Chapter 19: The Weaver Unbound, The God of Many Faces
The dust of Westeros's bloody conflicts had long since settled, though the scars upon its lands and the psyches of its rulers remained deep. For Aizen Sōsuke, the "Reddened Fields" were a fading, if satisfying, memory, a significant but ultimately intermediate step in his eternal ascent. In the decades that followed his strategic withdrawal as "Lord Aerion Vaelaros," he had retreated to the profound, self-created solitude of the Obsidian Spire. Here, surrounded by the spoils of a dead empire and the fruits of his own dark genesis, he had immersed himself in the ultimate synthesis of power.
The Hōgyoku, which had been his constant companion, his amplifier, his symbiotic partner, now pulsed with an undeniable summons. It was no longer content to be merely an adjunct to his being. It craved complete union, a final alchemical wedding of its reality-warping potential with Aizen's own deified soul, now engorged with the spiritual essence of millions and the ancient power of Valyria's Heart. Aizen, ever the pragmatist of power, recognized this as the inevitable, exquisite culmination of his current evolutionary trajectory. The limitations he had once faced, even in his transcendent forms in Soul Society, were about to be shattered.
The ritual of merging was not an act of sorcery learned from some forgotten Valyrian tome, nor a Kido incantation from his past life. It was a spontaneous, internal unfolding, a critical mass reached within his very soul. In the deepest sanctum of the Obsidian Spire, a chamber carved from the very bedrock where the Heart of Valyria had once pulsed, Aizen sat in serene meditation. Vhagarion and Ignis Primus, now a colossal magma dragon whose incandescent eyes burned with ancient wisdom, stood as silent, titanic guardians on the periphery of the island, their senses attuned to their master, their power a resonating shield against any conceivable external disturbance.
Slowly, the Hōgyoku, embedded against his chest, began to glow with a light that transcended color, a radiance that seemed to emanate from the nexus of all possibilities. It was not a harsh or violent light, but an infinitely deep, inviting luminescence. Aizen exhaled, a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of ages, and then, he simply… let go. He allowed his consciousness, his very spiritual essence, to flow into the Hōgyoku, even as the Hōgyoku flowed into him.
There was no pain, only an expansion beyond comprehension. His physical form, the vessel of Aemond Xantys that had been so meticulously reshaped by the Hōgyoku over the decades, began to dissolve, not into dust, but into pure, sentient spiritual energy, a swirling nebula of black, violet, and silver light. The Hōgyoku itself lost its distinct orb-like shape, melting into this divine energy, their essences intermingling, re-weaving, becoming indistinguishable. He felt his awareness stretch to encompass the entirety of his island fortress, the desolate Smoking Sea, the very tectonic plates groaning beneath the waves. He touched the minds of his dragon broods, the cold arcane cores of his Sentinels, the slumbering potential of Argent far across the sea. He felt the distant, chaotic thrum of life in Westeros and Essos, the silent, ancient powers brooding in forgotten corners of the world.
For a timeless moment, Sōsuke Aizen ceased to be a singular entity and became a nexus of pure, conscious power, a god unfettered by the constraints of flesh or even a conventional spiritual body. Then, with a deliberate exertion of his infinitely refined will, he began to coalesce once more.
When the light subsided, Aizen stood again in the heart of his sanctum. His form was subtly, yet profoundly, transformed. He retained a recognizably humanoid shape, tall and slender, but his presence was overwhelming, almost unbearable for any lesser being. His hair, black as the void between stars, seemed to shift and flow with an inner darkness. His eyes were no longer merely adaptations for a Valyrian guise; they were now pure, unadulterated wells of cosmic power, sometimes appearing as calm, intelligent pools of deepest brown, at other times blazing with the silver light of distant galaxies or the cold, violet fire of creation and destruction. The Hōgyoku was no longer visible as a separate object; it was him. It was the very core of his being, its power now his inherent, effortless command. He could feel its wish-granting, phenomenon-altering capabilities not as something he used, but as something he was. The world itself felt like a canvas upon which he could now paint with effortless, divine strokes. This was not merely a new form; this was the birth of his true divinity in this reality.
And with this ultimate fusion, another, long-dormant power stirred within him, an echo from a life that felt both infinitely distant and intimately present. The essence of his Zanpakutō.
Kyōka Suigetsu had not been destroyed upon his death as a Shinigami. Its spiritual particles, bound inextricably to his soul, had traveled with him, latent, awaiting the moment when his Reiryoku and his understanding of this new world's energies reached a point of sufficient harmony and power to allow its re-manifestation. That moment was now.
He extended his hand, and the air before him shimmered. Spiritual particles, drawn from his own now-divine essence and the ambient energies of his sanctum, began to coalesce, to weave themselves into a familiar, elegant shape. The process was effortless, natural, like remembering a forgotten breath. The simple, unadorned katana, its edge impossibly sharp, its aura one of perfect, deceptive calm, solidified in his grasp. Kyōka Suigetsu. It felt like an extension of his soul, more so than ever before. Its power, its infamous ability of Kanzen Saimin – Complete Hypnosis – was now magnified a thousandfold, no longer reliant on a release command or even a direct viewing by its victims. He could now, he sensed, weave illusions on a continental scale, deceive the very senses of demigods, perhaps even subtly alter the perceived reality of entire populations with but a thought. It was no longer just a tool for deception; it was an instrument for reshaping belief, for crafting worlds within worlds.
Aizen allowed himself a moment of pure, unadulterated satisfaction, a rare indulgence. He was more complete, more powerful, than he had ever been. The limitations of his past defeat felt like the shed skin of a lesser creature.
With this new state of being, his gaze turned outward once more, not with the calculated patience of his "Lord Aerion" persona, but with the encompassing, appraising stare of a true god seeking to consolidate his dominion. Mortal conflicts, like Aegon's wars, were useful for harvesting base spiritual energy, for studying mortal psychology, but they were… elementary. His appetite now craved more potent fare: other entities that styled themselves as gods, other significant concentrations of unique spiritual power.
His divinely enhanced senses, now capable of perceiving the most subtle spiritual currents across the globe, focused on the Free City of Braavos. It was a city built on secrets, on canals and fog, a city of commerce and assassins. And at its heart, a power that intrigued him: the Many-Faced God, the enigmatic deity of the Faceless Men.
Aizen did not perceive this entity as a true god in the sense that he himself was becoming. There was no singular, vast consciousness comparable to his own. Instead, he sensed a colossal, ancient gestalt – a vast reservoir of death energy, a collective consciousness formed from the countless souls willingly or unwillingly offered to it over centuries, perhaps even millennia. It was a psychic parasite, an egregore of immense power, a god built not of creation, but of countless endings. And it controlled the most feared and efficient assassins in the known world.
His reasoning was cold, clear, and utterly Aizen.
* Devouring the Many-Faced God: Absorbing such a massive concentration of death-aspected spiritual energy, and the myriad souls bound within it, would grant him an unprecedented understanding and control over the very concept of mortality in this world. It would be a unique and potent addition to his divine portfolio, enhancing his power in ways mere ambient soul-harvesting could not.
* Mastery of the Faceless Men: These assassins, with their ability to change faces, their utter dedication, and their unparalleled skill in delivering the "gift" of death, were wasted on serving a nebulous concept. Under his direct command, they would become an invaluable tool – his personal divine enforcers, capable of eliminating any target, anywhere, with perfect discretion.
* Control of the Iron Bank: Braavos was also home to the Iron Bank, an institution whose financial tendrils reached into every kingdom and Free City. Its legendary pragmatism and its power to make or break kings through debt was a form of temporal control Aizen deeply respected. Subjugating the Iron Bank, either by becoming its silent master through the Faceless Men (who surely had leverage over it) or by direct financial warfare using his Valyrian hoard, would give him immense influence over the mundane affairs of the world, a perfect complement to his spiritual and magical dominion.
This was a campaign worthy of his new stature. It was not just about accumulating power, but about dismantling and absorbing rival systems of control, both spiritual and temporal.
Before any direct action, however, came meticulous preparation. Aizen, a god of intellect as much as power, initiated a comprehensive intelligence gathering operation on Braavos. He dispatched Argent, now equipped with new Kido-Valyrian stealth artifacts of Aizen's own design that rendered him virtually undetectable even to magical senses, to infiltrate the city of a hundred isles. He also created a new type of Sentinel – smaller, more agile, capable of mimicking human appearance with near perfection thanks to illusions woven with Kyōka Suigetsu's enhanced power – and sent them as deep-cover agents into the city's underbelly, its merchant guilds, even its labyrinthine canals.
Through these agents, and his own long-range scrying (now capable of piercing even the legendary Braavosi fogs and wards with unsettling ease), Aizen studied:
* The House of Black and White: The grim, windowless temple of the Many-Faced God. He probed its spiritual aura, sensing the vast, cold reservoir of souls within, the intricate magical wards, and the chilling dedication of its priest-assassins. He noted the faces on display, the methods of training, the philosophy of death as a merciful gift.
* The Faceless Men: Their contracts, their targets, their legendary fees. He analyzed their almost religious devotion to their god, their vows of anonymity. He saw them not as individuals, but as exquisitely crafted tools, their identities subsumed by their deadly purpose. He would offer them a new, far grander purpose.
* The Iron Bank: Its Keyholders, its vaults, its network of agents and debtors. He learned of its ruthless efficiency, its unwavering commitment to collecting its due. He saw its power as a carefully constructed edifice of fear and obligation – an edifice he could either co-opt or shatter.
His plan began to form, multi-layered and patient, yet with an undercurrent of divine certainty.
* Spiritual Deconstruction: He would not simply attack the House of Black and White with dragonfire. He would first seek to understand the true nature of the Many-Faced God. Was it a single entity? A collective? Could its power be siphoned, its core consciousness isolated and then… consumed? Kyōka Suigetsu would be invaluable here, allowing him to create illusions within the minds of the Faceless Men, perhaps even to subtly alter their perception of their own god, to make them welcome their new master.
* The Offer They Cannot Refuse: Once he understood the god, he would confront its priests. He would demonstrate his own mastery over death, perhaps by "gifting" a prominent, "impossible" target to them as a sign of his power, or by revealing his ability to command souls in a way that dwarfed their god's passive acceptance. He would then offer them a choice: serve a true, living god of immense power and vision, or fade into oblivion with their hollow idol.
* The Iron Bank's Inevitable Submission: With the Faceless Men under his sway, the Iron Bank would become a simpler target. A few carefully chosen assassinations of recalcitrant Keyholders, a demonstration of Aizen's ability to cripple their debtors or protect his own assets with overwhelming force, or even a "hostile takeover" using his vast Valyrian wealth to buy up their outstanding debts and then dictate terms – the methods were numerous, the outcome all but assured.
Aizen stood before a shimmering map of Braavos in his sanctum, Kyōka Suigetsu resting lightly in his hand. The Hōgyoku, now an inseparable part of his divine anatomy, pulsed with a predatory anticipation. The souls harvested from Westeros had been a robust, if somewhat coarse, vintage. The spiritual essence of a death god, and the fealty of its peerless assassins, promised a far more exquisite, and strategically vital, repast.
He would need a new guise for Braavos. "Lord Aerion Vaelaros" was too ostentatious, too Valyrian for the city that prided itself on its Valyrian-free origins. Perhaps a quiet, immensely wealthy merchant from a distant, unknown land, seeking to do business with the Iron Bank. Or an enigmatic scholar interested in Braavos's unique history and its… peculiar religious practices. Kyōka Suigetsu would ensure the disguise was flawless, undetectable.
His first move would be subtle. He instructed Argent to begin discreetly funneling portions of his Valyrian gold through various third-party channels into Braavosi markets, creating minor economic ripples, testing the Iron Bank's responsiveness, and establishing a financial footprint. He also tasked his new, human-form Sentinels with integrating themselves into the city's lower echelons, gathering street-level intelligence, identifying disgruntled or ambitious individuals within the guilds or even the Iron Bank's lesser staff.
Sōsuke Aizen, the Weaver Unbound, the god whose hunger now encompassed not just mortal souls but the very divinities and institutions that shaped their world, smiled. Braavos, the Unconquered City, was about to receive a visitor whose intentions were far grander, and far more terrifying, than any pirate, king, or rival merchant prince it had ever faced. The God of Many Faces was about to meet a god of singular, all-consuming will.