Yes it is one of those. I wanted to try my hand on Time-travel and found out that Bleach was the perfect experimental fandom for that. I mean, Have you watched the thing ? So many ways to do this... Also, I've fallen deep into the lore, learned there actually was a Western branch of the Soul Society with dragons and it's called Reverted London. You may say I'm now in love with this show.
There is so many things going on and so much informations to take, I did some research but I'll be, probably, be sprouting shit. Feel free to correct me if I did wrong to the fandom. I would also like to ask for people to be kind in the comments, english isn't my mother language I'm trying my best. On that note, enjoy !
Prologue
If one was to ask, Kurosaki Ichigo would be oblivious to anything remotely important concerning his case. He was just a human turned Soul Reaper by night and he couldn't care less of what you thought of him, as long as one didn't commit the crime to insult his friends. Yes, he had a Shinigami in his closet like some kind of personal gremlin hoarding all the sugar to himself and a father that had more in common with a sanitized clinic than his own family. His sisters were polar opposite of one another, but were kind and good people. He didn't know the dark secrets hidden behind veils of indiscretions and curtains of old stories. The Division Thirteen couldn't care less about a single man, a teen, when they were as old as humans themselves. What was a single individual, when faced with the millions of years under their belt ? They had their sins and pride, but none could go against their supreme ruler.
Yes, Kurosaki Ichigo for all intents and purposes didn't know anything about them, a rookie with a big mouth ready to swallow something far too big to chew. But then, the part-time Soul Reaper was only that. An exterior infraction, a slight ripple above the surface of traditions and generations of Clans. He was no King or God. Or so, they thought and believed, with their narrow-minded informations they didn't bother to check half the intel off. Mocking, with a disdain that could have rival's that of Yhwach unrepentant need for destruction. Past, Future and Present were convoluted roads and intersections that didn't like meeting each others, olds acquittances defending their paths with a mighty barbary, devouring even the most little speck of particles that could cross their intrinsic roads.
Those who travel their continuity and chose to stray from the one they were born from sometimes got lost and never returned, Time hungry for heretics and little pests too overbearing of his own crown. The Ōin was the only piece of this infinite ball of twine that could lead and guide any soul wishing for a different end, a new beginning and sometimes, a restart. Olds had been the days where he was once used at his full potential by beings highers than any, that mortals sometimes calls in their foolishness, Gods. Ichigo Kurosaki had walk down those roads and paths.
He had broken apart the Map of olds and searched for a new beginning as he achieved a different end and started anew. He had marched on his Present without looking back at the Past, but as his Future shattered any of his hopes for Peace and Happiness, he had to make a choice. He let that Future that never would be to linger in his own space, dusted and unwanted, forgotten by Time. As he walked back to the Past to make it his Present, he knew he couldn't stop the Wheel that turn indefinitely. Fate he learned, was a kind, if cruel mistress. As he returned to protect what once was a dusty shelf of memories, he found out that, in between books and little pieces of remembrance, he never truly forgot the taste of blood and dust.
A ghost of his own body, a self that was looking at a breaking mirror, shards flying in a suspended time and space, never moving, forever flying. Before, three entities lurked inside that heart and soul, prowling and battling for control and destruction. Now, united, they formed one, yet their core was a mess of corroded mechanisms, rusted cogs and drowning engines oiled by dried blood. He may not have been as powerless as before, but he was just as much a ruin as he has been, if not more.