Chapter 3: First Blood

**First Blood**

[Beneath the Hammer of Fate]

I found myself ripped from reality, flung into a personal pocket of space. The moment I arrived, it became immediately clear—I could not leave. 

"Damn it, I knew it!" I muttered under my breath. 

But what's the point in obsessing over spilled milk? I sighed, accepting my fate. The synchronization was complete. I had chosen the Aizen Sosuke template, but in a twisted stroke of fate, I only inherited fragments of his knowledge—immortality, the terrifying Kyoka Suigetsu, but not his vast intellect or his full array of powers.

On the bright side, the Aizen within me had been fused with the Hogyoku, converting spiritual energy into magic. That meant infinite magic and an immortal body. A gift, if not a curse. 

I also possessed control over time, yet found myself in a space where time held little meaning, rendering my power nearly useless. And space magic? Well, I could manipulate it, but there was no way out of my prison.

"Ah, the system sure knows how to make things complicated..." 

I let my body drift, lost in thought as I floated aimlessly, reflecting on the abilities at my disposal. Hours? Days? Time had no meaning here—no cycle of day and night. 

Eventually, a solution began to take shape.

Time magic. 

I could force my body to mature into that of a five-year-old, the limit of what my magic could achieve. But it wasn't without cost. The price?

5 years outside is equivalent to ten thousand years would in this pocket realm. 

But... was it really a terrible deal?

I realized something. Outside this place, a mere ten years would pass while here, I'd age the equivalent of a thousand lifetimes. Time flowed differently. This paradoxical truth offered me an opportunity. If I chose to grow my body to a younger age, I could escape this place after only ten years, outside the confinement of this realm. 

But that wouldn't come without consequences. 

Perhaps it was a forbidden act, a taboo of sorts. I suspected the gods of time were watching, especially the one who bestowed this magic upon me. Perhaps I had struck a deal with Chronos himself—or perhaps I was simply a pawn in some greater cosmic game. 

Whatever the case, being stranded here for 10,000 years didn't seem too dire. 

"Better than being Aizen, I suppose..." I mused with a wry smile. 

This place felt akin to a hyperbolic time chamber—a crucible of time where growth was inevitable. And growth was exactly what I needed. After all, I was only an ordinary person. Efficiency and power were secondary to me—what fascinated me was the strange, the unique, the unconventional. 

I had already begun experimenting. Time magic was no longer simply a tool of manipulation; I had infused it with additional magic, transforming it into something more. Something unique. 

For example, I had modified time magic to stop the flow of time whenever hunger gnawed at me. A small, partial application, but it worked. A result of Aizen's accumulated knowledge and my own relentless curiosity. 

And death? It held no fear. I wasn't worried about dying; even if I did, all it would do is extend my time here. But... that wasn't such a bad thing, was it?

I immersed myself in experimentation, and, after six short hours, I succeeded. Though my body was immortal, it still required sustenance—a thought that had plagued me since my arrival. And let's not forget the inevitable call of nature; I certainly didn't want this place to devolve into a foul, lifeless waste.

The problem was, there was no food here, and yet the urge to release myself from nature's grip remained pressing. With that in mind, I took action, fully prepared to face whatever penalties awaited me. And as expected, the system—one I thought had long since faded into oblivion—reappeared, confirming my success.

To my surprise, no penalty befell me. My body had indeed shifted into that of a five-year-old, and I had successfully halted the passage of time, pausing my hunger and thirst.

Other than the looming 10,000 years of confinement, nothing had changed. 

But no matter the comforts I had created, I refused to remain trapped here forever. I had discovered a way to escape—but only by sending something or someone in my place. 

As I contemplated this dilemma, a thought stirred within me. Irene's Additional Magic—the one that could breathe life into an inanimate object, imbuing it with personality—came to mind. What if I could merge my thought-body with Kyoka Suigetsu? If I could send it to the Fairy Tail world, could I maintain control over it? 

Instead of crafting a separate consciousness, I would make use of my own. Drawing from Aizen's vast knowledge and my own, I began piecing together the concept, solidifying the theory in my mind.

Over time, it became more than a theory. It felt like a genuine possibility. 

My plan? To create an avatar—an entity similar to the gods of *Danmachi*. Since I could not leave this realm, they had permitted me this form of manipulation. I would bring it to fruition.

Miss Godly System was undoubtedly aware of my every move, the restrictions and limitations I encountered mere tools to guide me toward the outcome they desired. It was as if they were weaving the threads of fate, leading me into precisely the results they expected.

"Sure enough, gods are terrifying..." I muttered, a bitter smile tugging at my lips as I continued my experiments.

After what felt like an eternity of trial and error, I finally succeeded.

I had created a lifeless avatar, a mere vessel, yet one I could control freely. When I used it, my real body would fall into a deep, slumberous state—much like the virtual reality games where players' minds disconnect. This would only be possible because of Aizen and the Hogyoku; without them, it would have remained nothing more than a soulless puppet.

With this success, my plan had taken a significant step forward.

What would I do in the meantime, while trapped in this void?

I would practice swordsmanship.

I remembered reading a story once, of a powerless child who, by pressing a button, could practice swordsmanship for two hundred million years, ultimately achieving an unfathomable mastery. Though my thousand years of training would pale in comparison, it was still enough to drastically improve my skills.

I disassembled the avatar and began my training. I wasn't an expert in swordplay, but I had studied enough to understand the fundamentals. With the endless time at my disposal, I could refine my techniques beyond what any mortal could fathom.

The avatar I had created was limited in power—at most, it could harness 10 stars of magic, requiring regeneration like a typical wizard. It couldn't compare to my own boundless magical capacity, but it was still leagues ahead of a normal person. I wasn't going to unleash its full potential immediately. Instead, I would unlock its power gradually, testing its limits.

I could send anything outside of myself, but there was a five-year gap between each summoning. My modifications allowed me to transfer my consciousness into the avatar, though it wasn't without its restrictions. For now, it could only wield a fraction of my abilities—space magic, some additional magic, and perhaps a sliver of time magic. The full spectrum of my power remained locked away for the time being.

The first avatar, however, was different. It had been merged with Kyoka Suigetsu, and with that fusion came its own set of drawbacks. Anyone witnessing my avatar below 5 stars would be subject to hallucinations—visions of their deepest fears, driving them to madness. Though, I considered this less a flaw and more an ability of my own design.

Those who lacked magical power or had a low star rating were safe from these effects. Wizards with 5 stars or higher were also immune. The star system wasn't an exact science; someone at 999 (4 stars) would be affected, but anyone at 1000 (5 stars) or above would be untouched. Though the difference was a mere point, it was enough to categorize them as a separate tier.

For the sake of those I didn't wish to harm, I could also cast an illusion over their perception, making myself invisible or unremarkable in their eyes. It was a simple precaution, one that ensured I could navigate the world without drawing undue attention.

As for the magic consumption of Kyoka Suigetsu? It was drawn from my avatar. The strain on my body was negligible—like a drop in the ocean. 

It would be possible, in theory, to cast this entire world into an Infinite Tsukuyomi, but I wasn't interested in that. Nor did I believe the system would allow such a thing. It would probably counter with some nonsensical line like, *"Your Kyoka Suigetsu's hypnosis is so powerful that you've convinced yourself everything is going according to your plan."*

I snorted at the thought. It was a ridiculous idea, yet not entirely out of the realm of possibility.

Falling victim to your own power—wasn't it a common fate for those who grew too arrogant? But this was just the passive nature of Kyoka Suigetsu at work. It was a power that could twist perceptions, deceive even the most brilliant minds.

In a strange act of defiance, I decided to name my avatar after the very power that had bound it to me. I would call it Kyoka Suigetsu. After all, I had never received a name from my mother—so why not take this one for myself?

Anyway, that was merely a passive ability. But even as I toyed with it, I couldn't help but revel in the deeper magic I was crafting—illusion spells, each more intricate and beguiling than the last. Though I could hardly call them true masterpieces, they were beguiling enough to tempt even the mightiest of foes. Acnologia, perhaps, would be immune, but the thought of testing my power on him... it stirred something within me. It was the intoxicating allure of a challenge, the thrill of facing the most formidable dragon in the land. 

And while Natsu might wear the crown of strongest, I yearned to confront him not as a mere contender—but as END. The thought made my blood burn with anticipation. 

But for now, I had nothing but time. And so, I spent it—my eternal hours—sharpening my skills, honing my swordsmanship until the very air around me seemed to hum with power. I was like a blade waiting to be drawn, a weapon forged in solitude. Years bled into each other, the line between time and eternity becoming ever more blurred, until 10,000 years had passed in a flash. 

And at last, I had the ability to send my thought-body beyond this realm. 

I couldn't help but laugh—soft, knowing—as I watched the scene unfold before me. 

There, stumbling through the forest like a man lost in his own mind, was none other than Gildarts, my father. The fool had been running for nearly a month, as if he could sense something just beyond his reach, something that he couldn't grasp. I watched him, amused, the absurdity of the situation not lost on me. The great Gildarts, once a man of legend, reduced to this.

In the original timeline, he was a distant figure, known only by his connection to Cana. But here, we were twins. And yet, as fate would have it, I had vanished shortly after birth, leaving my mother, Cornelia, to crumble under the weight of an unbearable grief. 

Can you imagine? The pain of watching your child disappear into the abyss—knowing neither if they are alive nor dead, caught in the cruel, unforgiving grip of the unknown? I had been ripped from her arms, a helpless infant lost to an unfeeling universe. 

And now, here I was. A thousand years locked in my own prison of time and space, torn from reality, a silent observer in the void. The weight of that solitude was a lover's caress—tender, but insistent. I spent the years swinging my sword, each strike more mechanical than the last, each moment a painful reminder of the life I had been denied.

But time... time had a way of transforming. And by the time those long, empty years had passed, I had become something else—something beyond the man I had once been. 

With no one to speak to, I had become mute—my tongue frozen, my voice stolen by the silence. Even though the gift of language remained, it was a hollow thing, a memory of a life that no longer existed. Thousands of years without a single soul to converse with, and soon, the habit of self-talk became my only means of retaining some semblance of sanity.

My voice had become an echo, reverberating only within the cavern of my mind. In those long, dark stretches, I became a man of solitude—my own thoughts were my only company. And in the stillness, I found a strange comfort, as though the very act of thinking aloud was the last tether I had to a world that had long since forgotten me.

The reason I killed him—at least in the illusion spun by Kyoka Suigetsu's hypnosis—was to satiate a bitterness that had rotted within me, a bitterness that had festered far too long. The resentment for a father who had been nothing more than a ghost in my life, an irresponsible phantom who had abandoned the very duties that fatherhood demanded. It was retribution, pure and simple, born from the gnawing hunger for justice in a world where such a thing was too often denied.

How did I know Gildarts was my father when I had only just awakened after my birth? The answer, as ever, lay in the remnants of a system—an archaic mechanism that should have dissolved long ago. It clung to me, showing me the intricate details of my life, revealing truths I had no right to know, least of all about the man who had abandoned me.

When the knowledge struck me like a thunderbolt, I knew what I had to do. To punish him, to make him understand the weight of his sins. It would have been one thing if it had been someone else—a stranger, perhaps, who didn't carry the blood of my own veins. But Gildarts? The reckless man who had been both absent and indulgent, a man whose very name was synonymous with irresponsibility? He was the one I would bring low.

Then, as if by cruel fate, or perhaps the manipulations of destiny itself, our paths crossed. Mere hours after I had decimated a dark guild that dared to invade, I found him—Gildarts—standing before me. How exactly it all unfolded, I still cannot say, but the moment was undeniable.

*Buzz!*

The air quivered, as though reality itself had shuddered under the weight of what was to come. A rift tore open in space near the village entrance, jagged and hungry, its edges stretching like the yawning mouth of some unspeakable abyss. Through it, a figure emerged—a child no older than five or six, draped in shadowed cloth, save for a single white scarf that fluttered like a wisp of ghostly memory in the wind.

"Ahhh, freedom after 10,000 years!" My voice rang out, filled with an almost delirious joy, echoing in the stillness like a prayer to some forgotten god.

I took in the world around me, eyes wide, intoxicated by the very act of existence itself. The world had changed, yet it felt like an endless playground to me, every corner a discovery, every breath a revelation. In that moment, I was no more than a child—fresh from the womb, yet wholly aware of the weight of my thousand years spent in isolation. I marveled at the simplicity of it all—sights, sounds, and sensations that had been so long denied to me.

There was a rush to it, a heady, reckless rush that gripped my soul. But beneath the surface, a flicker of doubt stirred. Could it be that I had emerged only to be crushed beneath the weight of this world? What if I had stepped into the jaws of fate, an unwitting pawn in a game too vast for me to understand? What if, after all this time, the universe itself had decided my freedom was a cruel jest?

Yet, despite it all, I stood there, unshaken—my heart a drumbeat that resonated within me, filling me with something raw and primal. The world was mine to shape, to conquer, to claim as my own.

And I wasn't the only one waiting.

Before venturing further, I took a moment to stretch my still-immature body, relishing the sensation of movement after so long. A small ripple of magic coursed through me, and I paused to gauge its strength.

"About five stars? Not bad for a start..." I muttered, my voice barely more than a whisper in the still air. Even without unlocking a secondary source or undergoing any form of meditation training, this was a decent foundation. Comparable to an ordinary S-rank mage at best. Not spectacular, but solid.

Just as I allowed myself a fleeting moment of celebration, the air around me shifted. A prickling sensation on the back of my neck alerted me to the presence of multiple individuals nearby.

*Hmmm… What is this? About 3-4 stars?* The power signatures of several individuals were scattered nearby, each one distinctly felt, each one potent. It was a good thing I'd honed the art of suppressing my magic, or they would have surely sensed me. A confrontation now would not be advantageous.

Yet, rather than retreating, I saw an opportunity. A chance to test something. With a slow, measured pace, I moved closer to one of them, carefully calculating my approach.

I activated Kyoka Suigetsu, knowing it was a delicate dance. There were two ways to use it: one, to make direct eye contact—just a fleeting glance was all it took to ensnare them; or two, to approach them close enough to impose my will, though the first condition still had to be met.

I chose the latter. Turning my form into a small, harmless rabbit, I cautiously hopped toward the man, my heart pounding in my chest. This was a risky maneuver. If he noticed the oddity of a rabbit in this forest, I was done for. Sure, my swordsmanship was sharp and my physical strength decent, but I was unarmed at the moment, and the man before me held a weapon. A white katana, its gleaming blade unmistakably expensive.

I had to admit, a black scabbard would've been preferable—but beggars couldn't be choosers. And this was far better than nothing.

I hopped closer, making sure to stay in his peripheral vision, testing the waters. It didn't take long for him to notice me. A snort escaped his lips.

"A rabbit?"

That was all I needed. In that moment, the hypnotic power of Kyoka Suigetsu took full hold. He had fallen prey to my illusion, his mind entranced by my will. I made myself invisible, stepping behind him without a sound, a ghost in the air.

"I've always wondered what it would feel like," I whispered to myself, the thrill of the moment coursing through me. It reminded me of the twisted satisfaction I'd once felt watching *Hunter x Hunter*, specifically the moment when Phinks twisted someone's head with effortless grace. The thought stirred something dark and primal within me—an inner demon, perhaps.

If I were to become a killer, that would be my signature. A head twisted so easily, so effortlessly, leaving nothing behind but the silence of a life snuffed out in an instant.

With a quiet, almost predatory grin, I prepared for my next move.

I will twist their neck with such velocity, it will be as if time itself bends beneath the force. How could I possibly resist such a rare, exquisite opportunity?

My fingers find the curve of his skull, grasping it with calculated precision, while my other hand slips under his chin, guiding the motion with a firm tenderness. In one swift, synchronized movement, I pull and push with a seamless grace, the action accompanied by a satisfying, almost musical crack.

Crackle.

The sharp sound of bone surrendering to force echoes in my ear, a crisp note in the otherwise still air. His head, once locked in a forward gaze, now swivels unnaturally back toward me—his eyes wide, unblinking, as if caught in some unspoken horror.

The satisfaction that follows is strange, foreign even. It sends a shiver down my spine, cold yet stirring—like a forbidden pleasure lurking in the deepest corners of the mind. It's no surprise Phinks is drawn to it; there's something deeply visceral in the act, a thrill that borders on the intimate, as if it strikes at something primal within the body, an echo of a violent kind of pleasure that feels almost too real.

"Well, time for looting…" I murmur, my voice little more than a soft whisper, as I stand over the fallen corpse. I have just extinguished a life, yet there's no stirring of triumph, no flicker of remorse. Perhaps it is because I have long since learned to view life as something transient, fleeting—something so easily extinguished, no matter the world I inhabit. It is but a fragile ember, destined to flicker and die.

With a detached precision, I strip him of anything of worth, collecting his possessions with the dispassionate efficiency of a seasoned thief. Coins, trinkets, weapons—whatever might prove useful—all slip seamlessly into the boundless space at my side, swallowed whole by the void. Finally, my gaze settles on the katana at his hip, its glint a silent promise of lethal elegance. I unsheathe it, the blade whispering against its scabbard with a smooth, almost seductive grace.

*Ah, this is a fine piece,* I think, admiring the edge. *He no doubt spent a small fortune on it, or perhaps it was stolen—irrelevant. It's mine now.*

The katana hums in my grip, the weight of it balanced perfectly, the blade honed to a razor's edge, promising an effortless cut through flesh and bone. A simple neck snap would suffice, of course—but this, this is different. After all the sweat, all the sacrifice, this blade is the tangible reward of my labor. It is not merely a weapon; it is an extension of my very will, as sharp and precise as my thoughts themselves.

I secure it at my waist with practiced ease, the cool metal pressing against my side. I turn toward my next target, my movements smooth and unhurried. Before I leave, I kick the corpse with casual disinterest, sending it tumbling away into the shadows. Where it lands is of no concern to me. Its fate has already been sealed.

With the sword now at my side, the remaining invaders seem little more than fleeting obstacles, their lives hanging by a thread I am all too ready to sever. One by one, they fall with the inevitability of dusk overtaking the day—swiftly, silently, without protest. When the final one lies dead, I gather their bodies before the village in a neat, deliberate pile, save for the first. That one has already been cast aside, lost to the winds. The rest? They are mine now, claimed in the silence of the battlefield.

Naturally, others soon noticed the carnage and began to inquire about what had transpired. Without hesitation, I told them they were members of a dark guild. To make my explanation more convincing, I casually pulled a dark cloak adorned with their guild's symbol from my space and held it out for all to see.

The village chief, clearly grateful for my intervention, insisted on offering a reward. He explained how, had I not intervened, they might have faced certain destruction. But I simply shook my head, dismissing the notion. I wasn't interested in their gratitude. Instead, I asked, in as casual a tone as possible, where I could find a restaurant.

With a smile, he happily led me to one, even offering to pay for my meal. But I refused. This village, while not destitute, was far from affluent, and I had no intention of robbing them. Besides, I already had enough money—close to half a million J, to be precise.

As I ate, the air around me seemed to hum with a quiet intensity. Suddenly, I felt a powerful surge of magic nearby.

*Is it their leader?* I wondered, my senses sharpening. The magic was unlike anything I had encountered from those I'd just killed—this power was twice as strong.

If this was indeed their leader, then the village's survival was in serious jeopardy. Without a doubt, if this opponent attacked, the village would likely be doomed.