Chapter 264: Final Chapter Where do you want to go?
"Only one year left… when will this year pass at light speed?"
The young man stared at the ending playing on the projection screen, then collapsed onto the sofa as if his soul had been sucked dry.
Lately, the world felt like it had undergone a bizarre renaissance.
Boruto, a series people once swore was impossible to ignite, had suddenly caught fire again and even managed to pull off several major moments. And the Shinigami's Thousand Year Blood War arc had finally been fully animated, with tension and expressive power so satisfying that, as a long time fan, he felt completely fed.
The older he got, the more he realized that "maturity" had nothing to do with age. It had everything to do with whether you truly loved something, and whether you had loved it as a child.
He loved Shinigami when he was young.
He still loved it now.
Nearing thirty, it felt like the days of chasing Shinigami through his teens and twenties were only yesterday. One Piece, one of the Big Three shonen manga, still had not ended, and the other two had somehow found a second spring. The feeling it left behind was strange, warm, and a little bitter.
Youth had come back.
It was worth installing a home theater just to watch it all.
With that lingering satisfaction still in his chest, he pushed himself up, squinted at the now clear sky outside, and guzzled a bottle of soda.
Every time he finished a good story, he felt the same hollow ache, as if something had been taken from him. He knew there would be better things ahead, scenes that would make him shout and punch the air again, but the emptiness still lingered, stubborn and familiar.
His heart felt carved out.
His mind kept replaying those stylish fight scenes and animated cuts.
And most of all, it replayed Aizen's lines.
That charisma was ridiculous. He was the kind of viewer who watched alone at home, swinging his fist into the air and cheering like an idiot, fully immersed without shame.
It was just a pity that the days had been too enjoyable.
Reality still existed.
And the trash still needed to go out.
"Sigh… I wish I could transmigrate…"
A grown man did not need much to take out the trash. A shirt and trousers were enough.
He opened the door.
Then froze.
A man who looked like he had stepped out of a painting was standing right outside.
White haori. Black Shinigami uniform. Glasses. That calm half smile, gentle enough to feel unreal.
The young man only had time to gasp.
"Holy crap, Aizen!"
"It's just cosplay," the man said, smiling. "Does it look similar?"
"Holy crap, Hayami Shō!"
What kind of god tier cosplay was this?
The voice, the face, even the way he stood, it was nearly perfect.
The young man's brain stalled for a full second. If the man had not looked so pleased with himself, like someone enjoying the reaction his costume got, the young man might have genuinely believed Aizen Sōsuke had transmigrated straight into his apartment hallway.
Even so, admiration flooded him.
The voice. The movements. The quality of the haori and uniform. Even under the bright sun, the man looked unfazed, hands in his pockets, posing naturally like a manga cover brought to life.
"Where's my phone?" the young man blurted. "Can I take a picture of you? Or a selfie?"
"Of course," the man replied smoothly. "Do I look very much like Aizen Sōsuke?"
"Yes. Extremely. I've never seen an Aizen cosplay this good in my life."
The young man tossed the trash into the hallway bin, raised his phone, and aimed at the man who was smiling lightly while pushing up his glasses. He gave a thumbs up without even thinking.
Finding Shinigami cosplayers these days was not easy. It was an older series, and even at conventions, truly excellent cosplays were rare. A cosplay this lifelike usually meant a full team behind it, or someone with money to burn who was willing to go all in.
And yet he had run into this masterpiece right outside his door.
It made him feel off balance.
To some extent, the man did not feel like cosplay at all. That half smile created a strange sense of time slipping out of place, like the world had briefly misaligned.
Worse, a faint, almost grotesque sense of recognition crawled up his spine.
Have I seen him somewhere before?
Why does he feel so familiar?
But then the man struck another classic pose, and even recreated the famous hair gel scene, voice and gesture so accurate it made the young man's doubts evaporate on the spot.
This was a living master.
Why would he waste the moment thinking about nonsense?
Even if he was almost thirty and technically "old," he could still get excited about what he loved. Who could refuse a live recreation of that scene?
He even wondered if his imagination was running wild, because for an instant, the streetlights around them seemed to flicker, like the shadows were trying to recreate the atmosphere of that moment. He almost felt grateful for the property management's laziness. If they had fixed the lights months ago, he might not have seen it.
Or maybe it was not the lighting at all.
He glanced at the video on his phone and frowned.
It was blurry.
He was about to check it again when the man spoke.
"Our meeting is fated," the cosplayer said softly. "How about we get coffee over there? I'm waiting for the convention staff to pick me up."
He pushed up his glasses with a helpless smile.
"To be honest, I left in a hurry and didn't bring my phone. They don't know where I went, so I can only hide here to escape the heat. If possible, could you treat me to an iced coffee? When they arrive, I'll pay you back."
"No need," the young man said immediately. "I'll treat you. A professional cosplayer like you is rare these days. So many cosplays now are… well."
He hesitated, then continued honestly.
"It's not that love isn't enough, but you should at least grasp the character's appearance, personality, and ideas, right? The uniform head tilting, winking, sticking out tongues, squeezing dimples, it might look cute, but those characters aren't like that. It feels weird."
"Hmm," the man murmured. "That's true. But if you're happy, there's no problem."
"That's true too," the young man admitted. "But people are greedy. They want something better."
This Aizen cosplay, how should he describe it?
There was something strangely soothing about him, like his presence alone could calm the mind.
Talking with him was effortless. The young man felt as if he were speaking with someone older, someone who understood him without needing explanations. Their opinions did not match perfectly, but the feedback was always sharp, always considerate, always satisfying.
It was strange, too, how the entire street seemed to ignore the man's lifelike Aizen cosplay, but the young man did not mind. Shinigami was an older series, and a white haori in the summer just looked like a big cloak. The number on the back was noticeable, sure, but it was not like he was dressed as a demon or ghost.
Glasses era Aizen looked like a friendly uncle anyway.
The moment they stepped into the coffee shop, it felt like they had entered another world.
Despite the seasonal heat, the shop was nearly empty. Only the self service cold drink platform was lit.
The young man scanned the code with a confused frown, poured two cold drinks, then walked over to the cosplayer, who was already seated.
His expression turned awkward.
"Sorry, I planned to get you something cooling, but there's no one here, and there's nothing at the counter. So I scanned the code and poured two cold drinks. It might be presumptuous, but iced coffee doesn't feel right for this weather. Cold drinks should be fine. Do you prefer orange juice or iced lemonade? Pick one, and I'll take the other."
"Iced lemonade is fine."
"Okay. I actually like orange juice."
He handed over the drink, sat down, and took a sip of orange juice.
Cool sweetness, a faint sour bite, it slid into his stomach and cleared his head a little.
As far as he remembered, this coffee shop was usually packed. It was an internet famous shop, and its self service buying and dispensing gimmick had made it popular on apps. For it to be completely empty today was beyond unusual.
It was eerie.
Before he could think too hard, that magnetic voice came from across the table.
"Speaking of which," the cosplayer said, "I still don't know what you truly like."
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"You treated me to a drink, and we have time. Talking is fine."
"Yeah, we're waiting anyway," the young man said. "As for me, I really like novels and manga. When I was a kid, my parents always scolded me for reading this stuff. Now it's like revenge. I read web novels and watch anime every day, nonstop. The more I watch, the more excited I get, like I'm trying to make up for what I missed back then."
"Compensation," the cosplayer said quietly. "People use the present to repay childhood losses."
"Maybe that's it…"
The man was a good listener.
Maybe it was upbringing. Maybe it was chemistry. Either way, the young man found himself speaking more easily than he ever did with anyone else.
Normally, his tone was too sharp, and his conversations somehow always ended with people getting annoyed. Only afterward would he realize he had said something wrong. But in front of this man, everything felt normal. Smooth. Comfortable.
Their favorite anime lined up almost perfectly. They could discuss novels with the same excitement. Even their future aspirations and values seemed strangely aligned, that simple, blunt worldview of someone who believed in good and evil, with a selfish streak of doing "what is right" in the way that felt right.
The young man became more and more animated, thrilled by the sense that he had met a true soulmate.
People like this were rare.
If you met one, it felt like luck.
If you didn't, you might never meet one at all.
As if casually changing the topic, the Aizen cosplayer swirled his cup and spoke in a low voice.
"Speaking of it, you really like transmigration novels, and harem novels, don't you?"
"Yeah," the young man admitted immediately, suddenly energized. "And I'm not afraid of being laughed at. I really like transmigration harem stories. Becoming stronger after transmigrating is a given, but becoming stronger doesn't mean becoming a eunuch, right? If I get stronger, it's for a better life. It can't be just for strength itself."
Once he started, the words poured out.
"I also like behind the scenes boss stories, but those are getting rarer. Eerie stories are fine too, but there aren't many. Most stuff now is all fighting and killing. I don't even like reading that."
"What I want are stories where everyone is happy, with a few jokes and a bit of color. There can be danger, sure, but it's not too heavy. In the end everyone can laugh."
"Your demands are high," the cosplayer said calmly.
"Are they? I think they're simple. As long as it doesn't feed me garbage, I can eat it. I'm pretty omnivorous."
"Aren't you too lenient then?"
"Ideal and reality are different," the young man said with a shrug. "My ideal is to read stuff like that, but it doesn't really exist, so I settle for second best."
Conversation had a strange charm.
It was like being drunk on strong liquor. His usual caution, his unease, it all vanished. Facing this Aizen cosplayer, he felt as if he had met a brother from another mother, and he could not stop himself from talking.
Things he never said out loud, things he did not want to admit, thoughts he had buried for years, spilled out like beans poured from a bamboo tube.
Hours passed.
Outside, the sky looked frozen.
Inside, the coffee shop felt frozen too.
No customers. No staff. No noise, as if time itself had decided to leave them alone.
The young man drank endless iced orange juice and kept talking.
"I want to be intimate with girls, with no hardships or disasters, just my own choices. That kind of world…"
He laughed bitterly.
"I'm thirty, damn it. Since I was little, they always told me no early romance. Then after college, suddenly it's find a girlfriend, get married, start a career."
"Who the hell can do that?"
"I don't even know how to talk to girls. They tell you it's something you learn instantly. But did anyone ever consider that because of what they said, I haven't talked to a girl more than twenty sentences a year since I was little?"
He swallowed and forced his voice steady.
"But I can't do anything about it. My parents died years ago. What can I do?"
"And work too. One year after graduation, they demand three years of experience. I finally scraped in, and then it's seniority and competing for ability. People around my company have died suddenly. If you don't compete, you get slow promotions and eventually you just lie flat. It feels like a choice, but it's not satisfying either."
"I can't argue with anyone. I don't even have a good reason. So in the end, I can only read comics and novels like this."
His fingers tightened around the cup.
"If I could transmigrate, I'd pick a low martial world, get some ridiculous cheat, then enjoy a harem. That world can do whatever it wants as long as I'm happy. I don't care how it ends. If someone wants to be the savior, let them. I'm too lazy."
The cosplayer's eyes narrowed slightly.
"That would definitely end differently than you imagine."
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"Nothing," the man said. His voice softened again. "If you had the ability to transmigrate, how would you want to transmigrate? Into what kind of world?"
The sudden seriousness cut through the haze in the young man's head.
He finally noticed how unnaturally quiet it was.
Not just the lack of customers.
The lack of everything.
No machine hum. No background chatter. Even the sound of breathing seemed to fade until it felt like only the two of them existed in the universe.
But out of habit, he answered anyway.
"If possible, I'd transmigrate with my current body, just younger and healthier. I'd go to a world full of beautiful women, with beautiful women as the main focus, plus adventure and prophecy. It'd be best if I had cheats too, like being the only male student in a girls' school."
He laughed nervously, half embarrassed, half earnest.
"And ideally, there'd be childhood friends who secretly like me, and other girls who like me too. That would be perfect."
The man across from him did not laugh.
He simply nodded once.
"Your dream will come true."
The young man's blood went cold.
Silence.
Then he forced a strained smile so hard his face twitched.
"It's over," he muttered, voice barely steady. "You're the real deal."
He looked up at the man.
"You are Aizen Sōsuke himself… or rather, a transmigrator who resembles Aizen Sōsuke, right?"
"Hm. Correct."
Aizen nodded without hesitation, then smiled gently at the trembling young man.
"To some extent, I am Aizen Sōsuke himself. I possess his memories, his experiences, his past, and his abilities."
"In other words, you can consider me a form of Aizen, a discontinuous Aizen Sōsuke. Would you accept this explanation?"
The young man swallowed.
"Why am I involved with you?"
"Because I finally understood the origin of my emotional distortion."
Aizen lowered his gaze, took a slow sip of iced lemonade, then looked back up. His smile deepened, calm and precise, like a blade hidden behind silk.
"The original Aizen Sōsuke, with centuries of planning, would never have maintained such a gentle attitude. Nor could he have held such a mindset. And the Aizen Sōsuke in the orphanage was too young to even understand what was happening outside."
"But why did I become tolerant? Why do I resist fighting so much?"
"I wanted to solve problems more peacefully. To use better methods. At first, I believed my spirit had evolved. But that was not the truth."
Aizen's eyes seemed to reflect something vast.
"My weakness is because your spirit is radiant. You have eroded me, Aizen Sōsuke."
"The flowing light that traverses countless universes wears down anything that is not firm. That is why transmigrated protagonists always seem resolute. Souls that cannot endure are ground away."
"And your soul, after breaking through Aizen's mental imprint and engraving his memories, retained its essential nature."
He paused, as if tasting the words.
"No, perhaps from another perspective, Aizen's memories, after passing through your mind, were branded by you."
Aizen raised his hand.
Light began to bloom around him.
"So you will definitely regret it."
The young man's breathing hitched.
"You will think of saving people. You will believe that with greater ability comes greater responsibility. The more capable you are, the more duty will cling to your heart like a ghost."
"But that is also what drives you forward, isn't it?"
Aizen's voice was calm, yet it carried an odd warmth.
"People who move forward for others. People who empathize with suffering that does not belong to them, to the point of sacrificing their own reputation to save someone."
"That is your essence."
"No matter what you say, the result will always be the same. You will make the choice that belongs to you."
"And the world you transmigrate to will benefit from your actions."
"That, too, is the ending you desire."
His smile softened, almost unreadable.
"Even I have been infected and distorted. Your future is something I cannot yet understand."
"But I hope you can forge more paths."
"I hope you can reach the ending you desire."
Aizen's figure dissolved into light and shadow.
The young man sat frozen, staring at the space where he had been, as if the world had stolen the right to move.
Aizen stood alone for a moment in the quiet, empty shop, finishing the iced lemonade in his hand. Then he glanced around as if evaluating the structure of the world itself.
This world, too, held strange stories and hidden powers, things ordinary people would never notice.
For Aizen Sōsuke, it was simply another journey.
He had sent yet another version of himself toward the world he wanted.
Now the rest belonged to knowledge.
Aizen rose, opened the door, and stepped into the crowd.
Under the tide of people, the white haori vanished into the city, swallowed by everyday life as if it had never existed.
Meanwhile, somewhere inside a chaotic, timeless cosmic system, the young man slowly opened his eyes.
The first thing he saw was a pair of pure, ice blue eyes.
"…You're awake?" a girl asked, looking down at him. "The Witch Academy is about to start class. When are you coming with me?"
.....
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