The night was thick with silence at the Arima Mansion, a sprawling estate whose walls had seen generations of whispered schemes and unspoken sins. In the deepest chamber, Isshin Arima stirred from his slumber, his breath heavy, his pulse reverberating with newfound might. Hours earlier, the heavens had trembled at the fall of Ares, the god of war, whose divine spark had been claimed by Isshin, making him the Eighth Campione. The slayer of gods. The usurper of thrones.
When Isshin opened his eyes, a cold grin crept onto his lips. His body throbbed with raw, overwhelming strength, and within that vessel, another soul shifted. It was Rocky, the transmigrator who had lived silently within Isshin. Rocky's voice had always been faint, a whisper chained by Isshin's regrets and unhealed scars, but now the two presences began to merge, flesh and soul binding like molten steel.
"At last," Rocky murmured in the silence of his mind. "Your regrets are settled. Your chains are broken. Now this body… this destiny… is mine completely."
Isshin rose from his bed, his shadow stretching unnaturally across the chamber. His laughter filled the mansion, deep and resonant, not merely human but touched by something darker. As he laughed, a dark aura erupted from his body, swirling like a storm of midnight flame. It carried the vampiric hunger of the Devil Fruit he had consumed, a cursed power that thrived on blood and shadows, fused now with the Divine Authority of Ares. The combination birthed a presence both regal and terrifying—an emperor of the night crowned with war itself.
The windows shuddered, and the candles in the room snuffed out under the oppressive force of his aura. For the first time, Isshin felt whole, his dual existence unified into a singular will. That night, under the weight of the moonlight, he stood at the precipice of his new dominion and declared with a cruel smile:
"This world shall tremble… for it belongs to me."
When dawn finally crept over the horizon, painting the mansion with pale gold, Isshin sat not as a man but as a sovereign. His call went out through unseen channels, and Sebas, the Arima family's loyal steward, answered.
Sebas had served for decades, his back bent with years, his loyalty unwavering even in the shadows of the family's darkest dealings. He entered Isshin's hidden office, a sanctum few had ever seen, where ancient tomes and weapons lined the walls. The air itself pulsed with divine residue, for this was no longer merely a study—it was a throne room of a god-slayer.
Isshin's gaze pierced Sebas with predatory intensity. "Sebas," he said, his voice both commanding and inviting. "I offer you more than servitude. I offer you the chance to become my patron, to stand not as a frail shadow of mortality but as my eternal blade."
Sebas's heart pounded. To serve Isshin was already his life's duty, but this—this was a chance to transcend death, to shed the weight of age and become something greater. With eyes burning with both fear and devotion, Sebas bowed deeply. "My lord… I am yours, in this life and all that follows."
Isshin's smile widened, fangs flashing for just an instant. "Then let the pact be sealed."
The Blood Ritual
In the heart of the office stood a ceremonial altar draped in crimson cloth. Isshin raised his hand, and from his palm flowed a rivulet of blackened blood, thick with vampiric essence and the authority of Ares. The room dimmed as shadows writhed around them. Sebas approached the altar, his old hands trembling yet resolute.
The ritual began. Isshin chanted in a language older than mankind, each syllable forging a chain between master and servant. As Sebas knelt, the black blood seeped into his veins, burning away the weakness of flesh. His body convulsed, wracked with pain, yet his soul surged with power.
Then came the fire. The divine flames of Ares burst forth, encircling Sebas in a vortex of scarlet. His screams turned to roars as his wrinkled skin smoothed, his brittle bones reforged, and his weary heart reignited with youth. Where once an old man knelt, now a warrior rose. His eyes glowed faintly red, his aura blazing with both blood and flame.
From the altar, a weapon manifested—a pair of jagged, burning blades fused at the hilt. The Blade of Chaos, forged from Ares's shattered essence, bound itself to Sebas's soul. He grasped it, and for the first time in centuries, his hands no longer shook.
"Rise, Sebas," Isshin commanded, his voice echoing with divine power. "From this day forth, you are not merely my servant. You are my Blood Servant, my flame and my shield."
Sebas bowed, tears of fervent gratitude streaking his renewed face. "My lord, my life is yours. My blood is yours. My blade is yours."
The transformation was absolute. Sebas's hair, once white and frail, now gleamed with black luster. His body, once bent with age, stood tall, muscular, and unyielding. His spirit, once chained by time, burned with purpose anew. He had been reborn not as a man but as a servant of a god-slayer, bound eternally to Isshin's will.
Isshin watched the transformation with satisfaction, his laughter echoing once more through the mansion. It was the laughter of a king whose pieces had fallen into place, of a predator who knew his dominion had only just begun.
"With you by my side, Sebas," Isshin said, leaning back into his chair as the aura of darkness and flame danced around them, "this world shall soon learn what it means to kneel. No god, no man, no empire shall stand against us."
Sebas, now a creature of blood and fire, knelt once more—not in weakness, but in absolute, unbreakable loyalty. "I exist only to serve you, my lord."
And so, within the walls of Arima Mansion, a new pact was forged—one of blood, fire, and eternal servitude. The Eighth Campione had claimed his throne, and his servant had been reborn. The world beyond still slumbered, ignorant of the storm rising within the shadows, but soon it would awaken to the rule of Isshin Arima.
On that morning, as the laughter of a god-slayer filled the halls, the age of Campione Isshin truly began.