Chapter 1: Rise of the Foot Clan
High above the war-scarred wastelands, a sleek black aircraft soared through the clouds. Inside sat Bartley Asprius, a Britannian nobleman wracked with dread. He dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief, each second dragging closer to the inevitable. He had been summoned by a royal—no, something far worse.
Prince Clovis was dead—killed by a masked rebel known only as Zero—and Bartley feared that his own head would be next.
A voice crackled from the cockpit. "Entering Area 12. Prepare for landing."
Bartley swallowed hard. Through the window, he saw what was once the Australian desert. Now it was a fortress—the latest outpost of Britannian conquest, serving as both weapons testing grounds and the secret base of a feared warlord. As they approached the coastline, he saw it: a stronghold crawling with Foot Clan soldiers.
The aircraft landed with mechanical precision. When the doors opened, Bartley was greeted by several guards and a tall man in a dark armored suit. On his chest was the unmistakable mark of the Foot Clan—a red clawed foot over a crescent moon.
"He's expecting you," the man said coldly.
Bartley followed, his footsteps echoing with dread. The rumors about Viktor, the prince who had abandoned his name to become the new Shredder, were whispered in fear. He had slaughtered nobles, defied the Britannian throne, and rebuilt the Foot Clan into a paramilitary force feared across the globe.
Inside the fortress, they passed through vast training grounds. Foot Clan soldiers practiced with bladed weapons and advanced tech. Behind secure glass, scientists conducted horrifying experiments—testing weaponry on captured criminals. Bartley turned away as one prisoner begged for mercy, only to be vaporized by a pulse cannon.
Finally, they arrived at the throne room. Twin metal doors opened to reveal Viktor, now Shredder, seated atop a throne of iron and shadows. His armor gleamed, and his spiked helmet cast a long shadow across the marble floor.
"Bartley Asprius," he said, voice low and dangerous. "You must be exhausted from the journey. Sit."
A soldier dragged a chair into place before the throne. Bartley bowed deeply and took the seat, his hands trembling.
Shredder stood and slowly circled him.
"Tell me, Asprius… What did you think of my father's final speech?" He clicked a remote, and a large screen descended, playing a recording of the Emperor's broadcast.
"It was... moving," Bartley stammered.
"Was it?" Shredder said with a sneer. "Strange. Not a single mention of my brother—the one you left to die."
Before Bartley could respond, the chair was kicked out from under him. He landed hard, staring up at the looming figure.
"My father speaks of unity while our enemies gather in the shadows. And you fools keep numbering them as 'Areas' while ignoring the cultures you crush. That arrogance gave rise to Zero."
He stepped forward, his armored boots thudding ominously.
"You and Clovis underestimated them. Now Clovis is a corpse."
Shredder returned to his throne, voice calm but edged with fury. "Now tell me. Why was my brother in the Shinjuku Ghetto? And don't lie—because if you do, I'll feed your carcass to my hounds."
"Y-Yes, my lord," Bartley stuttered. "He was conducting... experiments. A test subject escaped. He tried to cover it up with a gas attack—"
Shredder's voice cut through like a blade. "Poison gas. A pathetic excuse. Do you have proof?"
Still sprawled on the floor, Bartley fumbled through his coat and pulled out several photos. Shredder examined them—images of a young woman undergoing cruel tests.
"Where is she now?" he asked coldly.
"I... I don't know, my lord. She vanished during the uprising—b-but I swear we're searching—"
A silver flash. Blood sprayed across the white floor. Bartley clutched at the deep cut across his throat, gurgled once, and died.
Shredder stood over him, sword still humming with energy. He calmly wiped the blade and sheathed it.
"Remove this filth."
Later: The Foot Clan Control Room
Shredder entered the control room. At once, his Foot Clan soldiers rose from their stations.
"Hail Shredder!"
He offered a silent nod, striding past them. The screen displayed footage from the Battle of Shinjuku Ghetto. Fires raged. Corpses lay piled in alleys. He stared at it—disgusted by the waste.
"Who governs Japan now?" he asked, still refusing to call it Area 11.
"Princess Euphemia, sir. Her elder sister Cornelia is en route to support her."
He exhaled sharply. "Contact them. I want a direct line."
Moments later, the faces of both sisters appeared on the screen. Euphemia smiled brightly.
"Brother! It's so good to see you! I hope—"
"Spare me your kindness," Shredder interrupted. "This isn't a family reunion."
Her smile faltered. Cornelia remained stone-faced, arms crossed.
"I want to assume command of Japan," Shredder said. "You both know I'm more suited for it than any of our siblings."
Cornelia stepped forward, voice sharp. "You overstep, Viktor. Whatever you think of the Empire, you are still Britannian. And it's not Japan anymore. It's Area 11."
Shredder's voice dripped with contempt. "Yes. I know. I'm reminded every day that I was born into a decaying empire of cowards and bigots. But I'll call it what it is. Japan."
Euphemia raised her hands. "Please, both of you. This isn't helping. Viktor, what you're asking would take time—and technically, I was assigned to this role."
She paused, then added with hopeful diplomacy, "But... maybe we can rule it together. That way, we both have a say."
Shredder considered it. "Very well. But I will act according to my own laws."
Euphemia sighed in relief. Cornelia narrowed her eyes.
"But know this," he added, voice growing darker, "this will be a Foot Clan operation. If either of you interferes—"
"I will kill you both."
Cornelia's jaw clenched. Euphemia looked devastated, tears forming at the edges of her eyes.
"Shredder out."
The screen went black.
Euphemia's Quarters
Euphemia sat alone in her chambers, gazing at a faded painting of the Britannian royal family. Viktor stood among them, unmasked and smiling—before the armor, before the war.
She touched his image gently.
"Why... Why do you hate us so much, brother?"