Just minutes ago, everything around him had been cold and desolate. Icebergs stretched as far as the eye could see, and the very air was harsh, biting with every breath. The wind was so cold, strong, and fierce that it felt like it could strip flesh from bone.
But that was only a few minutes ago. Now, the only thing left was steaming, still-bubbling water for miles around him. And he hadn't even released his Shikai—just freed the sword from the kido binding that disguised it as a cane. That simple act had changed the surroundings in a perfect circle.
Yet, his attention wasn't on the devastation that act had caused. It was entirely focused on the old, weathered weapon in his hand.
The Zanpakutō was the very essence of a Soul Reaper, a weapon forged from their soul, capable of peace, war, and, above all, balance.
A Shinigami's blade was a mirror of their true self, and the one in his hand made that abundantly clear. Once-bright steel had dimmed with time, its edges dulled and blunt. The sword had aged just as he had, and that age was etched into the blade as clearly as it was on him.
He observed the blade in his hands, not just with his reiatsu this time but with his eyes, staring at it with narrowed focus. He knew. Ever since he had first touched it months ago, he had known the blade was whole.
It was present at his side as if it had always been there, yet the memory of his death remained vivid. He had been cut down, his Bankai stolen. And yet, here he stood—healed without even a scar, and the blade was whole. Rusted, scarred, dulled, and chipped, but whole. With the hilt grasped firmly in his hands, he heard it.
Ryūjin Jakkaspoke to him. Not with words, as other sentient beings might, but with emotions. Primal needs that he had ignored for so long that the blade had once tried to rebel against him. But that was in the past. He had fed it when Yhwach had attacked, truly wielded it for the first time in centuries. Now, the weapon radiated a pleasant warmth that permeated his hands.
Satisfaction.
He was drawn back to the reason he had come here. Perhaps now, he could finally activate his Shikai. If merely unsealing the blade had caused the ice to melt instead of tearing a hole in space, he found himself curious to see just how far this world could manifest his power, even in a lesser or diluted form.
The simple act of wielding his sword, even at a fraction of its power, was enough to confirm his theory. This world was whole in a way the one he had left behind wasn't. The three planes of existence—Hueco Mundo, the Soul Society, and Hell—overlapped here, intertwining and solidifying the fabric of reality, giving this world a weight that the former Earth lacked. But before he could fully delve into his thoughts, something in the far distance caught his attention.
His reiatsu detected someone approaching fast. He sharpened his focus like a sword, honing in on the presence speeding toward him. It was one of this world's capes. Strong, judging by the taste of their reiatsu, yet it lacked the concentrated power he was accustomed to sensing in the truly powerful. Instead, it felt more diffused.
The sound of the sound barrier breaking as the man-shaped projectile shot toward him made him crack open his eyes. The figure came to an abrupt stop, hovering just meters away.
"Woah," the intruder called out, eyes wide as they took in the steaming pond he had created in the middle of the coldest part of the world. "I knew something weird was going on when my sensors started going off, but an old man power testing in the middle of nowhere was not what I expected."
Yamamoto's pale red eyes narrowed as he examined the intruder. Judging by the voice, the newcomer was one of the older capes. His gaze roved over the man's form, taking in the blonde hair, the gold visor, and the matching golden armor that gleamed in the sunlight. Beneath the armor, a blue-patterned mesh shirt provided additional protection.
His eyes drifted down to the boots that kept the cape hovering at eye level, as well as the subtle hum emanating from both his armor and the contraption on his back. Yamamoto was suddenly reminded of the blue-armored brat who had tried to use violence to stop him months ago.
The intruder tried to move closer, but the mere presence of Yamamoto's restrained reiatsu sent him spiraling down toward the lake of superheated water that had formed beneath him.
It took the man a few seconds to regain control before he sped out of Yamamoto's range.
Weak.
Yamamoto dismissed further thoughts and closed his eyes, activating a simple Hado to create wood from nothing and conceal the form of his blade once more.
"Wow, is that your power? Some sort of plant creation? Wait, how does that mesh with gravity manipulation and creating enough heat to melt all the ice for 500 meters, showing up on radar, and standing on solidified air?"
Yamamoto ignored the whelp's rapid barrage of questions, finding himself above responding to the man-child. He flexed his reiatsu, priming it for a quick Shunpo.
"Anyway, that's rude of me. Introductions first. Hi, my name is Hero—"
Without a parting word, Yamamoto vanished in a displacement of air, reappearing kilometers away. As he regained his bearings and moved to prime another Shunpo, he heard that annoying whine again and couldn't help but find it amusing enough to stop.
The whelp had followed him, tearing through the sky like a scorned lover or a petulant child chasing after a parent.
Bright was the first thing Yamamoto noticed this time. The whelp's weaponized smile and the sunlight reflecting off his armor could have blinded Yamamoto if he had deigned to open his eyes.
The whelp stopped a meter away and continued talking as if he had never paused. "And you teleport too. Did you know you leave a displacement of waves when you teleport? Judging by my readings, it's not exactly teleporting. It seems more like the folding of space-time as you take a step—"
Yamamoto was reminded of that pest Mayuri. Both were driven to discuss whatever new discovery they had made, and Yamamoto had learned that the most effective way to avoid listening was either through sufficient violence or, more easily, by simply leaving.
So he flexed his reiatsu once more, ignoring the whelp's shout of "Oh, my readings have been recalibrated and I can actually pick up on—"
He vanished so swiftly that only an afterimage remained to listen to the whelp's rambling. By the time it dissipated, the whelp would be too far behind. Yamamoto's Shunpo returned him to a city that felt both familiar and foreign. Brockton Bay had once been lively, with an undercurrent of fear and blood hidden beneath its joy and bustle. When he had last seen it, hours ago, the city had been somber and dull, even with the recent conflict between this city's heroes and the villains.
...
It had begun as isolated skirmishes, flaring up like flash fires and dying down just as fast. But in the hours he'd been away, something had changed. What was once a series of quick clashes had erupted into an all-out war, and now the city was ablaze.
"Take control like you once did, Shigekuni Yamamoto. Return order and balance to a world gone mad."This time, it wasn't Yhwach's voice on the wind but the dry tone of Ichibē. The man had run off to protect the Soul King while Yamamoto had been left behind to forge a society with monsters and bloodthirsty killers. He didn't care much for the Old Monk's advice.
The sporadic gunfire had returned with a vengeance, nearly becoming a constant backdrop, but Yamamoto paid it no mind. Why should mortal squabbles matter to him?
The most notable change was that the headquarters of the super-powered heroes had somehow caught fire. It seemed even they couldn't escape the chaos. An attack on their bastion of strength evoked memories of the Quincy invasion.
He pushed such morose thoughts from his mind as he took another Shunpo, this one bringing him closer to home. Just on the outskirts of the immigrant area, he allowed his platform of condensed reiatsu to dissolve as he slowly descended until his traditional sandal-clad feet pressed against solid ground once more. He began to walk.
The longer he stayed in the city, the more therapeutic he found the act. It was easy to ignore the glances thrown his way. The respectful nods and greetings he was sent as he walked. As many as they were, they were less than he would've received back in the Soul Society.
Yet those nods and glances were missing now. The road was barren, devoid of both people and their noisy, erratic contraptions. He walked along the street, eyes closed, his cane making a dull thud with every step.
His senses stretched out, and as always, mundane humans were… not exactly difficult to sense, but they effortlessly slipped beneath his radar. His senses had been honed for detecting the strongest threats, so regular people didn't register until he actively sought them out.
As he walked, he noticed heads peeking out of windows and curtains being drawn aside. His presence seemed to instill a sense of confidence or calm, evident from the brief flare of their reiatsu that he caught.
The closer he got to the house, the more often he noticed it until he was right outside. The closest neighbors didn't even bother hiding as they watched him from open windows. He could hear their sighs of relief at his presence.
On the steps of the orphanage stood some of the older children and barely grown whelps who had rented a place in the building. They sat around with makeshift weapons in hand, while his senses detected others patrolling further out.
He would've chuckled at the display if it wasn't for the initiative it showed. A neighborhood watch of sorts, ready to protect the weak should the city's troubles spill over into their area.
"Jiji is back!" the lead whelp, Jin—the boy who had driven him to the city days ago—called out with a slur in his words. Yamamoto could feel the mix of excitement and fear from the others. They shifted and stood on either side of the stairs, bowing in unison. He walked past them in silence, the only sound being the thud of his cane against the wooden floorboard.
Sachiko opened the door as he approached, and he slipped inside with a nod in her direction before settling in as if he had never left.
"Was your experiment successful?" She asked, even though he never told her what he was going to do. She must have noted the sensation of his reiatsu focused on her because she quickly explained further.
"On the morning weather news, they said there was a sudden rise in temperature at the North Pole. I only assumed, of course, that it was the esteemed elder."
He hummed an affirmation in response as he continued to walk to his room, where he would sit and meditate a bit. Perhaps he would start working on that custom Kido to dampen sound, considering how much louder the powered whelps have gotten.
"You had visitors while you were away."
Yamamoto stopped at that, and he turned back to the woman with a raised brow. That was all the invitation she needed to continue.
"The Marche came knocking shortly after you left, and I believe you were given an invitation." The old woman continued, but he had already lost interest. He remembered the name as one of the superpowered' whelp groups that hung around. He also recognized them as the duo he saw moments before he left earlier.
But he had decided long ago to stay out of this world's politics. He had done his part once already—crafted a society from scratch and stood as its pillar for over two thousand years.
He had fulfilled his duty to the Soul King and the original Gotei 13. That duty had ended with his death. The fact that death seemed all too willing to spit him back out; was discarded and didn't matter. He had relinquished that role and had no intention of resuming it during his... vacation.
"I hope you would consider listening to what they have to say." Yamamoto froze at the statement. The old woman had never tried to influence him in any way before now. Even her description of the gangs had been as factual as she could.
She hurried to continue, sensing the shift in his reiatsu and attention. "The Marquis is a truly powerful cape, capable of holding back the full might of the Empire, the PRT, and the Brockton Bay Brigade."
He turned fully to face her, his eyes cracking open to pin her with a stare. "I see no reason to listen further until I have been given one." What did the woman know of power?
She let out a sigh, clearly struggling with her words before she succumbed with another sigh. "The Marquis—Leader of the Marche—also helped fund this building when I started it years ago, knowing that I intended to turn it into an orphanage and apartment complex. Regardless of ethnicity. He's been known to favor the old, women, and children. That was why I went to him."
He fixed her with his gaze as she looked down, nervous anticipation clear in her posture. A favor owed, his presence in the building. "Fine, I will see this Marquis." A favor repaid.
An explosion ripped through the air a second later, nearly making the old woman stumble. Yamamoto remained unshaken, his senses extending once more to observe the clash between the parahumans.
A running battle had crossed the invisible line separating the docks from the rest of the city, with two weaker, flickering signatures drawing closer. Their pursuers were closing in, and growing closer by the minute.
Yamamoto stifled a sigh that nearly escaped him. He had expected his deliberate act of refined brutality to ensure he remained undisturbed, but it seemed like he was mistaken.
His awareness spread further, noting the unfamiliarity of the new signatures alongside the ones he recognized. These were new individuals who were not yet familiar with him. Perhaps it was time to rectify that.