massive screen descended, crackling to life with footage that made Asprius's blood turn to ice—the Emperor's speech about equality and justice, words that now seemed like blasphemy in this temple of power.
"Such... inspiring rhetoric," M. Bison continued, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. "All that talk of compassion and understanding. Of course, the senile fool never once mentioned my brother—the one you abandoned to die like a dog in the streets."
Before Asprius could even draw breath to respond, M. Bison's boot connected with the chair in an explosion of splintered wood and psycho power. The nobleman crashed to the marble floor, tasting blood as he looked up into eyes that blazed like twin suns.
"THAT DECREPIT WEAKLING KNOWS NOTHING OF TRUE POWER!" M. Bison's roar shook the very foundations of the citadel, psycho energy erupting from his body in waves of purple flame. The air itself seemed to scream. "While he sits on his throne preaching about equality, our enemies grow stronger! They mock us, they organize, they dare to challenge the natural order!"
He loomed over the cowering Asprius, psycho power crackling around his clenched fists like caged lightning. "Instead of crushing these insects beneath our heel, we coddle them with numbers and ignore their true nature. We know nothing of our enemies—enemies who now rally behind this 'Zero' terrorist." His voice dropped to a whisper more terrifying than any scream. "Like my incompetent brother, you underestimated them. Blinded by your own pathetic arrogance. And now..."
M. Bison's eyes flared with psycho power.
"Now Clovis has a bullet in his brain."
He strode back to his throne with imperial majesty, his cape swirling like liquid shadow as he settled back into his seat of power. The psycho energy slowly faded from his eyes, but the threat remained, coiled and ready to strike.
"Now then," he said with terrifying calm, "what was my dear brother doing in the Shinjuku Ghetto? And Asprius..." His smile could have frozen hell itself. "If you lie to me, I will erase your very existence from this world. Your atoms will scream as I scatter them across dimensions."
Asprius tried to speak, but only a croak emerged. He swallowed hard, tasting copper and terror. "Y-yes, my lord. Prince Clovis was... was conducting experiments. On a test subject. A girl. She escaped, and to cover it up—"
"He blamed it on poison gas." M. Bison finished the sentence with a laugh that sounded like breaking glass. He leaned forward, psycho energy beginning to dance around his fingertips. "How deliciously predictable. Tell me, do you have proof of these... experiments?"
With shaking hands, Asprius retrieved several photographs from his jacket. M. Bison's cape billowed as he descended from his throne with inhuman speed, snatching the images with lightning precision.
His eyes scanned the photographs, and for a moment, something flickered across his features—interest? Hunger? It was gone too quickly to identify.
"Where," he said, his voice carrying the finality of a judge's gavel, "is this woman now?"
"I... I don't know, my lord." The words tumbled out in a panicked rush. "We lost her in the Shinjuku Ghetto, but given time, I'm certain we could—"
The words died in his throat as M. Bison's hand erupted in a corona of psycho power so intense it turned the very air purple. The energy built and built, reality itself seeming to warp around his clenched fist.
"PATHETIC!"
The Psycho Crusher technique detonated like a miniature sun. Purple fire consumed Asprius in an instant, his body dissolving into atoms as psycho-energy tore through his molecular structure. For a split second, his scream echoed through seventeen dimensions before being silenced forever.
Where Bartley Asprius had cowered moments before, only a few motes of glowing ash remained, drifting slowly to the marble floor.
M. Bison straightened his cape with casual indifference, not even breathing hard. "Guards. Someone track dirt on my floor."
The Command Nexus
The doors to Shadaloo's command center split apart like the maw of some mechanical beast, releasing waves of cooled air and the electric hum of advanced technology. As M. Bison strode into the vast chamber, every screen, every hologram, every piece of equipment seemed to pulse in synchronization with his psycho power.
His entire staff rose as one, their synchronized movements creating a wave of motion that rippled across the room. Fists struck chests in perfect unison as voices rang out in thunderous chorus:
"FOR SHADALOO! FOR LORD BISON!"
The sound reverberated through the chamber like a war cry, echoing off walls lined with monitors displaying global intelligence feeds, weapon schematics, and tactical readouts from a dozen ongoing operations.
M. Bison acknowledged the salute with an imperial nod, his cape flowing behind him as he descended to the main floor. The central screen dominated the far wall—a massive display currently showing aerial footage from the Battle of Shinjuku Ghetto. Bodies littered the streets like broken dolls, and smoke rose from collapsed buildings in lazy spirals.
Such waste. All those potential soldiers, reduced to carrion.
"Status report," he commanded, his voice cutting through the ambient noise of the command center.
A lieutenant stepped forward, tablet in hand. "Princess Euphemia li Britannia has been assigned to govern Japan, Lord Bison. Intelligence also indicates her sister, Cornelia li Britannia, will be joining her as military commander."
M. Bison's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Euphemia—still clinging to her naive dreams of peace. And Cornelia—a warrior, but one shackled by honor and duty. Neither understood what true power meant.
"Establish contact," he ordered. "I have business to discuss with my dear sisters."
The communications array hummed to life, satellite uplinks establishing connections across continents. After several minutes of routing through secure channels, two faces appeared on the main screen in split view.
Euphemia's face lit up like sunrise, her pink hair framing features that radiated genuine joy. "Nathaniel! Brother, it's so wonderful to hear from you! I was hoping—"
"Spare me your simpering," M. Bison cut her off with brutal efficiency. "This is not a social call."
The words hit Euphemia like a physical blow. Her smile faltered, replaced by hurt confusion. Beside her on the split screen, Cornelia's expression remained stoic, but her violet eyes blazed with barely controlled anger.
"I intend to claim dominion over Japan," M. Bison continued, psycho energy beginning to flicker around his pupils. "I am far more qualified to rule than either of you pathetic weaklings."
"That's enough!" Cornelia's voice cracked like a whip. "You may have power, Nathaniel, but you're still Britannian! Still our brother! And it's Area 11 now, not Japan!"
M. Bison's laugh was like winter wind through a graveyard. "Brother? I transcended such petty familial bonds long ago. I am bound to an empire led by senile fools obsessed with outdated concepts of honor and mercy." Purple energy began to crackle visibly around him, making the air itself seem to vibrate. "As for what I choose to call my future domain—I require no permission from inferior minds."
The psycho power radiating from him was so intense that it began to interfere with the transmission, causing static to flicker across the screen. Through the distortion, his sisters could see him standing there like some dark god, cape billowing in winds that existed only around him.
"Please, both of you, stop!" Euphemia's voice broke through their confrontation, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Nathaniel, I understand you want to help, and by rights I have been given this responsibility, but..." She paused, hope flickering in her emerald eyes. "What if we worked together? As brother and sister? Surely we could accomplish more united than divided."
M. Bison considered this, his head tilting slightly as psycho energy continued to dance around his form. "Acceptable," he said finally. "But understand this—Shadaloo operates by my methods alone. I will brook no interference from bleeding hearts or military bureaucrats."
Relief flooded Euphemia's features, while Cornelia's frown deepened. She could sense the trap closing around them.
"However," M. Bison continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than any shout, "remember that this will be a Shadaloo operation from beginning to end. And if either of you dares to stand in my way..."
The psycho power around him exploded outward, causing every screen in the command center to flicker and static to overwhelm the transmission. Through the distortion, his eyes blazed like twin stars as his voice thundered across dimensions:
"I WILL CRUSH YOU BOTH INTO COSMIC DUST!"
The threat hung in the digital void like a curse. When the static cleared, Cornelia was gripping her armrests so hard her knuckles had gone white, her soldier's instincts screaming danger. Euphemia sat frozen, tears still streaming down her face as she stared at what her beloved brother had become.
"Lord Bison out," he declared with imperial finality, severing the connection with a gesture that sent sparks flying from the communications console.
The Portrait's Lament
Miles away, in her private chambers, Princess Euphemia li Britannia sat in silence before an oil painting that had once brought her nothing but joy. The artwork depicted the royal family during happier times—all of them together, smiling, the bonds of blood and love seeming unbreakable.
But now her gaze fixed on one figure in particular: a younger Nathaniel, before the experiments, before Shadaloo, before the psycho power had consumed whatever remained of his soul. His smile in the painting seemed to mock her with memories of who he used to be.
A single tear traced down her cheek as she whispered to the painted image:
"Why, Nathaniel? Why did you choose this path of darkness? What happened to the brother who used to read me stories? Who taught me to be strong?" Her voice broke on the last word. "What happened to your heart?"
The painted eyes stared back at her, forever frozen in a moment of innocence that would never return. Outside her window, storm clouds gathered on the horizon, and in their dark embrace, she could almost see purple lightning crackling with the promise of coming chaos.
The psycho power had claimed another victim—not through death, but through the slower, more agonizing process of watching love transform into something unrecognizable.
And in his obsidian citadel, M. Bison stood before his own reflection, seeing not the noble prince he had once been, but the perfect weapon he had forged himself into. Power coursed through his veins like liquid fire, and he smiled.
Soon, the world would kneel before the Psycho Power Throne.
Soon, they would all understand what true strength meant.
Soon.