Chapter 1 - Fate
The rain poured down mercilessly, drumming against the rooftops in a rhythmic, somber beat. A faint shimmer of spiritual energy pulsed in the air, barely noticeable amidst the chaos of the world below. On one of the building rooftops in Karakura Town, a body lay motionless, soaked in a mixture of rain and blood.
His eyes snapped open.
Gasping for breath, he instinctively clutched his chest, his fingers curling around the fabric of a Shinigami uniform, torn and drenched. Pain coursed through his body, but it was dull, distant, as if belonging to someone else. He blinked, trying to shake off the haze clouding his mind.
"Where... am I?"
He slowly sat up, his hands pressing into the cold, wet roof beneath him. Glancing down at his blood-soaked form, he noticed the deep gashes on his chest and arms. His body felt foreign, yet familiar at the same time. That's when the memories hit him—flashes of another life, another soul.
A Shinigami. A man who had been on patrol in the human world. A Hollow had attacked—no, it wasn't just any Hollow. It was one released by someone… Aizen. Yes, Aizen. The man had fought bravely but was overpowered, his body torn apart by the Hollow's devastating strength. The Shinigami had died.
But now, *he* was in that body.
The memories played out vividly in his mind—his own memories of a past life blending with those of the Shinigami. He was no longer just himself, the doctor and hitman. He was someone new, someone reborn. The rain masked the metallic scent of blood as he rose to his feet, every movement slow and deliberate.
He could feel the weight of a blade at his side. A Zanpakutō.
He reached for it, fingers brushing the hilt, and immediately, he felt a surge of power. His heart raced as a voice echoed within his mind—ancient, regal, commanding.
*"I am Barragan, the King of Hueco Mundo."*
His breath hitched. Barragan. The memories were overwhelming, but not his own. This wasn't the Hollow's power; this was different. The once-mighty Espada had become his Zanpakutō spirit, and he now held the power over time and decay at his fingertips.
His black eyes shifted to the edge of the rooftop. He could see the clash of spiritual pressure in the distance. A battle was taking place—one he knew all too well.
Isshin Kurosaki. The Hollow. *This* was the moment when Masaki and Isshin would meet, the event that would eventually lead to the birth of Ichigo Kurosaki.
He clenched his fists, the wet fabric of his torn uniform sticking to his skin. He knew exactly where in the timeline he had awakened. His mind raced, processing the implications. Aizen's plan had already been set in motion. The pieces were already falling into place.
But what did this mean for him?
He looked down at his hands—pale, thin fingers stained with blood. His reflection in the puddle at his feet showed a face he hadn't seen before. He resembled Nanami Kento from another life—tall, serious—but his black hair, black eyes, and unnaturally pale skin marked a stark difference.
He wasn't just himself anymore. He was more than that.
"Barragan…" he muttered, gripping his Zanpakutō tightly. The weight of his new power felt both daunting and exhilarating.
But as the rain fell harder, soaking into his skin, he realized something crucial: he couldn't afford to sit idly by. He was now part of a world he knew intimately well, a world filled with powerful beings, dangerous foes, and a timeline that would ultimately lead to unimaginable chaos.
This was his chance—a second life in a world he admired, yet a world where power came with a heavy price. He straightened his posture, ignoring the fading pain in his body, and turned his gaze towards the distant battlefield. His presence wasn't needed there—not yet. He had more important things to consider. His own path, his own future.
The Hollow had taken the life of this Shinigami. But now, he had returned, reborn with the power of decay itself at his command.
A slow, calculated smile crept onto his face as he whispered, "Let's see what I can do with this."
With a single step, he disappeared from the rooftop, his figure blending into the rain-soaked night.