And the day had started off so well.
Marwyn Lavere had lain in bed late, long past the crack of dawn as was his custom. Even for a supervillain mastermind, breaks were essential, and today was one of those days. He lingered on that delicate boundary between the dream world and wakefulness, enjoying the stillness.
So when his sharp ears picked up the faint creak of his bedroom door opening and the feather-light patter of small feet on the hardwood floor, his well-honed instincts immediately dismissed any potential threat. No bone spear flew to meet the intruder's throat. Instead, his half-asleep musings were disrupted by a sudden weight landing squarely on his chest.
"Good morning, Papa!" a tiny voice exclaimed with glee.
A bright smile crept onto his lips as he reached up, grabbing his assailant with practiced ease. Ignoring the delighted laughter, he lifted her high into the air before slamming her gently back onto the bed. With skill that came from years of experience, he rolled her up in the sheets like a caterpillar, leaving only her head sticking out.
Her peals of giggles were infectious, and his smile widened banishing all remnants of sleep. He leaped to his feet with exaggerated energy, announcing with fake gravitas, "Catch me if you can, my little dragon slayer!" Without waiting for her to respond, he ran out of the room, the sound of her laughter and struggling close behind.
It took her five minutes to "track him down," a feat helped by a loud, and completely accidental noise from the room he hid in just as she'd just passed. The timing was perfect. The moment she peeked inside, she found him kneeling, dusting his dust-covered slippers.
With a victorious shout, she leaped onto his back, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck. "I win!" she declared, her voice bursting with joy.
Marwyn's laughter filled the room as he stood, her full weight resting comfortably on his shoulders and back. "And your reward for defeating the wicked dragon is… ice cream!"
"Yay!"
"But first, you've to brush your teeth."
"Nay!"
…
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Schools were on a break which meant he had to channel Amelia's energy into something productive which was an interesting challenge, one that he juggled alongside his responsibilities as the head of a criminal empire. Still, the highlight of their day came when they finally fulfilled his promise to her.
The car ride was brief, and the city was unusually quiet. The Empire Eighty-Eight was all but dismantled, their remaining influence reduced to scattered pockets. Marwyn wasn't entirely certain which capes Allfather had left behind to guard their crumbling territory, but their hold was tenuous at best. Even Allfather, for all his pride and investment, had been forced to relinquish much of his grip on the Bay.
The Teeth were dead, and the Asian gangs—with what few capes they possessed—were all but neutered by the absolute monster sitting on their porch.
All of this left a vacuum, a power gap Marwyn was working tirelessly to fill. Yet even he hadn't anticipated how rapidly the landscape of cape politics would shift. His resources weren't sufficient to fully absorb what was left of the Teeth and the Empire, though he was making progress.
The Asian gangs might have rallied, but the one person who could've banded them together into something seemed indifferent, or perhaps simply oblivious to the chaos. It was a fascinating contrast to himself: a person with immense power and influence who wielded it with such apparent disregard.
Marwyn chuckled at the thought. To wield so much power and influence yet lack a single care in the world. His chuckle drew Amelia's attention, and she looked up at him, her paintbook forgotten in her tiny fists.
"What's wrong, Papa?"
"Absolutely nothing, my dear," he replied calmly, smoothing her hair over her scalp. "Papa was just thinking too much. Anyway, we're here now."
Amelia turned toward the window, her eyes lighting up at the sight of colorful neon signs. "Fugly Bob's!" she squealed.
Without waiting for him, she bolted from the car. Marwyn smiled, stepping out with deliberate slowness. He had brought only a single guard today, his usual precaution when playing the role of a moderately wealthy businessman. A quick wave reassured his driver and enforcer that all was well as he strolled after Amelia at a leisurely pace.
The city's crime rate was at an all-time low. For once, Marwyn felt no pressing need to be on edge. Today, he wasn't Marquis, the ruthless gang leader. Today, he was simply Marwyn Lavere, a single father and CEO of a burgeoning pharmaceutical firm.
Unfortunately, that illusion shattered the moment he slid into a booth beside his excited daughter. A newcomer entered the diner. A newcomer who didn't seem to care much about the difference between the two personas he wore.
The rhythmic thunk of a cane against the floorboards marked his approach, the sound somehow sharper than the murmurs of the few other patrons present. This wasn't a man who cared for disguises or subtlety. His presence radiated barely contained bloodlust, a suffocating mix of dominance, fire, and destruction. Clad in a black kimono and a white haori, the wiry figure made his way directly to Marwyn's booth.
The old man seated himself without ceremony, his closed eyes suggesting either arrogance or disdain. Marwyn's shoulders tensed, his fingers twitching as if reaching for an invisible blade. The urge to manifest one was strong, but he suppressed it, forcing himself to remain calm. The other patrons were not stupid. They picked up on the old man's presence and suddenly found their meals or their phones far more interesting than the brewing confrontation.
"You were looking for me," the man said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet. "Here I am."
Before Marwyn could formulate a reply, another person spoke.
"Papa, who is he?" brave little Amelia spoke, not truly understanding what was happening, and Marwyn's heart jumped to his throat the moment the old man turned to her, and his eyes cracked open just the tiniest bit, revealing red eyes barely hidden behind those lids.
That simple act of cracking his eyes open to physically look at Amelia felt like a crack in a dam, as suddenly the domineering aura ratcheted up, enough for someone who had never experienced the slightest hint of violence, like Amelia, to finally notice something.
Then the man spoke, "Hello, child." And Amelia slumped forward as though the air had been sucked from her lungs.
Marwyn's instincts took over. He lunged to catch her as she crumpled sideways, her tiny hand brushing against the old man's single-revealed limb as she fell. The moment before he made contact with her Marwyn felt it.
A wave of sensation that hit him like a thunderclap. Pain, confusion, and nausea tore through him, but beneath it all, there was something else. Something... familiar. A memory.
A vision.
He found himself in a vast, silent void stretching endlessly in all directions. Two impossible, worm-like shapes writhed through the space, their colossal forms grinding together like tectonic plates colliding. Their incomprehensible, shifting edges sent ripples of nausea through him.
The entities danced in a brutal, eternal rhythm, colliding and pulling apart, their impact soundless in the void. Yet with each collision, shards of their forms fractured and drifted downward. The fragments glowed and pulsed like they were alive.
His gaze followed one fragment as it veered sharply, hurtling toward a planet he vaguely recognized as Earth. It spiraled faster and faster before slamming into a small figure. His breath caught as the shard connected, embedding itself with force.
Amelia screamed.
The sound pierced through the vision, dragging him back into the physical world. He blinked rapidly, finding himself in the diner again. Amelia's scream had subsided, but her body trembled, her brown skin somehow pale. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she stared at the old man with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Blood trickled from her nose in a thin line, stark against her brown skin.
"Amelia!" Marwyn pulled her into his arms, his hands trembling as he patted her down, checking for any injuries. "Are you hurt? Does it hurt anywhere else?" His voice cracked, fear creeping into the edges of his tone.
"My head hurts," she whimpered, her voice small.
Marwyn froze. The realization struck like a hammer blow: Amelia had triggered. He recovered immediately and he took a serviette from the table and used it to wipe at her nose, cleaning the blood.
The old man's dry voice broke the silence, calm yet rough. "So, that's how it happens." Marwyn turned, his body tensing as the full force of the man's open eyes bore down on them, like staring into the heart of a sun itself.
"That is how you gain the abilities you wield. Fascinating. It seems like I was wrong. Your ilk are more Quincy than Fullbringer."
The word Quincy carried an odd weight, a subtle inflection that sent a shiver down Marwyn's spine. The old man's eyes slid shut again, and with that small act, the crushing aura receded by half.
"Curious," the man continued, shifting his focus away from Amelia, easing Marwyn's frantic nerves. "Yet irrelevant to my purpose here. You sought me out, young warlord. I am here."
Before Marwyn could respond, Amelia spoke again, her headache forgotten and her voice laced with her usual excitement. "Are you my grandpappy?"
Marwyn blinked and the old man stilled. The question hanging in the air like a bombshell. Marwyn opened his mouth to clarify, but Amelia, unrelenting, barreled forward. She slipped out of his grasp and scuttled closer to the old man, her curiosity burning brightly.
"But you don't look much like Papa, then again, I touched you and I know you're old. Very, very, very old." She raised her hands and started counting down with her fingers before stopping halfway and giving up on the act. "Older than I can count anyway. So maybe it's because you're old, right? Right, Gramps? Wait, how do I even know you're old?" She gasped.
Marwyn's heart was beating so loudly it was a surprise it had not burst out of his chest already. There was his newly triggered daughter, pressed against an old man and firing at him with a rapid barrage of questions barely inches away from his face in an act that would've bled anyone's ears.
An old man who had killed an Endbringer with an ease that belied what should have been impossible, yet here they were. He cursed himself for sheltering her so much, for leaving her oblivious to the concept of danger.
Fortunately for him, the Old man took the questions well. When her questions finally paused, he spoke, his tone firm yet strangely gentle. "Sit down, child. That is no way to address someone, least of all a supposed grandfather."
Amelia blinked, then dropped into the booth as though following the orders of a general. She squirmed under the weight of his attention, then quickly grabbed her cup of ice cream, holding it out like a peace offering. "Do you like vanilla ice cream?"
The old man turned his head to Marwyn, a single eyebrow arching in silent question. Marwyn resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands.
Could this day get any worse?
The old man turned back to face her and even with his eyes closed, he seemed to regard the offered ice cream with a moment of silence, his lips pressing into a thin line that spoke of neither amusement nor annoyance. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the absurdity of the situation against some private logic.
"Vanilla," he said finally, his voice a dry rumble like a mountain creaking. "I have no strong opinions on it."
Amelia's brows furrowed in a way that clearly spoke of her dissatisfaction with his noncommittal answer. "Papa says that's how boring people answer questions," she countered, puffing up her cheeks in defiance. "Are you boring, gramps?"
Marwyn swore internally, his blood filling his ears as the tension in the air shifted.
The old man didn't react immediately, his focus still fixed on Amelia with an unreadable intensity. Then, after a moment that felt stretched unbearably thin, he gave the faintest shake of his head.
"Boring? No," the old man murmured, almost contemplative. "But perhaps I am… patient."
Amelia tilted her head, her childlike curiosity undeterred. "Patient? Like waiting for cookies to bake?"
"Yes," the old man replied, for the first time Marwn detected something in his tone. Faint bemusement. "I suppose it is something like that."
Marwyn nearly let out a sigh of relief, though his instincts screamed at him to remain vigilant. Amelia, oblivious to the monster she was already calling her gramps, clapped her hands together with delight at his answer. "Oh! I get it now!" she declared, as though she'd just cracked some grand mystery of the universe. "You're like an old oven!"
A sharp exhale escaped Marwyn, and it took him a moment to realize it was a strangled laugh. He quickly bit it back, his eyes darting to the old man, whose expression hadn't changed, but there was something about the stillness of it that made Marwyn second-guess his mirth.
The old man finally leaned back slightly, his shoulders slackening in what almost looked like... relaxation. "An oven," he echoed quietly, as if testing the word. "Perhaps, child. Perhaps."
Marwyn seized the moment to intervene, clearing his throat sharply and stepping closer, pulling Amelia gently back toward him. "Amelia," he said, his tone more strained than he'd intended, "give the man some space. He's not… accustomed to your energy."
"But Papa," she protested, her little hands gripping her cup of ice cream tightly. "He didn't say no! And you always say—"
"Now," Marwyn interrupted, sharper this time. Her lips pursed in a pout, but she relented, sliding back into her seat with a huff.
The old man's attention shifted from Amelia to Marwyn, and the weight of his attention, his eyes still closed, returned full force. "Your daughter," he said slowly, his tone devoid of judgment yet heavy with something else. "She is untempered steel."
Marwyn stiffened. "She's a child," he replied, keeping his voice steady despite the chill running down his spine.
The old man's features twitched, not quite a frown, but something close enough to feel unsettling. "Children are the forge," he said cryptically. "Their guardians are the blacksmiths, therefore you shape them well... or they break."
Marwyn clenched his jaw, unwilling to be baited into whatever philosophical thread the man intended to unravel. "You didn't come here to discuss my daughter," he said firmly, something of the man known as the Marquis slipping out. "You said I sought you out. Fine. You're here. Let's talk."
The old man didn't reply immediately. Instead, his hand reached out and caressed the top of his staff. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter but no less commanding.
"Then speak, young warlord, and know your time is short."
A/N; No, Yamamoto didn't unleash his full reiatsu here, crater would've formed.
Amy reminds him of Shinsu and Ukitake, (I assume he took them in when they were young.) that was what the philosophical musing was about. Busy week, forgive any mistakes that slip by me. Going to bed early. Enjoy.