Chapter 167: The Calamity of Travel
Seireitei.
A fortress city planted at the heart of Soul Society, both sacred and suffocating. Only Shinigami and a tiny fraction of nobles were permitted to live within its walls, the rest of the dead kept where they belonged, outside.
It was vast beyond common sense. Seireitei spread like a colossal ring, a circular capital built for power, order, and distance. Old records claimed it covered roughly one hundred thirty three thousand square units of spiritual land, with a radius of about three hundred sixty five. To circle its full perimeter on foot, even at a steady pace, could take forty days.
To reach it from Rukongai, one had to pass through one of four gates, east, west, south, or north. Each gate was guarded by a champion handpicked by Soul Society, names recited like scripture in the outer districts.
Jidanbo Ikkanzaka at the west.
Ura at the east.
Danzumarou at the south.
Hikonyudo at the north.
The walls themselves were built from Sekkiseki, Killing Stones that disrupted and dissolved spiritual energy. Their constant fluctuations formed a spherical barrier from the sky down to the earth, a protective shell that kept ordinary souls from slipping inside.
Outside the wall lay Rukongai, the sprawl where commoners lived and died and lived again. In theory, it was a residential district. In practice, it was a waiting room.
Seireitei was the core. Everyone with talent, power, or value was absorbed into it. Those left behind in Rukongai were either too weak to matter or too troublesome to be tolerated, exiles and strays.
And still, they yearned for it.
Even spirits who knew they could never become Shinigami would force their way toward the gates, as if one glimpse of the inner court was worth their second death. Most never understood what they were seeing. The courtyards they reached, the walls and facilities with no clear boundary between inside and outside, were often nothing more than outer perimeter structures, peripheral buildings with little significance in the immense sprawl of Seireitei.
They would die without ever laying eyes on the true masters of the place.
They would not even see the dogs of the people who decided their fates.
What they would see were the gatekeepers, former heroes of Rukongai now chained to duty, enormous hands, merciless strikes, and absolute authority.
The Shinigami called it order. The best order. The most excellent order. They claimed it preserved the balance of the three realms, maintaining the world pioneered by the Spirit King.
If the balance demanded it, they would even purge the population of Rukongai.
Hundreds of thousands.
Millions.
Numbers that could be written neatly on paper.
The Gotei 13, at their core, were an organization of killers wearing uniforms.
The Seireitei of today looked elegant, refined, almost peaceful, with a noble air that could fool the untrained eye. Yet some elders did not forget the truth.
Even now, Mayuri Kurotsuchi, Captain of the Research and Development Bureau, was a notorious criminal released on bail.
Cruel. Methodical. Delighted by experimentation on Shinigami, rūsouls, and Hollows alike. Intelligent, though not as brilliant as Kisuke Urahara, the man who once held his post. Still, Mayuri's grotesque pride, his shameless pursuit of achievement, and the technology he displayed made him useful enough that only the Gotei 13 could contain him.
At this moment, that same sinner glared at the sweating subordinates lined up before him, his black and white mask reflecting fury like a painted curse.
"Are your brains filled with primal soup now, hmm?" His voice rose, sharp enough to cut. "I will repeat myself. A Traveling Calamity has already infiltrated Seireitei. Are you questioning my skills, hmm?"
One technician swallowed hard. "Captain, no matter what instrument we use, there are no further signals. It only lasted for a moment. Maybe the equipment is malfunctioning…"
"My instruments have never malfunctioned." Mayuri snapped his fingers. "Use your brains, those things barely larger than broad beans, and think. Do you hear me? Think carefully. It hid the moment it broke through the barrier. That is the only explanation."
Silence answered him.
Think about what, exactly?
They had never even heard of a traveler who could break through the barrier and, in an instant, blend perfectly into Seireitei's spiritual pressure as if it had always belonged. The members of the Technology Development Bureau exchanged looks, helpless, then reflexively turned back to the captain in the clown like hat and the oversized haori of the Twelfth Division.
Mayuri covered his face and exhaled slowly, as if trying not to detonate on the spot.
"I have had enough of your stupidity." His tone went cold. "I will report to the Captain Commander. You will stay here. If you detect any abnormal signal within Seireitei, you will notify me immediately via the Void Gate. Understand?"
A trembling voice dared to speak. "But none of us can quickly use the Void…"
"Then use Hell Butterflies. Hell Butterflies, understand?" Mayuri leaned forward. "Do not force me to use Death Explosives to blow up all your underdeveloped brains."
"Yes, Captain." The response came in a chorus, terrified and obedient.
"Really," Mayuri muttered, turning away. "How did I end up with a team like you…"
He strode out, Nemu Kurotsuchi following at his side without a sound, her steps precise, her expression blank.
Mayuri did not believe the signal had been a glitch. The reading had been momentary, a fraction of a second, then gone, but that did not matter. His equipment did not lie.
Even if it was Urahara.
Even if it was something Urahara did.
It would still be the same.
Someone had pierced the barrier outside Seireitei and slipped inside. Reporting it was non negotiable.
The worst outcome was not the intruder.
The worst outcome was that the old man would dismiss it, that Seireitei would once again prove itself filled with fools who could not recognize danger until it tore out their throats. Who, then, could Mayuri trust but his own judgment?
Brats. Old foxes. Sick men. A lunatic who spent his days provoking nobles. Another who had once been a monster, now pretending at virtue.
That was the Gotei 13, as far as Mayuri was concerned.
With irritation swirling like poison in his thoughts, he advanced toward the First Division barracks. Shinigami from other divisions along the route saw the black and white mask with its gold trim and immediately stiffened. Some practically leapt out of the way, standing at attention with rigid terror, saluting as if their lives depended on it.
Because, in a sense, they did.
Everyone knew Mayuri was the one who truly could and would experiment on Shinigami bodies. He did not care about their lives. He did not care about their deaths. No one knew how many had been implanted with flesh exploding bombs.
After that infamous captain's meeting, when he announced he had a weapon that could turn Shinigami into bombs, the reputation of the Research and Development Bureau and the Twelfth Division had dropped beneath zero.
Mayuri considered that a convenience. Fear kept idiots out of his laboratory.
Yet as he moved through the corridors of Seireitei, his brows suddenly tightened.
A figure stepped out from the Fifth Division barracks, peaceful as ever, as if the world had not just trembled under a warning.
The man paused and looked toward Mayuri and Nemu. His glasses caught the light. Surprise softened his face into gentle curiosity.
"Oh my. Captain Mayuri of the Twelfth Division, and your lieutenant as well." Aizen Sosuke smiled politely. "You both look rushed. Has something happened?"
"This has nothing to do with you, Aizen Sosuke." Mayuri waved a hand like he was shooing away a fly.
Of everyone in the Gotei 13, Mayuri disliked the Fifth Division Captain the most.
Not because Aizen was weak.
Not because Aizen was incompetent.
Because Mayuri was convinced Aizen was insane.
Look at the proposals he kept submitting. Improve education in Rukongai. Provide guidance. Subsidize new recruits. Take a portion of captains' and nobles' profits to compensate older recruits.
They were not entirely useless ideas, which made them even more troublesome. Every time Aizen brought them to the Central 46, the Chambers erupted. No one in Soul Society's history had stood up so openly for wandering spirits and ordinary Shinigami. Aizen's writing was persuasive, his paperwork flawless, and his arguments always sharp enough that the Central 46 could not simply silence him.
And every time the Central 46 could not silence him, they turned around and scolded the captains.
The one scolded hardest was Mayuri, for obvious reasons.
He was the one who did the most experimentation. Not because he had started recently, but because he had never stopped.
His philosophy differed from Urahara's. Where Urahara liked strange devices and indirect methods, Mayuri believed technology existed to be used on people. Only what was applied to flesh and bone could be called progress. Such a path required sacrifice.
Mayuri did not care about morality, but he did care about being lectured.
Aizen's smile did not change. He simply pushed up his glasses, voice softening into something lower.
"Nothing to do with me? The rescue team is responsible for assisting divisions that encounter problems. And your urgency makes me think it may, in fact, concern me."
"This matter has nothing to do with you or your rescue team." Mayuri's tone sharpened. "Do not make a fuss, Aizen Sosuke. Move aside. I am reporting to the Captain Commander. If this report is delayed, the consequences may be more serious than you imagine. Stop indulging your naive and ridiculous fantasies."
Aizen's eyes narrowed a fraction, curiosity deepening rather than fading.
"How interesting." He sounded almost pleased. "I also have something to discuss with the Captain Commander. Shall we go together?"
For a heartbeat, Mayuri's gold teeth clicked.
Rage surged through him so fast his hands twitched toward his Zanpakuto.
Then Nemu stepped forward.
She bowed slightly to Aizen, her movement measured, almost elegant.
"Our instruments detected traces of a Ryoka," she said calmly. "Though it only lasted for a fraction of a second, Mayuri sama intends to report it to the Captain Commander. Please, Captain Aizen, make way."
Mayuri's head snapped toward her.
"Nemu, you bastard. Are you surrendering to Aizen?"
"I believe the most urgent matter is the report," Nemu replied, gaze steady. "Please punish me later, Mayuri sama."
Mayuri trembled with rage, then swallowed it down like bitter medicine.
"Fine. I do not have time for this." He glared at Aizen. "I will report properly that you blocked me for even a minute, Captain Aizen."
Aizen's smile returned, gentle and unthreatening.
"I am truly sorry, Captain Mayuri. I will accept any punishment if necessary. Please, have a pleasant report. I will not be going after all."
He stepped back, granting the path as if he had never intended to take it.
That calm retreat only made Mayuri's veins throb harder. He ground his gold teeth, gestured furiously toward the Fifth Division barracks, then finally exhaled through a grimace.
Beside him, Nemu whispered, "Mayuri sama, it is time."
"When we return," Mayuri said, voice thin, "you will attempt mixing forty different potions. And you are not allowed to give that man information without my direct orders. Understand?"
"I understand, Mayuri sama."
Mayuri cast one last venomous look toward the Fifth Division, then hurried onward toward the First Division barracks.
He was not surprised Aizen had appeared to intercept him. Aizen's influence, his eyes and ears, were everywhere. Shinigami who could not speak freely to the Central 46 spoke to Aizen. Shinigami who feared their captains spoke to Aizen. Even captains who despised him still found themselves dragged into his orbit.
Aizen's access to information was, in a sense, omnipresent.
That was why Mayuri found his paranoia laughable.
A conspiracy between Soul Society and Seireitei? Ridiculous. They were already the ones in control. They maintained order. They stained their hands. They just pretended the stains were soap.
Mayuri's anger was practical.
Aizen caused trouble.
Aizen submitted petitions.
Aizen made everyone else pay for it.
This time, Mayuri simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong moment.
What Mayuri did not know was that when Aizen returned to the Fifth Division barracks, he did not go directly to his captain's room.
Wearing the haori and shihakusho of the Fifth Division, Aizen moved through the corridors with his usual gentle composure, greeting every member he passed with a warm smile.
Then he entered the calligraphy room.
The Fifth Division's members were practicing brushwork, ink scent thick in the air. Aizen greeted them one by one, offering soft praise, adjusting their grips, correcting angles with patient hands. It was a familiar scene, almost comforting.
A privilege of serving under Captain Aizen.
A ritual.
A kindness.
None of them realized that someone else was present in the captain's quarters.
Or rather, that another body was present.
Aizen Sosuke.
The man in a pure white haori over black robes, glasses on his nose, gentle expression frozen in place, stared blankly at nothing.
Because he was dead.
In the main seat of the academy, Aizen Sosuke was impaled through the heart and nailed to an enormous calligraphy scroll. Dark red blood ran down the ink lines, pooling on the floor, gathering slowly in a widening stain.
Yet beside the students, another Aizen walked calmly, smiling, lifting their brushes, guiding their strokes, as if the corpse nailed at the head of the room did not exist.
As if Seireitei itself had decided not to see it.
Warm sunlight fell in broken patterns through the windows, scattering dappled shadows across the floor. Those shadows obscured the lifeless body at the front, and wrapped the living Aizen in soft light, making him seem even more harmless.
To the Fifth Division, all that had happened was that Captain Aizen had a brief unpleasant exchange with Captain Kurotsuchi, then returned to resume calligraphy practice.
It had happened before.
This was no different.
No one noticed that two near identical spiritual pressures had briefly existed within Seireitei.
No one noticed that the kind man of the Gotei 13, the one who spoke of reform and questioned the Soul King's politics, the one whose words dragged captains and nobles into shame, had been murdered and nailed to the front of the academy.
His ambitions.
His schemes.
His plans.
All of it vanished in an instant.
The warped remnants of his spiritual power began to sink toward Hell, but within Seireitei, another presence of almost identical origin was quietly drawing those spiritual particles back into itself, like reclaiming spilled water before anyone could see the stain.
Aizen set down his brush and wrote one bold character on fresh rice paper.
New.
He turned to the amazed soldiers, and the smile he gave them was gentle enough to make the world feel stable again.
"The new script is always derived from the original," he said softly. "So if you wish, you can trace the old form by adjusting the stroke slightly."
Like this.
He guided their hands, as if teaching them calligraphy.
As if teaching them how to rewrite the world without anyone noticing.
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