Warnings: Blood, gore, character death.

Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto, the strongest shinigami to have ever existed in Seireitei, the man who have started it all. His strong disposition led the others in and out of battle, his quick thinking saving most of the warriors. The scars on his head indicate the past battles and the fights he had fought before, his experience one of the reasons he has survived for so long.

His battle worn body stood proudly in the midst of the winter war, his powerful reiatsu licking up anything that crossed its path with hot flames. He holds his cane with both hands, his haori, long forgotten, turns into ashes with the sudden burst of power. The old man holds his stance; such a gentle yet frightening stare makes its way into his eyes. The grayed orbs, having seen so much in his life, looked ahead and lands unto the traitor who dared disrupt everything he has created and for his own benefit nonetheless!

"Sosuke Aizen, you have not only betrayed the law abiding rule of Seiretei, but you have also sacrificed far too many lives for your own gain." He breaks the silence, the ear-shattering calm that only the two of them can hear.

"…" the traitor does not reply and merely flicks his hair.

"Are you prepared for your death?" his low gravely voice calls out to the man in front of him. No one heard him say it, they were to busy wrapped up in their own fights to care.

Aizen simply gives a soft smile, such gracefulness covering the bloody-thirsty man underneath. "You are mistaken, I will be god." He stands still as well, both of them just standing in front of each other, their somewhat tense bodies betraying their need to fight.

"Very well, you have chosen to die and I shall deal with you myself."

The former captain cocks his head to the side at this, pure curiosity etching his young features before letting out a soft, rumbling chuckle. Such naivety, he thinks, he won't be defeated, he knows this, he was too strong, to willed, and too smart to be killed. By this man's own hands nonetheless. For a knowledgeable man, the general should really stop making assumptions. Die so easily while so close to becoming god? He didn't think so.

He chuckles. "Let's finish this."

It had been exactly five hours since their battle begun. The others, both shinigami and Arrancar, were either wounded or dead. The winter war was over. Yamamoto sighed and resealed his zanpakutou, Aizen's body not to far from him, dead. He would be lying if he told, even to himself, others that the duel between them was easy, quite the opposite. The young (traitorous bastard asshole that he is) was an excellent fighter, showing skills that even he was impressed at. But still, he was not good enough. A haunting smile graces the pale face of the deceased ex-captain. He lies on the ground with his body twisted in such a horrific way that even a contortionist would gag at the sight of it. Aizen was such a great asset, if, and only if, he were on the good side. The Soutaichou's eyes land on the mutilated corpse, his heart not feeling anything for the gaping hole that burned at the young man's chest; an irony, he died looking like the subordinates he threw into the battlefield. Heartless, uncaring, lifeless; such a pity really.

Aizen's strewn body turns into ashes, his grayed eyes staring at him. And at last, the once mighty leader of the hollow disappeared without a trace.

He looks around and feels saddened at the loss of life, his eyes wander from body to body, and he knows all of these fine people, pain tearing at his aged heart at the sight. He didn't want it to end like this. They have succeeded, but at what cost? Most of them were dead, their remains lying around the blood-spilled ground, some of them disintegrating into thin air after a few minutes. He eyes those who were left; the arrancar fled to their own world, and nodded a solemn order.

We have won, let us go back.

Years passed, decades, century's maybe, but he lost count of it. He was the only original captain of Seireitei left. He didn't want to remember those he worked with (so long) long ago. Their smiles, laughter, even their constant bickering made him miss them more. The winter war is still fresh in his (old man's) memory, the smell of blood, the smoke, the screams; all of those haunted him in his dreams. Seireitei was still what it was, an organized government. But really, it wasn't the same without them.

Those that survived the war lived to be under him for a few more years. Really, just as humans, life can be lost so easily. They died eventually, either in battle or naturally, no one made it to his age. No one stayed behind with him. It's late, he tells reminds himself.

He looks at the reports of his new fukutaichou; he really misses Sasakibe right now. Standing up and stretching his old and weary bones, he heads to bed; fully knowing of the dreams (dreaded nightmares) that would haunt him in his sleep. He closes his eyes and drifts off to a peaceful slumber.

His new fukutaichou finds him the next day; he hasn't come out of his room the whole day, lying on his comfortable futon, finally rid of the memories and nightmares.

Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto, the strongest shinigami to have ever existed in Seireitei, the man who have started it all, died of old age centuries after the winter war. He was finally reunited with his lost subordinates.

"Ah, Yama-jii, you're late again old man!"

Author's Notes: I've been too lazy to continue the others, but while I was working on them, I suddenly thought of this up. I'll be putting all the captains, and you'd be surprised at the aspect I've given them.