Chapter 9: The Weaver's Hand, The First Threads
Years flowed like molten glass around the Obsidian Spire, each cycle of the distant, unseen sun marking another increment in Aizen Sōsuke's meticulous unfolding of his grand design. The immediate, raw hunger of the Hōgyoku had subsided after its monumental feast during Valyria's Doom, settling into a state of profound, resonant power that fueled Aizen's increasingly sophisticated endeavors. His sanctum was no longer just a fortress; it was the crucible of a new age, a laboratory where the boundaries of magic, science, and divinity were being systematically dismantled and reformed.
Within the Spire's deepest chambers, the air thrummed with contained energies. His dragon breeding program had yielded remarkable results. The first clutches of common Valyrian dragons, hatched under his precise Kido-enhanced incubation methods, were now juvenile beasts, their growth accelerated, their intellects demonstrably sharper than their wild forebears. They were not mere pets or mounts; they were living weapons, extensions of his will, conditioned from birth through telepathic imprinting and rigorous training regimens. He established a clear hierarchy among them, certain drakes bred for aerial speed and reconnaissance, others for raw firepower, their flames tinged with unique elemental properties he had subtly introduced into their gestating spirits. He could command them as a pack, a silent, disciplined squadron that patrolled the tumultuous skies around the Spire, their loyalty absolute.
His study of soul mechanics had entered a new, more profound phase. Having absorbed millions of Valyrian souls, he possessed an unparalleled dataset on the spiritual composition of this world's inhabitants. He meticulously compared their Reishi structure to that of the souls he had known in Soul Society and Hueco Mundo. He found them cruder, more elementally charged, yet possessing a raw vitality that was intriguing. His experiments with refined blood magic, stripped of its sacrificial barbarity, bore fruit. He learned to draw minute quantities of life essence from the ambient atmosphere of the Smoking Sea – still rich with the echoes of the Doom – and from the geothermal vents beneath his Spire, using this energy to power complex enchantments or to infuse his Sentinel constructs with greater autonomy and resilience. These Sentinels, now numbering in the dozens, were no longer crude golems but elegant, obsidian-skinned guardians, their forms often reflecting draconic aesthetics, their movements silent and unnervingly precise. Some were even gifted with rudimentary Valyrian sorcery, their abilities directly implanted by Aizen.
The mystery of Ignis Primus, the colossal magma-colored dragon egg, remained a central focus. Aizen's attempts at communication had evolved. He no longer just probed; he engaged in a silent, psychic dialogue with the ancient, slumbering consciousness within. He learned that the obsidian rod was not merely a key, but a conduit, a regulator for the immense power required for the dragon's awakening. The egg did not simply need heat; it craved a specific resonant frequency of soul-fire, an energy that Vhagarion, in his transformed state, was uniquely capable of producing. Furthermore, Ignis Primus demanded more than just awakening; it sought a bond of equals, a psychic imprint from a being of comparable will and power. Aizen understood. This was no mere beast to be tamed. This was a potential partner in godhood, a king to his own burgeoning divinity. Preparations for its eventual hatching were slow, deliberate, involving the construction of a vast, geothermally powered incubation chamber designed to channel Vhagarion's amplified flame with utmost precision, and to facilitate the profound psychic meld required.
Argent, his first true emissary, had long since departed the Obsidian Spire. His sleek, dark vessel, powered by a bound air elemental (a refinement of Valyrian techniques), had navigated the treacherous waters and made landfall in the Basilisk Isles, as Aizen had initially considered. The Isles, a viper's nest of pirates, slavers, forgotten ruins, and warring petty lords, were an ideal testing ground for Aizen's theories of societal manipulation and for Argent's own abilities.
Communication between Argent and Aizen was instantaneous, achieved through a pair of linked obsidian amulets, similar to the one Quaithe had gifted him, but of his own, far more sophisticated design. These amulets didn't just transmit thoughts; they could relay sensory information, spiritual signatures, and even limited environmental data.
Argent's initial reports, delivered with the dispassionate clarity Aizen had instilled in him, painted a vivid picture of the Basilisk Isles' chaotic tapestry:
"The dominant power, if such a term applies, is a loose confederation of pirate kings, each commanding a small fleet and a fortified island stronghold. Their alliances are fleeting, their betrayals common. The slave trade is rampant, fueling their coffers. Ancient ruins, pre-Valyrian, dot the larger islands, rumored to hold cursed treasures and forgotten magics. Several minor cults fester, dedicated to crude sea deities or entities of the deep. The populace is a mixture of desperate refugees, hardened criminals, and subjugated natives. Fear is the primary currency, ambition the most common disease. It is… fertile ground, Master."
Aizen absorbed this information, his mind a super-intelligent cartographer plotting routes of influence. He instructed Argent not to engage in overt displays of power initially, but to observe, infiltrate, and identify key individuals – those whose greed, desperation, or nascent ambition made them malleable.
One such individual highlighted in Argent's reports was a pirate captain named Vorian 'Ironhand' Salt, a man known for his ruthless cunning and a burning desire to unite the pirate factions under his own banner, but lacking the resources and mystique to achieve it.
"Vorian Salt is a blunt instrument, Master," Argent reported, his mental voice cool and precise. "But he possesses a raw charisma and a notable lack of scruple. His current fleet is small, his reputation built more on bluster than significant victories. He covets a Valyrian steel blade, believing it a symbol of kingship."
Aizen, from his sanctum thousands of miles away, allowed a ghost of a smile to touch his lips. Perfect.
He instructed Argent to subtly guide Vorian Salt. There would be no direct contact from Argent himself, not yet. Instead, through a series of carefully orchestrated "accidents" and "fortunate discoveries," Vorian Salt's fortunes began to change. A rival pirate crew, ambushing Salt, sailed directly into an uncharted reef that Argent, using his Valyrian-enhanced senses, had meticulously mapped and then subtly "revealed" to one of Salt's scouts through a planted, aged chart. A hidden cove, containing a small but significant cache of pre-Doom Valyrian trade coins – enough to hire a company of skilled mercenaries – was "stumbled upon" by Salt during a storm Argent had subtly redirected with localized atmospheric manipulation learned from Valyrian weather-warding texts.
Finally, the Valyrian steel blade. Aizen selected a suitably impressive, if not overly powerful, longsword from his hoard. He then had Argent, cloaked and moving like a shadow, plant it within a crumbling, supposedly cursed temple ruin on an island Salt was known to frequent for "contemplation" (in reality, meeting with smugglers). Argent even added a touch of theatricality, etching a few ominous, vaguely prophetic-sounding (but ultimately meaningless) glyphs onto the temple walls near the blade, hinting at a "chosen one" destined to rule the Isles.
Vorian Salt, of course, "discovered" the blade. The effect was immediate and profound. His crew, already impressed by his recent string of luck, saw it as a divine sign. The mercenaries were hired. His pronouncements gained a new weight. The legend of "Salt, the Sea King Chosen by the Old Gods of the Blade" began to spread through the Basilisk Isles.
Aizen observed these developments through Argent's senses with clinical detachment. It was a simple exercise in manipulating base desires, a puppet show played with mortal ambitions. But it was effective. Vorian Salt was becoming a focal point of power, a gathering storm of conflict that would inevitably lead to larger battles, more concentrated releases of spiritual energy, more souls ripe for a subtle, distant harvest.
His own development of Kido and hybrid magic continued apace. He wasn't merely recalling old spells; he was forging an entirely new arcane system, perfectly attuned to his deified state and the unique magical laws of this world. He developed long-range scrying Kido that surpassed any Valyrian crystal, allowing him to peer into the throne rooms of Westeros or the shadow alleys of Qarth with unnerving clarity. He perfected techniques for projecting his consciousness, creating subtle illusions or whispering suggestions into the minds of susceptible individuals across vast distances – a far more refined method of influence than the crude mind-control some Valyrian sorcerers had attempted. He even began to master environmental Kido on a grand scale, learning to calm the perpetual storms around the Obsidian Spire for days at a time, or conversely, to summon localized squalls of unnatural intensity, should the need arise for a more overt display of his displeasure to any passing ships that strayed too close. His sanctum became an oasis of controlled weather in a sea of chaos, a testament to his growing mastery.
The defenses of the Obsidian Spire were also augmented. Beyond the Sentinels and the dragon patrols, Aizen wove intricate webs of layered Kido barriers, some designed to repel physical intrusion, others to scramble magical scrying, and still others to drain the vitality of any unauthorized spiritual entity that drew too near. He began construction of a small fleet of vessels, similar to Argent's but larger, faster, and more heavily armed with his Kido-Valyrian hybrid weaponry, envisioning them as future tools for rapid deployment of agents or specialized forces.
His reflections on godhood deepened. He saw how easily mortals were swayed by symbols, by prophecies (even false ones), by the illusion of destiny. True divinity, he mused, was not about soliciting worship, but about becoming an undeniable, inarguable force of nature, a fundamental law of existence to which all lesser beings would eventually, inevitably, conform. His goal was not to be a god, but to be the god, the ultimate arbiter of causality, the weaver whose threads governed the fate of nations and the destiny of souls.
This quiet period of consolidation was, however, punctuated by an anomaly. Argent's reports from the Basilisk Isles began to mention a new, unsettling presence.
"Master," Argent conveyed, a rare note of something akin to puzzlement in his usually placid mental voice. "There are new players in these waters. They are not pirates, nor slavers in the usual sense. They move with stealth and purpose. Three ships, black-sailed, bearing no sigil I recognize. Their crews are… silent. Disciplined. I sense a faint, cold magical aura about them, different from the crude sorceries of the local cultists. They seem to be observing Vorian Salt's rise with particular interest."
Aizen focused his scrying apparatus on the coordinates Argent provided. He saw the black ships, sleek and fast, cutting through the waves. He focused on their crews – men and women clad in dark, practical leathers, their faces often shadowed or masked. His enhanced Reikaku picked up the faint, cold aura Argent had described. It was the signature of shadow magic, refined and potent, but with an underlying discipline that spoke of Asshai.
Could Quaithe have agents this far afield? Or was this another faction from the Shadow Lands?
Then, one of Argent's patrols witnessed something truly unusual. One of the black ships intercepted a slaver vessel. There was no battle. Figures moved like ghosts across the decks. The slavers were incapacitated with terrifying speed and efficiency, not killed, but rendered unconscious with some form of nerve agent or paralytic magic. The slaves were then questioned, a few selected and taken aboard the black ship, while the others were simply set adrift with the disabled slaver vessel, along with a small cache of supplies.
"They are not freeing slaves out of altruism, Master," Argent reported. "They seem to be searching for something, or someone. Specific bloodlines, perhaps? Or individuals with latent talents? The ones they take… I cannot sense what becomes of them. Their ships are warded against my deeper probes."
This was an unexpected complication, a potential rival interest in a region Aizen had marked for his own initial experiments. He instructed Argent to increase surveillance but to avoid direct confrontation. Aizen himself delved into the salvaged Valyrian texts concerning Asshai and the Shadow Lands, seeking any mention of factions or organizations that matched this description. He found fragmented references to ancient orders within Asshai dedicated to "preserving unique lineages" or "harvesting rare magical potentials," but the details were scarce, shrouded in Valyrian fear and ignorance.
Vhagarion, too, sensed the shift in the currents. During one of his long, solitary flights over the Smoking Sea, far beyond the usual patrol routes, he encountered something that even his ancient, Doom-forged senses found unsettling. He returned to the Obsidian Spire not with a roar, but with a low, troubled growl, projecting images into Aizen's mind: a vast, unnatural whirlpool in a remote, fog-shrouded region of the sea, miles from any known landmass. At its center, Vhagarion had glimpsed structures that were not Valyrian, cyclopean, non-Euclidean geometries that seemed to writhe and shift, and a colossal, shadowy form lurking in the abyssal depths, radiating an aura of immense, primordial power and utter alienness.
Aizen processed this. The world beyond Valyria was clearly more complex, held more ancient and hidden powers, than even the Valyrians had fully appreciated. These were not threats, not yet. They were… data points. Opportunities for future study, potential resources, or perhaps, eventual rivals for him to dismantle and absorb.
For now, his focus remained on his immediate plans. The rise of Vorian Salt in the Basilisk Isles was proceeding according to his design. The knowledge gleaned from the Valyrian texts was being synthesized into new forms of power. His dragon broods were growing. Ignis Primus slumbered, awaiting its grand awakening.
He stood once more in his scrying chamber, the map of the world shimmering before him. The first threads were laid. The Basilisk Isles were a small, contained experiment. Soon, he would turn his attention to more significant targets. Perhaps the Free Cities, with their merchant princes and their intricate webs of commerce and intrigue. Or Westeros, with its fractured kingdoms and its nascent Targaryen dragonlords.
The arrival of the mysterious black-sailed ships and Vhagarion's discovery were reminders that the world was not an empty stage awaiting his sole performance. There were other actors, other ancient forces. This did not displease Aizen. A game without worthy opponents, without unexpected variables, was hardly a game at all.
It merely meant his manipulations would need to be more subtle, his power wielded with even greater precision, his plans more adaptable. He was Aizen Sōsuke. Deception was his art, control his science, and godhood his manifest destiny. The world would learn, in time, that all its threads, all its players, would ultimately move to the Weaver's grand design.