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Allowing Shiraha to touch the complete Hōgyoku was, to Aizen, no real concession. In fact, he saw it as an opening. For now, Shiraha's blindness rendered him immune to Kyōka Suigetsu's complete hypnosis, just as Tōsen Kaname had been. But should Shiraha use the Hōgyoku to restore his sight, that immunity would vanish. In that moment, Aizen would finally have his chance.
"Captain Shiraha," Aizen said, folding his arms across his chest, voice smooth with amusement. "Since I've agreed to your terms, what is it that you can offer me in return?"
Shiraha's expression didn't waver. He answered lightly, almost teasingly. "Surely, Captain Aizen, merely helping you conceal the destruction of Central 46 would be far too small a gesture."
The truth was obvious to both. Even if Shiraha spread word of Aizen's massacre, the most it could do was inconvenience him, nothing more. No true threat lay in such an act. Aizen's web was already spun far too tightly.
"Please continue, Captain Shiraha," Aizen prompted, smiling, curious what his counterpart thought he could possibly bring to the table.
Shiraha's lips curved faintly. "Ten years ago, in the world of the living, an Arrancar appeared. Grimmjow, wasn't it? I'd wager that was your doing."
Aizen's smile deepened, eyes gleaming. "As expected of you, Captain Shiraha. Your perception is as sharp as ever. Indeed, it was my experiment. Though I confess, I overestimated Grimmjow's potential… and underestimated your strength."
The mention carried weight. Ten years past, Shiraha had only survived Grimmjow's assault through the power of the five enlightenment templates — unlocking the limitless technique and Fujitora's Smile template, wielding spells that bent gravity and halted motion itself. Without those, Grimmjow, an Espada, would have crushed him.
Shiraha leaned forward slightly. "And once you retrieve the Hōgyoku from Rukia, you intend to depart Soul Society, don't you? Your destination must be Hueco Mundo."
Aizen adjusted his glasses, not denying it. "Correct, Captain Shiraha."
"Then what I can give you," Shiraha said calmly, "is my silence. I will not hinder your plans."
For a long moment, Aizen considered him. Then he stood, smiling with practiced ease. "In that case, Captain Shiraha… happy cooperation."
If Shiraha chose to oppose him, Aizen would already be calculating contingencies. Variables were not allowed in his script. He had waited centuries, hidden in plain sight, for this moment. He would not allow any obstacle now.
"Happy cooperation, Captain Aizen," Shiraha replied with quiet poise.
Yet just as Shiraha rose to leave, Aizen's voice halted him. "Captain Shiraha. Would you be interested in joining me?"
Shiraha turned, brows lifting. Genuine surprise touched his face. He had expected Aizen to accept cooperation out of convenience. But an invitation? That was unexpected. Was it strategy — a means to better control him? Or did Aizen truly see him as an equal?
"A true alliance?" Shiraha asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
Aizen gestured toward the blood-soaked corpses of sages and judges sprawled below. His smile was sharp, but his voice was sincere. "You must have seen it yourself. Soul Society is rotting. Its nobles are arrogant, blind to change. Would you not agree?"
Shiraha chuckled softly. "And yet I am myself a noble. The Kuchiki heir, no less."
"That is true," Aizen said, eyes gleaming, "but you are not like them. You have ambition. You have the power to reshape Soul Society. That is why I extend this invitation — because you are different."
It was not flattery. Aizen meant it. In Shiraha, he saw a nobility unbound by tradition, a man willing to grasp power rather than simply inherit it.
"Then allow me to consider it," Shiraha answered smoothly, offering no firm commitment.
"My invitation will always remain open," Aizen replied with quiet confidence.
Shiraha inclined his head, then vanished in an instant with the spell Cang, leaving only a ripple of reishi in his wake.
Aizen's eyes lingered on the empty space. "Not Shunpo. A Zanpakutō ability, perhaps? How intriguing." His smile curved, sharp as a blade. "Captain Shiraha… I hope you enjoy the gift I've prepared."
—
Seventh Division Barracks.
Shiraha had only just arrived when his third seat, Tetsuzaemon Iba, hurried toward him with a stiff expression. "Captain Shiraha, the leader of the Eighth Division and his vice-captain Ise came looking for you earlier. Since you weren't here, I took the liberty of asking them to wait in your quarters."
Shiraha waved him off with a smile. "Well done, Tetsuzaemon."
"But… Captain," Iba said hesitantly, "Captain Kyōraku didn't look pleased. Did something happen?"
"It's nothing," Shiraha replied, brushing it aside. "He likely just wanted me to share a drink with him. I had other matters to attend to, so I missed the appointment."
In truth, Shiraha already knew. Kyōraku Shunsui had questions. And now, Shiraha would need to answer them.
"Carry on with your duties," Shiraha ordered gently.
Iba nodded and withdrew.
Through Observation Haki, Shiraha sensed the captain's room clearly: two presences awaited him. Kyōraku Shunsui, simmering with irritation, and his ever-loyal vice-captain, Nanao Ise. A dozen bottles of fine sake rested at Shunsui's side.
Shiraha exhaled softly, then entered.
"Captain Shiraha." Nanao bowed politely at once.
"Shiraha!" Shunsui's voice was sharp with uncharacteristic anger. "What happened to you? We were supposed to drink at my barracks today. Ukitake and I waited for you all afternoon, but you never came!"
Shiraha offered a contrite smile. "That was my fault. As an apology, allow me to drink with you until you're satisfied tonight."
Shunsui's frown eased into a grin. "That's more like it. I've already brought the good stuff. It's a shame Jūshirō can't hold his liquor — he's probably still passed out in the Thirteenth by now."
"Xiao Nao, pour for Captain Shiraha," he added cheerfully.
"Yes, Captain," Nanao replied, her expression calm as always. She uncorked a bottle and began to pour.
Before the first toast could be raised, the door slid open. A hell butterfly messenger entered — a black-clad Shinigami of the Onmitsukidō. Bowing low, he held out a letter sealed with the sigil of Central 46.
"Captain Shiraha," the messenger said formally. "This is a coded directive from Central 46."
Shiraha took it, eyes narrowing as he studied the seal.
"Clever, Aizen," he thought to himself, pulse steady. "Very clever."
For in Soul Society, Central 46's coded orders carried weight beyond reproach — mandates to judge, to sentence, to dispatch execution squads. And now, one had been placed in his hands.
Aizen's bad taste indeed.
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