Never before had Kenpachi Azashiro spoken so much.
It was as though the silence of an entire year had finally cracked open. Every word he had swallowed since taking command now poured out of him in a flood — cold, rational, but beneath it all, laced with desperation.
The man who had killed Kuruyashiki with his own hands now spoke as if his deed had been a necessary inevitability. His tone was calm, his posture steady, but the conviction in his words carried the weight of a storm.
"Hueco Mundo's expansion," he said, voice echoing faintly against the empty plain, "has already begun to swallow this world whole. The nobles cling to power, draining the Soul Society of its strength. Their greed has strangled the shinigami's growth, leaving the common souls of Rukongai to live and die in misery."
He turned slowly, eyes sharp and dark as obsidian. "Do you know what happens in such a world, Gosuke? The probability of new shinigami being born among the common souls drops every year."
"Have you ever counted, even once, how many shinigami have fallen in battle — and how many have risen to replace them?"
The question hung in the air.
Azashiro answered it himself. "I have. I counted, years ago. Dozens dead every season, replaced by a mere handful. The result was clear."
He raised a hand, closing it slowly into a fist. "If things go on like this, the balance will break."
The reiatsu around him stirred faintly, like air trembling before lightning.
"The hollows of Hueco Mundo breed endlessly. Their numbers grow by the thousands each day. And us? We remain the same. Captains age, heroes die, and the nobles hide in their ivory towers while the edges of our world are devoured. If this continues, the Soul Society will not survive another few centuries."
The passion that burned through his words was rare — unnatural for the calm, detached man Gosuke Shigure had come to know. For a man who always seemed above emotion, this sudden fervor bordered on madness.
Shigure's eyes narrowed slightly. 'So this is what's been eating at him…'
Azashiro's voice dropped lower, almost like a prayer to no god. "The endless hunger of Hueco Mundo will one day reach our gates. When that day comes, the shinigami — even the strongest among us — will fall. Kuruyashiki, for all his might, could stand against a thousand. But even he would have died soon enough."
He exhaled slowly, his breath sharp in the cool air.
"So," Shigure said, tone calm but firm, "what does all of that have to do with the souls you've been taking?"
Azashiro's gaze flickered — a faint glimmer of pity, perhaps, or something darker.
"When a human dies," he began again, "their soul is cast into one of two worlds. If they fall to Hueco Mundo, they become prey — or predators. Devoured, or devouring.
"If they come here, to the Soul Society, they live in ignorance until they fade into reishi dust. A few become shinigami, yes, but the rest? They are wasted potential."
He spread his arms slightly, his spiritual pressure surging in rhythm with his words.
"I said before — this balance will not last. So I intend to create a new one.
"Since I was born with power, I will use it. I will transform these souls. Make them strong. Instead of fading quietly, they will fight. They will hunt the hollows that once hunted them."
His voice hardened into iron. "I will give them meaning."
There it was. The full truth — the reason behind the disappearances, behind his secret experiments.
Shigure stood silent for a while, the wind brushing his hair across his face.
Finally, Azashiro's dark eyes fixed on him. "Gosuke, you understand, don't you? You have talent, insight — far more than most. Help me. Stand at my side."
Shigure's fingers brushed against the hilt of his Zanpakutō, but he didn't draw it.
He only said, quietly, "Sorry."
The word echoed softly in the barren night.
Azashiro's expression didn't change, but his gaze sharpened, as though a veil had been lifted. "I see."
There was a brief pause — just long enough for a sigh, or a prayer. Then his reiatsu spiked, cold and suffocating.
In the next instant, his form blurred.
Shunpo.
A breath later, his voice rang out behind Shigure — cold and merciless.
"Hadō #33 — Sōkatsui!"
*Boom!*
Blue flames erupted across the plain, tearing the earth apart. The air itself warped from the heat as the explosion roared outward, swallowing the spot where Shigure had stood.
Even without an incantation, the spell carried terrifying power. Azashiro's control over Kidō was something few in Seireitei had ever seen. He had refined it not for elegance, but for war — a weaponized art.
But when the flames cleared, his target was gone.
A streak of light flashed behind him. The whisper of displaced air was followed by a soft swish of robes.
Gosuke Shigure appeared several meters away, unharmed, the faint blue light of the explosion reflecting in his eyes.
His voice was steady. "Captain, you intend to kill me, then?"
Azashiro didn't hesitate. "You know my secret. I have no choice."
Shigure's lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. "You've thought this through, haven't you? What happens when others find out? Will you kill them too? Every captain, every investigator, until no one remains?"
For a moment, Azashiro said nothing. His silence spoke louder than words.
Then, without warning, his reiatsu surged again.
"Urozakuro."
The name rolled off his tongue like a ritual command.
The air twisted, folding inward — and then, beside him, a second presence materialized. Invisible, yet palpable, it bled tension into the world.
A blade shimmered into view.
The Zanpakutō's surface was deceptively plain, its edge thin and straight, but it pulsed with concentrated energy so dense it hummed audibly in the stillness. A faint mist clung to it, trailing from its edge like vapor condensing from raw spiritual force.
Even before it moved, the earth beneath Kenpachi's feet began to crack.
*Crrrk*
Gosuke Shigure took a slow breath. "Should I be honored, Captain? You've finally drawn your Zanpakutō."
For the first time, he saw it — the blade that had ended Kuruyashiki's life.
In all his tenure as the Eighth Kenpachi, Azashiro had never once carried a sword. Kyoraku Shunsui's offhand speculation now proved true: the weapon had never left him — it had merely been hidden, sealed within a dimension of its own making.
And now it gleamed in the moonlight, ready to strike.
Azashiro didn't answer. His grip tightened, and with a single movement, he swung.
The sword sliced the air with a violent hum.
*Whshhh!*
A wave of sword pressure exploded outward, gouging a massive scar across the barren earth. Rocks split like brittle glass; dust rose in a violent storm.
*Crack! Boom!*
Shigure barely managed to evade, body flickering sideways with Shunpo, the shockwave grazing his sleeve. When he landed, his boots skidded across the cracked soil.
The devastation stretched before him — a jagged line cut deep into the ground, glowing faintly with spiritual residue.
'That strike alone could've leveled a street in Seireitei…'
The two figures faced each other across the smoking rift.
Azashiro's face remained unreadable, his reiatsu flowing like molten iron — steady, oppressive, absolute.
Shigure exhaled, centering his stance. His fingers brushed his sword's tsuba, though he didn't yet draw. His instincts screamed at him that any careless movement would mean death.
The ground trembled faintly beneath their feet.
All around them, the souls who had once prowled this district — thugs, killers, drifters — had already fled.
Their screams had long vanished into the wind.
*Whoosh*
In Zaraki, those who survived did so by preying on others. Yet even they knew terror when it stood before them.
Compared to these shinigami, they were nothing.
*****
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