Aizen's footsteps echoed in the sparkling stone corridors of the 5th Division headquarters, his sandals thundering behind him like the ghost of a lost symphony. The face of the genial captain was forgotten; he strode now like a monarch wrapped in unseen silk, his footsteps measured, his breathing an inaudible invocation. The Hōgyoku, nestled in the folds of his uniform like a sleeping god, quivered imperceptibly in his chest—less by any power that flowed out of it, but in delicate response to the presence in him that now made it superfluous.
He materialized in the private room in which Gin and Tōsen sat, the two of them long accustomed to his inexplicable comings and goings. The air rippled softly with amber light, a gift of kido barriers deflecting prying spiritual senses. Gin half-sat, leaning in a pose against the far side of the room, that perpetual half-smile as unreadable as a closed book, and Tōsen sat cross-legged on the tiny table, the folds of his uniform pressed with Buddhist neatness. But they were not passive in their silence. They sensed it—something had irrevocably, profoundly changed, like tectonic plates grinding into a new formation beneath their feet.
Aizen sat down with a fluid movement, resting his arms on the table, and let the silence linger long enough that it became awkward.
"I have come to see," he said softly, yet with that infuriating calmness, "that the Hōgyoku is but a stepping stone. At best, a spark in a far larger fire that I have set ablaze within me."
Gin's smile never faltered, but his forehead twitched—a millimeter, that was all.
"And what fire do you speak of, taichō?" he asked, half-blinking with his own inquisitive cat-like curiosity.
"A clarity," Aizen remarked. "A resonance with the structure of existence. Not by enforced evolution, not by Urahara's clever ploy, but by willing, spiritual reversal. I have looked past the seams of my own being… and found something in readiness."
Tōsen's blind eyes slowly rose up to him, his face completely unreadable. "This power is above the Hōgyoku, you say?" he said, his tone as harsh and deep as a reader of religious texts. "How is this possible? The orb provides what is hidden in the innermost recesses of the heart's desire."
"Yes. And desire is something that is constructed." Aizen spoke calmly. "It is something created out of discontent. What I discovered… was mastery—not mastery of others, but mastery of the illusion of destiny. The Hōgyoku is interpreting a desire. This power establishes the conditions in which there is no need for desire. I am not altering. I am removing the need to alter."
That created a stop.
"I see," growled Gin finally, his grin growing cold, as if an ancient, dormant instinct had awakened. "And what's become of the Hōgyoku now?"
"I keep it," Aizen said, lifting his hand and allowing the orb hover for a moment in the air between his fingers. It glowed with potential, but not with intent. It was but a single petal in a tornado's hand. "But I use it in a different way. Not as a fountain… but as a tool for storytelling. Urahara's exile, Yoruichi's betrayal… all of those were built on terror and assumption. What would be the consequence if we were to strip their guilt—not with forgiveness, but with the realization that the adversaries… were not we."
Tōsen leaned his head to one side. "You would exonorate them?"
"I would frame new versions of us," Aizen declared. "Constructs. Echoes. Enough that they would bleed, that they would fight, that they would plot. Their actions would be exploited in order to justify our purity. When the reality of Urahara's discoveries is finally unmasked, as it inevitably shall—because he will act—we will not be the enemy. We will be the balance."
"You mean to stay," said Gin, and there was no smile this time. "You are not going to Hueco Mundo at all."
"Ah, why would I?" Aizen asked half-laughing in exasperation. "Within the Soul Society, I would be able to form the Espada with no chance of error, screening out potential Arrancar with a clear conscience and without disrupting the Central 46. All while holding the moral high ground."
"But why save Urahara and Yoruichi in the first place?" Tōsen inquired, furrowing his eyebrows. "They can still move against us."
He tilted his head, pondering the question as one would ponder the actions of a somewhat strange insect. And with a levity that was the ultimate contradiction to his otherwise solemn tone, he spoke, "Because one day, I'm going to have to sleep with Yoruichi."
The air grew thick—not with scandal, but with the suggestion that something far subtler lay beneath such a coarse remark.
"She is more than a beauty," Aizen declared. "She is like Unohana—fierce, wild, ancestral power. A woman of fire, an old-blooded woman. Their souls are wedded to ancient boundaries. To sleep with women like those… it is not desire. It is ritual. It is conquest by osmosis."
Tōsen turned his face aside, his features twisted in disgust, but Gin relaxed, not with lechery, nor with lust, but with understanding. Power with Aizen was synthesis. The spiritual, the symbolic, the biological—he did not acknowledge separation. He would absorb what others threw aside as impulse, refine it, and elevate it.
"This… new power," Gin inquired, hesitating briefly. "What do you call it?"
Aizen permitted the question to hang in the air. Then he spoke softly, as if unto the walls themselves: "Kagami no Kami. The Mirror God. It does not depict what is, but what needs to be perceived. Through it, I craft perception in entirety, and that becomes reality. This is not make-believe. This is writing."
Both was met with polite silence. The Hōgyoku pulsed with a faint glow—like an animal recognizing its master.
Aizen stood in the center of the room, half-closing his eyes as if seeing far beyond the walls of the Soul Society, far beyond the planes of Hueco Mundo or of the Dangai. Gin and Tōsen did not budge, the two men steadfast in their stillness. Loyal, intelligent, they were but trapped by perception, by the structure of this reality and the myths it had created for itself. Aizen, however, was awake. Always had been—always knew what lay beyond.
He had not said everything.
Not about the night of his awakening, nor the beast that had reached out from the chasm of madness and existence. Not since he was Isekai'd—though he would never speak, not with voice, nor even in thought, of that which had transported him here. He had been another in a former life. Less. And then he was Sōsuke Aizen. Born of power, of potential, but with the silent, persistent knowledge that he was created—shaped and tempered by a power that was not his own.
And it spoke with him.
An eldritch, ancient, formless being whose voice did not resound but was felt—like blood flowing in the opposite direction with any one blood vessel. It was not a ghost. Not a Shinigami, nor Hollow, nor Quincy, nor god this world had previously encountered. It was something that lay beyond the borders of fiction and fate, watching and choosing. And it had chosen him.
"You are the mirror," he was told. "The mask and the lips of creation. Take on form. Sow seed. Their pleasure shall be your domain."
The task had been outrageous in its explicitness, sacrilegious in its proposal. Power—unquantifiable, godlike—by conjunction with willing women of holy power. And yet not mere fleshness. There had to be agreement. Consent was what was needed. Willingness was necessary. The contact, as brief as it was, had to be absolute. And for this, for this alone, every act would sever deeper into the fundamental nature of being itself, granting him power not stolen, not taken, but earned through old rituals of body and soul.
And he had not even touched Unohana.
The mere potential was sufficient to make the Hōgyoku tremble with reverence. For if he had accomplished all of this, this cleanliness, this detachment, this Kagami no Kami, without ever being taken in by the Entity's plans even once, what unthinkable heights was he going to attain when he did? What state was his soul going to achieve if Unohana—first Kenpachi, the ancient mother of death herself—had surrendered herself unto him?
And spoke not any of this with Gin or with Tōsen. Not out of distrust, but out of respect of that Entity for which he had been granted all of this. He felt it—if he was on the verge of showing the full measure of his power, there was a weight in his stomach like a star imploding. Disapproval manifested, a caution not to squander the mystification that had attended his rise. His secrets were a bond. And for all their devotion, Aizen said nothing.
He left them there in the room, with the Hōgyoku humming softly against his chest, and turned his back on the corridor darkness with his heart burning with forbidden intent. The game would begin in its own time. The Espada would rise. The Soul Society would crumble—not in bloodshed, but in devotion. But that was for later. First, he would do his work, and bring in what the Entity had promised.
Unohana's wing was still for this hour of the day, as it had always been. Her corridors were unlike the others—silent, as if the walls themselves remembered how many had died there. He walked through them respectfully, his reiatsu kept in check, not out of fear, but out of respect. He had never underestimated her. Never.
He did not discover her in her quarters, but kneeling in the practice hall, in midst of wreckage of bone-white practice dummies run through by sword strikes so fine that they appeared godly. She was facing the other way, hair down in a dark braid over a field of killing. The air was thick with the scent of steel, of disinfectant, of old things awakened.
"I thought you'd never come," she said, not facing him.
Aizen did not smile. "I only come when I am ready."
She got up from her seat, her step slow, but her presence filling the room. When she turned to face him, there was no softness, no warmth on her face. Only stillness and confrontation. The animal beneath her skin was still dormant, but it gazed out of her eyes. This was not seduction. This was confrontation of long-lost creatures that had forgotten how to be afraid.
"You recognize this, don't you?" He leaned in closer.
She did not nod. It was not necessary. "The ways of old. Before names were written."
He stepped closer, bridging the gap. He felt the warmth of her power, the protective sting of a creature ready to attack or consume. He was familiar with her past—the whispers of her previous life as the most adored and feared Kenpachi, the fiercest of the Gotei 13 fighters. He was aware of what she had sacrificed for her to have ended up as Unohana, the serene healer. But most of all, he was aware of the intensity of her soul, the burning embers that still smoldered beneath the calm of serenity.
And with swift, almost savage gentleness, he reached out and enclosed her face in his hands, his hands uncharacteristically soft. She did not recoil but rather leaned forward, half-closing her eyes as if she had waited for that long – forever, it seemed – for this. And then, while the world seemed to be suspended in its breath, he bent forward and kissed her.
Their lips met with a delicacy that was a kind of paradox for the weight of the moment, for the potential power resting in between them. It was not, however, a light one. It was the meeting of two storms, two forces of nature pent up for too long. The tension was charged in the air, and their lips touching was like the world's very fabric contracting around them, ready to tear.
The kiss grew deeper, thirstier, a knot of tongues that tasted of old secrets and hinted of mastery's threats. Their breath became entwined, a singular, ragged breath that echoed along the large training hall. The dummies that were stationed around them quivered, as if alive, feeling the resonance of their union.
Aizen's hand drifted from her face, tracing the curve of her neck down along the swell of her breasts beneath her uniform. His fingers smoothed the material gently, the contact sending Unohana shivering along her spine. She was not a woman readily undone from her composure, but his was a contact that was a turning of a long-unused key. Her body responded with a readiness that was savage and irrefutable.
"Your hand is cold, Aizen," she whispered against his lips.
"On the outside, I suppose," he murmured, his breath burning in stark contrast with his touch.
Bending Unohana over one of the practice dummies with practiced elegance redolent of centuries of tradition, the cold stone jarring with the heat of their coupling. She wore her uniform with precision, a reflection of the mutual respect that both of them had for the ritual of the act. She had her arms around the dummy's neck, her breath ragged gasps as his hand slipped beneath her hakama, caressing the skin of her thigh with the same savage tenderness that he kissed her.
"Is this what you wanted, Aizen?" she asked softly, the question both challenge and entreaty.
"No, Unohana," he said, his voice a sensual, husky growl. "It's what you need."
His hand went beneath the folds of her hakama, and he discovered her wet and ready. His two long, slender digits inserted themselves inside her pussy with a silkiness that spoke volumes of his certainty of her readiness for him. Unohana's eyes opened in surprise a little with the sudden penetration, but she did not resist—rather, her body arched up for him, inviting the penetration.
"Aizen, yes," she croaked, her voice grating like something that had ricocheted off walls of stone.
His thumb found the tip of her clit, and he began circling it with a measured, slow pressure that pierced her with shafts of pleasure. Unohana's hands clamped tighter around the dummy's neck, fingernails digging into stone. She gasped jagged breaths, the air heavy with scent of need. Aizen's eyes were on hers with detached intensity, his gaze refusing to waver as he worked his hand between her legs, his hand sliding in the wetness of hers.
"Cum for me, Unohana," he said in a quiet command, his voice that seemed to reverberate through her very being.
Her breathing grew ragged, her hips clenching in his hand of their own accord as she chased the promise of climax. Tension gathered in the air, the world focusing in on the two of them, reducing everything else around them to a stillness.
And then she burst in with a scream torn directly from the darkness itself. Unohana's body convulsed and trembled as she climaxed, her need soaking Aizen's hand. He withdrew his fingers gradually, watching her gasp for air, her breasts rising and falling beneath the fabric of her blouse.
Aizen stepped back, his own reaction clear in the bulge beneath his captain's hakama. Reaching down, he opened his robes, allowing the fabric to fall and his nudity to be seen. His dick bulged, hard and long, its girth one that would have stopped even the most reticent of men in their tracks. Unohana's eyes grew wider, a flash of shock crossing her face that was followed by a hungry, animalistic glare.
"You've grown more than just your power, Aizen," she said, her tone heavy with longing.
He inched closer, his erection pressed up against her wet thigh. "You think you can take it?"
"You underestimate me, Sōsuke," she replied, the tone of her voice a smoldering ember.
Aizen wasn't surprised but thrilled by the challenge in her tone. He aligned his dick with her entrance and thrust into her in a hard, swift motion that stole her breath. Unohana's eyes were closed, her lips an open O of shock and bliss. He did not restrain himself, driving into her with the same merciless power that would propel him up the ranks of the Gotei 13. His thrusts were calculated, a declaration of strength, a promise of yet more.
"Aizen!" she shouted, her voice a growling near-snarl.
He looked into her face—beautiful, contorted in a combination of joy and agony—out of interested detachment. The voice of the Entity spoke through him, guiding him, drawing power from the intensity of their union. But it was the human in him, the part of him that had, for a brief time, been a man, that felt the sudden, churning rush of emotion. He had been too focused on the payoff, too obsessed with his desires, to remember what it felt like to be alive—what it felt like to be a man.
"Like that, Unohana?" He growled menacingly, his deep voice a caress that wrapped around her soul. He pulled on a clump of her hair, stretching her head back in order for him to see her face fully. "You enjoy me fucking you like that?"
Her eyes snapped open, and they burned with a savage, almost animalistic fire. "Yes, harder, Aizen, more, deeper!" she gasped, her voice a rough, ragged snarl that resonated through every molecule of his body.
Aizen's grip on her hair was tightening, his thrusts harder, as he drove deeper into her in rhythm both punishing and calculated. He gazed up into her face—strong, beautiful, and now contorted with desire—and she met each of his strokes with an ardour both as shocking as it was electrifying. The Entity's whispers grew stronger, its hunger for power intensifying with their mutual desire.
"Aizen, yes, more, please, more!" Unohana's cries became desperate, her body contorting over the stone dummy beneath her, her nails scoring shallow grooves in its face. She was not a woman to be conquered quite so quickly, but the force of his mastery was shattering the barriers she had fought so diligently to build.
Her body clamped around his, quivering with each thrust, as if clutching for him, never wanting him to leave. The blazing heat of her desire wrapped around him, a wet, burning caress that did naught but fuel the fires burning inside him. Aizen's eyes narrowed, his thrusts growing controlled as he sensed her on the precipice of orgasm.
"You're going to cream on me all over again, Unohana," he growled, his voice a hard, sexual rasp. "You're going to cream all over my dick and prove you're nothing but a power slut—just like me."
Her eyes burned with fury, with a spark of wanting in their midst. She recognized what he was doing—provoking her, goading her, taking advantage of the shadow places in her mind for their final consummation. And she also knew that she wanted that—craved the way he tore apart all pretenses and left her with pure, animal desire.
"Is that what you think of me, Aizen?" she gasped out, her body quivering in front of him. "A slut for power?"
He smacked her ass, the slap echoing in the air like the report of a gun. It was not vicious—it was an emphatic punctuation mark, a declaration of his control. And she felt it—down, in the marrow of her bones. The sting of his hand on her skin caused her body a jolt of pleasure, and she shrieked, her walls contracting around his dick.
"Cum for me, Unohana, cum for your master," he bade, his deep melody of a voice resonating in her very being.
Her walls wrapped around his dick in a vice, and with a shrieking scream that rent the stillness of the night, Unohana came him yet again. Aizen was overwhelmed by the burning, wet heat of her orgasm engulfing his shaft, her vagina clamping in a wild, tight grasp that seemed to be sucking his very power into her. The energy exploded in him, a tidal surge of power that made him feel godlike.
At the height of her climax, Aizen's own release was near. His gaze drilled into hers, the hunger in his eyes mirroring the animal growling in his chest. He drove in one final time, hard and deep, and with a bellow that shook the walls of her suite, he exploded, emptying his semen into her. His heat ran through her, a branding of his mastery that she absorbed with a thrill of pleasure.