Danmachi : Reborn with Aizen's Powers

"We shall now pass judgment."

The old man's voice echoed through the grand halls of Central 46, thick with authority and finality. All eyes were fixed on the figure bound in the center of the room—Sōsuke Aizen, the former captain of the Fifth Division. His posture was eerily calm, his expression unchanging as the sentence was delivered.

"Aizen Sōsuke, for the crimes of high treason, betrayal of Soul Society, and mass murder, you are hereby sentenced to imprisonment in the deepest part of the Muken for 18,800 years."

Silence hung in the air as the words settled.

Then, slowly, Aizen smiled, his eyes gleaming with a knowing look that unsettled even the most hardened among the council.

His voice, soft yet dripping with disdain, cut through the stillness.

"I see… "

"For the likes of you to pass judgment on me… it seems rather absurd, does it not?"

The hall exploded in fury.

"You damn traitor!" one of the council members spat. "You think you can look down on us just because you're immortal?"

"Bind his eyes and mouth this instant!" another shouted, the rage spreading like wildfire. "Extend the sentence to 20,000 years!"

"Quite right! Raise the sentence!" the old man with the white mustache boomed, banging his gavel.

The commotion surged, but Aizen remained as composed as ever, his smile never fading.

The black bindings were swiftly brought out, and despite the chaos around him, he passively accepted the coverings over his eyes and mouth, unbothered by the hysteria of his captors.

---

A pair of gloved hands gently closed a book.

The room, in stark contrast to the grandeur of the trial, was small and decrepit.

The man sitting in the corner of the poorly conditioned house had just finished reading the manga, his eyes lingering on the now-closed volume of Bleach.

He set the book aside, rising slowly from his chair.

The flickering light from a broken lamp illuminated the battered walls, casting long shadows across the space.

His footsteps echoed softly on the wooden floor as he walked past a headless body slumped against the far wall, blood staining the floor beneath it.

The sight didn't seem to phase him, as if it were nothing more than an inconsequential detail.

His gloved fingers reached for a mask lying upside down on a nearby table.

Picking it up, he turned it over in his hands, inspecting its smooth surface before tucking it under his arm.

Without so much as a glance back at the body or the dark scene that surrounded him, he walked toward the door, opening it slowly to step out into the cold, indifferent night.

---

The man stepped out into a snowy expanse, the white blanket stretching endlessly before him.

His face was now hidden behind a blank mask, devoid of expression, as he trudged through the heavy snow.

The icy winds howled, the temperature below freezing, yet his posture remained unfaltering, as if the bitter cold held no power over him.

He hummed softly, a tune resembling the innocent rhymes of children, incongruous with the desolate landscape and the man himself.

His strides were steady, unhurried, as he made his way toward an old LAN box, half-buried in snow.

Upon reaching it, he took out a small device from his coat—alien in design, shaped vaguely like a mobile phone yet with no familiar markings.

He plugged it directly into the LAN box, his gloved fingers typing rapidly, inputting a string of unintelligible gibberish.

Moments later, the device chirped softly, and on its dim screen, a set of coordinates flashed in response.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the screen then started walking along.

---

How much is a life worth?

They say it's priceless, don't they? That it's beyond any measurable value, something sacred.

But look around.

We humans, we're so quick to speak of life's importance, yet quicker still to toss it aside.

We trade it so easily, as if it's nothing.

For power, for money, for some fleeting sense of pride.

Life is a commodity—like a cheap trinket in the marketplace.

We kill for it, sell it, sacrifice it.

For what?

Land? Vengeance? Some belief that we've convinced ourselves is worth more than the lives we crush beneath our feet?

How easily we rationalize it, how quickly we justify it.

One life for another, one casualty for the 'greater good.' We create these balances, these scales, pretending they matter.

But what's the truth? What's the real cost?

We say soldiers die for us, for our protection, our freedom.

But when we send them out there, when they fall in nameless fields or shadowed alleyways, what are we really paying them with?

Pride?

Honor?

Is that their worth ?

Or is it the clinking sound of a few medals on a polished uniform, handed to their weeping families?

And then there are people like me. The ones who don't have the luxury of such delusions.

I've taken lives—so many that I lost count long ago.

Each one, in the end, nothing but a statistic.

A name on a report, written off and filed away.

How many were worth something?

Could they have made a difference in whatever cause they were fighting, if only… if only I hadn't crossed their path?

I laugh at myself, really.

A man who's cut down countless lives, now asking what they're worth to find out the debt he owes them.

Hypocrisy runs deep, doesn't it? And I know it too well.

I've spent years trading death like it's some common currency, yet here I am, musing over how precious life is.

As if I'm capable of seeing it for what it truly is anymore.

You'd want to know who I am, wouldn't you?

That's how these stories usually go.

There's always a name, a face, something to anchor the violence to. But does that even matter?

I'm just a man without a face.

No name, no identity, nothing left but the whispers people hear in the aftermath.

The unnamed attacker.

That's all I've been—a shadow in the margins of some report.

Just another faceless entity people read about when terrorists or whistle-blowers turn up dead in far-off places.

A convenient tool for cleaning up messes.

And maybe that's for the best.

Because in the end, life's worth is measured not by how much you cherish it… but how much you gain by taking it.

And mine isn't worth much in the end.

It's not that I don't know why I kill or why I work for the secret services.

I understand it perfectly.

This is the optimal path for my people.

Those I take down wish harm upon us, and they won't stop until they get what they want.

So, I eliminate the threat. It's simple, really.

There's no grand belief in the greater good or lofty ideals here.

I'm not a crusader or a hero.

I'm just a man, hopeless and flawed, bound by the fragility of their hypocrisy.

These so-called guardians of society wear masks of righteousness, yet they turn a blind eye to the suffering around them while I'm left to do what must be done.

I don't hide from the truth. I know exactly what I am.

I know that every life I take chips away at my own humanity.

I don't fool myself into thinking that my actions will somehow purify the world or bring about peace.

I cut down these threats because it's necessary to protect what we have .

So I walk this path, unashamed. I do what I must for my people, not for some noble cause or a sense of duty.

I know I'm a hopeless human, grabbing at anything but myself to bank on for these choices of mine, but I accept that.

In this world, you either fight back or you perish.

There's no room for hesitation, no time for moral dilemmas or the so called 'humanity'.

---

The man reached a secluded spot deep in the Himalayas.

The coordinates he had received were accurate, guiding him to this isolated sanctuary.

Today was significant; it marked the last day of his service in Kashmir.

He knew he was no longer fit for missions.

His body was failing him, and more troubling, so were his memories.

It wasn't exactly dementia, but it felt like a cruel shadow of it, as pieces of his past were slipping through his fingers,the silver lining was he got to name the disease.

The injury he sustained during a mission near the Afghanistan border had changed everything.

A stab wound to the head, deep and devastating.

His team had rushed him into surgery, but by the time they returned him to his homeland, it was too late.

The damage was done, and he had been left with fragments of clarity in a fog of confusion.

Despite his condition, he never allowed himself to rest.

He pushed through the pain, through the haze, completing missions with just 15% of his vision remaining.

His eyes had been overrun with blood, yet he had kept moving, kept killing, driven by the belief that he was protecting his people.

It was only now that his end days were here did he start contemplating his life.

Three years had passed, and he was living with a permanent infection that killed him from the inside out.

Doctors had told him they could remove it, but it would basically mean taking his life.

The infection had spread throughout his brain , and he had only a few weeks—or perhaps days—left now.

This was it.

The end of a chapter filled with violence, and sacrifice.

He didn't regret the choices he made, but as he looked out over the vast, unyielding mountains, he felt undeniably hollow.

Shaking his head as he seemingly chuckled thoigh the sound came out hoarse.

The man walked into the hidden hideout, cleverly concealed from prying eyes.

He had a final meeting to attend—one last encounter with his superior and old friend, another nameless fellow in arms.

Upon entering his room, he wordlessly handed back his mission phone, the small badge that signified his allegiance, and the mask that had concealed his true self.

As he removed the mask under the lights, the sight was terrifying.

His eyes burned with a pitch-red hue, the pupils grayed out, a stark testament to the toll his years of service had taken on him.

"Jai Hind," he muttered, a final salute to his country and everything he had fought for.

Then, without looking back and uttering another word , he left the hideout.

He stepped out into the harsh winds of the Himalayas, walking aimlessly into the unforgiving cold.

Each step felt heavier than the last as he walked the icy terrain.

Eventually, he reached a desolate place where no human had likely ever set foot.

It was a void of silence, surrounded by towering peaks that pierced the sky.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled out his trusted knife, feeling the cold metal against his skin.

He stood alone in the harsh winds, the cold air biting at his skin.

His hands trembled as he gripped the knife, its cold blade glinting in the light.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed the metal against his neck, feeling the sharp edge against his flesh.

With determination, he drew the blade horizontally across his throat.

The initial sting of pain cut through him, but he pressed on, feeling the warm blood flow from the wound.

It pulsed out in steady rhythm, painting his skin as he moved the knife slowly, across the tender flesh.

His grip tightened as he cut deeper, the pressure building in his head, but not a single jolt of pain enough to deter him.

The world around him began to blur, but he focused on the sensation of the blade slicing through his skin.

It was liberating; every inch he carved away felt like a release from the weight of his existence.

As he continued, he felt warmth pooling beneath him, a stark contrast to the coldness of the environment.

Each movement grew slower, more labored.

He held the knife firmly in place, pressing down to maintain the flow, letting the blood seep out with each passing moment.

The pain became distant, comforting, replaced by an overwhelming sense of calm.

He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth escape him, taking with it the burdens he had carried for so long.

Each heartbeat echoed in his ears, and he surrendered to the finality of his life.

The last remnants of his consciousness slipped away, leaving behind the turmoil of a life filled with violence and sacrifice.

He was free.

---

PoV: Mc

I felt the weightlessness enveloping me, as if I were floating, detached from the harshness of my existence.

My vision began to clear, and as the haze faded away, the first thing I saw was a giant woman cradling me in her arms.

She loomed over me, her gentle face framed by a cascade of dark hair that glistened in the light.

The world around me was bright and warm, a stark contrast to the cold solitude I had known.

I couldn't understand the words that tumbled from her lips, but there was a soothing rhythm to her voice that washed over me like a balm.

It felt oddly familiar, reminiscent of a time long lost, a time when safety and warmth were all I knew not the harsh realities of the world.

I absorbed this surreal scene, emotions surged through me.

Memories long forgotten began to resurface, crashing into my mind like a tidal wave.

I remembered laughter, the feeling of sunlight on my face, and the embrace of a loving figure.

The sharp edges of my past softened, and I could almost taste the sweetness of innocence again.

Before I could comprehend what was happening, tears welled in my eyes.

I began to cry, a wailing sound that echoed in the air—a baby's cry, raw and unfiltered.

My tiny hands clutched at the fabric of her gaint dress, seeking comfort in her presence.

It was as if I were a child again, craving the nurturing love I had yearned for all those years.

The woman cooed softly, her gentle touch brushing against my cheek as she rocked me gently.

I felt her warmth envelop me, and despite the confusion swirling in my mind, a sense of peace settled in my heart.

I didn't want this moment to end. Here, cradled in her arms, I felt safe—like I had finally found my way back home in the arms of my mother.

---

Which he was sort of.

The man now named Vesta was five years old and had realized that somehow he had transmigrated to some sort of fantasy world, an ancient realm filled with wonders and strange beings.

His father, with two impressive horns atop his head, claimed to be a dragon descendant, though Vesta found him not absurdly strong, at least not in the way he had imagined.

His mother Aerin, in stark contrast, appeared entirely normal, embodying warmth and gentleness.

She often sang lullabies, her voice a soft melody that wrapped around him like a comforting blanket.

The family lived deep in the woods, far from bustling towns or crowded streets.

Their home was a cozy cottage surrounded by towering trees and vibrant greenery, a sanctuary where the only visitors were the occasional old couple or his grandparents, who lived nearby.

The stillness of the forest was often punctuated by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant calls of unseen creatures.

Despite the beauty and serenity of his new life, Vesta couldn't help but wonder about the nature of this world.

What lay beyond the trees?

Though the worn out man within only wanted to cherish these moments of innocence.

So he never cared much for that curiosity.

---

Vesta had never imagined that after his life as an assassin, he would find himself in a world filled with warmth, love, and the simple joys of childhood. The burdens of his past seemed to melt away in the embrace of his new family, allowing him to revel in moments he once thought lost forever. Today, he felt particularly playful, the thrill of life bubbling within him like never before.

"Okay, Dad! You count to twenty, and I'll hide!" he exclaimed, giggling as he darted away. The air was fresh with the scent of pine, and the sunbeams danced through the leaves, illuminating the forest like a magical realm.

"Alright, little one," his father replied, a smile creeping across his face. "One… two… three…"

As his father counted, Vesta quickly found a large tree trunk to hide behind, pressing his small body against the rough bark. His heart raced with excitement as he listened to his father's booming voice echo through the trees.

"Fifteen… sixteen… seventeen…"

Vesta's mind buzzed with joy. This was a far cry from his past life, where every moment had been a calculated risk. Here, he was simply a child, laughing and playing without a care in the world.

"Eighteen… nineteen… twenty! Ready or not, here I come!"

His father's voice rang out, and Vesta giggled, trying to suppress the sound as he peered around the tree. He watched his father move through the clearing, pretending to search under bushes and behind other trees, a playful grin on his face.

Suddenly, curiosity tugged at Vesta. He crept away from his hiding spot, wandering deeper into the woods. The trees grew taller, and the sunlight dimmed as he stumbled upon a colossal tree, its branches reaching high into the sky, almost as if they were trying to touch the clouds.

"Whoa," he gasped, staring up at the magnificent sight. It was unlike anything he had ever seen, and for a moment, he forgot about the game as wonder filled his heart.

Just then, he heard his father's footsteps approaching. "Vesta!" he called, his voice a mix of worry and affection. "Where are you?"

"I'm here!" Vesta shouted, running towards the sound. His father soon appeared, relief washing over his features as he knelt to meet Vesta's gaze.

"What are you doing so far from our spot?" His father asked, genuine concern lacing his tone. "You had me worried!"

Vesta pointed excitedly at the towering tree. "What's that? It's huge!"

His father looked up at the giant tree, a smile breaking across his face. "That's the Elven Kingdom. It's a special place."

"Can we go there?" Vesta's eyes sparkled with excitement.

His father shook his head gently. "No, Vesta. It's not safe for us to wander there. We should head back home."

Though a hint of disappointment tugged at his heart, Vesta nodded, understanding the wisdom behind his father's words. "Okay," he replied softly, taking his father's hand.

As they walked back through the forest, Vesta couldn't help but glance back at the majestic tree, already dreaming of the adventures that lay ahead.

In this new life, he was not t an assassin; he was a child filled with hope and wonder, and he wanted to stay that way for as long as he could.

---

Years passed like seasons, and soon Vesta was ten years old.

He had visited the nearby settlements with his father from time to time, each trip a thrilling adventure.

Yet, it was clear that his father's identity was sensitive; he always covered his head with a cloth like a turban whenever they went out, keeping his features hidden.

Vesta never inquired again why, understanding it was a topic his father preferred to avoid as he omce asked him about it.

So, he kept quiet, focusing instead on the wonders of the world around him.

By this age, Vesta had also started to grow small horns, though his long hair was enough to hide them from curious eyes.

He felt like a normal child, playing with others and exploring the forest, but he was aware of his differences.

His mother taught him the basics of combat with a wooden axe.

She surprisingly was once an adventurer herself, she shared stories of her past.

She wielded a giant axe that looked like Stormbreaker and taught him how to handle his own weapon, guiding his movements patiently.

"Remember, Vesta, it's not about strength when you strike; it's about balance and precision," she said, demonstrating the right stance.

He listened, captivated by her tales of battles fought and monsters defeated, feeling a sense of pride in his lineage.

His mother's lessons brought him joy, and he practiced diligently, swinging the wooden axe with determination even though he had leqrnt it in a much more efficient and brutal way designed for taking life in his past life.

Each time he felt the weight of the axe in his hands, he imagined himself becoming a protector, just like her.

While his father taught him the importance of their lineage, he spoke of the elemental magic that flowed through dragon descendants.

Vesta was still too young to feel it within him, as most of his kind developed their magical traits only after hitting puberty.

But the stories of elemental mastery of his ancestors filled him with anticipation for the future.

"Your blood is special, Vesta," his father said one evening, sitting beneath their favorite tree.

"One day, you will understand the magic within you."

Vesta nodded, eager for that day to come.

---

Vesta's happy life shattered as he returned to his house from the nearby village, ingredients for his magical training clutched tightly in his small hands.

The moment he stepped into the clearing, dread washed over him.

Shadows loomed around his home, cloaked figures encircling the door like vultures.

He heard his mother's screams—raw, desperate cries that sliced through the quiet of the woods.

Panic surged through him as he sprinted forward, propelled by fear and instinct.

When he reached the front of the house, his heart plummeted.

His father's body lay sprawled on the ground, bloodied and lifeless, his horns gone, as if his very essence had been stripped away.

Rage boiled within Vesta, but it turned to icy terror when he saw his mother, held captive by three cloaked figures.

One man, adorned in lavish robes, stepped forward, a cruel smirk on his face. "You thought you could betray Evilus and stay in this little cozy hut of yours forever, Aeirn?" he taunted, enjoying the power he wielded.

Vesta felt the air thicken around him, a suffocating weight pressing down on his chest.

His mother's eyes met his, wide and frantic. "Run, Vesta! Get to the Elven kingdom!" she screamed, her voice breaking.

The command snapped through his paralysis.

Without a second thought, he turned and fled, heart pounding, knowing he couldn't save her.

His mother, was strong and fierce, was now clearly incapacitated there was no way a child like him could do anything.

"Look! The little dragon this whore sired is here!" the man called after him, his mocking laughter echoing in the clearing. "Catch the little dragon, i want him as my pet! Let's see where he thinks he can run!"

Aerin gasped in horror as she glared at the man in front of her.

Vesta pressed forward, tears streaming down his cheeks, the pain of loss and fear igniting his instincts to survive.

Regret for taking all this for granted.

He sprinted through the trees, branches clawing at him, but he didn't stop. He wouldn't look back.

The Elven kingdom was his only hope, a beacon in the darkness.

Vesta pushed himself harder, fueled by the love he had known and the desperate need to escape the nightmare that had just begun.

---

After Vesta ran away.

The cloaked man stepped closer to Aeirn, a sinister grin spreading across his face. "You thought you could escape our grasp, didn't you?" he sneered, his voice low and mocking.

"But you're still ours, and it's time to remind you of your place."

With a swift, callous motion, he yanked at her clothing, ripping the fabric away to reveal the mark of Evilus branded on her skin. "Look at this," he taunted, his fingers tracing the seal.

"This is your reality , not some happy family. You are Evilus property, and you will always be. No matter how hard you fight, no matter where you run, you will never escape this."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. "Remember what you are, Aeirn. A once-great elf brought low. A slave to us. You are nothing without us."

He stepped back, taking in the scene, relishing her humiliation as the fabric hung loosely from her shoulders, leaving her exposed.

"Feel that shame and keep it in your mind, You've failed, and now you'll pay the price in full "

"Along with that dragon you gave birth to , He'll make a fine slave"

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Expect uploads in like seven or fourteen days.

Stones and Reviews please