The first sensation was the chill of damp earth against his cheek, then the acrid tang of smoke and something else… something coppery and cloying. He should be falling, endless, silent, into oblivion. Instead, there was solid ground, a low groan nearby, and the distant, wet crunch that promised something foul.
Curious.
His eyes fluttered open, not with confusion, but with an instant, analytical assessment. Above, a bruised dawn bled purple and grey into a sky still hazy with the lingering effluvium of burning thatch and — yes, blood. The air was thick with it. He lay amidst the debris of what had once been a cottage, its timbers reduced to charred skeletons. Splintered wood, broken pottery, and the sickeningly still forms of what must have been people lay scattered around him.
A wave of fear, palpable and raw, seemed to prickle the very air, emanating from a cluster of huddled figures further down what might have been a village street. They sobbed and whispered, clutching crude implements, their faces streaked with soot and tears. Primitive, he registered. And terrified.
He moved, a sudden, jerky motion that startled even himself. The body was small, unfamiliar. The limbs felt disproportionately thin, the coordination clumsy. It was a child's body, certainly no older than six or seven years. How… quaint. No overwhelming spiritual pressure, no familiar sensation of his own limitless power, merely this fragile, fleshy vessel. Yet, the mind within was undeniably his. Sōsuke Aizen. Undiminished.
He pushed himself up, ignoring the dull ache in his small shoulder. The world tilted slightly, an unsettling lack of control over his own balance. He took a single, deliberate step, then another, moving through the wreckage. His bare feet brushed against something wet and slick. He looked down. Blood. A crimson stain spreading like a morbid flower on the packed earth.
His gaze swept over the devastation – a handful of ruined homes, overturned carts, and everywhere, that lingering, metallic scent. He saw the tracks in the mud, monstrous and deep, leading away from the village. Claws. Many claws. And a distinct, putrid odor that suggested something reptilian, perhaps with too many limbs.
"Are you... hurt, child?" a raspy voice startled him.
He turned slowly, his small head swiveling to face the speaker. It was an old woman, her face a roadmap of wrinkles, her eyes wide and bloodshot with terror and grief. She clutched a wooden spoon like a talisman. She knelt awkwardly, reaching out a trembling hand.
Aizen felt a peculiar... vibration. Not spiritual energy, not exactly. But a subtle shift in the air around him, a peculiar stillness that seemed to draw the old woman's focus away, just for a moment. Her hand faltered, her gaze drifting slightly past his shoulder as if distracted by nothing at all. Her eyes, filled with fear moments ago, now held a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of confusion, a momentary blankness. It was fleeting, gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the original terror.
Interesting. Aizen's mind cataloged the effect. A subtle alteration of perception. An innate influence on the senses. How… promising.
He said nothing, merely tilted his head. His small face, unmarred by the soot and tears that streaked the other villagers, was unnervingly calm. His eyes, the color of deep amber, held a depth that belied his age, reflecting the burning ruins without a trace of fear or sorrow.
The old woman pulled her hand back, a shiver running through her. "You're… you're alright then?" she stammered, her voice thin. She glanced around nervously, as if he radiated an unseen chill. "Best come with us. The… the things might return."
Aizen looked back at the monstrous tracks, then at the huddling villagers, their lives shattered by what they perceived as an unstoppable force. He looked at their crude tools, their terrified faces. He looked at the vast, unknown world stretching beyond the smoking ruins of this village.
A small, imperceptible smile touched the corner of his lips. This world was a blank canvas. And he was the artist. Its inhabitants, its monsters, its very fabric, would all be his. The game had truly begun. He had a great deal to learn, and even more to orchestrate