Outside Seireitei, in the ramen shop where Yūshirō Shihōin and Aizen often "met in secret," the owner kneaded dough absentmindedly, his eyes dull and unfocused.
At the table near him sat Aizen, Kaname Tōsen, and Ginjō Kensei, sipping sake as they chatted idly.
"Aizen-sama, our plan has nearly succeeded," Tōsen said gravely. "But one of Yūshirō's subordinates was not transported away as intended. Which means… there is a chance Yūshirō himself could return to the Soul Society earlier than we predicted."
Tōsen was always this way—rigid, cautious, treating every detail with severe seriousness.
Aizen swirled the sake in his glass, the liquid catching the light as he smiled faintly."And when," he asked softly, "did you start believing that I had not already anticipated such an outcome?"
The reflection on his glasses concealed his eyes, but the upward curl of his lips exuded absolute confidence. His presence filled the room with the weight of a man who commanded destiny itself.
"N-no, Aizen-sama, I only meant… I fear the plan may still have a possibility of failure," Tōsen stammered, beads of sweat forming on his brow. He worried Aizen might think he was questioning his judgment.
"Failure?" Aizen's smile deepened. "Do not concern yourself, Tōsen. Everything lies within my grasp."
For a fleeting moment, he seemed less like a man and more like a god surveying the world from on high, arranging the fate of all below.
"If you've prepared for that possibility, then I can rest easier," Tōsen said, bowing his head.
"Senior Tōsen, you're far too cautious," Ginjō said lightly. "There's nothing in this world Aizen-sama hasn't foreseen."
"Perhaps," Tōsen muttered, frowning. "But even so, one must always prepare for the worst. That way, if it comes, we are not caught unprepared."
"Yes, yes, you're right—as always, since you're the elder here," Ginjō replied with thinly veiled mockery.
Tōsen's brows shot up in irritation. "Your insolence as a junior is insufferable."
"Enough, both of you." Aizen's smile never faltered, but his voice turned cold as steel. The air itself chilled at the sound. "I understand your points. Continue bickering, however, and I will not be pleased."
The two fell silent instantly.
"…Understood, Aizen-sama.""…Yes, Aizen-sama."
Both men stood, bowing deeply.
"Good," Aizen said. He rose, straightening his robes. "The Soul Society is now our stage. Let us see how those pitiful Shinigami squirm in the palm of our hand."
With a snap of his fingers, the ramen shop owner blinked awake.
"Huh? What… what happened?" He looked at the three empty bowls before him in confusion, as if he had just awoken from a daze.
"You dozed off," Aizen said kindly. "Perhaps you've been working too hard lately?"
"Ah… maybe so. I'm getting old. No matter how much I try, I can't escape it. Unlike you Shinigami with your long lives, my weak soul will eventually dissolve back into the world."
A trace of sorrow flashed in his eyes. No one truly wished to die, not even one who had already died once before.
"I believe you'll continue on," Aizen said warmly. "After all, you still have to make ramen for me and Yūshirō-kun. If you were gone… where else would we eat?"
Though he cared little for ramen itself, his words toward the old man carried genuine affection.
The owner chuckled. "Hah… there are plenty of people who can make ramen. If I vanish, someone else will replace me. The only pity is that I've never trained an apprentice worthy of passing down my craft. When I'm gone, my ramen dies with me."
"The world may have many ramen makers," Aizen replied smoothly, "but your ramen is unique. No matter how hard others try, in my heart, yours will always be the best."
The old man laughed heartily, embarrassed yet pleased. "Aizen-fukutaichō, you flatter me too much."
"It's no flattery," Aizen said firmly. "It's simply the truth."
The shopkeeper's smile faded into melancholy. "Even so… no matter how good, it will vanish someday."
"Then why not pass your craft to me?" Aizen asked suddenly.
The old man froze, then lit up with joy. "Truly? You would learn my ramen—my life's work?"
"Of course," Aizen nodded.
"You can't take that back," the owner said quickly.
"I won't. This is my decision, and I'll never regret it," Aizen answered with a voice full of calm reassurance, his tone magnetic and sincere.
"Wonderful! Come every evening at eight. I'll teach you everything—every recipe, every secret I've discovered. When the time comes, this shop will be yours."
"I'll be here," Aizen promised with a smile.
The old man's eyes grew vacant again, his lips repeating endlessly, "You must come… you must come…" like a broken chant.
Tōsen and Ginjō stood. "Then, Aizen-taichō, we'll take our leave."
"Yes. There's nothing more for you here," Aizen replied.
The two vanished, leaving only Aizen and the muttering shopkeeper.
Aizen smiled faintly. "Now… let us see who can counter this move I've made."
Elsewhere, those scattered by the transport array were arriving at their designated "destinations."
With a flash of blinding light, Tier Harribel emerged—and was immediately met with a storm of spiritual arrows, the traditional technique of the Quincy. A barrage so overwhelming even a Gillian-class Menos Grande could not endure it.
But Harribel was no Gillian. She was a Vasto Lorde—one of the rarest, most powerful Hollows in existence.
Drawing her zanpakutō, golden reiryoku surged down its edge as she slashed. The strike cleaved through the storm of arrows, colliding with them in a thunderous explosion before canceling them out completely.
"Well, well. Impressive, Shinigami," sneered a Quincy with a sharp, cruel face as he stepped forward.
"What are you people?" Harribel asked coolly.
"We are Quincy!" he barked. "Your enemies, Shinigami!"
Because of the black battle suit she wore to suppress her spiritual pressure, they mistook her for a Shinigami.
"Enemies… I see." That was all she needed to know.
"Cero Oscuras!"
Her blade flared with golden energy, unleashing a devastating slash like a radiant Getsuga Tenshō. It split the sneering Quincy cleanly in half, his body collapsing lifeless to the ground.
Even among the Quincy, only the elite Sternritter could endure a blow from a Vasto Lorde. That arrogant fool never stood a chance.
"Sh-she's so strong!""Captain-class Shinigami?!" the others gasped, quickly raising their defenses.
Her next strike crashed against their shield of reishi with a booming impact, but they exhaled in relief when it held.
"You're strong, Shinigami," one of the leaders called out, "but unlucky. You've run into the two of us. Even at full strength, you cannot stand against us both."
Two figures stood at the center of their formation—Quincy of pure blood, their power far surpassing the common rank.
"Full strength?" Harribel's calm face darkened in irritation. She slid her sword back into its sheath, hooked her finger through its ring, and let it spin into her hand again.
"Resurrección—Crush them, Tiburón!"
A monstrous surge of spiritual pressure exploded outward, flooding the battlefield as her true Hollow nature was revealed.
"Sh-she's not a Shinigami… she's a Hollow!"
The Quincies recoiled in shock as her armor-like bone fragments formed around her body, her spiritual power smothering them with a suffocating, ominous weight.
Before them stood no mere Shinigami—but a Vasto Lorde–class Arrancar.