Chapter 1: The Old General Awakens
The mist clung to the land like a living thing, dense and heavy, drowning the world in shades of gray. Beneath the looming clouds, surrounded by the endless churn of the sea, a man opened his eyes for the first time in this world.
He was old — impossibly so — with a face carved by countless battles, a beard like flowing steel, and a presence that bent the air around him. His name, once feared across realms, came back to him with calm certainty.
Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto.
Yet something was different. This was not his old battlefield. No hollows, no Soul Society. The energy of this world, though fierce, was wild and untamed compared to the spiritual currents he once commanded. His body was whole — flesh, bone, and spirit fused into one.
He stood slowly. His crimson haori rippled with the wind, the heavy weight of Ryūjin Jakka resting on his back like a sleeping god. There was no uncertainty in his heart. Whatever this place was, wherever fate had thrown him, he would endure. That was his nature.
He surveyed his surroundings. Thick trees rose like sentinels, draped in veils of mist. The ground was wet underfoot, the air saturated with salt and blood. In the distance, faint sounds echoed — the clashing of steel, the screams of men.
A battlefield.
He moved forward without hesitation.
---
A squad of shinobi came into view, bloodied and ragged. Their clothes bore the symbol of a village — a swirling crest surrounded by points, carved into steel forehead protectors. Kirigakure, the Hidden Mist.
The soldiers stumbled when they saw him. His very presence froze them in place, like prey before a wolf.
"Who are you?" one barked, trying to steady his voice. His hand was already on his kunai, though he seemed to know instinctively that it would not save him.
Yamamoto stepped forward. His gaze was sharp, piercing through armor, fear, and lies alike.
"I am Yamamoto," he said simply. His voice was deep and rough, carrying the weight of centuries. "Your war does not concern me. Take me to your leader."
The shinobi hesitated. They exchanged glances — strangers were not common in the midst of the Third Great Ninja War, and none came dressed as ancient warriors wielding weapons older than memory.
One man, braver or more foolish than the rest, tried to attack.
He lunged, blade flashing.
Yamamoto did not move from where he stood. His spiritual pressure — no, now it was something deeper, woven into flesh — exploded outward in a single wave. The attacking shinobi collapsed mid-strike, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The others dropped their weapons, overwhelmed by fear they could not name.
"I have no patience for weakness," Yamamoto said. "Lead me... or fall."
With shaking hands, the leader nodded and gestured for Yamamoto to follow. No more words were exchanged.
---
They traveled through the mist, toward the heart of the Land of Water.
As they moved, Yamamoto observed. These warriors were skilled in assassination, in silent killing. Their movements were deliberate, brutal, efficient. They knew how to blend with the land, how to kill unseen.
Yet compared to the captains and lieutenants he once commanded, they were children. Rough, talented, but untamed.
The Hidden Mist Village itself rose from the land like a fortress. Tall walls, mist-covered canals, narrow streets twisting like a spider's web. Paranoia seeped into every stone.
This was a land ruled by fear.
At its center stood the Mizukage's Tower — sharp, jagged, as if daring the world to attack.
Yamamoto looked up at it, unbothered.
"I will speak to your Mizukage," he said.
The shinobi hesitated. "He does not—"
Yamamoto had already moved past them.
His steps were slow, measured, but the ground seemed to shake under his feet.
The old general had come.
And the Land of Water would never be the same again.