Reincarnated in Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint

I was sitting at my desk, the cold glow of the computer screen illuminating my pale, tired face. I glanced at the digital clock in the corner of the table: 11:47 PM. Another day had passed, and with it, the nagging feeling that my life was stuck in place. I closed my eyes for a moment and sighed deeply, weighed down by a routine that seemed endless in its repetition.

"What should I do now?" I wondered, resting my elbows on the table and burying my face in my hands. It was a question that echoed in my mind like an unending refrain, one that had haunted me for more than a year. Days went by, but nothing changed. Waking up early, dragging myself through drowsy mornings at school, heading straight to a physically demanding job that took more out of me than I wanted to give, and struggling to study English at night. Amidst all that, I tried to keep a project alive—one I once believed in: creating videos for the internet. But lately, every attempt seemed to falter before it even began.

I stretched in my chair, feeling a sharp twinge in my lower back. Grimacing, I reached for the sore spot where a tense muscle protested loudly. "Still growing…" I muttered with a touch of irony, recalling the doctor's words a few weeks ago. He'd explained that the pain was a mix of heavy labor, bad posture while gaming, and the inevitable growth process. "It's normal for your age," he'd said with a casual smile, but it didn't feel normal now.

My room, small and functional, carried an air of melancholy. Study books were stacked haphazardly on a shelf threatening to collapse, a pair of headphones dangled precariously from the edge of the desk, and papers covered in scribbled ideas lay scattered, their promises unfulfilled. The space mirrored the restlessness I felt inside: an organized chaos that somehow made sense to me.

I opened my eyes and stared at the computer screen. The cursor blinked on the blank page of a text editor, an annoying reminder of yet another video I didn't have the energy to start. Thoughts came and went, but none could break through the wall of exhaustion that consumed me. It felt like being trapped in a loop, an endless cycle of effort and frustration. Time slipped through my fingers like sand in an hourglass I couldn't flip.

Ignoring the persistent ache, I shifted in my chair and let my eyes wander to the window. Outside, the night seemed indifferent, its distant, unchanging stars twinkling faintly. The streetlights cast long shadows on my bedroom wall, and for a moment, I wondered if the world even noticed my existence—if anything I did could echo beyond my own mind.

"I'm tired," I admitted to myself, my voice breaking the suffocating silence. Tired of trying without seeing results, of living a routine that swallowed me whole and left me breathless. But even this confession brought no relief—just another truth I already knew too well.

I knew I had to do something to break this cycle, but the uncertainty of what to do kept me frozen. Somewhere deep inside, a tiny spark of determination still burned—fragile, yet persistent. I clung to that spark, hoping it could sustain the belief that one day, everything might be different.

For a brief moment, I considered how much easier it would be to be like everyone else: ignorant, foolish, and aimless, blindly following the crowd. Maybe that was the secret to surviving without the burden of doubt and insecurity. But no, that would never be my way. I had always felt out of place, like a puzzle piece that didn't fit anywhere. It was as if an invisible line separated me from others—a difference that, no matter how hard I tried to ignore, was always there.

Yes, I was born in a favela, raised in an environment of hardship that shaped me in ways few could understand. But I had changed. My eyes no longer saw the world as they once did. I had learned to question, to observe the nuances others ignored. And that's what set me apart—this insatiable need to seek more, to never settle for simple answers.

Yet deep down, I knew the bitter truth that ate away at me: I was afraid. Afraid of ending up as no one. It wasn't about proving anything to others—it never had been. It was about proving to myself that I was capable, that my existence wouldn't be in vain. Even though I knew death would come for me eventually, I wanted to achieve my dreams before facing that fate.

Still, insecurity clung to me like a stubborn shadow. Unanswered questions echoed in my mind: Was it all worth it? Was there any meaning to all this effort, to all these sleepless nights? And above all, was there a God—someone or something watching over all of this—who could give me an answer?

I sank back into the chair, my eyes fixed on a distant point. The silence of the room felt heavier now, as if waiting for a response I knew wouldn't come anytime soon.

The blinking digits on the clock pulled me out of my thoughts. It was already past 2 AM. I sighed, feeling exhaustion finally press down on my shoulders. "I should try to get some sleep," I thought, standing up from the chair with a dry crack of my joints. I walked over to the switch and turned off the light, letting darkness envelop the room, broken only by the pale glow of the streetlights outside the window.

Dragging my feet, I headed for the kitchen. The house was enveloped in absolute silence, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator. Running a hand through my hair, I pushed back the haze of sleep beginning to take over and opened the fridge door. The cold air made me shiver but brought a fleeting relief to my restless mind. "Thank God, I don't have school or work tomorrow," I thought, feeling a small flicker of relief amidst the fatigue. At least I'd have one day to breathe, free of heavy commitments.

My eyes scanned the shelves, searching for something quick. I grabbed a tub of margarine and some bread, placing them on the counter. As I cut the bread, the familiarity of the motion was almost comforting. The sound of the knife sliding against the soft surface filled the emptiness of the house. I added a slice of cheese, assembling a simple sandwich that would be enough to keep me going for a little longer.

Leaning against the counter, I chewed slowly, the salty taste mixing with my exhaustion. My thoughts continued to wander, but now they felt slightly lighter, as if the simple act of eating in silence offered a temporary truce to my inner turmoil. I swallowed the last bite and left the plate in the sink, feeling the weight of sleep finally overpowering me.

"Tomorrow..." I murmured, turning off the kitchen light and heading back to my room. Maybe, just maybe, the new day would bring something different. With that final thought, I let my body collapse onto the bed, my mind succumbing to the sleep I had resisted for so long.

I returned to my room, still feeling the faint buzz of exhaustion in my ears. I set the empty plate on the bedside table and flopped onto the mattress with a heavy sigh. For a moment, I stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows dance with the gentle sway of the curtains. My mind, despite its weariness, refused to stop.

I rolled to the side, grabbed my phone, and unlocked the screen. Among my reading list, one novel stood out—the kind almost no one knew, with just a single view per chapter. I remembered how I had stumbled upon it by accident, lost among popular titles and heavily commented recommendations. Perhaps it reflected me: overlooked, underestimated, yet still existing.

"Maybe it'll be a good distraction before I sleep," I thought, curiosity prodding at me. I opened the first chapter and settled into bed, letting the world around me fade as I immersed myself in the words no one else read. At least tonight, I would give voice to something that also seemed forgotten.

I began reading the novel, and the title caught my attention: Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint.

My eyes scanned the lines, but with each word, the weight of my eyelids grew heavier. The comfort of the bed and the day's accumulated fatigue conspired against me, making it impossible to focus. The text blurred into a mix of fragmented thoughts until, without realizing it, my head tilted to the side and the phone slipped from my fingers. Sleep claimed me before I could resist, pulling me into a silent, soothing torpor.

My body felt heavy, sinking into a sensation I couldn't describe. It was warm and comforting, like a soft blanket on a cold morning. A gentle warmth washed over me in waves, enveloping every fiber of my being in a peace I hadn't felt in a long time. I tried to open my eyes, but it seemed impossible. A pleasant laziness consumed me, keeping me trapped in that state of tranquility. To my surprise, I didn't mind. I simply let that feeling take over.

For a few minutes, silence was my only companion. Not an empty silence, but a kind of calm that seemed to fill everything around me. Then it was broken.

"Would you like to hear my proposal?"

The voice was firm and masculine, filled with a certain gravity. For a moment, I thought it was my subconscious playing tricks on me, but no. It was different. Too real. I tried to react, to open my eyes or say something, but my body remained inert, wrapped in that comforting sensation.

Nothing came out. No words, no movement. Just silence on my part.

The voice continued, undeterred by my lack of response.

"I need someone to help me obtain The Oldest Dream."

The Oldest Dream? The phrase echoed in my mind, each word carrying its own weight. Before I could form a coherent thought, the voice shifted. Its tone, once serious, now sounded tired, almost weary.

"I've gone through over a thousand avatars trying to achieve this, and they've all failed. I'm out of options now. That's why I'm offering this to you."

I could barely process what I was hearing. A thousand avatars? The Oldest Dream? It felt too surreal, like one of those wild musings that come before you fall completely asleep. Yet, there was something about those words that held me, a strange gravity that made it all feel significant.

The voice interrupted my disjointed thoughts once again.

"Of course, I'll give you something in return."

My mind raced. An exchange? What kind of exchange? Who—or what—was this being? My inability to move or speak only heightened my unease, but the overwhelming peace surrounding me kept me calm, as if some invisible force wanted me to hear this to the end.

"I see you don't believe what I'm saying. I can't blame you; it's a lot to take in..." The voice hesitated, then continued, softer this time. "Please, trust me."

My thoughts scrambled to piece together what was happening. Everything was so confusing. Was this a dream? A product of reading novels too late at night? Maybe I was just delirious from exhaustion.

But there was something about that voice—a genuine weight to it, as if the speaker had been carrying a burden for an eternity. It didn't feel like something imagined. It felt real.

And that was the scariest part.

Still wrapped in that comforting lethargy, I heard the voice again. This time, it felt more direct, as if expecting something from me, something important.

"So, what would you like in return, to start with?" it asked, its tone serious and curious, like someone ready to take notes.

My sluggish mind struggled to process the question. What I want? To start with? It sounded simple, but in this context, it was an enigma. What did it mean? Was it talking about powers, abilities, some kind of special advantage?

Gradually, the idea began to take shape. If this was a dream—and it had to be a dream, because what else could it be?—why not indulge in it? A faint smile formed on my face as I thought. If I could ask for anything, then I wanted something both absurd and amazing.

My mind jumped straight to Ichigo Kurosaki. As a fan of Bleach, I'd always admired his powers. The strength of a Shinigami, the speed of a Bankai, and the ability to overcome any challenge seemed like the perfect choice. I could already imagine wielding Zangetsu, unleashing strikes that could cut through anything.

But I didn't stop there. If I was going to dream, I might as well dream big. That's when another idea surfaced: the Omnitrix. I'd always been fascinated by its concept—transforming into different beings, exploring unique abilities, and handling any situation with creativity and versatility. Plus, having a sleek alien watch on my wrist was just too cool to resist.

"Well..." I murmured, feeling my face flush slightly at the ridiculousness of the idea, even within the safety of a dream. "How about Ichigo Kurosaki's powers and... an Omnitrix?"

Silence. For a moment, I thought the being might laugh at my choice or simply disappear, signaling the end of this strange dream. But the voice replied without hesitation or judgment.

"Interesting. A Shinigami and alien technology. An uncommon combination." It paused, as if contemplating, then added, "Will that be enough for you to begin?"

I blinked mentally. Enough? This being was taking me seriously? A shiver ran down my spine, but the warmth surrounding me softened any lingering doubt. Though I remained trapped in that lethargic state, my mind began to stir.

What was happening? Was this really a dream, or was it something more? No matter how absurd it seemed, the seriousness in its voice made everything feel real. If it was true, and if I really was about to receive Ichigo's powers and an Omnitrix, what would that mean? What was this "Oldest Dream" it spoke of?

Anxiety and curiosity simmered within me, the uncertainty gnawing at my thoughts. Yet, one thing was certain—I had to see where this led.

The voice broke the silence again, now almost casual, as if my request had been trivial.

"All right, those requests are fairly simple compared to what others have asked for."

For a moment, I was confused. Simple? Was it serious? Asking for Ichigo Kurosaki's powers and the Omnitrix felt like the most over-the-top request imaginable, yet it treated my demands as if they were trivial. Before I could react or even organize my thoughts, something jolted me out of that comfortable haze.

A hand.

I felt it—an almost tangible sensation, even though I still couldn't open my eyes. Something touched my face gently, as if cradling my head with care. The texture was indescribable—not flesh, not cold or metallic. It was... something else, like pure energy given form.

And then, everything changed.

A violent heat surged through my body, starting at my head and rushing downward in a torrential wave. The initial sensation was like electricity, as if I were a live wire being overwhelmed by an unrelenting current. My chest tightened, my muscles convulsed, and for a moment, I thought I would be torn apart from the inside out.

I wanted to scream, but no sound came. I wanted to open my eyes, but they remained sealed shut. Every cell in my body pulsed and vibrated at an intensity I'd never experienced. It was as if a colossal force was reshaping me, but my body wasn't strong enough to handle it.

This is going to kill me!

The energy continued to flood me, wave after wave, each more intense than the last. It wasn't just heat or light—it was something deeper, something that pierced my very soul. It wasn't merely physical pain; it felt as though my entire existence was being rewritten, piece by piece. My heart pounded furiously, my veins burned like molten lava, and my mind struggled to stay intact.

Yet, amid the agony, there was something else. A presence. This wasn't senseless pain; it was transformation. Deep down, I could feel it—something was being implanted within me, something unnatural yet irrevocably a part of me now.

Finally, the energy began to stabilize, its overwhelming intensity gradually subsiding like a storm losing its fury. My body relaxed little by little, though every muscle ached and felt drained, as if I had been running for hours without rest. The heat, once oppressive, was now comforting, like the distant warmth of sunlight.

My mind was still in shambles, but one question echoed through the scattered thoughts: What did he just do to me?

I was still gasping for air when the voice spoke again, now firmer, almost commanding.

"You are now ready to begin your mission."

My hands trembled, and my mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. Mission? What mission? I hadn't agreed to any of this. Summoning every ounce of strength, I managed to speak, though the words came out as a hoarse whisper.

"I... I didn't agree to this..."

But before I could say anything else, he simply ignored me. It wasn't that he didn't hear me—no, it was worse than that. He knew exactly what I was thinking and chose to dismiss it, as if brushing aside an objection too insignificant to address.

"I will send you now. I hope you can finally bring the Oldest Dream to completion."

There was no pause, no chance to argue, process, or even question what he meant. Before I could react, think, or even move, something gripped me with overwhelming force.

It felt like being swallowed by a vacuum, my body hurled toward some unknown destination. The comforting heat that had once filled me was replaced by an all-consuming cold, a sudden and suffocating sensation that hit without warning. My lungs felt paralyzed, as though all the air had been ripped from them.

I could feel myself sinking—or at least, that's what it seemed like. A crushing pressure began to build, heavy and oppressive, as if I were at the bottom of a deep ocean. Every part of me felt compressed, crushed by the invisible weight surrounding me.

I tried to open my eyes, but all I saw was darkness—thick, impenetrable darkness. My mind screamed, my survival instincts fighting against the feeling of being dragged into an endless abyss.

The pressure intensified, and with it came a strange realization: this wasn't just physical. It was something deeper, something reaching into the very core of my being. It was terrifying and incomprehensible, yet at the same time, it felt inevitable.

I was being pulled, dragged toward something I couldn't comprehend. And no matter how much I wanted to resist, it was futile. The force was absolute, and I had no control.

My final thought, before finally succumbing to the crushing weight, was a chaotic mix of fear and confusion: What is this Dream?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The city was in ruins, a scene of destruction that seemed to have been ripped from the depths of a nightmare. Tall buildings, once symbols of progress and ambition, now stood as flaming skeletons. Their metal structures melted slowly under the relentless heat, while the flames danced like hungry specters, consuming what remained.

The air was thick, laden with the acrid smell of smoke and ash. Each breath carried a bitter taste, as if the environment itself refused to be forgotten. The sound of cracking and splintering echoed through the empty streets, interspersed with occasional explosions, where fire encountered something flammable.

Above it all, the sky was an apocalyptic spectacle. Night descended with dramatic, somber flair, slowly swallowing the last glow of the sun. The horizon, stained in deep red, seemed to bleed as day gave way to darkness. Heavy, black clouds gathered like a wall, obscuring the stars and giving the sky an eerie, ever-changing appearance. Silent lightning cut through the heavens, briefly illuminating the twisted shapes of crumbled buildings and abandoned vehicles in the streets.

The city, once alive and bustling, was now overtaken by an unsettling silence, broken only by the crackling of flames and the distant sound of collapsing structures. The streets, once filled with voices and hurried steps, were now deserted, save for long shadows cast by the fire. The cracked asphalt, covered in debris, seemed to reflect the chaos around, with dark puddles capturing the orange glow of the flames.

The destruction wasn't just physical; it was tangible in the air, a sense of hopelessness and abandonment permeating everything. It was as if the city itself was exhaling its final breaths, a dying giant betrayed by its own inhabitants.

At the heart of this apocalyptic scene, a tower still stood. Even marked by flames and dangerously leaning, it remained upright, a final testament to its past glory. However, its silhouette against the fiery sky seemed more like an epitaph than a symbol of resistance, a somber reminder that nothing is eternal.

And there, as the last light of the sun vanished below the horizon, the city sank fully into darkness, its uncertain fate echoing in the flames that refused to die.

In the blackened sky, something tore through the darkness like a slash of light in a dark cloak. At first, it was just a bright spot, a shooting star that seemed out of place amidst the chaos. However, unlike the stars that vanish as quickly as they appear, this light did not extinguish. On the contrary, it grew brighter, closer, and with it came a rising sound, a muffled roar that seemed to vibrate the very air.

It was like a comet, with an orange tail stretching behind it, cutting through the sky with an intensity that rivaled even the flames in the city below. The object defied gravity and logic, moving with a speed that only increased with every passing second. Its glowing tail left a streak of light that snaked through the sky, a fiery line that betrayed its destructive path.

As the comet drew nearer, the air seemed to shift, as if charged with invisible electricity. A deep rumble filled the environment, a constant low sound that made the ground tremble and the broken windows of the remaining buildings chime.

Then, in an instant that felt both eternal and brief, the "comet" collided with a tall building in the center of the city. The impact was devastating, releasing a burst of light and energy that illuminated the night sky as if the sun had briefly returned.

The structure of the building couldn't withstand it. In seconds, concrete and steel were reduced to dust and rubble. The impact created a shockwave that swept through the surroundings, lifting a dense cloud of dust and debris that spread like an urban tsunami. Nearby buildings, already weakened by the flames, collapsed in succession, crumbling under the relentless force.

The air was filled with an orange flash, followed by sparks and fragments scattering in every direction. A deafening sound echoed through the city, a mix of explosion and the agonizing screech of metal being destroyed. It was as if the earth itself was screaming in response to the impact.

When the light began to fade, all that remained was a hole where an imposing structure once stood. In the center of the crater, amidst the still-smoking rubble, something seemed to move, a distinct point amidst the chaos, like the prelude to something much bigger and more terrifying than the fall of the "comet."

From the dense cloud of dust that rose like a veil over the devastation, a movement broke the silence. A low sound of stones being pushed echoed, followed by the faint creak of something firm dragging against the concrete. Suddenly, a hand emerged from the mist, fingers tightly gripping a surprisingly intact section of the building, as though that fragment had resisted collapse just to support this moment.

The hand was strong, its fingers blackened by dust, but still displaying a firmness that spoke of determination. With visible effort, the being began to rise from the destruction. First came the arm, then the shoulders, until a whole figure revealed itself, pushing away the dust around it with its movements.

The silhouette stood out against the orange glow of the flames in the background, and as the details became clearer, its attire captured attention. It was something impressive, laden with symbolism, blending tradition and modernity in an almost surreal way. A modified combat kimono covered the figure's body, its wide, flowing sleeves swaying gently as it moved. The black fabric seemed to absorb the light around it, while white, undulating patterns ran diagonally across the outfit, creating a contrast that drew the eyes of anyone who looked.

At the waist, a tight white belt kept the garment in place, structuring the figure with an air of discipline and order. However, what caught attention was what was strapped to its back: a sheathed sword. The hilt, in bright red, stood out like a flame amidst the monochromatic composition, radiating an aura of contained power.

The lower part of the outfit reached the knees, allowing for practical, fluid mobility. Traditional Japanese footwear completed the attire, echoing a respect for cultural roots amidst the aggressive modernity of the circumstances around it.

When the figure finally stood fully upright, its hair became the next thing to capture attention. Under the light of the night and the surrounding flames, its orange strands shone intensely, as if carrying the energy of the stars themselves. The natural glow of the hair seemed to defy the destruction around it, radiating an inner strength that was reflected in every detail of its presence.

The figure paused for a moment, slowly turning its head, scanning the surroundings with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. Its eyes examined the devastated landscape, as though trying to comprehend where it was and why it had been thrown into this chaos. The posture, relaxed yet vigilant, indicated someone who was not just lost but also assessing the environment like a predator who had just awoken in unfamiliar territory.

The momentary silence around it seemed to carry the weight of something imminent. It was both part of the destruction and an outsider within it, a figure who didn't belong to this world, yet somehow seemed destined to be the center of everything.

The heavy silence that lingered around the man was broken by a sharp, clicking sound, like something activating, followed by a green glow that appeared on his arm. The light flickered for a moment before stabilizing, revealing an object that seemed entirely out of place in this apocalyptic setting. The wristwatch, with a square and sturdy design, was modern and minimalist, with a color combination that contrasted with everything around it. The body of the watch was predominantly white, but with green details running along the panel, creating an elegant, almost fluid pattern as if time was being controlled in a peculiar way. The screen, matte black, was interrupted by two green stripes, forming a shape reminiscent of an hourglass, reinforcing the idea that time was there to be observed, manipulated, or even challenged.

"No fucking way that wasn't a dream!" The man's exclamation was spontaneous, as if he had finally broken some mental barrier. His expression twisted in frustration, eyes wide in disbelief. He looked at himself for a moment, his hand pressed to his forehead, as if trying to keep his mind from being consumed by the absurdity of it all. The watch glowed softly on his arm, a detail he couldn't ignore, as if the object itself were mocking his disorientation.

He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away, but the feeling of being immersed in something much larger than himself wouldn't disappear. "No, this is impossible, it has to be!" he murmured, his voice lower, as if trying to convince himself there had to be a logical explanation for all of this. But as he tried to rationalize what was happening, the reality around him seemed to crumble, and he felt as if he were being swallowed by it.

With a heavy breath, Rodrigo placed his hands on his head, his fingers digging into his orange hair. Frustration built up inside him, a feeling of powerlessness mixed with growing confusion. "Calm down, Rodrigo, this is just a really realistic dream. Isekai stuff doesn't exist!" he muttered in a softer tone, but the doubt lingered in his chest, like a weight he couldn't shake off. The words, said in an attempt at rationality, sounded empty, as if he himself couldn't believe them. Yet, he repeated them, trying to find comfort in the notion that it was all just an illusion of his mind.

The glow from the watch seemed to intensify, the green growing more vibrant, as if it wanted to respond to his denial. The being he had become—or was about to become—was just starting to emerge, and with each passing second, it became harder to distinguish what was real from what was fantasy.

Rodrigo, still with his hands on his head, trying to organize his thoughts, felt a strange sensation course through his body. It was as if his very flesh was being remade before his eyes, a wave of heat spreading through every inch of his skin. He stopped for a moment, his heart racing, a growing pressure tightening his chest. Something was wrong. He looked down, searching for any sign of abnormality, and that's when the shock hit him full force.

His body, the body he had known so well, was no longer there. In its place was something completely different, yet somehow... familiar. His hands were now wider, his fingers longer, the skin a paler shade, and his sense of touch felt stronger, as though every pore of his skin was attuned to the breeze that cut through the air. He looked at his clothes, and what he saw made his stomach churn. He was no longer wearing his usual attire, but instead, he wore the iconic battle uniform of Kurosaki Ichigo—the famous black kimono with the white sash tied at the waist.

Memories began flooding into his mind, images of Ichigo flashing before his eyes too quickly to process. He felt the pain of battles, the intensity of the fights, the pressure of being the protector of everyone around him. His hair, once brown and short, was now slightly longer and a vibrant orange, glowing softly in the light of the night. He ran his hand through his hair, and the texture, the weight, everything was there—he was Ichigo. It couldn't be anything else. Rodrigo's expression twisted in a mix of confusion and disbelief.

"No, no, no... this can't be real!" Rodrigo said to himself, his voice now no longer his own, but Ichigo's, with that deep, determined tone. But at the same time, there was an unease, a strangeness, as though he was an intruder in this body, as if he were wearing something that didn't belong to him.

He slowly turned, trying to adjust to the feeling of Ichigo's body, the strength and vitality now coursing through him. But the sense of unfamiliarity didn't fade. He tried to focus, to understand what was happening, but his mind felt inundated with an avalanche of new information. He was no longer Rodrigo Raphael. No, he was Kurosaki Ichigo, the substitute Shinigami, and the thought of being trapped in this body, with all of Ichigo's memories and feelings, was both terrifying and fascinating. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to deal with the confusion taking over his mind.

"I... am Ichigo? How... how did this happen?" he said, almost as a question to himself, feeling an overwhelming need to understand his new reality, even though, at this point, it seemed entirely beyond logic.

The watch on his arm—the strange object that had appeared on him earlier—was still glowing with an intense green, pulsating in an almost hypnotic rhythm, as if it were waiting for his next decision. He felt a strange connection to it, a sense that this device was as essential to his new identity as Ichigo's body was. Reality was warping around him, and what once seemed like a lie now felt like a cruel, undeniable truth.

"This can't be possible... It can't be." He repeated, glancing back at the horizon, trying to find an escape or an explanation for it all. But what he found in the end was nothing—only emptiness, uncertainty, and the overwhelming feeling that he was just beginning to discover the limits of the reality that now surrounded him.

Rodrigo was in a panic, still trying to understand what was happening, but his legs, once weak and slow, were now more agile than he could ever remember. He didn't know how, but the speed with which he ran out of the destroyed building seemed absurd. His mind screamed for him to stop, but his body didn't obey. The sensation of running, of descending stairs, of jumping with a force he never imagined, was unreal. When he reached the edge of the building, he didn't hesitate; he leapt without thinking, and the jump was so massive that it seemed to defy the laws of physics. He was in the air for what seemed like an eternity, watching the ground approach at a speed so fast his mind could barely process it.

When he finally hit the ground, the impact was soft. He had expected a brutal fall, but nothing like that happened. Instead, he rose with surprising ease, his posture already adjusting to the new body. He had fallen from a destroyed building, but he was intact. Surreal.

The panic still consumed him, but now he could no longer deny it: he was in another body. He was in a different body, someone stronger, faster, more... capable. He looked around and saw the devastated scene. The entire city looked like a battlefield after a war, with buildings crumbling, streets covered in rubble, and flames still spreading through parts of the city, lighting up the dark night with an infernal glow. The biting wind carried the scent of burnt metal and destruction. Everything was destroyed, and he was right in the middle of it.

But what shocked him the most was the weight on his back. He turned slowly, hesitantly, and saw what appeared to be a gigantic sword—a katana of unimaginable proportions, with a red handle and a blade gleaming in the darkness like a reflection of blood.

"Zangetsu..." The words left his mouth before he even realized it. He felt an instant connection to the sword, as though it was a part of him, as if it had been his all along. The mere act of looking at it sent a wave of warmth through him, as if Ichigo's very spirit was speaking through his muscles.

With a deep sigh, Rodrigo slowly stood up, trying to control the dizziness that haunted him. The emptiness around him seemed to expand, and somehow, he felt as if he were walking a thin line between two worlds, unable to fully settle into either. The swords on his back still weighed on him, as if they were waiting for him to do something, anything, but Rodrigo still didn't know what to do.

He looked out at the horizon again, the destruction around him a harsh reminder of the situation he found himself in. The city, once vibrant, now lay in ruins. The atmosphere was heavy, and every step he took seemed to echo in the silence. The weight of his new reality pressed down on him, but he had no idea how to move forward.

The wind continued to blow, kicking up dust from the rubble, and Rodrigo felt an unsettling chill. It was almost as if the world was waiting, watching him, expecting him to make a choice. But what choice could he make when he wasn't even sure of who he was anymore?

"Why is this happening to me?" he muttered under his breath, staring down at the ground as his fingers brushed against the hilt of Zangetsu. It felt so natural, so connected to him now, but the idea of wielding that power, of embracing the responsibility it came with, felt like an impossible weight to bear.

His mind raced with questions, with confusion and doubt, but in the midst of it all, something shifted. A feeling deep within him stirred, something primal, something that whispered that he wasn't entirely alone in this new body. It wasn't just the weight of the swords that connected him to Ichigo; there was something more, something beyond the physical. He could almost feel the presence of another, as if someone was waiting for him to understand.

He took a step forward, his feet moving on their own as if drawn by an invisible force. His hands instinctively gripped the hilt of Zangetsu tighter. It was as if the sword was calling to him, urging him to accept his new identity, to embrace the power he now possessed. Rodrigo fought it, but the connection was undeniable.

"Come on, think!" he shouted, trying to shake the overwhelming sensations flooding his mind. But it was no use. The longer he resisted, the more the pull grew. He could feel Ichigo's memories surging through him, the weight of the battles, the sense of duty, the sacrifices that came with being a protector.

Rodrigo closed his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his thoughts. The world around him felt distant, as if it were fading into the background. The presence he had sensed earlier seemed to grow stronger, closer, as though it were waiting for him to acknowledge it.

He wasn't sure if it was a person or something else, but it was there. He had to face it. He had to face whatever was waiting for him, even if he didn't understand it yet.

Rodrigo took another deep breath, and for the first time since waking up in this new world, he felt a flicker of resolve. He wasn't ready, he wasn't prepared, but he couldn't just sit there, frozen in uncertainty. Something inside him pushed him forward, and with that, he began to walk, step by step, toward whatever lay ahead.

The silence seemed to drag on, heavy, as if the city itself were waiting for his decision. Rodrigo swallowed hard, feeling the tension in his chest intensify. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to handle this. But, somehow, he knew that the moment he stood up and decided what to do would be the moment when the true weight of his new reality would fall upon him.

And then, in the middle of the silence, something subtle happened. The wind stopped blowing. The ruins stopped moving. And for the first time since waking up in this world, Rodrigo had the feeling that, somehow, he was no longer alone. Something was waiting. Something huge and immense, waiting for him to finally take the next step.

Rodrigo remained still, staring at the devastated horizon as the words piled up inside his head. The weight of his reality seemed to grow with every passing second, and he could barely believe what he was experiencing. The feeling of being inside someone else's body was disorienting, as if he were a mere spectator of his own existence. Ichigo Kurosaki— that name echoed inside his mind, but he wasn't this hero. He wasn't someone destined to save the world or fight against forces beyond human comprehension. He wasn't Ichigo. He wasn't any of that.

"I... I'm not a hero," he whispered, the words coming out in an almost inaudible sigh. He looked at the destroyed city around him, the ruins reflecting the emptiness he felt inside. He didn't have Ichigo's abilities, he didn't have the grand destiny that seemed to be thrust upon him. He was just a boy. A regular boy. Disposable. A simple human being, insignificant.

He wasn't ready for this. He never wanted this. The life he led before, with its small concerns and boring routine, now seemed like a distant paradise, something unreachable. He wasn't prepared to face this world, nor to carry the weight of such a large sword, nor to be the center of something so monstrous.

Rodrigo then glanced at his wrist. He saw the Omnitrix glowing there, on his skin, a square watch in white and green, like an annoying reminder of something he still didn't fully understand. His fingers trembled slightly as he touched the panel, feeling the cold metal. As if that object were the key to something bigger. Power, strength, but he didn't know what to do with it. Those abilities, that power he now possessed, were just at his disposal, like a toy he didn't know how to use. He wasn't like Ichigo; he didn't know if he'd be able to use this for good.

After a moment, Rodrigo looked at his back, feeling the weight of Zangetsu, the massive sword strapped there. How was this possible? He turned slightly to look at it better, the long, sharp blade reflecting the little light that remained in the sky. Zangetsu... Ichigo's sword. He felt a sharp pain in his chest. It was him. It was Ichigo's form. But he wasn't Ichigo. He didn't have the courage that man had, nor the sense of duty. He was just a lost boy in a world he didn't understand.

"I..." Rodrigo's voice faltered, the doubt mixed with a growing frustration.

He then looked up at the sky, which was beginning to reveal the stars. They shone there, small and distant, but Rodrigo knew that, just like those stars, many of those dreams were dead. The sky seemed a bitter reminder of what he had lost and what he could never reach. He wasn't who he used to be. He was no longer that simple boy. And, deep down, he knew he couldn't go back.

"No... I have to go... Mom, you must be worried!" Rodrigo's voice trembled, and a pain tightened his chest. His mother. She must be waiting for him, wondering what had happened, where he was. He knew how anxious she would get when he went anywhere, and now, he couldn't imagine what she was feeling. What he was feeling now was a mix of panic and guilt. He had disappeared. And who else would search for him? Who else would care about what happened?

Still lost in his thoughts, Rodrigo stood up. He couldn't leave his mother behind. He didn't know how he would return or if he could, but he couldn't just disappear without a trace. He had to try. He needed to try.

"Alright, let's get this over with." He said to himself, the words coming out more decisively, though still with a sense of uncertainty. He didn't know what to do, didn't know how he would face all of this, but he knew one thing: he wasn't going to let his mother suffer because of this.

Rodrigo looked up at the sky again, at those shining stars, and stretched out his hand—or rather, Ichigo's hand, the hand that now seemed to be his. He felt the light breeze touching his skin, and everything around him seemed to disappear, as if time had stopped. He felt small, but determined, as if this was the only possible path.

"Mom, wait a little, your son will be back soon."

The voice, now firmer, echoed into the emptiness of the night. Rodrigo didn't know what the future held for him, but one thing was clear: he wasn't going to give up. Even if it was impossible, even if he was lost, he would do whatever it took. He would give his best to return, to do what was right. For his mother.

As soon as Rodrigo took the first step, something unexpected happened. A bluish, translucent, and glowing screen appeared abruptly in front of him, floating in the air as if it were a hologram. He stopped immediately, surprised, furrowing his brow as he stared at the glowing window. The edges of the screen glowed softly, and small particles floated around it, like cosmic dust suspended in the air. Curiosity overtook him, and he tilted his head.

"This looks like one of those system screens from those stories," he murmured, still trying to process what he was seeing.

Rodrigo focused his attention on the words written on the screen, which were clear, as if typed directly into his mind. He read slowly, processing the meaning.

---

Assimilation is at 9%

At the current level, the user will be able to use the powers of the three races, but not with the same strength as Ichigo Kurosaki.

Omnitrix: 0%

The user currently only has three initial aliens in the Omnitrix. More will be added as they progress.

---

Rodrigo blinked a few times, a heavy silence falling around him. An imaginary drop seemed to slide down the side of his face, a classic sign of confusion and frustration. He placed his hand on his face, massaging his temples as he let out a sigh.

"Well, at least I have the powers of the Quincy, Shinigami, and Hollow," he said with a sarcastic tone, trying to rationalize what he had just read. "As for the Omnitrix..." He glanced at his wrist, where the green and white watch was fixed, like a symbol of endless possibilities.

For a moment, Rodrigo stood still, just contemplating the device. He wondered what aliens had been made available to him. Would they be useful? Or was he stuck with forms that wouldn't help him in this chaos? Without thinking much, he pressed a side button, and the top panel of the Omnitrix slid up with a soft mechanical sound. A green glow illuminated his face as he looked at the central panel. Three holographic figures rotated on the screen, representing the available forms. Upon recognizing them, his eyes widened.

Heatblast.

XLR8.

Chromastone.

"Okay..." Rodrigo took a deep breath, trying to process. "I thought having only three aliens would be horrible, but these three are... impressive!" He began analyzing his options with a hint of excitement, his mind working quickly to figure out how he could use them.

"heatblast," he began, observing the fiery figure slowly rotating on the screen. "One of the ten originals... his fire control is insane. You can do a lot with this, from attacks to... I don't know, roasting marshmallows?" He let out a short, nervous laugh. "Anyway, fire power will be useful."

His eyes moved to the next figure. It was a slender alien, with thin legs and a structure designed for speed. He smiled. "XLR8. Also one of the ten originals, and probably one of the fastest the Omnitrix has ever had. With this, I can run... escape... or even reach places before anyone notices. This is just great!"

Finally, he looked at the third alien on the screen, a shimmering figure that appeared to be made of crystal. He hesitated for a moment, but his mind quickly started coming up with strategies. "Chromastone... I know Ben was never the best user of this form, but I already have a few ideas of how to use it. Manipulate light, reflect attacks... maybe even create illusions. This could be much more useful than it seems."

Rodrigo closed the panel with a click, a green glow still escaping from the edges of the Omnitrix. He looked around at the ruins surrounding him, his mind now divided between the chaos around him and the new possibilities pulsing in his wrist.

"Okay, Rodrigo, let's think. You're not a hero, but this is something neither Ichigo nor Ben had at the start. You just need to figure out what to do with it... and fast." He took a deep breath, feeling the slight pressure of the sword on his back and the weight of the Omnitrix on his wrist.

The stars above shone, indifferent to what he was facing. Fate, it seemed, had already given him the tools. Now, it was up to him to decide how to use them.

Rodrigo walked slowly through the destroyed streets, each step echoing in the stillness of the environment. Meanwhile, his mind wandered through thoughts. He had spoken to himself so many times since he got here, but something still didn't feel right. When he finally realized it, his hand instinctively went to his throat.

"My voice..." He murmured, surprised. "It's... Ichigo's?"

The tone was deeper, carrying that same intensity characteristic of Bleach's protagonist. It was as if he had stolen not just the body, but also the character's identity. "This is really weird," he said, letting out a nervous laugh as he heard the echo of the words sounding like they weren't his. It was an unsettling feeling, as if he were trapped in a role he hadn't chosen but now had to play perfectly.

He shook his head, trying to push away the discomfort. As he continued walking, another memory came to the surface. He remembered the words of the being who had sent him to this place. Rodrigo stopped abruptly, furrowing his brow as he reflected. The oldest dream... or something like that.

"That's what he said, right?" Rodrigo murmured again, trying to make sense of what he had heard. He rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to piece together the puzzle in his mind. "But what the hell does that mean? Why me? And why give me all this?"

His eyes wandered to the devastated city around him, trying to find any clue, but the silence seemed denser than ever. "The oldest dream..." He repeated quietly, almost as if testing the weight of the words in his mouth. "Does this place have something to do with it? Or is it just another part of the nightmare I've been thrown into?"

With no other visible options and the pressure of the moment rising in his mind, Rodrigo decided to test the power of the Omnitrix. He raised his arm and stared at the device on his wrist, watching how the green light from the panel reflected on his face. With a hesitant sigh, he murmured:

"Let's see if this really works."

As Rodrigo rotated the central dial, the holograms began to spin and display silhouettes of creatures, until one caught his attention: the elongated, agile form of XLR8. Without thinking much, Rodrigo pressed the central button. A characteristic sound echoed, as if an advanced mechanism had been activated. Immediately, a burst of green light enveloped the space around him, consuming him in vibrant energy.

When the light faded, a new being emerged from where Rodrigo stood. His body was slender and aerodynamic, seemingly designed for absolute speed. The slightly hunched posture suggested a perfect balance between strength and flexibility, while his head, elongated and pointed, resembled the shape of a blade, reinforcing the idea of a being made to cut through the wind. Light blue details adorned his "face," looking like eyes or a high-tech mask, emitting a futuristic aura.

The arms were thin but muscular enough to suggest precision and agility. The hands, with sharp, slightly curved fingers, appeared ready to grasp or manipulate anything efficiently. The legs were a biomechanical masterpiece, ending in spherical wheels that replaced the feet. Every movement was synchronized and fluid, as if the wheels automatically adjusted to the terrain. A long, black-and-white striped tail swayed lightly behind, likely aiding in balance at high speeds.

The black color scheme with white details reinforced the sleek appearance, but the finishing touch was the iconic Omnitrix symbol, a lime-green circle glowing on the chest. It emanated a subtle energy, like a promise of latent power and total control.

Rodrigo looked at himself—or rather, what he had become. He moved his arms, hands, and even the tail, experimenting with the sensation of being in this body. Everything felt instinctive, as if he already knew what to do. He tilted his head, admiring the environment with sharper vision.

"Wow... this is surreal," he murmured, his voice echoing with a metallic, distorted tone that made him shiver for a moment. Then, he looked down at the wheels on his feet and gave a slight push. In an instant, he was several meters away, the speed so natural it felt like an extension of himself.

"Okay... this is definitely not a dream."

Once he adjusted to his new body, Rodrigo decided to explore. The curiosity and urgency to understand the world around him pushed him to act. He leaned slightly forward, and in the blink of an eye, he dashed through the devastated city. The wind cut through his form as the sound of XLR8's wheels gliding over cracked concrete echoed in his ears. The debris and the flames still consuming buildings were barely obstacles. Every step was a giant leap, every corner seemed to dissolve in the wake of his speed.

As he ran, Rodrigo saw a partially destroyed structure ahead. It was a tall building, its facade marked with deep cracks and shattered windows. With a precise thrust, he scaled the building, the wheels adjusting perfectly to the impact against the walls, until he reached the top. Standing there, with the night wind blowing against his silhouette, Rodrigo finally got a better view of the city.

The destruction was total. Towers that once held vibrant lights were now skeletal metal frames. Abandoned cars filled the streets, some completely charred. Smoke mixed with the starry sky, obscuring part of its beauty. Rodrigo stood in silence for a moment, feeling something he couldn't quite name. It wasn't exactly pity, but there was a latent discomfort, as if the landscape was wrong, out of place. He felt displaced.

"Should I care about this?" he whispered, his voice reverberating inside the biological helmet forming his alien head. But the answer didn't come; only the emptiness of the night surrounded him.

Cutting off his thoughts before they could deepen, Rodrigo shifted his attention to a movement on the horizon. From where he stood, he saw a male figure, visibly tired, carrying another person in his arms—seemingly a woman. The man moved with difficulty through the destroyed streets toward an illuminated train station. Rodrigo leaned forward to observe more closely. At the entrance of the station, a small group of people blocked the way. They were armed, probably trying to protect something or prevent invaders.

Even from a distance, Rodrigo saw that the man was desperately saying something. For a moment, the guards seemed to hesitate but eventually relented, allowing him to enter with the child.

"So, they still have some compassion," Rodrigo thought, crossing his arms. He glanced at the Omnitrix on his wrist, then at the sword on his back, which swayed slightly with the wind.

"People..." he murmured, contemplative. "Should I go over there? Do something? Or... is it not my problem?"

Even while reflecting, his eyes remained fixed on the station. Part of him wanted to move, but another part, still struggling to accept reality, hesitated. After all, he was still Rodrigo. Not a hero.

Rodrigo paused for a moment. It was clear that if he wanted to interact with the people of this world, it wouldn't be smart to stay in his alien form. Despite being amazed by the abilities the Omnitrix granted him, he knew that showing up as XLR8 could generate fear or hostility. Also, the figure of a Shinigami in battle attire wasn't exactly welcoming. He needed to appear more human.

With a decisive movement, Rodrigo pressed the green symbol on his alien form's chest. Immediately, a green light enveloped him, shining brightly enough to illuminate his surroundings. When the light dissipated, he was back in his human body—or more precisely, in Ichigo Kurosaki's form. The traditional Shinigami attire covered his body, with Zangetsu resting on his back and at his waist. He let out a nervous laugh while observing his hands and feeling the weight of the sword.

"Man, this is both amazing and terrifying at the same time!" he murmured, admiring the transformation that still felt surreal.

Walking to the edge of the building, Rodrigo leaned forward to get a better view of the scene below. He spotted the entrance to the underground station, now closed and apparently locked. The lights coming from the dark windows revealed that there was still life inside, but the gate was clearly blocked by some kind of makeshift barricade. He briefly considered jumping directly from the building to the ground, but the idea made him hesitate.

"Ah, right... I'm Ichigo now, huh?" he thought, with irony. But the idea of facing the consequences of a poorly calculated jump made him quickly abandon it. "No... better go down the stairs."

Moving with agility, Rodrigo found an intact staircase inside the building and began descending. His footsteps echoed softly on the concrete stairs, a constant reminder of the solitude and almost complete silence surrounding him. When he reached the ground, he paused for a moment to stretch his arms, trying to relieve the tension in his body.

"Okay... maybe I'm Ichigo, with all his powers from the Blood War arc, but that doesn't mean I'm looking to take risks." Rodrigo muttered, adjusting the larger sword on his back as he moved his shoulder. "Let's take it easy."

He began walking toward the underground station, trying to ignore the growing weight of anxiety in his chest. When he reached the entrance, he stopped for a moment. There were the stairs leading to the underground, partially covered by wooden planks and other materials. Next to them, scattered on the floor and glued to the walls, were various flyers with writing in a language Rodrigo didn't understand.

He approached to take a closer look. The characters were familiar enough for him to recognize them as Asian, but that didn't help much.

"Are these Chinese characters? No... maybe Korean or Japanese..." He sighed, frustrated with himself. "Shit. I was never good at this."

The symbols danced in his mind, completely indecipherable, as he tried to focus on what to do next. He knew interacting with the people was essential, but now, facing the language barrier and uncertainty, his determination began to waver.

Rodrigo walked slowly toward the large iron door barring the entrance to the underground station. For a moment, he hesitated. "Is this a good idea?" he thought, but the doubt was quickly swallowed by his determination. He grabbed the bottom edge of the door and, to his surprise, lifted it with impressive ease. The metal screeched loudly, echoing through the place, immediately drawing the attention of everyone inside the station.

Rodrigo saw their expressions of fear and shock. To them, he appeared beyond human, like a monster or a miracle. Inside, the environment was lit by makeshift lanterns and small fires. He quickly recognized the man who had carried the woman in; he was now in the middle of a heated argument with another guy holding a gleaming knuckle duster. The tone of voice was aggressive, and it seemed like the situation was about to explode.

But then, the world stopped. All eyes turned to Rodrigo. They stared at him as if he were a legendary creature, a god, or a demon who had crossed through the chaos of the devastated city. Silence fell heavily until Rodrigo broke the moment by lowering the door behind him with a loud metallic bang. He looked back at the group, confused but trying to appear confident.

Before he could say anything, one of the men in front of him, holding a rusty knife, lunged at him in fury. Rodrigo barely had time to process the attack. His body reacted instinctively. In a quick move, he grabbed the man's wrist mid-air, stopping the blow with a force that surprised him. He gripped tighter without thinking, and the sound of metal hitting the floor echoed as the man screamed in pain.

"What the hell?!" Rodrigo yelled, staring at the aggressor in disbelief. "Why the hell are you attacking me?!"

The entire group recoiled, even more terrified. The man's groans echoed through the space, mingling with the muffled sound of nervous breathing from the others. Rodrigo released the aggressor's arm, who fell to his knees, clutching his wrist with wide, fearful eyes.

Rodrigo took a step back, trying to understand the situation, but was interrupted when something caught his attention. Suddenly, his vision was filled with a translucent blue window.

---

Rodrigo's Reincarnation is observed by several constellations.

---

Rodrigo blinked, confused. "What?" he murmured, reading the words before him. A deafening silence took over the place. Not even the others seemed to move, as if time had frozen. He tried to understand what was happening, but the groans of the man on the ground brought him back to reality.

It was then that something inside him clicked. Rodrigo looked at the people around him, their desperate gazes, the makeshift barricades, the flyers in a language he didn't understand. Everything began to make sense. He felt a wave of chills as the realization hit him.

He wasn't just anywhere. This wasn't just a destroyed and chaotic world. He was in that universe.

That story he had read before going to sleep, the descriptions, the events...

"I... I'm in Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint," he whispered to himself, feeling the crushing weight of reality finally settle in.