The cold in Silbern wasn't merely a low temperature; it was a living entity, a presence that didn't stop at the skin but seeped through muscle and bone to gnaw at the soul itself. It wasn't the cold of winter, but the cold of suspended death, the exact temperature of the void.
Sora opened his eyes, and the first image his brain processed was a vaulted ceiling of white stone so polished it looked like a mirror. There were no lamps, yet the room glowed with a diffuse, omnipresent luminosity typical of a place saturated with high-density Reishi.
It wasn't his room. It wasn't his bed. And most definitely, this wasn't his world.
The last memories he possessed were fragmented and violent: the wet asphalt of a modern city, the blinding glare of headlights approaching too fast, the agonizing screech of tires losing traction, and finally, a dry, sharp impact that snuffed out his consciousness like someone unplugging a TV. That sharp, final pain had faded. In its place, a sepulchral silence now reigned, a stillness so absolute that the rushing of his own blood in his ears sounded like a torrent.
He sat up slowly, expecting the stiffness of injuries, but found a strange, almost unnatural lightness. Looking at his hands, he noticed they were different: the fingers were longer, the skin paler—almost translucent under the white light—and the forearm muscles tensed with a vibrant strength he had never possessed in his previous life. He was wearing an immaculate white uniform, military and austere in cut, with silver buttons that reflected his distorted face, and a heavy cloak folded to one side.
"So, you have finally awakened."
The voice sliced through the air like a guillotine. There was no sound of footsteps, no doors opening. The presence simply appeared.
Sora tensed, his instincts screaming a primal warning. In the corner of the room, where the shadows seemed densest, a man was leaning against the wall with studied elegance. He had blonde hair cascading softly down, a spotless white uniform, and icy eyes that didn't look; they dissected.
Sora recognized him instantly. Not from having seen him in person, but because those features were etched into his memory from another life, from read pages and animated scenes. Recognition hit his mind like black ink spilling into clear water, blending his human memories with the instinctive knowledge of this new body.
It was Jugram Haschwalth, the Grandmaster of the Sternritter, God's Half, the personal advisor to Emperor Yhwach.
"Haschwalth," Sora pronounced. His voice left his throat in a baritone tone he didn't recognize, firm, betraying none of the trembling he felt inside.
The blonde man's expression didn't change, but there was a slight, almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes.
"His Majesty has been unusually generous with you," Haschwalth said, ignoring the lack of honorifics, walking toward the center of the room with steps that made no sound on the stone. "Of all the Gemischt—Quincy of mixed blood—who were purged in the selection, you not only survived the Auswählen ceremony, but your body accepted His Majesty's blood with alarming voracity."
Haschwalth stopped a yard from the bed. The spiritual pressure emanating from him, even at rest, was suffocating. It was like standing in front of a mountain about to collapse.
"You have awakened a Letter," he continued, his tone devoid of any warmth. "A Schrift."
Sora lowered his gaze to his chest, instinctively bringing a hand to his heart. He could feel it. It wasn't a heartbeat, but a burning brand etched into the very substance of his soul. It was an alien power, a divine intrusion rewriting his spiritual DNA, granting him a capability that defied logic. In his mind, a gothic letter glowed with black fire, pulsing with an abstract concept that now belonged to him by bloodright.
"S".
The Share.
Sora closed his eyes for a moment, processing the information. He knew exactly where he was: the Wandenreich, the Invisible Empire. He was in the Quincy base of operations, hidden in the shadows of the Seireitei, preparing for the war that would annihilate the Soul Society.
But there was a crucial difference. He wasn't the original Sora, that soldier who had likely died or been erased in the original history to make way for this moment. He was an "intruder," a soul from another world who knew the full script. He knew that Yhwach was a devouring father who would ultimately consume all his children. He knew that Haschwalth, the stoic man in front of him, was a tragic figure bound by duty and fate. And he knew that his future "comrades," the Sternritter, were a collection of psychopaths, religious fanatics, and egomaniacal monsters who wouldn't hesitate to stab him in the back if it meant gaining an ounce more favor with the King.
"The Emperor expects great things from you, Sora," Haschwalth said, breaking the young man's train of thought. He turned around, his immaculate cloak flowing. "Do not waste his blood. You are an investment. And the Empire does not tolerate bad investments."
Haschwalth headed for the door but stopped with his hand on the knob, without looking back.
"Tomorrow at dawn, you will be presented to the rest of the Sternritter in the council hall. Try not to die before then. The 'internal culture' of our empire tends to purge weakness before it ever reaches the battlefield."
With a soft click, the door closed, and the oppressive pressure vanished, leaving Sora alone with the hum of the Reishi.
Sora exhaled all the air he had been holding and let himself fall back onto the stiff mattress. A dry, mirthless laugh escaped his throat and bounced off the cold walls.
"'Culture of the empire'?" he murmured, staring at the white ceiling. "Quite the euphemism for a shark tank."
He got out of bed. He needed to move; he needed to understand this body. He walked toward a full-length mirror situated in a corner. The reflection stared back at him like a stranger: tall, sharp features, dark hair, and eyes that possessed an unsettling depth, a blend of gray and blue that seemed to automatically calculate distances.
He extended his right hand toward the mirror, concentrating on the sensation burning in his chest. The Share. It wasn't an elemental ability like Bazz-B's fire or Äs Nödt's fear. It was conceptual. It was administrative.
"Sharing..." he whispered, testing the word on his tongue. "In an army built on selfishness and conquest, having the power to share sounds like a cruel joke from Yhwach."
But Sora knew better. He analyzed the sensation. He could vaguely feel the structure of the matter around him. This wasn't about charity. It was about redistribution. He could "share" pain, he could "share" fortune, he could force others to carry his burden or take a portion of their stability.
"If I get stabbed, I can share the wound with the attacker. If I'm tired, I can share my fatigue with my subordinates," he theorized, and a twisted, almost predatory smile drew across his face. "It's not sharing. It's socializing the losses and privatizing the profits. I am a bank in human form."
Sora adjusted the collar of his uniform. He had no intention of being a loyal martyr like Quilge Opie, nor a suicidal rebel like Bazz-B. And he certainly had no interest in saving the Shinigami from their fate. His goal was simple: survive.
But to survive in the Wandenreich, flying under the radar wasn't an option. If you were weak, you got eaten. If you were too strong, you became a threat to Yhwach. He had to find the perfect balance: be indispensable, but not dangerous. Useful, but not threatening.
He decided to go out. The room felt like a cell. He opened the door, and the corridor stretched out before him, a throat of marble and blue shadows. The silence was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic passing of distant patrols.
He walked aimlessly, memorizing the layout of the place. Silbern was a labyrinth designed to intimidate. He passed rows of Soldat, foot soldiers with masks and identical uniforms. Upon seeing him, they snapped to attention and saluted with palpable fear. They could feel his Reiatsu, the mark of an officer, of a Sternritter.
Sora stopped in front of one of the guards. The man was trembling slightly, though he tried to maintain a firm posture.
"You," Sora said.
"Y-Yes, my lord!" the soldier responded, his voice muffled behind the mask.
Sora placed a hand on the soldier's shoulder. He wanted to test it. He wanted to see if his theory was true. He concentrated on a minor physical annoyance he felt: a slight numbness in his right leg from lying down for so long.
The Share.
He visualized the numbness flowing from his nerve, traveling down his arm, and entering the soldier's system.
In an instant, Sora's leg felt light and cool. The soldier, on the other hand, let out a gasp and his right leg collapsed, dropping him to one knee as if his muscles had suddenly stopped responding.
"M-my apologies, my lord!" the soldier shouted, terrified, trying to stand on a dead leg. "I don't know what happened, I...!"
"At ease," Sora said, removing his hand. The coldness in his own voice surprised him. "I was just checking the integrity of your uniform. Carry on."
He kept walking, leaving the confused and frightened soldier behind. The test had been a resounding success. He hadn't needed visible Reishi, nor chants, nor sudden movements. It was a direct transfer of cause and effect.
As he advanced toward a large window overlooking the hidden city submerged in shadows, Sora began to formulate his strategy. Tomorrow he would meet the "monsters." The Bambies, Askin, Mask De Masculine... all of them were pieces on a board he had already seen played out to the end.
"They fight for ideology, for faith, or for pleasure," he thought, observing the gothic towers of Silbern. "I will fight for accounting."
He rested his forehead against the cold glass. He knew the clock was ticking. The invasion would begin soon. Ichigo Kurosaki would awaken his powers. Yamamoto would die. The Soul King would fall. The script was written.
"But scripts can be edited," he whispered to the reflection of his own eyes, which shone with a newfound cunning. "Yhwach hands out letters... but I distribute the consequences."
He turned around, his cape billowing with a dramatic flair that fit perfectly into this theater of villains. He was ready. Tomorrow, Sternritter "S" would make his debut, and Sora would ensure that when it was all over, he would be the only one left with a positive balance in this world of blood debts.