Fanon Lore – Exclusive to the fractured echoes of UltSans
The resets continued.World after world, wipe after wipe. Humanity slaughtered—over 8 billion lives erased every cycle. UltSans, or what remained of him, had become something else entirely. A being of Hatred. But amid the carnage, one question gnawed at the depths of his broken mind:
"Where was Frisk?"
"Where are you hiding?"
"WHERE ARE YOU?!?"
His attacks were inhuman—not simply merciless, but grotesque, demonic, far beyond what could be described as sadistic. The world burned, and all that lived were torn apart in ways language couldn't contain. He didn't care. The world owed him blood, and he was taking it.
Every reset fed his rage. Every death added to his accumulating LV—Level of Violence, no longer resetting, just growing, mutating him further. His hatred wasn't just his anymore; it was humanity's, absorbed and magnified until he became the hatred itself. And still—Frisk was nowhere.
Until she was.
In the ruins of a shattered city, they stood across from one another—UltSans, and the one soul he hadn't yet judged.
The street was unrecognizable: fire consuming vehicles, buildings crumbling, and bodies strewn in unthinkable states. A canvas of mutilation, painted by his wrath.
He stood, his entire body blackened, not just the clothes, but the skin itself, cloaked in the essence of darkness. Red crimson pupils glowed, and a wide, cracked grin tore across his face like a wound that never healed.
Frisk—Lily—stood before him, trembling. Her breathing shallow and sharp, her eyes wide with terror. She wasn't a fighter anymore. Just a survivor.
She turned and ran.
And Hatred chased her.
He moved like a beast unchained—sprinting, leaping, tearing through debris and fire, his claws ripping through stone and steel. Nothing could slow him. Nothing wanted to.
Frisk darted through the nightmare of a world, her mind breaking from the things she saw—the mutilated, the screaming, the burning, everything screaming in silence, the world choking on its own destruction.
But Hatred was faster. Every turn she made, he followed. Every corner she ducked around, he crushed. And then—the bones rose.
From the ground, white spires shot up in her path. Around her, the blackened corpses began to twitch, then rise, zombified not by magic but by pure malevolence. They lurched toward her as if dragged by invisible chains.
And then—impact.
Hatred crashed down behind her, shaking the earth, sending shockwaves through the bodies and ground alike. A crater formed, and some of the corpses collapsed under the force.
He began to melt.
From the waist down, his body became a black tar-like pool, spreading across the ground like sentient death. His form expanded, stretching, warping—his arms extending unnaturally, parts of him growing in violent bursts. His tentacles grew, thick and coiling, and his bones morphed, jagged, grotesque, mutated by hatred.
He raised a clawed hand and swung down. Frisk dodged—but not far enough. One of the corpses shoved her backward, and her left arm was torn halfway off, hanging by threads.
She stopped running.She knew she couldn't escape.
So she faced him.
The fight began—but it wasn't really a fight. It was a plea. Frisk dodged, ducked, and weaved between attacks, trying to reach something… anything left inside him. Her voice cracked as she called out. Her hands trembled as she held them up to Spare.
And strangely, the corpses didn't interfere.They watched. They lingered.Almost like they were waiting too.
Frisk moved to the center of the ruined street, face to face with the monster he had become. Tears mixed with blood on her face. She raised her hand.
Frisk:"I'm sorry, Sans…"
And Hatred, without pause, swung again.
[Next Scene]
Frisk collapsed to her knees. Then—her body gave out. But before she hit the ground, UltSans caught her, stepping forward to hold her up, his large hand gripping her shoulder.
He pulled her close, her barely living form pressed to his bloodstained chest. His voice, no longer monstrous, but low… cold… certain.
UltSans:"I'm sorry, Frisk… but I'll make sure... your judgement is endless."
He reached into her chest, gripped her soul, and absorbed it.
That was the end of Frisk. Or rather, the beginning of something worse.
From that moment on, she became something eternal.
No longer human. No longer alive. Now known as:
The Judged Phantom.
A soul forever trapped in the cycle of consequences.Her punishment is never-ending.Just like his hatred.
Frisk's Eternal Torment
"There is no heaven for you. Only Him."
When Frisk's soul was absorbed by UltSans, she didn't die.She entered a place worse than death.An endless hell, where her tormentor—once a friend, once someone who stood for her—became her eternal executioner.
But this…This is no longer UltSans.What lives here is hatred in human form, a corrupted soul who became a demon beyond recognition—driven not just by pain, but by principle: every soul must be judged.
And hers?Deserved no mercy.
🩸 The Void of Judgment
In this twisted void, Frisk is forced to run endlessly. Not through space—but through mental collapse. She runs on what feels like solid ground, but never gets anywhere. Time doesn't pass. Moments don't change. The world is on fire, but it's not for effect—it's background noise, like a broken simulation, mocking her suffering with distractions.
She dies.Over and over.In unimaginable ways.
And yet, she wakes back up.Still running.Still trapped.
Her soul is tormented by hallucinations—visions of her friends, of laughter, of peace—just to be shredded before her eyes.Her body breaks. Her mind breaks harder.But nothing hurts more than the mockery of what they used to be.
👁️ The Demon Who Watches
Eventually, he appears.Still shaped like UltSans.Still looking like him.
But it's not him.Not anymore.
He stands still. Unmoving. Watching her.Then it begins.
Clones, ghosts, apparitions—distorted versions of him, more transparent, flashing, always in the corner of her vision. Some kill her.Others just jumpscare her.Some simply whisper—not words, but reminders.
"You did this.""You chose this.""You broke him."
One by one, they reprogram her sanity. Not to erase it, but to warp it.
🔥 His True Form Awakens
His bones begin to blacken.His skin melts into shadows.Tentacles sprout and drag behind him like trails of sludge.
He becomes his Hatred Form, then grows further—melted waist, colossal height, more monster than man.
And when all seems to reach its limit—A blinding white beam erases everything.
That's when Frisk sees the truth.This was never about her.It was about something bigger.
Final Descent
After UltSans, now fully consumed by hatred, transformed into his colossal molten form, the souls of all humanity—over eight billion lives taken—suddenly appeared.
Suspended in the void like lights in a black sea.Flickering. Waiting.Then—He consumed them all.
In one movement, they vanished into him, and a blinding white beam erupted, engulfing everything.Frisk screamed, but no sound came out.Her vision vanished in white.
And then—She could see again.But what stood before her now was not UltSans.
God Form UltSans
There is no name for this form. No label. No title.Because what stands before her is not something that can be named.
A cosmic skeleton, towering far beyond the horizon, rising into the sky, far above any cloud or structure, blotting out everything behind it.Its body is unreal—burning with divine radiance, yet dripping in dark, melting corruption.
Wings spread from his back—not feathered, but shaped from raw light, each lined with shifting eyes that open and close slowly, silently watching.Some blink gently, others remain wide and unblinking, pupils shimmering in shifting rainbows, endless, reflective, like portals into every soul he has devoured.
His face distorts constantly—sometimes calm, expressionless, and humanoid.Other times, just a mass of infinite eyes, gazing from every direction, locking onto her with an impossible focus.There is no escape from his gaze.
The wings, massive and divine, carry rows of souls, each encased in flickering crystal hearts, gently glowing—every human he killed, suspended not in peace, but in containment.They pulse with rhythm—each one beating in sync with his will.
This is not UltSans.This is what he became when there was nothing left but purpose and hate.This is godhood through genocide.
Hell, Reforged
The world around Frisk begins to twist.Gravity collapses.Time loops.The environment spins, flips, crumbles.Mountains split in two, then reform upside-down.The sky breaks into shards.The world rotates in random angles, spinning like broken machinery.
Her mind fractures, overloads, rebels against reality—but nothing helps. She is caught in a storm of torment, built by the mind of a god who hates her more than anything.
Shadows of UltSans appear and disappear. Some stab, some scream, some simply watch.
She can't move anymore.She doesn't know what she's running from.Or if she ever moved at all.
The Final End – Or Not
Finally, he's done.He no longer moves.He no longer speaks.
Strings emerge—from his fingers, from his ribs, from his eyes, from nothing.They snake through the air, piercing her body—through her arms, legs, right through her torso.They lift her—like a broken marionette.She cannot scream.
And then, they pull.Not to bind—But to tear.
Her body is shredded—limb from limb, in a slow, methodical motion, like he's dissecting a soul that never deserved to be whole.Mutilated beyond thought.Split.Broken.Erased.
Her hell ends, not with fire, not with silence—But with being unmade by the one who once defended her.
And then—Nothing.
Is it over?Was that the end?
A whisper lingers—Not from him,But from her.
"...I deserved this..."