The self-proclaimed god returned to his white stone throne.

Dismally, he contemplates over the ending results of the once one-sided battle.

His powerful soldiers: Dead and or easily defeated.

His generals: one left in a chunky pile; the other with an amputated limb.

No town. No souls. No sacrifice. No Ōken.

He really needed to rethink his world domination plans.

In his palm, the black sphere sat, dull as an old marble. That damned woman! Just what had she done to his precious Hōgyoku?! Disgruntled, he now needed more time for his Hōgyoku to recuperate. Even with his reiryoku, the orb would not respond.

His regression was slowing. His eyes, no longer black, closed and re-opened only half way, further seeing the impending future.

And he, Sosuke Aizen was pissed. Could be patient, but still pissed. He had miscalculated the true length the Seer would go to mess with his carefully laid plan. But he could make do with this…

His prisoner had gone from reluctant house guest to permanent resident. Their 'guests' were gone; pulled back not doubt at that insufferable woman heeding

And his Espada were returning, more or less.

Soon, with patience, the holes would be filled and the game could reset. He would counter his adversary and her black knight; the Ryoka boy. He would make far newer and strong pieces that the other Inoue would not be able to see and counter.

The hot sweet liquid flowed down his throat as the king sat further into his cold white throne.

Her move.

4*4*/A Different Place- A Different Time/4*4*

The dark room was lit by a dull glow of the opening door before the light was eclipsed by a figure stepping through the frame. The dust of the tiled floor of the library archives, shifting up as he proceeded further in. The closing door behind him finally shut, making the library enclose in the cooling darkness once more.

His boots clunking on the hard floor as he moved swiftly through the old cobwebbed shelves; full of books, journals, lab documentations, encyclopedias, etc. all pertaining to his family's life, be it past or possible futures.

The youth turned on the 247th row from his starting point, going along even more collections of scrolls and leather bound tomes as he finally stopped at his destination: an entire shelf of thin black leather books, all with faint sliver lettering on the spines and green ribbons, each protruding from the top of the tomes and draping over their spines.

Carefully, he reached for the first tome on the top shelf, and situated himself on the floor. The book cover wasn't too tattered as he opened it carefully. There were smudges of ink, water and what he believed to be blood across the title page. The thin lined title of his grandmother's biography hadn't lost any tone in its age as he traced his fingers over her name.

Turning to the next few pages, he began to read...