[Absence of Presence]
Hell's shifting planes unfurled like a tapestry of despair, a labyrinth of shadow and stone where the air itself seemed to writhe. The ground, a mosaic of cracked obsidian and smoldering ash, crunched underfoot, each step releasing a faint hiss of heat that mingled with the acrid stench of sulfur and decay. Jagged spires loomed in the distance, their silhouettes clawing at a crimson sky streaked with veins of black, pulsing faintly as if alive. A low, resonant hum vibrated through the earth, a heartbeat of torment underscored by the wind's ceaseless wail—a mournful cry laced with distant shrieks of the damned. The air was thick, heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the bitter bite of ozone, a sensory assault that clung to the skin and burrowed into the mind.
Kokutō trudged beside Aarowan, his chains clinking softly, a mournful rhythm that echoed his eternal sentence. His thoughts drifted to the betrayal of Ichigo Kurosaki, the futile rebellion against the Kushanāda's relentless pursuit, and the crushing weight of his sister's fate that had driven him to this abyss. Those memories, sharp as shattered glass, stirred a dull ache, a resentment now dulled by exhaustion. Under Aarowan's cryptic guidance, his fire had waned, leaving only a cold resolve and a gnawing sense of captivity, a puppet bound by unseen strings.
[New World]
"This is a new game, ludus novus," Aarowan declared, his voice cutting through the oppressive air, smooth and deliberate, "get ready and begin preparing, para te." His mismatched eyes—one a void of black, the other a piercing white—gleamed with a predatory glint, his tattered prisoner's garb swaying in the wind, a mockery of his former authority from Chapter 18.
"My student," Aarowan continued, his tone softening yet heavy with intent, "may you…" His words trailed off, swallowed by the wind's rising howl, leaving a pregnant silence that pressed against Kokutō's chest like a physical weight.
The landscape shifted, the spires receding into a vast, featureless plain where the ground shimmered with molten shadow, tendrils of heat rising in faint, wavering wisps. The air grew hotter, the sulfur's bite intensifying, the hum of Hell's pulse reverberating through the stone, a relentless reminder of their place in this infernal hierarchy.
[Old World]
In the World of the Living, beneath Urahara's Shop, the underground training room sprawled like a cavern carved from the earth's bones. Rough-hewn stone walls glistened with dampness, illuminated by the flickering glow of lanterns that cast dancing shadows across the floor. The air was cool, tinged with the scent of old wood and the faint metallic tang of machinery humming in the shadows, a mechanical heartbeat that pulsed in rhythm with the tension. The lanterns' light wavered, their soft crackle a counterpoint to the distant rustle of Karakura's trees seeping through the walls, a fragile whisper of the world above.
Captain Mayuri Kurotsuchi leaned forward, his painted face gleaming under the lanternlight, his grin sharp as a scalpel. "Have ever you heard of the tale of the forbidden song?" he began, his voice a low purr, laced with intrigue. "A tale spoken of where there is a forbidden flower bore several forbidden fruit, amongst which many grew to be marvelous trees."
Kisuke Urahara, leaning against a wooden beam, snapped his fan shut with a crisp click. "So you mean that the fruit was the world before separation?" he asked, his tone light but his eyes sharp with calculation, echoing their discourse on Hell's secrets.
"Precisely," Mayuri replied, his grin widening, a feral edge to it.
"So you mean to say the ones from Hell might have some clue regarding this information, and are acting—why, precisely, because you think…?" Urahara pressed, his voice trailing into a knowing pause.
"Wait, don't tell," Urahara interjected, a spark of realization in his eyes. "The rasi sample we got from the incident at Ichigo's home—the nature, yes."
"Precisely," Mayuri confirmed, his voice cutting through the stillness. "It collapses upon itself."
"Ahh! Observation," Urahara exclaimed, his fan snapping open again, a gesture of triumph as the pieces fell into place.
The room fell silent, the lanterns' flicker casting eerie shadows that pulsed with the weight of their words. The machinery's hum grew louder, a relentless undertone mirroring the uncertainty threading through their exchange, a stark contrast to the infernal chaos unfolding elsewhere.
[Words as Sluts]
Back in Hell, Aarowan's voice broke the silence, playful yet edged with menace. "Why such a long face, tristis vultus?" he asked, his gaze locking onto Kokutō, who stood rigid, his chains swaying with a mournful clink.
"Why do you think?" Kokutō retorted, his voice a low growl, the weight of his captivity pressing down like the air itself.
"Probably because you are being treated as a puppet, devoid of will—no, denied of will, voluntas negata?" Aarowan mused, his smile sharpening, a glint of amusement in his eyes. The wind surged, its wail sharpening, a reminder of the maiden's punishment.
"Regardless," Aarowan continued, his tone shifting to a fervent cadence, "you must know, Kokutō, that there is no greater pleasure for me than having to show someone the path. So, smile, as I shall not lead thee through a path of regret, via sine paenitentia." His words hung in the air, a promise laced with ambiguity, as the ground beneath them trembled faintly, the hum of Hell's pulse growing louder, a chorus of unseen forces.
Kokutō's gaze flickered, his memories resurfacing—Ichigo's blade, the Kushanāda's roars, the chains that bound him to this fate. Aarowan's words, though compelling, felt like another link in those chains, a manipulation veiled in mentorship.
[A Song of Tonedeff]
Elsewhere, the Soul Reapers—Suì-Fēng, Ichigo, Renji, Yumichika, Shūhei, and Akon—stood on the floating graveyard, its glassy surface glinting under the crimson sky. The sea of dark liquid churned below, its waves crashing with a rhythmic slap, their spray cold and biting against their skin. The Kushanāda's skeletal husks loomed, their bones creaking in the wind, a mournful keening that blended with the distant wail of the damned. The air was heavy, the briny tang of the sea mingling with the scent of decay, a suffocating blend that clung to their lungs.
A voice broke through the wind's chorus, warm yet serpentine, carried from an unseen source. "Welcome, children, my name is Empusa," it intoned, echoing. "What you see before is a presence of absence. This is a stage where those can't exist, exist. Consider each very finding block here a rebellion towards what exists."
Akon's brow furrowed, his analytical mind grappling with the words. "What does that mean?" he asked, his voice sharp, cutting through the wind's wail.
"We are what you call demons," Empusa's voice continued, smooth and knowing, "but what we are is a bit deeper. We are that concept of yours that cannot be possible in your world. Or simply say, what you deem intangible is tangible here, or vice versa." The sea surged, its crash louder, as if Hell itself endorsed his words.
Ichigo's grip on Zangetsu tightened, his memories flooding back—the Kushanāda's pursuit, Kokutō's betrayal, the horned form he'd unleashed to save Yuzu. "But what was the meaning of us being here?" he demanded. "Why invite us and have a battle?"
"You see, our legion, mostly the throne, wanted to test someone's skills and level of danger they pose," Empusa replied, his voice carrying a note of apology. "I do apologize for that. But the reason for this sudden cause—as you may already have some hints—was not seeded yesterday. It's been since the beginning."
The wind roared, carrying the scent of ozone and the guttural creak of the Kushanāda's bones. Empusa's voice grew solemn. "That there shall be a day when possibility and impossibility shall go toe to toe with one that is neither. And to withstand this war, he must be defined."
"So, are the defined ready to define what cannot be?" Empusa's words hung in the air, a challenge wrapped in enigma, as the sea's waves crashed harder, their rhythm a heartbeat of impending conflict.