Chapter 5: Aizen Sosuke
Aizen Sousuke, male, recorded age in Konoha: twenty years old.
An orphan raised in Konoha's orphanage, he was later sent to the Ninja Academy. After graduating with average grades three years later, he joined the ranks of Konoha's active shinobi.
His record was spotless—perhaps the cleanest in the entire village. Having lived under the watchful eyes of both the ANBU and the Root since infancy, he was seen as a model citizen of Konoha: pure, loyal, and without blemish.
But if one could peer into his heart, they would see something entirely different.
Because this man was not the Aizen Sosuke of this world.
He wasn't even the Aizen Sosuke of the Bleach world.
His current existence resembled something closer to Ichigo Kurosaki—a fusion of three beings: the original Shinigami Aizen, the slightly older Konoha-born Aizen, and a young man from modern times. The three had merged into one, giving rise to this new existence.
If one looked back at who he had been before arriving in the Naruto world, they'd find nothing more than an ordinary man—one who had been an avid fan of Bleach. When he realized where he had ended up, even he couldn't help thinking he had arrived in the wrong universe.
Logically speaking, shouldn't transmigration allow him to choose freely? Shouldn't he have awakened in the Bleach world, perhaps in the Rukongai, bearing the memories of someone who had fought Aizen and vowed to change his fate?
But Naruto?
He hadn't even finished watching it.
He only knew fragments—rumors of strange enemies, alien invaders, and chakra being tied to some cosmic conspiracy. None of it made sense. Why would extraterrestrials appear in what was supposed to be a ninja story?
At first, his curiosity was piqued. But after the sudden end of the Thousand-Year Blood War arc, and as his career began to take shape, that curiosity faded away.
Years later, when the continuation of the Thousand-Year Blood War was finally announced—and when Aizen appeared again—he felt something stir within him. A deep, nostalgic admiration.
By then, his life was stable, successful, comfortable. He'd set up a home theater, and on one quiet evening, he sat there watching Aizen's reappearance projected in high definition. His heart raced with excitement.
And then—nothing.
When he next opened his eyes, he was a child again, sitting in a classroom at the Konoha Ninja Academy. His name: Aizen Sosuke.
At the same time, he inherited the complete memories of Aizen during the Thousand-Year Blood War.
Judging by his name and mental state, it seemed highly likely that the original Aizen had somehow brought him along during his passage through worlds. Yet, Aizen paid little mind to the cause.
He was here. That was all that mattered.
With a new body and the wisdom of a Shinigami, he believed he could live peacefully in this new world.
Perhaps, he thought, he might even find people who could truly understand him.
But he was wrong.
Completely wrong.
The only person who truly understood him—was himself.
He began to understand why Aizen of Soul Society had become what he was. Because now, as Aizen Sosuke of the Naruto world, he found himself walking the same path.
At first, life in Konoha was satisfying enough. Compared to the lower districts of Soul Society, Konoha was almost utopian. It wasn't as advanced as the modern world he had once lived in, but it was far more humane.
That peace, however, was fragile.
When war erupted, the illusion shattered. The ugliness of humanity—both within and beyond Konoha—made him increasingly disgusted with the shinobi world.
The so-called Will of Fire was nothing more than an empty creed, devoid of logic or practical foundation.
The endless conflicts, the exploitation of children as tools of war, the political hypocrisy—everything in this world reeked of distortion.
The strong dictated the flow of battle, yet they sent untrained, terrified children to die on the front lines without hesitation.
It wasn't ignorance. Everyone knew that those same children would become the next generation's pillars of strength—but that was the future. And no one in power cared about the present.
Twisted logic. Cruel truths.
And the world spun on as if such madness were normal.
People fought for meaningless missions, for payments that couldn't buy peace of mind, for ideals no one believed in.
In this world, human life was even cheaper than in Soul Society.
At least there, the Shinigami killed to maintain balance between the realms—a grim necessity dictated by the laws of nature.
Despite its corruption, Soul Society had restraint. It did not wage war for greed or convenience. Its sins were contained within its own boundaries. That was its version of morality.
But here?
Konoha and the other great villages had no such discipline. Their leaders cloaked political ambition in words like justice, honor, and duty. The Central Forty-Six might have been corrupt, but compared to these shinobi nations, they were paragons of stability.
In Soul Society, corruption had taken millions of years to take root. Here, the decay was instantaneous—woven into the very fabric of existence.
Even the tailed beasts, once symbols of destruction, had been twisted by men into tools of diplomacy—tokens of peace and friendship distributed like gifts by the First Hokage.
He had once hoped that the many villages would eventually stop fighting—
That the world would one day understand the meaning of peace, with chakra and the tailed beasts serving as its bond.
But in reality, his death became the spark that ignited the Ninja War.
Morality, trust, respect, and honor—such values seemed completely foreign to the shinobi of this world.
What horrified Aizen most was that they didn't even respect their own history.
He remembered visiting the Central Forty-Six Chambers and the grand library guarded by nobles back in Soul Society.
There, countless records lay preserved—books that told the truth without embellishment. Even the ugliest deeds of the past were written plainly, without erasure or alteration.
But this world was different.
In less than fifty years, silence had rewritten everything. History was distorted; good and evil twisted beyond recognition.
Events from just a thousand years ago had turned into myth. Names from less than a century ago were already spoken of as legends.
It was as if the world itself had conspired to erase the First Hokage's influence, turning the truth into illusion—
and the illusion into truth.
Aizen could no longer tell which world—Soul Society or this one—was more diseased.
But his memories offered him a single, undeniable conclusion:
Those who tamper with history are destined to repeat it.
And so this shinobi world became nothing more than an arena—a pit where hatred and bloodshed were endless, where chaos reigned and no one remembered why they fought.
Through fragments of his own memories, Aizen grew certain: this world was a cage.
A cage forged from ignorance, hatred, and twisted will.
And whether it came from his modern memories, his time in Soul Society, or his rebirth here, one thing remained constant—
Aizen Sosuke despised such a world.
He had struggled, at first, with the ignorance of the villagers—their simple kindness, their blind acceptance of the Will of Fire.
But in time, he learned to accept it. It hadn't even taken him a month.
As long as both sides spoke truth, it was enough.
He had never lied to anyone.
He simply understood that most people were trapped—limited by their own vision, their own knowledge. They were prisoners of their own worldviews.
When one is powerless, becoming a mere speck of dust in the darkness isn't shameful. But even the powerless must face danger.
They must continue forward.
Even beasts, guided only by instinct, dream of breaking free.
To step toward the future despite the towering storm above—that is courage.
"Well, that's all," Aizen murmured softly.
As long as one's mind remains clear, as long as one doesn't retreat, there is nothing to fear.
His gaze fell upon the three characters he had just brushed across the paper—No Retreat.
Satisfied, he set down the brush and admired his work.
He took the sheet of rice paper, stood, and hung it behind him to dry naturally. Once finished, he turned back toward the room—and the young boy kneeling quietly on the floor.
"What a rare visitor, Kakashi-kun," Aizen said warmly, his smile gentle as ever. "I thought I'd have to visit the cemetery to see you today. So tell me—what brings you here? Have you let something go? Or perhaps... you've come to talk?"
"…"
Kakashi said nothing. The boy simply sat there in silence, eyes wandering as if unsure of how to begin.
A full day had passed since his decision. He had told himself he needed to meet Aizen Sosuke—and so he came.
It was his first time visiting the home of this man everyone in the village regarded as a saint.
Rumor had it that this enormous mansion was a gift from the Hokage himself. Yet Aizen had turned most of it into a free inn, charging only a small fee for meals to sustain the place, while offering shelter to the homeless and victims of violence.
Only this grand calligraphy room and a small adjacent chamber truly belonged to him.
Though he hadn't seen the rumored simple hut, the elegance of the calligraphy room alone left Kakashi speechless.
Large scrolls of majestic calligraphy hung like curtains from the beams, unframed and flowing freely in the wind.
The black ink on white rice paper gave the room an aura of serenity and strength.
In the center sat Aizen Sosuke—his pure white haori lined with black, glasses glinting faintly beneath the sunlight. His composure was almost divine.
Yet behind him hung the words No Retreat—and for some reason, those words filled Kakashi with a quiet dread.
The calligraphy surrounding him seemed alive, like ancient beasts carved from ink, their gazes pressing down on the small boy who dared step into their domain.
A summer breeze passed through, stirring the scrolls and making the wind chimes sing softly.
When Aizen's gentle voice broke the silence, the six-year-old flinched. His small shoulders trembled as he lowered his head.
After a long pause, Kakashi whispered, "…Can I trust you?"
Aizen chuckled quietly. "Please don't ask such innocent questions, Kakashi-kun. They make you sound weak."
He placed a paperweight on the desk, spread a new sheet of rice paper, and began preparing his brush.
"To understand someone," he said, dipping the brush in ink, "you must observe their actions, not listen to rumors. Words can mislead, but deeds rarely lie. If you believe what others say without proof, you'll only lose sight of yourself."
"If you trust your enemies, you'll turn against your comrades. If you believe outsiders, you'll distance yourself from your own family. Such small misunderstandings can completely distort how you see the world."
He lifted his gaze toward the boy.
"Who are you? Who are they? Who will stand beside you, and who will oppose you? These are things you must learn to discern. Though, I suppose... for someone your age, it might be a bit too soon."
Aizen studied the child's face, noting the confusion in his eyes. For a moment, something like pity flashed across his own.
Is he truly only six? Or does he already understand more than he lets on?
Sighing softly, Aizen pushed up his glasses.
"Then I'll get straight to the point. This was something I planned to tell you in three days."
He placed the brush down and stood, his expression unreadable.
Turning to face Kakashi fully, he extended a hand toward him.
"Come," he said gently. "Be my son, Kakashi."
"?"
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