"So that's how it is."
After hearing Kyoraku Shunsui's account, Gosuke Shigure leaned back slightly and let the meaning settle.
In Shunsui's gentle tone, some details had been left deliberately hazy. But Shigure understood perfectly well who those unspoken "people" were — nobles.
Nobility, in the end, was just a pretty word. Behind the silks and manners, they were predators wearing human faces. Wolves that gorged themselves on privilege; wolves that devoured not only the poor but also their own kind.
Since the founding of the Soul Society, noble houses had risen and fallen like waves. Some had vanished to war with Hueco Mundo, but far more had perished by betrayal, intrigue, and quiet knives in the dark.
What had happened to the family of Kenpachi Azashiro was nothing new. It was simply another repetition in that endless cycle.
Shigure took another slow sip of sake and said nothing more about it. He and Shunsui turned their attention to the performance outside.
They had come to a place where innocence had no business existing — so there was no reason to pretend it did.
…
The shamisen strings trembled like silver threads. The kabuki dancer on the central stage spun gracefully, her long sleeves blooming like flower petals. The rhythm of the drums mingled with laughter, perfume, and the scent of sake.
Kyoraku Shunsui sat half-reclined, hat tilted, eyes half-closed in lazy appreciation.
Shigure, meanwhile, let his gaze wander over the hall — the lantern-light trembling over gold inlay, the faint trail of incense that curled toward the ceiling. The movement of the dancer's hips drew the room's rhythm together like the tide.
He murmured with a trace of humor, "So this is how nobles relax."
Shunsui chuckled. "Not all nobles. Only the ones who remember they're still human."
Shigure smiled faintly, eyes still on the stage. "Forgetting that seems to be their talent."
They drank. The conversation drifted between laughter and silence, the easy ebb and flow of two men who had seen too much blood.
After a time Shunsui teased, "I thought you weren't the type for places like this, Gosuke. You looked almost scandalized when we came in."
Shigure turned his head toward him. "How can there be men who don't like this kind of place? The ones who claim they don't are either lying… or they've buried their instincts under something heavier."
"Something heavier?"
"Ambition. Guilt. Or faith."
Shunsui raised his cup in acknowledgment. "That's true enough."
He drank, but his mind wandered elsewhere — to the man who had refused his invitation.
'Azashiro Soya… what kind of man are you really?'
He could still feel that faint chill that hung around the Eighth Kenpachi. Dangerous, restrained, like a blade that refused its sheath. Perhaps that was why he'd wanted to bring him out — to remind the man that even monsters could breathe.
…
Hours blurred in music and laughter. Shigure kept a certain distance; even half-drunk, he carried himself with the easy composure of someone who had lived many lives. Out of respect for Shunsui, he never sank fully into indulgence, but he didn't deny the pleasure either.
The flower wine burned warmly in his chest. The dancers twirled. The night grew deeper.
By the time the final song ended, both men were flushed with sake and fatigue. They stepped out into the street together, the scent of alcohol and rouge following like mist.
The wind was cool. The sakura trees along Noble Street shed petals in slow spirals.
*Swish*
"It's been a while since I drank with someone who listens more than he talks." Shunsui said with a grin.
"You talk enough for two." Shigure replied.
They laughed softly and parted ways.
…
The streets of Seireitei were almost empty now. Lanterns flickered along the tiled paths, and distant guards patrolled in silence. Shigure walked with his hands tucked into his sleeves, his steps unhurried.
The alcohol buzzed faintly in his head, but his thoughts were clear.
'Truly a strange man, that Shunsui.' he thought. 'Even his leisure carries weight.'
As he neared the Eleventh Division compound, the smell of stone, wood, and faint blood returned — the scent of home.
He was halfway to the captain's office when a shadow caught his attention.
Someone was standing in the courtyard.
There was no moon tonight; the sky was thick with drifting clouds. The figure was half-hidden by darkness, silent and unmoving.
Shigure's instincts stirred immediately. His hand brushed the hilt at his waist before he recognized the aura.
"Captain." he said quietly.
…
"It's you, Gosuke."
The voice came from the dark. Cold, even, unmistakable.
Kenpachi Azashiro stood with his back toward him, staring at something unseen. The dim light from the corridor framed his outline but not his face.
"Captain Kyoraku invited me for a drink." Shigure explained easily. "I've only just returned. Why is the captain awake at this hour? Couldn't sleep?"
No answer. Only the whisper of wind through the courtyard.
*Swish*
Then — unexpectedly — Azashiro spoke again. "Gosuke. What do you think of Hueco Mundo?"
The question stopped him mid-step. He hadn't anticipated that.
Still, after a pause, he replied.
"Hueco Mundo and the Soul Society are two halves of one existence." he said slowly. "When humans die, their souls either fall into Hueco Mundo or arrive here. Even if Hueco Mundo devours endlessly, its existence has purpose. It balances us.
"If hollows grow too many, the balance breaks — that's why shinigami must cut them down, to restore the scale."
Azashiro's voice drifted through the dark. "Balance, is it?"
Something in his tone — not mockery, not quite — carried an undercurrent Shigure couldn't place. Regret, perhaps. Or disappointment.
"This is your opinion." Azashiro said at last, the words heavy, final.
Shigure felt it — the faint disappointment threading through the man's voice. He didn't understand why the question mattered so much.
Before he could respond, another question came.
"What do you think of nobles?"
That one hit closer to danger.
Shigure hesitated, mind flicking quickly through possibilities. Though he wore a vice-captain's badge, he'd been born a commoner. He knew how fragile the order of Seireitei was — how deeply the nobles' roots wound through it.
To answer honestly here, in this quiet courtyard, was to court unnecessary trouble.
"Well," Azashiro said softly, "it seems you can't answer my question."
He exhaled, a slow, tired sigh, then turned away.
Without another word, he walked off into the dark.
*Clack*
His footsteps faded until only silence remained.
Shigure stood there for a long moment, watching that retreating back.
Shunsui's words from earlier echoed faintly in his mind — the tale of the fallen noble, the tragedy of the Azashiro clan, the boy who had awakened a Zanpakutō in blood and never smiled again.
'So that's it.' he thought. 'He doesn't believe in balance — because the world never gave him any.'
…
After that night, the captain never asked such questions again.
Kenpachi Azashiro remained what he had always been — quiet, disciplined, unfathomable. Yet when battle called, he was first to move. His blade never hesitated.
The Eleventh Division's members, at first uneasy under his command, slowly adjusted. Their resentment faded, replaced by wary respect.
Shigure too settled fully into his role. The daily rhythm of reports, missions, and brief fights became his new normal. The Soul Society was stable; Hueco Mundo stirred only occasionally.
Peace — or something close to it — blanketed the division.
Days slipped into weeks, weeks into months.
And for beings who measured time in centuries, a year passed like a single quiet breath.
Shigure could almost believe this peace might last. He found himself writing reports with an absent smile, drinking with Shunsui when time allowed, even tolerating the dull bureaucracy of Seireitei.
Until, one evening over sake, he heard some news from Shunsui.
*****
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