In the golden light of Hueco Mundo's barren sun, the sands stretched endlessly, dunes sloping like waves frozen in time. On the crest of one such dune, two powerful figures stood face to face, separated by silence thick with spiritual pressure.
"Looking at your outfit, it seems you're a shinigami." Mazuru said, his voice calm but laced with curiosity.
His eyes scanned the figure before him—a tall, broad man clad in a tattered captain's haori, it's back stitched with the number eleven.
"The outer garment... it's a captain's haori. And the number on it is eleven."
"That means you were once the captain of the Eleventh Division."
Mazuru's expression didn't shift, but his tone grew slightly more intrigued. "Tell me—what generation of Kenpachi are you?"
Unlike most, he didn't question the man's legitimacy based on appearances alone. He didn't scoff or dismiss the claim, as Omaeda Marechiyo had done when first confronted by the mysterious figure. Instead, Mazuru simply accepted it—as though he recognized the weight of the man's reiatsu and the truth behind the title.
"You don't seem to doubt that I was once the captain of the Eleventh Division." the man said, raising an eyebrow. His voice was deep and rough, but there was a certain grounded calmness in it.
Kenpachi Azashiro—the name whispered through the darkest corners of the Soul Society like a ghost story no one dared to verify. A Kenpachi forgotten by history, sealed away, erased.
Mazuru gazed at him quietly. The air between them shimmered with tension, two titanic forces measuring each other.
"I don't need to doubt." Mazuru replied. "If it were someone else pretending to be a captain, I might raise suspicion. But you—"
He narrowed his eyes slightly, "I can feel the power sealed inside your body. And power never lies."
He paused for a moment and added, "Although the title of 'Kenpachi' is passed by defeating the previous holder, there have always been... exceptions."
The wind blew a whisper of sand between them as he continued. "I've seen the irony embedded in that title firsthand."
He was, of course, referring to the most infamous exception—Unohana Retsu, the First Kenpachi. A gentle healer in public, a monster in disguise.
Kenpachi Azashiro grunted, acknowledging Mazuru's insight.
"My name is Azashiro Soya. The Eighth Kenpachi." he declared, voice firm and unwavering.
For a long moment, Mazuru said nothing. Then he exhaled softly.
"I had a feeling." he admitted. "But hearing it from your own mouth... it still hits differently."
He chuckled once—bitter, quiet. "An old man like you, who should've been rotting in the Muken... And yet, here you are, standing under Hueco Mundo's light."
"As expected of a true relic of Soul Society. Even a prison like the Muken couldn't hold you."
He cast a sidelong glance, thoughtful. "Then again, perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. That place is riddled with holes... especially with those spirit boats that passed through."
"A fortress supposedly impenetrable—guarded by Sekkiseki and barriers—and yet, infiltrated like a sieve by the quincy. But many still think Seireitei is flawless, a shining citadel of justice."
Kenpachi Azashiro said nothing to defend the Soul Society.
He didn't need to.
He simply turned and glanced toward the figures behind him—Szayelaporro and Roka, lingering quietly in the distance.
"You noticed them when they returned to Hueco Mundo, didn't you?" he asked.
Mazuru gave a slight nod. "I did. At first, it was just curiosity—something about her presence was... off."
"But I didn't expect to find so many surprises tied to her."
His gaze flicked toward Szayelaporro. "Especially him. Or rather... it."
Szayelaporro's pink eyes twitched with irritation.
"A pathetic replica." Mazuru said, voice dismissive. "Her reconstruction of his memory is impressive, but flawed."
"He's got the memories, sure, but the essence—the soul—no, that was long lost. This creature is a mere echo."
Indeed, the true Szayelaporro had died long ago. After the events in Las Noches, his soul wasn't purified. It wasn't sent to Hell either.
Mazuru had kept it imprisoned, sealed away as one of his pawns. A mind like Szayelaporro's had its uses—even after death.
When Szayelaporro heard these words, fury contorted his features.
"Who the hell are you calling a replica?!" he snarled, stepping forward.
The moment he saw Mazuru appear here—his killer—he'd been shaken. Terrified, even. But Mazuru's utter disdain ignited something in him. Rage trumped fear.
"If you hadn't caught me off guard after the battle, I'd never have fallen to someone like you!" he barked.
Mazuru didn't even look at him.
He simply kept his gaze on Kenpachi Azashiro.
"And you." Mazuru said, "After escaping from Muken, you came here... for them?"
Azashiro gave a small nod. "I came for her."
He pointed to Roka.
"Her ability is the key to my goal."
Mazuru tilted his head. "Mind telling me what that goal is? For someone like you to abandon imprisonment... it must be something grand."
Azashiro looked at him for a long time. Then he smiled—a cold, heavy smile.
"You're a curious one." he said. "Just like Aizen Sosuke."
Mazuru's eyes sharpened slightly at the name.
'So the two had met.'
It made sense. Aizen had also been imprisoned in Muken. The overlap was inevitable.
"I plan." Azashiro continued, "To reshape the world."
"To transform humanity—strip them of desire. Without desire, there is no sin. Without sin, they won't fall into hollowness. And if there's no hollowness—"
"There's no need for Hell."
Mazuru's eyes narrowed further.
"And Hueco Mundo?" he asked.
"I will obliterate it entirely." Azashiro said calmly. "Creatures like hollows... should not exist."
It was spoken not with hatred, nor with contempt. But with resolve. A madman's mission stated with monk-like clarity.
A long silence followed.
"That's your goal." Mazuru whispered. "Strip the world of its flaws."
He smiled faintly.
"It's noble, in a twisted sort of way. But I'm afraid... I can't let you do that."
Kenpachi Azashiro gave a quiet grunt. "I expected as much."
He had known from the moment he stepped foot into Hueco Mundo. Kyo Mazuru—once a shinigami, now the self-made King of the hollows—would never let such a dream take root.
But even as the two titans stared each other down, the air began to shift.
Something else stirred.
Another presence.
Before either could act, the ground trembled slightly, and a rift of shadow stretched open between two dunes. From the darkness emerged a new figure—one cloaked in white, his face hidden by an ornate mask.
The spiritual pressure that flooded out was suffocating.
Mazuru and Kenpachi Azashiro turned at the same moment.
Azashiro's eyes narrowed. Mazuru merely exhaled once, as if expecting this.
"Hold on a moment, let me deal with this first." he muttered.
The sands of Hueco Mundo did not wait for battles—they welcomed them.
And war, once again, was coming.
*****
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