[Crown of Fractured Bonds]
Hell's infernal planes sprawled into an endless void, a desolate expanse where shadow and stone fused into a nightmare's tapestry. The ground, a jagged mosaic of blackened obsidian and smoldering ash, crunched beneath each step, releasing faint plumes of heat that swirled upward like wraiths, mingling with the acrid stench of sulfur and the rancid decay of forgotten sins. Jagged spires stabbed the horizon, their silhouettes clawing at a crimson sky veined with black, pulsing faintly as if alive with malice. A low, resonant hum thrummed through the earth, Hell's heartbeat, a relentless pulse underscored by the wind's mournful wail—a keening cry woven with the distant shrieks of the damned, a chorus that gnawed at the edges of sanity. 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 deep into the mind.
Kokutō trudged beside Aarowan, his chains clinking softly, a mournful rhythm echoing his eternal sentence. His thoughts drifted to his first encounters with Ichigo Kurosaki—the betrayal that burned between them, the futile rebellion against the Kushanāda's relentless pursuit through Hell's crimson depths, their guttural roars and clashing chains a haunting refrain, 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 in his chest, a resentment dulled by exhaustion. Under Aarowan's cryptic guidance, marked by the dual cloak of black and white, his fire had waned, leaving only a cold resolve and a gnawing sense of being a pawn in a larger game.
[May God Bless with a Little King]
High above Hell's planes, in a shadowed chamber veiled by swirling mist, the air shimmered with an otherworldly chill. The walls, if they could be called that, pulsed with a faint, bioluminescent glow, their surfaces etched with runes that flickered like dying stars. The floor was a mirror of polished black stone, reflecting the crimson sky glimpsed through a jagged skylight, its edges dripping with molten shadow. A low hum reverberated, a chorus of unseen voices whispering in tongues long forgotten, their cadence a lullaby laced with menace. The scent of ozone hung heavy, tinged with a faint floral note—decaying lilies, perhaps—a paradox in this lifeless realm.
Two figures stood at the chamber's heart: the First, a towering presence cloaked in radiant shadow, and Echidna, the maiden, her silver hair glinting like moonlight, her eyes burning with fierce maternal resolve. The wind outside howled, its wail seeping through the skylight, a counterpoint to the chamber's eerie stillness.
"Shall one sing, shall one drink," the First intoned, his voice a deep resonance that shook the runes, "shall one love, shall one live, vivat amor?" His words carried a weight of prophecy, echoing Aarowan's philosophical bent.
"So shall we let him live with doubts, and no dreams but thoughts of abandonment?" Echidna countered, her voice sharp, cutting through the hum like a blade, her maternal anguish palpable, a fierce protectiveness in her stance.
"No," the First declared, his tone softening yet resolute, "one day he shall know how much we love him, Echidna, filium nostrum." The runes flared briefly, their glow pulsing in sync with his words, as if Hell itself bore witness to their vow.
Echidna's gaze hardened, her hands clenching at her sides. "Love? This is not a time to wait for what is to be founded. The war is presenting itself to us. If our son…" Her voice broke, trailing into the hum, her fear for Aarowan clashing with the looming conflict of a prophesied war.
The chamber trembled, the wind's wail sharpening, carrying flecks of ash through the skylight that danced like blackened snow, a silent testament to the stakes of their debate.
[May God Bless with Loving Bewedded]
On Hell's planes, the ground shimmered with molten shadow, tendrils of heat rising in faint, wavering wisps, a desolate expanse where the air grew hotter, the sulfur's bite scalding the lungs. The hum of Hell's pulse reverberated through the stone, a relentless reminder of its dominion. Aarowan strode forward, his lotus-and-binary cloak, woven with intricate zeros and ones from Beruk's shop, glinting faintly under the crimson light, a testament to his transformation. Kokutō followed, his dual cloak—black and white, chained and lotus-adorned—swaying with his chains' mournful clink, a symbol of his evolving role.
"So why are you still keeping a long face, might I ask, Kokutō, tristis vultus?" Aarowan asked, his voice playful yet edged with menace, his mismatched eyes locking onto Kokutō's rigid form, a taunt of puppetry.
"You seem to know a lot about me," Kokutō retorted, his voice a low growl, the weight of his captivity pressing down like the sulfurous air. "Why don't you tell me a bit of you?"
"At the very least, I should be acquainted with my educator," Kokutō pressed, his defiance a spark against the chains, a bold challenge to Aarowan's authority.
Aarowan's smile sharpened, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Isn't the fact that I am capable enough, satis potens?" he countered, his tone teasing, the wind surging in mocking harmony.
"No, you are not capable," Kokutō shot back, his voice cutting through the wail, a rejection that burned with agency.
Aarowan laughed, a sharp, unrestrained sound that rang across the plain. "Fine, fine, don't eat my head, ne devores," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. His expression sobered, a shadow crossing his face. "I am a product of accidental pregnancy, error naturae. Just call me a bastard, notus meus."
Kokutō's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise breaking his stoic mask. "What do you mean by that? You are a child of that maiden?" he asked, piecing together the ties to Echidna.
Aarowan's grin returned, tinged with exasperation. "Why must I do this? It would be so great if you dug the information yourself, quaere verum." He paused, the wind's wail softening as if to listen. "Also, yes, and the First King, primus rex. That's all you're getting, finis est."
Kokutō's brow furrowed, the revelation sinking in, a thread connecting Aarowan to the First's vow in the chamber above. Aarowan's voice grew distant, almost wistful. "On that note, I lived two lives by now, duae vitae." The words hung, heavy with unspoken history, a glimpse into the complexity of his existence.
The ground trembled, the hum of Hell's pulse intensifying, as if acknowledging Aarowan's confession, the air growing heavier with the weight of truths unveiled.
[May God Bless with Feeling of Mending]
In a distant corner, the landscape warped, a pocket of reality where the air shimmered with fractured light, as if the world itself was unraveling. The ground was a chaotic swirl of molten shadow and cracked stone, pulsing with a faint, bioluminescent glow that cast eerie reflections. The wind here was a low, guttural moan, carrying the scent of burning metal and decaying flora, a surreal blend that stung the eyes. A shadowy figure stood at the center, his form flickering as if caught between existence and oblivion, not shattered but shattering the world around him, a visual echo of reality's instability.
"Master, what do you ask of?" the figure asked, his voice a hollow resonance, vibrating through the warped air, a servant bound by loyalty.
Aarowan appeared, his lotus-and-binary cloak glinting faintly, his presence a stabilizing force in the chaos. "Would you like to be called by the Shikai name or Bankai this time, nomen tuum?" he asked, his tone casual yet commanding, the wind moaning in response.
"Just call anything," the figure answered, his form flickering, a shadow of resignation in his voice.
"Han'ei no Jigoku," Aarowan declared, invoking the Bankai, "would you stop serving me until Kokutō fully understands my authority, auctoritas mea?" The air pulsed, the ground trembling as if Hell itself acknowledged the command.
"So be it," the figure replied, his voice steady but heavy. "At the very least, you want for me at the end of the path, finis viae."
Aarowan's smile softened, a rare flicker of warmth. "Don't be so down, Muramasa—I mean, Han'ei no Jigoku, anima mea." The name Muramasa, deeper connection, tying Aarowan's power to the broader mythology.
The warped landscape stabilized briefly, the bioluminescent glow fading, leaving only the wind's moan and the scent of burning metal, a fleeting moment of mending in Hell's chaos.
[May God Bless Me with Strength]
Back on the plains, Aarowan turned to Kokutō, his expression resolute. "Kokutō, catch," he said, tossing an unseen object—perhaps a metaphor, perhaps a literal token.
Kokutō's hand closed instinctively, though his eyes remained fixed on Aarowan, the weight of the moment sinking in. His memories of his first encounters with Ichigo surged—the blade flashing in the crimson haze, the Kushanāda's guttural roars, the betrayal that bound him to this fate—now layered with Aarowan's revelations, a new chapter in his journey as pupil.
The ground trembled, the wind's wail rising to a crescendo, carrying flecks of ash that stung like tiny blades. The crimson sky pulsed, its black veins writhing, as if Hell itself marked the beginning of Kokutō's path, a path fraught with education and the weight of Aarowan's legacy.