Yo!

  Hope you are doing well. I know this is not what you are expecting after a long time, but writers block is not allowing me to write any of the regur stories, so I decided to break the wall and get back to writing something new. And here this is...

  This is Bleach story, it's a fun idea (imo). I'm new to writing Bleach, so please keep that in mind! It would be great if you share your feedback and ideas with me.

  Without further ado, let's get started.

  Enjoy the chapter and story!

  Transcendent Fme

  Prologue

  The Final Curtain

  Malibu Mansion, California

  The final moments of Luther Vns pyed out like a scene from one of his movies, though this time, there would be no second take. Evening air drifted through the open balcony doors of his Malibu mansion, carrying with it the salt of the Pacific and the sweet scent of jasmine. The setting sun cast long shadows across his study, where scattered scripts y forgotten on his desk – his pnned directorial debut now destined to remain unrealized.

  Luther stood at his wet bar, pouring himself a gss of scotch with the deliberate grace that had become second nature after decades in front of cameras. At forty-five, he still commanded attention – tall, broad-shouldered, with steel-gray eyes that had captivated audiences worldwide. His white dress shirt caught the fading light, creating an almost theatrical glow around his figure.

  "You know, Amanda," he said, not turning to face the woman behind him, "in 'Death's Embrace,' my character had a simir moment. Funny how life imitates art." His voice carried that signature resonance that had earned him three Academy Awards, steady despite the gun he knew was pointed at his back.

  Amanda Sterling, his girlfriend of six months, stood near the kitchen entrance. Her designer dress seemed at odds with the cold metal of the gun in her perfectly manicured hands. "Always the actor, aren't you, Luther? Even now, you're performing."

  "Force of habit," he chuckled, turning to face her. His actor's mind couldn't help but appreciate the composition – the dying light, the beautiful assassin, the crystal tumbler catching amber reflections. "Though I must admit, this plot twist feels a bit... cliché. The young lover betraying the wealthy star? I'd have written it differently."

  Amanda's fingers tightened around the gun, her knuckles whitening against the metal. "Your money will write a different story for me," her voice trembled slightly. "The grieving girlfriend inheriting the estate of the troubled star who took his own life."

  Luther took a measured sip of his scotch, savoring the burn. "You really think anyone will believe that? I'm at the peak of my career, about to start directing my first film." He studied her face with the same intensity he'd once used to analyze his most challenging roles. "The press will have a field day with the inconsistencies."

  "Depression can strike anyone, Luther. Even successful Hollywood stars." The gun steadied in her hands. "Besides, your suicide note is very convincing. I had plenty of time to study your handwriting."

  A fsh of genuine admiration crossed Luther's face. "Now that's method acting. I always appreciated dedication to a role." He set his gss down with a soft clink. "But you've forgotten something crucial about me, Amanda."

  "And what's that?"

  "In every role I've pyed, I've always—" The words died in his throat as the first shot rang out. The impact threw him backward, his hand clutching his chest as crimson bloomed across his white shirt. As he colpsed against the imported marble, his mind raced with crystal crity. His lips moved, trying to form words as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  His body slumped against the cold marble, but Luther's consciousness lingered, caught in that surreal moment between life and death. Through dimming vision, he watched Amanda's trembling hands lower the gun, saw her carefully composed face crack with the first hints of realization. The perfect scene was unravelling – not how she'd scripted it at all.

  "The Children's Cancer Foundation…" he managed again, blood bubbling at his lips, finding dark satisfaction in how her designer heels stumbled backward. His actor's mind, even now, appreciated the poetry – her pristine white dress spattered with tiny crimson droplets, like roses blooming in snow. "Everything... goes to them..."

  The pain was strange – both distant and overwhelming, like watching himself in dailies while feeling every take at once. The room began to spin, reality fracturing at the edges like an overexposed film. Luther's thoughts scattered, fragments of scenes pying out in his fading consciousness: his first standing ovation, the weight of his first Oscar, the children's faces at the cancer ward he'd visited st month...

  "No, no, no," Amanda's voice came from far away, panic repcing her earlier confidence. "This isn't... you were supposed to..."

  'How amateur,' he thought with his st traces of crity in satisfaction. 'Never improvise when you haven't studied the whole script.'

  The darkness crept in, not like the gentle fade-to-bck he'd performed dozens of times, but violent and absolute. Luther felt himself being torn away, his essence ripping free from flesh with the force of a hurricane. His st earthly sensation was the taste of copper and scotch on his tongue, his final earthly sight the dawning horror on Amanda's face as she realized her perfect performance had just become a tragedy of errors.

  Then came the pull – inexorable, impossible to fight. Luther felt himself stretched across dimensions, his consciousness expanding beyond the confines of physical form. The world of solid matter and Hollywood gmour fell away like discarded props, repced by...

  Void Between Worlds

  The transition hit like a special effect gone wrong – reality twisting, stretching, folding in on itself until Luther's consciousness scattered like light through a broken prism. Colours he had no names for exploded across his awareness, sensations that had no earthly equivalent overwhelmed what remained of his senses.

  'This is what it feels like,' he thought with detached fascination, when the camera keeps rolling after the script ends.

  Then, abruptly, stillness. The chaos settled into a void that somehow felt more substantial than reality itself. Luther found himself – though 'himself' seemed a questionable concept now – floating in a space that defied comprehension. Mathematical equations danced at the corners of his perception, cosmic forces weaving patterns his mind struggled to interpret.

  "Welcome, Luther Vns, to the space between spaces."

  The voice wasn't really a voice at all, more like understanding being poured directly into his consciousness. Luther, ever the professional, found himself analyzing its quality – neither male nor female, neither young nor old, yet carrying authority that made studio executives sound like kindergarteners.

  "That's..." he paused, realising he was speaking without a mouth, hearing without ears, "quite the entrance line. Though the setting's a bit minimalist for my taste. I'd have added some dramatic lighting, maybe a hint of cosmic background radiation."

  "Always the performer," the voice responded, carrying what might have been amusement. "Even in death, you analyse the staging."

  "Force of habit," Luther replied, surprised at how calm he felt. "Twenty years in the industry teaches you to notice these things. Though I must admit, this is a rather unique production value."

  "I am what you would call the Interdimensional Afterlife System," the voice continued, "a construct governed by the absolute ws established by the Primordial itself. I oversee the transition and pcement of beings across multiple realities, maintaining the delicate bance of existence."

  Luther, ever the professional, took a moment to compose himself. "That's... quite the introduction. Though I admit, I expected something more along the lines of pearly gates or perhaps a more traditional judgement scenario."

  "Tell me about yourself, Luther Vns. Or should I say, Viktor Spark?"

  A self-deprecating smile crossed what felt like his face—did he even have a face here? "What's there to tell? Started in community theater in Wisconsin, changed my name to Viktor Spark because Luther didn't sound like a leading man. Spent twenty years becoming what everyone wanted me to be: the dashing hero, the troubled antihero, the charismatic vilin. Three Academy Awards, two failed marriages, and one bullet ter, here I am."

  He paused, feeling an unfamiliar vulnerability in this space where pretense seemed meaningless. "You know what's funny? In all those roles, all those lives I lived through characters, I never felt as real as I do right now, talking to a cosmic administrative system."

  "And what do you desire now, Viktor? Your soul carries the weight of many lives, many roles."

  "Honestly?" Luther let out a ugh that echoed strangely in the dimensionless space. "I'm tired. Not just of acting, but of the whole cycle. Life, death, success, failure... I've pyed every role except the one I never knew I wanted—someone who could actually make a difference. Someone who doesn't just pretend to be powerful, but actually has the power to protect others."

  The void seemed to pulse with interest. "And if I offered you such a role? Not as an actor, but as someone who truly holds such power?"

  "I'd ask what the catch is," Luther responded, his natural skepticism surfacing. "In my experience, the bigger the opportunity, the bigger the price tag."

  "Wise," the System seemed to approve. "Tell me, Viktor, what draws you most? If you could embody any element of power, what would it be?"

  Luther didn't hesitate. "Fire." A smile pyed across his consciousness. "I've pyed with many elements in my roles—commanded storms in 'Neptune's Wrath,' wielded lightning in 'Thunder God.' But fire... fire's different."

  "Eborate on fire," the System prompted, its presence shifting like fmes in darkness.

  "Fire is transformation," Luther expined, his actor's eloquence finding new purpose. "In 'Phoenix Rising,' I spent weeks with real firefighters. They taught me something fascinating—fire doesn't just destroy, it creates opportunities for renewal. It's primal, yet it can be controlled. Dangerous, yet necessary. Like life itself."

  "Interesting. And if I offered you power over more... exotic elements? Space itself? The void? Time? Elements that could reshape reality?"

  Luther chuckled. "You sound like my agent when he pitched 'Cosmic Sovereign.' But no—fire is honest. Raw. Real." He paused, weariness seeping into his thoughts. "Though honestly, right now, I'm not sure I want any power at all."

  "Oh?" The System's interest seemed to sharpen.

  "Look, I've spent my entire life chasing one role after another, always pushing for the next big thing, the next challenge. Even my death was a performance." Luther's consciousness rippled with a sigh. "Maybe what I really need is... rest. Time to just be, without having to prove anything or fight for something. No more struggles for success, no more fear of failure. Just... peace."

  "A surprisingly humble desire for one who commanded such attention in life."

  "Maybe death gives you perspective," Luther mused. "All those awards, the fame, the money—none of it meant anything in the end. And now you're here, presumably offering me another grand role, another chance at power and purpose. But I have to ask myself: am I ready for that? Don't I deserve a break before jumping into another life-changing performance?"

  The void seemed to contempte his words, its presence shifting like shadows in firelight. "And if I told you that this role could offer both? A chance at real power, yes, but also understanding? A purpose that might finally feel genuine rather than performed?"

  Luther let the silence stretch, a technique he'd learned from his best dramatic roles. "You're suggesting there's a middle ground? Between rest and responsibility?"

  "Perhaps," the System's tone carried a hint of approval at his perception. "What if I told you that this role would allow you to understand both power and peace in ways your human existence never could? To experience the quiet strength of fme at rest, as well as its explosive potential?"

  "Wait," Luther interrupted, a realization dawning. "This sounds like those Japanese stories my nephew keeps talking about—what are they called? Isekai? Where people die and get reborn in fantasy worlds?" He couldn't keep the amusement from his voice. "Am I about to be transported to some magical realm with a status screen and leveling system?"

  The System's response carried what felt like genuine mirth. "Nothing so... manufactured. What I offer is both simpler and infinitely more complex. A role that would allow you to experience true power while understanding why it matters to sometimes hold it in check."

  "Before we go further," Luther said, falling back on years of contract negotiations, "I want to know everything about where I'm going. The whole world, its rules, its history—everything. I've signed enough contracts blindly in Hollywood to know better now."

  "Impossible," the System stated ftly. "However, I can offer you the complete knowledge and memories of the being you would become, up until the moment of their death."

  Luther's disappointment must have been palpable because the System continued, its tone carrying an unusual hint of conspiracy. "But perhaps... I could offer certain other advantages. Abilities and insights not typically granted to those in your position. Things that would make your... performance uniquely your own."

  "What kind of abilities?" Viktor's interest piqued despite his earlier desire for rest.

  "Accept the role, and you'll discover them. Consider them like... director's cuts of your new existence. A chance to not just py the part, but to truly shape it."

  Luther fell silent, weighing the offer. Part of him—the practical, Hollywood-hardened part—screamed that this was madness. Another part yearned for the rest he'd spoken of. But a third part, perhaps the same part that had driven him to pursue acting in the first pce, recognized this as an opportunity for something genuine.

  "You know," he said finally, "in 'Method Man,' I pyed an actor who became so absorbed in his roles that he lost himself. The critics called it my most meta performance." He paused, allowing himself to appreciate the cosmic irony. "I suppose it's time to find out if I can do better than my character."

  "Is that a yes?" The System's presence seemed to lean forward, expectant.

  "It's a 'show me the script,'" he replied, his voice carrying both resignation and curiosity. "But first, tell me about this role you have in mind. And please—" his tone turned wry, "—tell me it's not another troubled antihero with daddy issues. I've pyed enough of those to st several lifetimes."

  The void shifted around them, preparing to reveal what would become Luther's greatest transformation yet. "Oh, this role is far from troubled," the System's tone carried a hint of amusement. "Hands-on experience tends to be more... memorable."

  Luther stared into the void with practiced incredulity—the kind he'd perfected over countless auditions. "Hands-on experience? Really? That's your pitch?" He let out a ugh that echoed strangely in the dimensionless space. "You know, this reminds me of my first big action role. Director said, 'Just jump off the building, you'll figure out the wire work mid-fall.'"

  "An apt comparison," the System replied, unperturbed.

  "I broke my arm in three pces," Viktor added dryly.

  "Then perhaps you learned the value of adapting quickly."

  "Oh, you're good," Luther muttered. 'Just like those studio executives,' he thought, 'sitting there all knowing and cryptic, holding all the cards while expecting you to sign away your life—or in this case, afterlife—on blind faith. At least the studios gave you a script outline.'

  The System maintained its patient silence, reminding Luther of his first major director who would just... wait. Wait until the uncomfortable silence forced you to either walk away or commit fully. 'Cosmic entity or not,' Luther thought, 'some tactics never change.'

  Finally, he threw up his hands—or whatever passed for hands in this void. "You know what? This is exactly like my breakthrough role in 'Leap of Faith.' Everyone said I was crazy to take a religious drama when I was branded as an action star." He paused, appreciating the parallel. "That role changed my life. Won my first Oscar for it."

  "And this role?" the System prompted.

  "This role might just change my death," Luther finished with a wry smile. "Fine. I'm in. But I swear if this turns out to be some cosmic reality show—"

  The void suddenly shifted, taking on a liquid quality that began to envelop him. Panic seized him momentarily. "Wait! One st thing—will I remember? My life, my experiences, who I was?"

  The System's voice took on an almost musical quality. "You'll remember everything needed. Some memories will fade like old scripts, others will burn bright as stage lights. But the essence of who you are—that will remain."

  Luther felt himself being pulled, stretched, transformed. The System's final words echoed through his dissolving consciousness:

  "I'll be with you —observing, assessing, and ...guiding. In recognition of your skills and the role you'll py, I grant you this name, Viktor, as your Transcendent name. Let it be your anchor in the fmes to come."

  The name 'Viktor' seared itself into his being, not just as a memory but as a fundamental truth of his existence. As the st threads of his consciousness began to unravel and reform, Viktor could have sworn he felt something like amusement and anticipation from the System, as if it was settling in to watch the performance of a lifetime.

  'Break a leg,' he thought ironically, as reality itself began to reconstruct around him. The thought dissolved mid-formation as the transmigration took hold, pulling him toward his new destiny with the unstoppable force of a final curtain fall.

  Squad 1 Barracks, Seireitei

  The evening sun cast long shadows through the windows of the First Division quarters, each ray seeming to carry the weight of centuries. Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni sat in perfect seiza, his weathered hands resting on knees that had knelt through millennia of both triumph and tragedy. The silence of his private chambers pressed against him with an almost physical force, broken only by the distant sounds of Soul Society attempting to rebuild itself in the wake of unprecedented betrayal.

  His eyes, usually sharp with unquestionable authority, stared unseeing at Ryūjin Jakka leaning against the far wall. The zanpakutō's presence in his mind was subdued, as if his oldest companion sensed the rare turmoil in its master's thoughts. For the first time in over two thousand years, Yamamoto felt every one of those years in his bones, every decision, every loss, every moment of pride that had led to this catastrophic failure.

  "How did we not see?" he murmured to the empty room, his voice carrying none of its usual thunder. Each memory cut deeper than any bde – Aizen's first day at the Academy, his calcuting eyes masked behind schorly gsses; Tōsen's unwavering speeches about justice, now revealed as nothing but hollow rhetoric; Gin's unsettling smile that they had all dismissed as mere eccentricity.

  But perhaps the deepest cut was the realization that Central 46, Soul Society's supposedly infallible governing body, had been nothing more than puppets in Aizen's eborate performance.

  "The Central 46..." he growled, the words bitter on his tongue. "Dead. All of them, while Aizen wore their faces, issued their commands, and we..." His spiritual pressure flickered dangerously. "We followed blindly, never questioning, never doubting. Our precious order nearly became the instrument of our own destruction."

  "Hubris," he growled softly, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. His spiritual pressure flickered uncomfortably, like a fme struggling against wind – something that hadn't happened since his earliest days of wielding Ryūjin Jakka. "We became so certain of our righteousness, our power, our control."

  Images fshed through his ancient mind: Hinamori, lying broken in the Fourth Division, betrayed by the man she had worshipped; Hitsugaya, his prodigious talent twisted into a weapon against his own childhood friend; Komamura, his unshakeable loyalty used to mock the very concept of trust. Each wound inflicted on his subordinates felt like a personal failure, each betrayal a judgement on his leadership.

  The betrayal wasn't just about three captains turning their backs on Soul Society. It was about the fundamental failure of his judgement, his leadership, his vision. He had trained them, trusted them, pced the future of Soul Society in their hands. And they had pyed their parts perfectly, hadn't they? Each one crafting an image so convincing that even he, with all his centuries of experience, had been blind to the rot growing within his own ranks.

  The weight of command had never felt heavier on his shoulders. Two millennia of leading the Gotei 13, of moulding it from a group of brutal killers into a force of order and justice, and now... now three of his chosen captains had torn that legacy apart with surgical precision. And worse – it had taken children, human children, to expose the rot at their core.

  His mind then turned to Rukia Kuchiki, a promising young Shinigami who had nearly paid for their blindness with her life. "We would have executed her," he whispered, the admission feeling like ash in his mouth. "Following ws that Aizen himself had maniputed, we would have killed an innocent soul to further his ambitions."

  And then there was Kurosaki Ichigo – a mere human boy who had achieved in months what took others centuries, who had stormed their gates with nothing but determination and raw power. "A human child," Yamamoto mused, his voice tinged with something between admiration and shame, "had to teach us about justice. About protecting what matters, regardless of rules and traditions."

  "Sōtaichō," Sasakibe's voice came softly from beyond the door, den with concern. His faithful lieutenant, who had stood by his side through countless battles, now seemed uncertain how to approach this unfamiliar version of his commander.

  "What is it, Chōjirō?" Yamamoto's response carried a weariness he would allow only his most trusted subordinate to hear. The evening light caught the scars on his ancient hands – each one a testament to battles fought, victories won, lessons learned. Or so he had thought.

  "The reports from the Fourth Division..." Sasakibe hesitated, unusual for him. "Captain Unohana requests your presence. Lieutenant Hinamori's condition..."

  "Has worsened?" The words felt heavy, each one another weight added to his burden. When had he become so old? Not in body – no, his power remained as fearsome as ever – but in spirit? When had certainty calcified into compcency?

  "Stable, but..." Another pause. "The psychological trauma runs deep. Captain Unohana believes... she believes the damage to Soul Society extends far beyond physical wounds."

  Of course it did. Aizen hadn't just attacked their bodies; he had struck at the very foundation of their society. Trust, loyalty, hierarchy – everything the Gotei 13 was built upon, everything Yamamoto had spent centuries cultivating, now y tainted by doubt.

  "The captains are asking questions, sir. About our next move, about the vacant positions, about—"

  "About their Commander's silence?" Yamamoto finished, a trace of his old authority colouring his tone. He could feel them all – the remaining captains' spiritual pressures fluctuating with uncertainty, the lower ranks' fear and confusion, the whole of Seireitei holding its breath, waiting for guidance.

  "Gather them," Yamamoto said finally, his voice carrying a fraction of its usual authority. "In an hour's time." He heard Sasakibe's footsteps retreat, leaving him alone with thoughts that seemed to echo in the vastness of his quarters.

  His gaze drifted to the ceremonial sword mounting on his wall – not a zanpakutō, but a simple bde gifted to him by the first graduating css of the Academy. How many generations had he guided since then? How many young souls had looked up to him with admiration, with fear, with respect? And now...

  "We have grown arrogant," he spoke to Ryūjin Jakka, as he had countless times before. The zanpakutō's spirit stirred in his consciousness, its eternal fme reflecting his disquiet. "In our power, in our righteousness, in our certainty." His fingers tightened on his knees until the knuckles whitened. "And now the young ones will pay the price for our blindness."

  The setting sun painted the room in deepening crimson, reminiscent of the blood that had been spilled. Each shadow seemed to hold memories: Aizen's quiet suggestions at captain meetings, always so reasonable, so measured; Tōsen's passionate defences of justice, masking a heart twisted by revenge; Gin's probing questions that they had dismissed as mere curiosity.

  For the first time since the early days of the Gotei 13, Yamamoto felt his iron control wavering. His spiritual pressure fluctuated, creating ripples in the air around him. The very walls of his chambers seemed to pulse with the uneven flow of his power – power that had always been as controlled as it was devastating.

  In this moment of unprecedented vulnerability, Yamamoto closed his eyes, his brow furrowing with the weight of introspection. The foundations of Soul Society, which he had believed to be as unshakeable as his own resolve, now seemed as fragile as spider silk in a storm.

  "Perhaps," he whispered, the admission costing him more than any battle ever had, "it is time for change. The old ways... they failed us. Failed them."

  The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. For two millennia, Yamamoto had been the immovable pilr of Soul Society, the unquestionable authority. But now, doubt crept in like a shadow at twilight, insinuating itself into the cracks of his certainty.

  His spiritual pressure continued to fluctuate, creating an almost imperceptible gap in the usually impenetrable fortress of his soul. In that moment of unprecedented vulnerability, something shifted in the fabric of reality itself—though Yamamoto, lost in his contemption, failed to notice.

  The air in his chambers seemed to crystallize, time itself holding its breath. On the edge of his awareness, Yamamoto felt a strange ripple, as if the very essence of Soul Society was bracing for something monumental. But before he could grasp the sensation, before he could even open his eyes, the universe made its move.

  In the space between heartbeats, in that fragment of time where even the mighty Captain-Commander allowed himself to be simply an old man facing his failures, the barriers between worlds grew thin. Something vast and purposeful reached out across the dimensions, drawn to this precise moment of vulnerability in one of the most powerful beings in existence.

  The transition happened in an instant. Viktor's consciousness plunged into Yamamoto's form like a star falling into an ancient sun. For one infinite moment, two souls occupied the same space—the seasoned actor and the ancient warrior, their essences intertwining in a dance of fire and purpose.

  Raw, uncontrolled spiritual pressure erupted from the First Division quarters. The initial surge was like a supernova—Yamamoto's normally contained reiatsu, freed from millennia of iron discipline, exploded outward in concentric waves of pure power. The first pulse shattered every window in the immediate vicinity, sending crystalline shards dancing through the air before they vaporized in the intense spiritual heat.

  The second wave hit like a tsunami of pure energy. Throughout Seireitei, lesser Shinigami colpsed to their knees, struggling to breathe under the crushing weight of power that felt both familiar and alien. The very air began to shimmer and distort, spiritual pressure becoming visible as waves of heat rising from sun-baked earth.

  In the Second Division, Soifon's tea ceremony ended abruptly as her cup shattered in her hands, the liquid evaporating before it could spill. Her eyes widened in disbelief. "This pressure... it's impossible!" The words barely left her lips before she fsh-stepped to her window, her own considerable reiatsu flickering in response to the overwhelming force washing over Seireitei.

  The merging of souls was catastrophic. As Viktor's consciousness collided with Yamamoto's essence, two thousand years of memories, power, and identity crashed together like colliding stars. Yamamoto's iron-cd ego, forged through millennia of absolute authority, met Viktor's adaptable actor's psyche. The System, working with surgical precision, began weaving them together – not erasing, but integrating.

  In that crucial moment, Ryūjin Jakka's spirit roared to life, its ancient consciousness sensing the change in its wielder. The zanpakutō's fmes, which had always burned with pure destructive force, now flickered with new purpose. The System's modifications rippled through the spiritual weapon, enhancing its fundamental nature while preserving its core identity. The fmes grew more nuanced, more controlled, yet paradoxically more powerful – as if gaining the ability to burn with purpose rather than mere destruction.

  The spiritual pressure that exploded outward was unlike anything Soul Society had ever experienced. It wasn't just Yamamoto's raw power – it was his reiatsu infused with something new, something that made the very fabric of reality shudder. The temperature around the First Division rose to devastating levels, yet the heat felt different – more focused, almost theatrical in its intensity.

  Within Viktor's Consciousness

  As the merger stabilised, a translucent interface materialised in Viktor's mind, the System's presence crystallising into something more structured:

  SOUL INTEGRATION COMPLETE...

  Name: Genryūsai Shigekuni Viktor Yamamoto

  Current Status: Critical Transition Phase

  Vitality: Severely Depleted (Est. 1 Year Remaining)

  Power Level: Above Lieutenant Css (Temporarily Reduced)

  Current Spiritual Pressure: 15% of Original Capacity

  Zanpakutō Synchronisation: Initialising...

  WARNING: Core abilities restricted due to integration stress

  "Your vitality has been reduced to one year," the System's voice cut through the chaos of merging memories. "The transition has temporarily weakened you to above-lieutenant level. You must rebuild your strength carefully."

  Meanwhile, across Seireitei, the older captains were experiencing something akin to déjà vu. In the Fourth Division, Unohana's eternal smile faltered for a moment as recognition flickered across her face. "This spiritual pressure..." she murmured, her voice carrying centuries of memory. "Isane, prepare for possible casualties."

  "But Captain," Isane stammered, struggling to maintain her composure under the pressure, "this reiatsu... it feels like..."

  "The old Yamamoto," Unohana finished softly. "Before peace tempered his fmes. When the Gotei 13 was young, and mercy was a foreign concept." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Though there's something else there too... something new."

  In the Eighth Division, Kyōraku's usual zy demeanour had vanished. "You feel it too, don't you, Jūshirō? That edge to his spiritual pressure – it's like stepping back a thousand years."

  "Yes," Ukitake agreed, his face grave. "But there's more to it. This isn't just the old Yama-jii returning. This is... something else entirely."

  First Division Chambers

  Viktor opened Yamamoto's eyes to a world saturated with power. Every particle of air seemed alive with spiritual energy, and his newfound senses threatened to overwhelm him. The System's interface flickered in his consciousness, dispying warnings about power fluctuations and unstable reiatsu levels.

  STABILISATION REQUIRED!

  Current Power Output: Unstable

  Recommended Action: Immediate Spiritual Pressure Control

  Active Abilities Locked: 90%

  Ryūjin Jakka Status: Recalibrating

  "Breathe," the System instructed. "Your body remembers even if you don't. Let Yamamoto's muscle memory guide you."

  Viktor felt the zanpakutō's consciousness brush against his own—ancient, fierce, and questioning. Ryūjin Jakka's presence was like a sun in his mind, its power temporarily dimmed but still devastating. The sword seemed to be evaluating him, judging whether this new soul was worthy of wielding its fmes.

  Outside, he could sense them approaching—spiritual pressures distinct and powerful, each one carrying echoes in Yamamoto's memories. Unohana's serene but deadly presence, Kyōraku's deceptively casual power, Ukitake's gentle strength—all converging on his location with urgent purpose.

  Sasakibe appeared at the door, his face a mask of concern. "Sōtaichō, the captains—they're all..."

  "Coming," Viktor finished, surprised at how naturally Yamamoto's deep, resonant voice came to him. "Yes, I sense them." He rose from seiza position, noting how this ancient body moved with ingrained dignity despite its weakened state. The captain's haori settled around his shoulders like a theatre curtain, heavy with significance.

  Captain's Assembly Hall

  The massive doors to the assembly hall opened silently before him, each step echoing with the weight of authority as Viktor entered what felt like the most important stage of his existence. The room stretched long before him, illuminated by the st rays of sunset filtering through high windows, casting long shadows that danced across the polished floors.

  There they stood – two perfect lines of Soul Society's most powerful warriors, their own spiritual pressures carefully controlled yet palpable in the air. Each face carried the weight of recent betrayal, yet their postures remained rigidly formal, a testament to centuries of discipline. Captains in their white haori, their lieutenants standing precisely behind them, 2 of them with no captains and 1 whole squad representatives vacant, all eyes fixed upon his approach.

  Viktor felt Yamamoto's memories flooding in, providing context for each powerful presence before him. Soifon stood rigid with coiled tension, her eyes sharp with suspicion born from recent betrayal, while her lieutenant ōmaeda tried to mirror her severity despite his obvious discomfort.

  Unohana's eternal smile carried an edge that Yamamoto's memories warned was far more dangerous than it appeared, her lieutenant Isane standing tall beside her, concern evident in her stance.

  Byakuya Kuchiki maintained his noble bearing, though something had shifted in his demeanor since his brush with losing Rukia, his lieutenant Renji Abarai standing straighter than usual, new resolve evident in his bandaged form. Komamura's masked face tilted slightly, his massive frame tense with lingering shame over Tōsen's betrayal, while Lieutenant Iba stood firm, loyalty radiating from his squared shoulders.

  Kyōraku's usual ckadaisical posture was notably absent, his sharp eyes betraying keen observation beneath his tilted hat, Nanao Ise's gsses catching the dying light as she stood at perfect attention.

  Hitsugaya, youngest among them, radiated barely contained fury, his prodigy status momentarily overshadowed by personal betrayal, while Matsumoto's usual pyfulness had given way to grim determination.

  Kenpachi Zaraki loomed with barely restrained battle-lust, Yachiru unusually quiet at his side. Mayuri Kurotsuchi's calcuting gaze missed nothing, his modified body twitching with barely contained theories, while Nemu stood statue-still beside him. Ukitake's gentle presence carried an underlying steel, his illness momentarily forgotten in the gravity of the situation.

  The gaps in their formation spoke volumes – the 3rd, 5th, and 9th Divisions represented only by their lieutenants. Kira and Hisagi stood with admirable composure despite their captains' betrayal, while Hinamori's absence echoed like a wound.

  Sasakibe took his pce among them, his centuries of loyalty a stark contrast to recent events. Even Rukia Kuchiki, standing in for the 13th Division, carried herself with new purpose, her near-execution having become a symbol of how deeply Aizen's manipution had run. Though it only served to remind Yamamoto of his failures.

  As he walked the length of the hall, his gradually receding spiritual pressure felt like a slowly dimming spotlight. The System's interface flickered at the edge of his consciousness, dispying power readings as they stabilized to more manageable levels. Ryūjin Jakka thrummed quietly at his side, its presence a constant reminder of the immense power temporarily beyond his reach.

  The distance to his position seemed both infinite and too short, each step carrying him deeper into this new reality. Almost 2 dozens of Soul Society's elite warriors, their collective power enough to reshape reality itself, stood in perfect formation – waiting, watching, judging. Some searched for signs of weakness in their leader after Aizen's betrayal, others sensed the strange shift in his spiritual pressure, and the oldest among them recognized echoes of a more violent past in his altered reiatsu.

  Viktor reached his position at the head of the assembly, feeling the full weight of their combined scrutiny. As his spiritual pressure finally settled into a controlled simmer, the st light of day faded from the windows, plunging the hall into shadow.

  In the gathering darkness, he stood before them – no longer just an actor, no longer just the ancient commander, but something entirely new, ready to begin the performance of several lifetimes.

  'Show time,'

  And Cut!

  That's it for this chapter folks.

  AN:I know many things seem like a stretch, but I feel realistically they are possible and we never talked about the power of the system. So that's something to consider.

  I'm an Anime watcher so I'll try to keep true for the anime plot, your suggestions are always welcome while I've a preliminary plot for the whole story and I feel I've lofty goals for Old Man Yama. :).

  As always, let me know in your reviews and do share your feedback and suggestions!

  I'm very delighted to share that you can now read 15 early chapters on my patron. My user name is same BckInfinity1289 on patron website.

  Note: They are early access only, they will be eventually released here as well.

  Also, if you want discuss about the story or the ideas, you can join my discord server. I go by Henry there, give me a ping to say hi.

  link: discord. gg / SPsSwAcq4b

  Hope to see you there!

  Thank you for reading.

  Good Day!

  Bck Infinity 1289,

  Ja Ne.