[Threads of Revelation]
[The Named Defiled]
Hell sprawled before them, an infinite canvas of desolation painted in shades of ash and shadow. The ground, a fractured expanse of blackened stone, crunched beneath their feet, each step releasing faint plumes of dust that lingered like ghosts in the stifling air. Jagged obsidian spires clawed at the crimson sky, their silhouettes stark against the horizon, while a low, resonant hum pulsed through the earth—an omnipresent heartbeat of torment. The wind, a ceaseless wraith, wove through the landscape, its mournful howl punctuated by distant shrieks of the damned, a chorus that clawed at the edges of sanity. The air carried the acrid bite of sulfur, laced with the metallic tang of blood, a scent that clung to the throat and refused to fade.
Kokutō stood at Aarowan's side, his chains swaying with a soft, mournful clink, a constant reminder of his eternal sentence. His mind drifted to the events of the betrayal of Ichigo Kurosaki, the futile rebellion against the Kushanāda, and the crushing weight of his sister's fate that had driven him to this abyss. Those memories, sharp as blades, stirred a dull ache in his chest, a resentment tempered by exhaustion. Yet here, under Aarowan's cryptic guidance, that fire had dimmed, leaving only a cold resolve and a gnawing sense of captivity.
[Have Ever You Seen a God?]
"Kokutō," Aarowan's voice sliced through the oppressive silence, smooth and deliberate, "have ever you seen a god, deus meus?" The Latin rolled off his tongue like a prayer, a flicker of mystique that hung in the air, heavy with intent.
Kokutō's eyes remained fixed on the horizon, his voice a low, frigid murmur, masking the tremor of unease beneath. "What do you expect me to answer?" he said, the words sharp yet brittle, a brave front against the invisible bars that bound him.
Aarowan's mismatched gaze—one eye a void of black, the other a piercing white—narrowed, a faint smile curling his lips. "Try not to overdo, mea culpa," he replied, his tone soft but edged with warning. "Reserve that anger for something else, and remember—it's disobedience that led to the harsh punishments of yours, poena tua." The wind swelled, its howl sharpening, tugging at the tattered edges of Aarowan's prisoner's garb—a half-torn mockery of his usual attire.
"Regardless," Aarowan continued, his voice shifting to a contemplative cadence, "let me give you an answer. Think hard on it, cogita bene." He paused, turning his gaze to the spires that loomed like sentinels of a forgotten age. "How did it all came to be? What has there been before the existence of the primordial? Even before the world can be conceptualized, even before the first cold winter or warm summer—what was it that existed, quid erat?"
Kokutō's response was swift, almost dismissive, born not of insight but of apathy. "Easy—'time,'" he said, his tone flat, a shield against the weight of the question.
Aarowan's smile widened, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "No, non tempus," he corrected, stepping closer, the air around him shimmering faintly as if Hell itself bowed to his presence. "Even before the concept of time could be brought to concept, ante conceptum." His voice dropped, a whisper that seemed to echo in the void. "You see, Kokutō, we do not know. There is a widely believed theory among Hell's denizens that nothing exists—all those defined and not are actually not, nihil est."
Kokutō's interest sparked, a fleeting ember caught by the final lines, though it quickly faded, etched into memory but overshadowed by a flicker of curiosity. His gaze drifted to Aarowan's attire—the prisoner's outfit, ragged and torn, a stark departure from the authority he'd exuded. It stirred an unspoken question, a ripple of doubt.
"Shameful, isn't it?" Aarowan remarked, as if plucking the thought from Kokutō's mind. "This time, the maiden not only chewed my ears off but also gave me a physical punishment. Perhaps she is getting stricter, severior facta." His tone was light, almost playful, but the wind's wail grew sharper, a mocking counterpoint.
"Or maybe she's had enough of your antics," Kokutō retorted, his voice dry, cutting through the haze. "Have you considered that?"
"Nope," Aarowan answered, a grin breaking across his face, bright and unrepentant, a stark contrast to the gloom that enveloped them.
They pressed onward, the landscape shifting beneath their feet. The spires receded, giving way to a vast plain where the ground split and oozed molten shadow, tendrils of heat rising in faint, shimmering waves. The air thickened, the sulfur's bite intensifying, the faint thrum of Hell's pulse reverberating through the stone. Aarowan stopped abruptly, his gaze fixed on an unseen point in the distance.
"Ahh, there we go," he said, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction.
"Why?" Kokutō thought, the question a silent echo in his mind, unanswered.
[Gateway to Names]
Aarowan turned to him, his smile fading into a more solemn expression. "Ahh, you haven't been granted privileges, have you, privilegia tua?" he asked, his voice low, a thread of intrigue woven through it.
Kokutō remained silent, his chains clinking faintly as he shifted, the weight of his confusion pressing down like the air itself.
"As my pupil, I grant thee, concedo tibi," Aarowan intoned, raising a hand in a gesture of blessing. The air fractured, a kaleidoscope of light and shadow splintering reality, and in an instant, the desolate plain vanished. Before them stood a bustling town, its streets alive with the clamor of voices and the rhythmic tap of footsteps—a jarring oasis in Hell's wasteland.
The town was a tapestry of color and motion, its shops and stalls brimming with life, yet there was an ordinariness to it that felt alien here. A clothing shop loomed ahead, its facade unadorned—no signs, no banners, just a quiet presence that radiated significance despite its simplicity. The air softened, the sulfur fading to the warm scent of fabric and dye, a faint rustle of cloth whispering through the space.
"Seems like you have made a mess this time," a voice called from the shop's entrance, steady and knowing. "Was it the maiden or Lady Lust?"
A man stepped forward—Beruk, the shopkeeper—his presence a quiet authority, his sharp eyes flickering between Aarowan and Kokutō with a blend of amusement and scrutiny. His simple attire belied the wisdom in his gaze, a figure familiar.
"Fourth it was," Aarowan replied, his tone casual, though a flicker of irritation danced in his eyes. "So, you mind a little loan? She also took my wallet, and I'm broke till the next payday, usque ad stipendium."
Beruk's lips quirked into a half-smile. "Fine, but who is this new guy? Weren't you supposed to be pageless, sine pagina?"
"That was true a few cycles ago," Aarowan admitted, his voice light, unburdened by the past. "So, the loan thingy I asked, old man Beruk."
"Fine, but remember—you have to pay on date," Beruk said, pointing to his wrist as if marking time, though no watch adorned it.
As Aarowan and Kokutō stepped into the shop, the interior unfolded into a cavernous space, far grander than its exterior promised. Walls lined with garments stretched into the shadows—silks and leathers, robes and cloaks, each whispering stories of their own. The air was warm, tinged with the earthy scent of dye, a stark reprieve from Hell's harshness. Beruk gestured to a young assistant, who darted off, only to be halted by Aarowan's voice.
"Old man, all black is good, but the Fourth wrote a decree—and I'm serious, written—that I must have 40% other colors as well, colores alii," Aarowan said, a hint of embarrassment threading through his words, as if the decree were a personal slight.
Beruk laughed, a deep, rolling sound that echoed through the shop, unrestrained and genuine. He waved his assistant away and selected a garment himself—a cloak, asymmetrical and hooded, its fabric a tapestry of lotus flowers woven with sequences of zeros and ones, a digital hymn to symbolism.
"No wonder, child, your keeper ordered this outfit," Beruk remarked, holding the cloak aloft. "This fits perfect, perfecte convenit."
Aarowan's eyes widened, a spark of realization igniting. "So, Lady Lust ordered it? Wait, was this planned, consilium fuit?" His voice carried suspicion, a shadow of unease rippling through it.
"That is one fine question," Beruk replied, his smile enigmatic, offering no answers.
"And something with style for this guy next to me," Aarowan added, gesturing to Kokutō. "Remember, his name is Kokutō, nomen eius."
Beruk nodded, his gaze sweeping over Kokutō with a craftsman's precision, before vanishing into the shop's depths.
"Why?" Kokutō thought, the question looping in his mind, a refrain without resolution.
[Remember It Is How You Represent]
The curtains parted, revealing Kokutō's new outfit—a garment of duality, its design echoing Aarowan's Yin and Yang. The cloak split down the center—one half a deep, midnight black, the other a stark, gleaming white—their edges melding into a gradient of shadow and light. Chains and broken links adorned the hem, a nod to his past, while the hood bore a faint lotus outline, mirroring Aarowan's own.
"Time to head out, Kokutō," Aarowan said, his voice firm, final, his smile sharpening into something predatory.
Kokutō's eyes widened, a chill tracing his spine as he met that gaze—not warmth, but venom, a devourer's grin poised to strike.
"Oh! I know why," Kokutō thought, the pieces snapping into place, though the full truth remained veiled.