It's been three months... he's been fucking the shit out of Mila Rose lately. Don't ask why—she views it as some form of stamina training. Oh well, it helps him with his whole issue.
He now had a shit ton more control over his power, so he wouldn't go insane nearly as often as before. He was fine, for the most part now.
The chocolate cheeks were fine, and for anyone wondering about infection or shit stains... she was a very clean woman.
Kinda like all of his concubines and his wife—they were all very clean in general. Plus, Hollows don't shit. Doesn't think Arrancar do either. Even if they look human and eat, food kinda just gets absorbed into their body—Hollow style. There's no waste. Everything is used.
TL;DR: ass is fine.
Well... his past self would never have thought that the person who seemed to hate him the most would actively thrust into his meat and match his strokes. Oh well. How times have changed.
As for Nelliel, she adapted to it quite quickly. Since Harribel was unable to do much, he trained with her in the meantime. She was doing great. She was still Sin-level, not close to Horseman level, though she was the closest to it.
[The Royal Court – Throne Room]
The royal court was quiet. Political affairs were smooth today—no war declarations, no faction rebellions, not even a petty noble begging for relevance.
In other words, boring.
Gabriel sat on his throne of polished obsidian, elbow resting on the armrest, chin perched lazily on his knuckles, gazing over the daily reports like a disinterested god surveying mortal ants. His eyes scanned the latest intel from the surveillance squad... then paused.
"Squad 12... Artificial Soul?"
[Cut to: The Lab]
The sound of metal instruments clinking echoed throughout the underground chamber, reeking of Reishi-dense incense, sterile air, and mad science.
On the central table stood a girl—slim, raven-haired, and silent. Her eyes were dull, as if she wasn't meant to shine.
"What's your name?" Gabriel asked without looking up, fingers sliding across ancient tomes and data slates.
"Nemu," she replied simply.
"Huh. Nemu. Cute name."
His black-gloved hand hovered over her chest, stopping right where her soul chain anchored deep inside.
He squinted.
Artificial. Synthetic. Designed. Manufactured.
Her soul wasn't born—it was assembled. Lacking the divine randomness of chaos and fate that birthed real souls.
"And no Zanpakutō?" he muttered aloud.
"No," she replied. "I lack the spiritual architecture to manifest one."
That made him hum. Loudly. Like a madman finding a new toy.
"Let's fix that."
[Gabriel's Transfiguration Table – "The Soul Forge"]
He cracked his fingers.
A vortex of crimson-black Reiryoku swirled around him like divine silk. The ground itself shimmered with magical glyphs as his Idle Transfiguration kicked into high gear.
"Time to sculpt a soul."
Using the base framework of Nemu's spiritual matrix, Gabriel began deconstructing and reconstructing her from the inside out.
Her soul was like a puzzle—tightly fitted, no excess, no flaws, but... no spirit. So he improvised.
He took fragments of fallen Shinigami souls he'd kept preserved—morbid, sure, but useful—and grafted their structure onto hers like spiritual scaffolding. And with the war that had happened a while back... he had a shit ton of Shinigami bodies... speaking like a couple hundred thousand.
Yes, the Shinigami were severely understaffed as things stood. Any alliance would be good for them.
Piece by piece, he layered raw potential into her soul. Gave it depth. Gave it weight.
And then... he gave it form.
Not a Zanpakutō—yet—but a core. Something to grow. Something to dream.
"There you go," he whispered, eyes gleaming. "You're still Nemu... but now? You're possible."
[Next Phase: Soul Blueprinting]
He moved her gently off the table, and she stood... slightly taller, slightly stronger, her skin glowing faintly with power now foreign to her original design.
Then came the real fun.
He conjured a digital soul scanner—augmented with Quincy and Hollow tech—and began mapping out her reconstructed soul architecture.
Lines. Matrices. Energy pathways. Emotional cores. Memory anchors.
He was grinning now—manically.
"If I copy this..." he muttered, scribbling furious notes into his grimoire. "Enhance the core structure, adjust the neural integrity, layer some adaptive learning AI..."
"I could build... an army."
An artificial army. Souls who never slept. Never broke. Never disobeyed. Never questioned. Each one programmed with loyalty, customized powers, and maybe even fragments of his own Reiryoku.
"Forget Gillians and Arrancar fodder. What if my soldiers were made from scratch? Souls forged to my design?"
He paused, looking back at Nemu—still standing there patiently.
"How do you feel?"
She blinked.
"Strange," she said. "But... stronger. Clearer."
"Good," he nodded. "You're my first."
As Nemu stepped out of the lab with slightly glowing eyes and a more stable soul core, Gabriel stayed behind, now completely absorbed in his blueprints.
His mind danced with names, with code phrases:
Project: Revenant.
Project: Black Echo.
Project: Seraph Null.
A new species of artificial souls. Loyal only to him. Crafted with scientific mastery and demonic touch.
Hehehe, he could thank Soul Society for this new research. He could now mass-produce even stronger beasts.
Maybe it was time he began upgrading Luciel once more.