The town, if the dwellings near the tavern and inn could even be called that, didn't offer much, but thanks to multiple drunken sailor conversations from the night before, Aizen now had relevant information about the structure of this island and knew that in the opposite direction from where he had come there was a city, a real one, with a commercial structure as its livelihood. Right now, they were almost at one of the foci of the ellipse that was this island. If he continued, he could find the city. He just had to move forward. There was another city there, a city known for its seaport. He didn't have time, but getting adequate supplies like clothing was important and was impossible in the small dwellings scattered near the tavern, or at least it was impossible to get anything more than simple rags.
As he headed towards the new city, now with an objective accomplished, restoring some of his strength and some real rest, his mind had been freed thanks to the large amount of time his journey through the forests surrounding the plain took. It was undoubtedly a strange island, and that It made me think about her situation.
Since arriving in this world, every detail seemed like a grotesque caricature of what an advanced civilization should be. It was impossible not to look with disdain at the absurd geographic fragmentation that defined the place. A collection of scattered islands, separated by vast oceans known as the Blues, which in turn were infested with enormous creatures called sea kings, with a line of land running through the planet like a scar: the Red Line. What kind of aberrant design could give rise to such a configuration? It made a mockery of any notion of natural order.
"A world divided by water... fragmented like pieces of a poorly assembled puzzle. Each Blue Line seems like an independent prison, a cage of water that limits development and expansion. And the Red Line? A monumental obstacle that separates things even further. If this is what they call geographical structure, then this world is doomed to eternal mediocrity."
During his stay at the tavern, he had listened to the conversations of sailors and merchants, men who boasted of having survived the perilous sea routes. Pirates, storms, outsized sea creatures… Was this what they called progress? Each island, isolated by its own natural barriers, seemed to function like small, independent fiefdoms, each with its own laws, cultures, and climates. How could a civilization thrive in such a chaotic environment? Some islands remained eternally covered in snow, while others, just a few miles away, were scorching deserts. It was a system that not only lacked efficiency, but seemed designed to perpetuate division and conflict. "Has anyone ever heard of the concept of natural order? A planet that follows coherent laws shouldn't behave this way. This isn't evolution; it's sustained chaos, an anomaly that defies all logic. The Blues are liquid prisons, and the Red Line is nothing more than a wall perpetuating segregation, and the Grand Line is a perpetual battlefield. How could anyone unify something so inherently dysfunctional? It's ridiculous."
The lack of cohesion was evident on every level. The Blues, separated by the Grand Line and the Red Line, were nothing more than silos that hindered cultural and economic exchange, keeping the world in a state of darkness. Even the most dangerous seas, like the Grand Line, only accentuated the disparity between the islands. This world wasn't an integrated system; it was a collection of competing fragments, a game board designed for eternal conflict. For someone like him, accustomed to perfection and control, this place was nothing more than a failed experiment.
As these thoughts passed through his mind, he suddenly stopped and looked around while his brain formed lines,
"A world like that..."
"Ahhh, who would have thought? After all, the world doesn't matter, does it? Hahaha, how fun."
During his thoughts, multiple leaves fell from the trees around him like an autumn rain. As this happened and his thoughts settled, his face went from a tired look to a real laugh that suddenly stopped, as if the multiple pieces were concentrating on one piece that revealed a great secret. After all, he had been a god, and seeing this world, all he could think about was how this whole world encouraged certain actions that were very convenient, as if there was something or someone behind it all. With a sigh, he decided to leave that part aside. He had to walk before flying and, in turn, check out certain things he had heard.
He continued on his way and continued thinking about this world specifically. The place where he was was the Grand Line, an infamous maritime strip that crossed the planet like an untamed serpent. This sea, with its unpredictable currents and extreme climates, only added another layer of disorder to the general chaos. Stories about the Grand Line were almost mythical: a place where the laws of nature seemed to bend and where only the strongest, or the most reckless, managed to survive. How could a civilization depend on such a volatile system to connect its most important parts? It was further proof of the lack of logic that permeated this world, or of a controlled aberration.
As he advanced through the forest, through the autumn leaves and the rays of light that filtered through the treetops, he continued to use his faulty shunpo, parallel thinking. A part of his mind remained alert, studying the slight changes in his reiatsu and how he could improve them. More power, a stumble and loss of control; less power, no speed. Depending on how he changed the amount of reiatsu he used, two effects occurred. The other variables were channeling. If he left it free, it would flow irregularly and alter the trajectory. If he concentrated it, it was like a tied gear that didn't turn and failed mid-motion. This had become more of a game of control and management. In a way, he liked that. Although his weakness was detestable, if his reiatsu had been what it had been before, he would never have been able to properly tame it due to the large amount of it. Now that wasn't a big problem. But he was getting stronger and his control wasn't improving much, unfortunately.
While he was analyzing the changes and how to improve them, the other part of his mind was preparing to study the information.
Days later
Aizen kept moving, his determination strong as he moved. He closed his eyes, letting his mind immerse himself in the flow of Reiatsu from his body to his feet, and in the rumors he had gathered about this peculiar, inferior world. Magical fruits, they said. Grotesque objects that granted extraordinary, almost divine abilities... but at such a laughable price that he couldn't help but feel contempt. The inability to face water, the most abundant element in this world. It was simply a joke. How pathetic.
A cold, calculating smile spread across his lips, as if he were contemplating a sick joke told by an incompetent buffoon. "What vulgar irony," he murmured, his voice imbued with a tone of absolute superiority. "They grant power, yes, but in exchange for a weakness so crass it borders on the absurd. It's almost an insult to intelligence. A contract only a fool would accept. How can anyone depend on something as volatile as the sea, when this entire world is built around it? It's as if its very existence is designed to fail."
His gaze lifted to the horizon, as if he could see through the forests and even the oceans, assessing the men and women who boasted these skills. Remembering how they told stories, his face now tinged with a deeper contempt. "Men who turn into fire, who manipulate gravity, who split mountains with a single gesture. Powers that transform the very structure of the body, granting abilities that defy natural laws. And in return? A simple weakness in the face of the sea... How ironic. In this world, the ocean encompasses everything, and yet its most powerful warriors accept being its slaves in order to gain strength. Ridiculous, indeed. It's almost poetic, don't you think? As if the world itself repudiated them, as if nature mocked their arrogance."
Aizen stopped dead in his tracks for a moment, leaving a faint line of where his now more controlled shunpo had taken him. He had begun to improve his control through trial and error, but he sacrificed his speed to less than a fifth of what it was when he was herratic, a decision based on an idea that he greatly disliked. If he was going to achieve it, he would have to do it like anyone else, from scratch, like any rookie would. Even so, he consoled himself with the knowledge that even among rookies, he was still quite skilled. All to then scold himself in an internal conflict that continued to grow within him. A unique duality: the remnant of the GOD and what was LEFT of him, two equal opposites that he decided to ignore as much as possible, especially now that certain thoughts from his past life were settling in. While he stood in the middle of the static path as if considering a theory, brought on by an ancient memory and consideration. The slight clash of the leaves that The wind didn't bother Aizen; his mind was drifting far beyond. It wasn't the islands on the horizon, nor the rumors of pirates or absurd fruits that occupied his attention a few moments ago. It was an ancient memory. A theory, and a face. A figure of integrity and power: Kaien Shiba.
"Kaien..."
The name emerged in his mind with unexpected clarity. It was like the fleeting flash of a well-sharpened sword. He remembered it not with nostalgia or appreciation, but as a point of reference. A pillar that, though scorned by many, concealed a potential that even he, in his arrogance, had learned to recognize.
If Kaien had come to this world... What a waste it would be to allow the vulgarity of a Devil Fruit to corrupt the purity of his Zanpakutō. His Nejibana, capable of manipulating water into complex, ever-changing shapes, was not only a manifestation of his soul, but a perfect tool of adaptation in a world composed almost entirely of sea.
Aizen crossed his arms as the breeze caressed his face. In his mind, he constructed a scenario: Kaien, standing atop a ship's mast, extending his spiraling spear as the surrounding water rose in deadly columns, dancing obediently under his will.
"In this world... he would have been an ocean god." Ironically, this idea didn't bother him much. In this world, if anyone besides himself deserved to bear that title, it would be Kaien. Besides, if the opportunity arose, having him as an ally in this world would be enough for him to consider letting him rule the sea at least.
The irony was delicious. Here, where humans devour cursed fruits and lose their ability to swim—the most basic gift of marine existence—Kaien wouldn't have needed to sacrifice anything. His power didn't come from a fruit, but from his very soul. His connection to water wasn't an external concession, but a manifestation of his essence.
Aizen narrowed his eyes, watching the sun's reflection on one of the streams along the road.
"These fruits... How rudimentary they are. Power in exchange for weakness. Grotesque transformations. Unnecessary limitations. If Kaien had been born here, they would have tried to seduce him with one of those fruits. Perhaps a water one, if such a thing exists. But he wouldn't have needed it. Nejibana... would be more than enough."
And, as always, Aizen wondered how he himself would have used that gift, had he been in Kaien's place. Because, although Kaien used his power with noble purpose, with justice in his heart and a simple mind, Aizen would have taken that same ability to more sublime and terrifying heights.
"Turning these seas into weapons. Channeling the ocean into spears that pierce entire fleets. Drowned entire islands beneath whirlpools created with a whisper. The manipulation of water, when it's part of oneself, is unrivaled. It's a dance with death... how interesting that would be."
His inner voice grew calmer, more confident. And a smile took hold of him at the thought of having all that power again, albeit manifested in another way.
"Water is ubiquitous in this world. The Devil Fruit transforms bodies and brute force. But the Zanpakutō transforms existence itself, channels the will, the soul. And Kaien... however limited he was by his morality, he possessed one of the most dangerous tools for this world. If only he'd had my ambition."
Aizen looked down at the sea, considering this. In Soul Society, there would have been two paths: a rival for the throne or a very useful ally. But in this world today, he would undoubtedly have been the undisputed king. Without shikai and kido, there would be no way to beat him. Even so, I would surely have had a lot of fun, he thought with a barely perceptible smile on his lips.
"Perhaps, one day, someone like him will emerge here. Though I doubt it. This world rewards brutality and punishes introspection. Kaien would have been a beacon among fools. And I, as always, would have extinguished that light when it was no longer useful."
Aizen paused, letting the silence charged with his presence fill the air, before continuing in a lower voice, more dangerous now considering this variable in a world like this. "True power," he said, with a certainty only someone like him could possess, "has no loopholes. It is not tied to absurd conditions or grotesque prices." An unusual pang crossed his conscience.
"Perhaps... I have been unfair."
Not to Kaien. His analysis had been accurate: Kaien possessed a connection to water that fit perfectly in this environment. But when he compared it to his own ambition, when he imagined how he would have used Nejibana... he had overlooked something fundamental. Something that hung at his waist at that very moment: Kyōka Suigetsu.
Aizen slowly lowered his gaze to his Zanpakutō. The hilt rested calmly, as if it were also meditating, but at the same time, he could feel a slight tug as if it were complaining about him. Far from making him feel bad, it gave him a peace of mind that drew a calm expression from him, as if it, too, was waiting to be heard. It had given him a sign, and that was enough: knowing that it was still there and that soon, everything could return to how it should be. A perfect illusion. A world built within the world. It didn't need waves or whirlpools. It didn't require the roar of the sea to impose its will.
"I... was also born with the perfect weapon for this world. Only my war is not with the waters, but with the minds that control them."
A strange, almost unfamiliar feeling surfaced in his chest. Guilt? Maybe. Not because he underestimated Kaien, but because he had momentarily forgotten the true power of his own soul. He had imagined a subdued sea, submerged islands, but he realized that he didn't need to transform the landscape. He just needed everyone to believe he'd already done it.
"Kyōka Suigetsu doesn't change the environment... she changes perception. And in a world where perception is law, how can anyone resist my truth? And that's what makes me a true god, isn't it? And..."
He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes slowly closed. The guilt didn't disappear entirely, but it transformed. It reconfigured itself into respect. For Kaien and his power. But also, and more importantly, for himself. For the subtlety of Kyōka Suigetsu. For the complexity of a soul that preferred to shape realities rather than destroy them.
"I don't need to drown this world. Just make it believe it's already sunk."
And with that thought, Aizen smiled. No longer with irony, but with a serenity possessed only by those who know the full extent of their reflection.
His eyes narrowed. "For now, my power lies dormant, like a dragon resting before the hunt. But when I awaken, when I claim what is rightfully mine, neither your sea nor your rotten fruit will be able to stand against it. This world, with all its limitations and pathetic rules, is not ready for someone like me. And when the time comes, you will kneel. All of you."
A few days later
Aizen's POV
After days of walking, he had finally managed to enter a port city. From a distance, it was enormous, and he could see it rising from the coast like a gigantic monster. When he first saw it in the distance, it rose against the horizon like a gigantic creature, its buildings packed like scales and the ship's masts rising like the spines of a sleeping monster. There was something brutally honest about that disordered architecture, as if the city itself weren't ashamed of its chaotic birth.
As he delved deeper into the city, he began to feel out of place, as if something in that very world was rejecting him, his very existence. Shaking his head, he decided to focus on The Weight of Coins, which gave him an unusual sense of stability. There was something almost poetic about the sense of stability they provided. For someone who had manipulated entire worlds, it was ironic that he now felt something resembling calm thanks to a handful of metal. "I guess even gods need a good start in a new world," he thought, with a hint of self-mockery. The first investment was a sturdy leather pouch to hold the money. Here on this island, at least, there was no paper money; metal was everything, and the jingling of coins could attract both admiration and disgrace. He tucked the pouch against his chest, beneath his clothes, as if with it he could protect not only his money, but also his new beginning.
Then came breakfast. Warm eggs with thick yolks, a slice of ham glistening with fat, soft bread still warm, golden honey thickening, and creamy butter melting in the heat. The freshly ground coffee was strong, a little harsh, but comforting. It cost five iron coins. Looking around and seeing how it looked, it might have been a simple meal to anyone, but at that moment, he considered it a feast fit for a king... or at least for someone who had just landed in a "new world." "Definitely the best meal I've ever had in this world," he thought sarcastically, a barely perceptible smile crossing his face at the grace of her words and the situation.
It felt strange to be sitting at a table, eating with a knife and fork. Strange to be surrounded by people. Strange to have someone serve me food. It was as if I were trapped in an ancient but unfamiliar, deeply human reality. As I dipped the last remnants of my breakfast into the last piece of bread, I realized I had a problem. Even in that shabby inn, I was attracting too much attention.
The clothes I'd brought with me when I came to this world, my shinigami uniform, were hidden under a makeshift cloak made of cloth I'd found by chance while seeking shelter a few days ago. Now, that cloak was full of tears, the result of my confrontation with the wolf. Stains of dried blood and the accumulated dirt from failed shunpo covered me like a second layer of clothing. The musty smell permeated every fiber, and was beginning to become evident to anyone nearby, thanks to the nights I couldn't find adequate shelter.
I pondered. What was better for me, buying new clothes or taking a bath? If I bathed first, I'd have to put my old clothes back on, which wouldn't help much. On the other hand, if I tried to buy clothes looking the way I was right now, I might not even be allowed in a store. And I seriously doubted anyone would be willing to take measurements on me in that state.
The innkeeper came over to collect my plate, and at that moment I made a decision. The bath would come first, especially since I'd been fed up with smelling like a dead rat for a week. I smiled at him somewhat ironically, as if that gesture could hide the mess I looked like.
"Is there anywhere near here to take a bath?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
"Right here, if you have a couple of coins," the innkeeper replied, looking me up and down with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. "Or in exchange for an hour's work. An hour of hard work. The chimney needs cleaning."
"I'll need a lot of soap and water," I added, aware of my deplorable state.
"Then it'll be two hours, because I also have dishes to wash. First the chimney, then the dishes, and finally the bath. Okay?"
I had no choice. An hour later, my shoulders were burning from the exertion and the chimney was spotless. Although my body still felt the ravages of youth and the lack of sustenance, I noticed something peculiar: a faint connection with my reishi was beginning to resurface—not increasing, but I could feel it more clearly now, as if my spiritual energy were slowly adapting to the conditions of this world. As I pondered this sensation, the innkeeper led me to a back room.
The place was simple but functional. A large wooden tub occupied the center, while a grate on the floor served to drain the water. The walls were adorned with hooks for hanging clothes, and a sheet of tin nailed to the wall covered the rudimentary mirror paper. The innkeeper handed me a brush, a bucket filled with steaming water, and a bar of bleach soap. For some reason, it felt nostalgic, evoking a feeling of fun, as if this moment marked not only the beginning of my life in this world, but also a kind of restoration of my power in the previous world. I scrubbed vigorously, leaving my skin pink and slightly sore. The innkeeper wordlessly brought me more buckets of hot water. I silently thanked myself for not being ridden with lice; surely my filth was so extreme that not even those parasites would dare settle on me.
When I finished rinsing, I looked at the clothes I had set aside. I thought about the contrast between my refreshed appearance and those worn garments. I dried and detangled my hair with the brush. Then, I wiped the steam from the makeshift mirror and examined myself closely. My face looked like that of a young nobleman: pale, thin, with long, well-groomed hair. I was tall for my age. All that was missing was the right clothes to complete the picture.
Still naked, I wrapped a towel around myself and went out the back door. I grabbed my money bag, but hid it. It was almost noon, and there were people everywhere. Many passersby looked at me, of course; I ignored them and walked briskly, without trying to hide. I put on an angry, impassive expression, without a trace of shame.
I approached a father and son loading burlap sacks onto a cart. The son was probably four years older than me, and I could reach his jaw.
"Hey, kid," I snapped, "where can you buy some clothes around here?" I looked pointedly at his shirt and added, "Decent clothes."
The boy looked at me, somewhere between confused and angry. His father quickly took off his hat and stood in front of his son.
"You could try Bentley, sir. They sell simple clothes, but it's only a couple of blocks from here."
I made a disgusted face.
"Isn't there anywhere else?"
He stared at me.
"Well, maybe... there's a shop..."
I silenced him with an impatient gesture.
"Where is it? Just point, since you're lost in thought."
The man pointed, and I started walking with long strides. As I walked, I remembered one of the children I'd seen passing by that morning and some things from a long time ago, a small woman with violet eyes who, once saved by her friend during her stay in recovery, talked nonstop about absurd stories she'd read while recovering. Books full of exaggerated drawings, school dramas, impossible romances, and gestures that defied all emotional logic. She called them "shoujo manga." I had despised them... and yet, now, one of those caricature-like roles served a noble villain who wanted to thwart the love of the protagonist. That role was perfect.
I lifted my chin, adjusted my shoulders a little, and made a couple of mental adjustments. I opened the door and burst into the shop. There was a man in a leather apron; I presumed it must be Bentley. He was about forty, thin, and balding. When the door slammed against the wall, Bentley jumped. He turned and looked at me in disbelief.
"Bring me a dressing gown, you useless fool. I'm sick of you staring at me with your mouths open, you and all the other idiots who decided to go to the market today." I settled into an armchair and frowned. When the man didn't move, I glared at him. "Can't you understand me when I speak?" "Aren't my needs obvious?" I tugged at the edge of the towel to make it clear.
The man still stood there, mouth agape. I lowered my voice and, in a threatening tone, said, "If you don't bring me something to wear," I stood up and shouted, "I'll destroy your shop! I'll ask my father for your hands as a gift. I'll have you hanged. Do you have any idea WHO I AM?"
Bentley hurried off, and I sank back into my chair. A customer I hadn't seen before hurried out of the shop, pausing for a moment to curtsy.
I stifled my laughter. After that, it was all very easy. I spent half an hour running around, bringing in one item after another. I mocked the fabric, the cut, and the workmanship of everything she presented to me. In short, I behaved like the perfect spoiled brat—hehehe, well, now I understand that woman—I said, recalling that woman's actions with her companion in front of their human friends.
The man continued working because it was always the same; the children of nobles are one of the most destructive forces of nature, like floods or tornadoes. When an ordinary person faces one of those catastrophes, all they can do is endure and try to minimize the damage. Bentley knew this. He marked my shirt and pants and helped me take them off. I put back on the dressing gown he'd given me, and he began sewing as if a demon were watching him.
I sat back down, with the same elegance with which a nobleman would occupy his throne. I made a sweeping gesture with one hand, as if inviting someone to confession.
"You can ask me," I said with a half smile. "I know you're dying of curiosity."
Bentley, who was sewing silently, barely looked up. His face was a mixture of discretion and resignation.
"Sir?"
"The circumstances that have led to my current nakedness, of course."
"Ah." He carefully cut the thread. "I admit I'm a little curious, but no more than is appropriate. I don't usually pry into other people's business."
"An admirable position." I nodded, feigning mild disappointment.
A long silence followed, where the only sound was the thread piercing the fabric. My fingers patiently tapped the arm of the chair. Finally, as if he had asked insistently, I continued:
"A woman has stolen my clothes."
Bentley raised his head, a flicker of genuine interest crossing his face.
"Really, sir?"
"Yes. A woman with intense eyes and sharp words. She pretended to be fragile, as many do, but in reality..." I paused for a second, letting the theatrics do their work, "she had a razor's edge hidden in her smile. She intended to return my clothes in exchange for my purse. She wanted to buy a rabbit, supposedly."
Bentley frowned.
"Didn't you have the purse in your clothes, sir?"
"Of course not!" I put on a mock-shocked face. "My father used to say: a gentleman should never be separated from his purse. And I follow that teaching devotedly." I took out the purse, showed it briefly.
I saw Bentley suppress a laugh. It didn't bother me. In fact, it was exactly what he wanted. I'd been subjecting him to a tug-of-war for almost an hour; the least I could do was give him a curious anecdote to share with his friends later.
"she told me if I wanted to keep my dignity, I should give him the money to buy a chapi . Then I could leave with my clothes on." I paused theatrically. "Shameless," I said. "A gentleman's dignity isn't in his clothes. If I handed you my purse just to avoid embarrassment, I'd be giving you my dignity."
Bentley roared with laughter and ended up coughing. Then he stood up and shook out a long-sleeved black button-down shirt and matching trousers with a a cape. "There, sir. They'll fit you like a glove now."
The hint of a smile touched his lips as he handed me the garments.
I took off my dressing gown and stepped into the trousers.
"I suppose I'm being taken home. What do I owe you, Bentley?" I asked.
Bentley thought for a moment.
"One and two."
I started to button up my shirt and said nothing.
"I'm sorry, sir," Bentley said quickly. "I forgot who I was talking to." He swallowed. "One will do."
I opened my purse, placed a silver coin in his hand, and looked him in the eye.
"I'll need some change."
His lips thinned, but he nodded and handed me back two smaller coins.
I pocketed the coins and tied my purse securely under my shirt; I patted him and looked meaningfully at Bentley.
I saw the smile again.
"Goodbye, sir."
I picked up my towel, left the shop, and, looking less suspicious, headed
toward the inn where I had breakfast and bathed. "What can I get you, young master?" the innkeeper asked when I approached the counter.
He smiled at me and wiped his hands on his apron.
"I think you have something of mine that I left here."
He squinted at me; then he smiled and laughed.
"There used to be more dirt than person. And I'd bet a gold coin your hair was black. You certainly don't look the same." He regarded me for a moment, amazed. "Do you want your old clothes?"
"Yes, please. It's rather sentimental, but I'd still like something more important back."
The innkeeper nodded and tapped the side of his nose.
"Of course. Just a second." He turned and disappeared through a door behind the bar.
I glanced around the tavern, and it seemed different now that it no longer attracted so many hostile glances. The stone fireplace with the boiling black kettle; the slightly acrid smells of varnished wood and spilled ale; the faint murmur of conversation…
"Here you are." The innkeeper placed a small wooden log on the bar. "I must admit this puzzled me almost as much as you leaving without your clothes."
"My pet peeve," I explained.
The innkeeper raised an eyebrow. He waited a bit to see if I would explain further, and then I left without an answer.
While outside, free from all the pressure and stares, I entered a dark alley and grabbed the log, splitting it vertically with a light blow, revealing Kyoka Suigetsu.
"Well, I think it's time to go."
With the blade sheathed again and the cloak tucked away, hiding it from anyone's naked eye, I set off, disappearing into the city's cobblestone streets, leaving behind yet another scenario on the board of this new world.