Aizen Sōsuke, male, age twenty — registered citizen of Konohagakure.
An orphan adopted by Konoha's public orphanage, later sent to the Ninja Academy for training. He graduated three years later with perfectly average marks and was assigned to standard shinobi duties.
On record, his file was spotless — perhaps too spotless. Among all the shinobi of the village, none had a cleaner background than him. Raised since infancy under the surveillance of both the ANBU and the Foundation, he was considered the very image of a true-born Konoha loyalist — pure, untainted, unquestionable.
But of course, if anyone could peer into his heart, they would realize — this man was anything but ordinary.
Because the Aizen Sōsuke now living in Konoha… wasn't this world's Aizen.
In truth, he wasn't even the Aizen from the Bleach universe.
His current state was eerily similar to someone he once admired greatly — Kurosaki Ichigo.
Within him existed three overlapping selves:
The Aizen Sōsuke of the Soul Society,
The Aizen Sōsuke of Konoha,
And the modern young man who once lived in the real world.
It was the fusion of these three that gave birth to the new him.
...
Before awakening in this world, he had been an ordinary man — a devoted Bleach fan.
When he realized he had transmigrated into Konoha, even he couldn't help wondering:
Did I end up in the wrong world?
Logically speaking, wasn't a transmigrator supposed to land in the world of the series they loved most? Shouldn't he have arrived in Soul Society, perhaps even with the memories of "Thousand-Year Blood War" Aizen, defying the law as some reborn version of the traitor captain?
But Naruto?
He hadn't even watched it properly.
All he knew were vague rumors — strange alien enemies, moon goddesses, chakra conspiracies — the kind of absurd escalation you hear about but never take seriously.
"Why the hell are there aliens in a ninja world?"
At first, his curiosity was piqued. But after Thousand-Year Blood War ended abruptly and he himself grew busy with work, that passion quietly faded away.
Until one day, he heard that Bleach was continuing. That Aizen would return.
And the excitement he hadn't felt in years came rushing back.
He remembered that night clearly — sitting in his home theater, the projector glowing, a glass of wine in hand.
Aizen appeared on-screen — calm, immaculate, divine.
Then everything went black.
When he woke up again, he was a student of the Konoha Ninja Academy.
Name: Aizen Sōsuke.
And in his mind were the complete memories of Thousand-Year Blood War Aizen.
Perhaps, in some inexplicable way, the real Aizen had dragged him along during his own transdimensional fall.
Not that it mattered to him.
He accepted it quickly.
New body, new world, familiar intellect — he was confident he could live well here. Maybe even find a few kindred spirits along the way.
But he soon learned he was wrong.
Terribly, profoundly wrong.
He did find someone who understood him —
himself.
And for the first time, he understood why the Aizen from the Soul Society became the way he did.
Because now, standing in this twisted shinobi world, he too began to feel the same disgust, the same quiet contempt for its hypocrisy.
At first, life in Konoha had seemed peaceful enough. Compared to the filth of Rukongai, the Leaf was almost civilized. Not as comfortable as the modern world he'd once known, but tolerable.
But when war began — when he witnessed the cruelty behind the smiles — that fragile admiration turned into revulsion.
The so-called Will of Fire was nothing but hollow rhetoric.
Children were sent to die on battlefields to "protect the village." Commanders sent boys to gather intelligence when one true powerhouse could have changed the tide alone.
No one cared that those same children might have become the next generation's leaders.
Because "the future" wasn't now — and now was all they understood.
Such absurdity wasn't the exception in this world — it was the rule.
People killed for meaningless contracts, for missions, for coins stamped with a symbol of loyalty that meant nothing.
Even in comparison to the Soul Society, the value of life here was cheap — painfully so.
At least in the Soul Society, death served balance. Killing souls maintained the order between realms — a necessity born of cosmic law.
Here, it was senseless slaughter, dressed in patriotism.
...
The First Hokage's dream had once been noble.
He distributed the Tailed Beasts not as weapons, but as symbols of peace — tokens of trust between nations.
He had believed chakra and the Tailed Beasts could unite the world in understanding.
But his death sparked the First Great Shinobi War.
Honor, morality, trust — those words meant nothing to shinobi.
And worst of all, they didn't even respect history.
---
In the Soul Society, Aizen had once visited the great archives guarded by the Central 46 and the noble clans.
There, he had read countless records — truths preserved without censorship.
They were corrupt, yes, but never dishonest.
Even the ugliness of their ancestors was documented, cold and emotionless, yet true.
Konoha, by contrast, rewrote its history every decade.
Fifty short years, and already the truth had been buried beneath propaganda and selective memory.
Heroes became myths, myths became legends, and within a century, reality itself was gone.
No one dared mention the First Hokage's legacy anymore — as though the world had always been divided into rival villages.
Aizen didn't know which world was worse — but he remembered something from his other self's mind:
Those who rewrite history will never learn from it.
Thus, the shinobi world became a perpetual coliseum — endless war and hatred feeding on themselves.
And Aizen began to suspect the truth:
This world was a cage — one woven from ignorance, fear, and hatred.
And whether it was his human self or his Shinigami counterpart, both despised that cage with equal fury.
...
He had once tried to sympathize with the people here — with their simple kindness and naïve faith.
But that sympathy faded quickly. It took him less than a month to move past it.
Truth and illusion could coexist, so long as he knew which was which.
He never lied to anyone — most simply lacked the ability to see the cage surrounding them.
Until he gained power, he would move quietly among them, unseen.
That was fine. Necessary, even.
Because humans were meant to walk forward — even when surrounded by beasts in slumber.
"To step into the storm ahead, beneath clouds that touch the sky… that is courage."
He smiled faintly.
"That will do."
On the desk before him, three freshly brushed kanji glistened in wet ink: 不退转 — Never Give Up.
Aizen admired the phrase for a moment, then hung the calligraphy sheet behind him to dry.
Only then did he turn to the young boy kneeling quietly on the tatami floor.
"Well, this is a rare visitor," he said with his usual serene smile. "Kakashi-kun. I was beginning to think I'd have to visit your father's grave to find you. What brings you here today? A change of heart? Or perhaps you've come seeking… understanding?"
"…"
Kakashi said nothing. His gray eyes wandered the room, wide with unease.
It had been a day since he'd decided to see the man — the man everyone in the village called Konoha's kindest soul.
Rumor had it the Hokage himself had gifted this vast estate to Aizen, who in turn had converted most of it into a free inn for the homeless and abused. Guests paid only enough to cover meals. Only two rooms were truly his: the calligraphy chamber and a small private study.
Even that was enough to leave the six-year-old boy speechless.
Scrolls hung like curtains from the ceiling beams, each bearing bold, thunderous calligraphy. The air smelled faintly of ink and sandalwood.
In the center sat Aizen Sōsuke — clad in a pure white haori with black inner robes, his glasses catching the light, his smile gentle, unthreatening.
And yet… the massive "不退转" behind him — Never Give Up — radiated an aura that made Kakashi's chest tighten.
The boy shivered, lowering his head. The paper screens rustled in the summer breeze, and faint chimes sang outside.
At last, he whispered:
"…Can I trust you?"
"Please don't ask such innocent questions," Aizen replied softly, dipping his brush into fresh ink. "It makes you sound weak, Kakashi-kun."
He placed a blank sheet on the mat and began to write, his strokes precise and graceful.
"To understand someone," he continued, "you must look at their actions, not listen to what others say. Prejudice and rumor distort reality more easily than any genjutsu."
"If you trust your enemies, you turn against your comrades.
If you believe outsiders, you distance yourself from your family.
These seem like small things — but they corrupt your perception."
"What is self? What is other?
Who accepts you, and from what position do they stand?
That is what you must learn to discern… though perhaps that's too much to ask of a child your age."
Aizen's eyes lingered on him thoughtfully.
Still just six years old… or perhaps pretending to be?
He adjusted his glasses, a hint of disappointment crossing his face.
"Then allow me to be direct," he said, setting his brush aside and rising to his feet.
"This was something I intended to tell you three days from now."
Turning fully toward the boy, Aizen smiled — calm, warm, and utterly unreadable — and extended his hand.
"Kakashi… Be my son."
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