Chapter Text
Pain had never been something Ichimaru Gin dwelt on. He had lived with it, danced around it, even inflicted it without hesitation. It never mattered, not when he had long since learned that far worse things existed in this world.
But now, the pain was all that remained. It gnawed at him, clawing through the gaping wound in his chest that Kyoka Suigestsu had carved into his flesh. It pooled in his lungs with every ragged, shallow breath. His fingers twitched, reaching for a sword that was no longer there. His right arm--gone. His ribs--shattered. He could feel the life draining from him, pooling beneath him, soaking through his robes.
But even that wasn’t what hurt the most.
“Why…?” Her voice trembled, thick with sorrow.
His heavy-lidded eyes fluttered, barely managing to open. He could just make out the blurred outline of her face, framed by strawberry-blond strands of hair. Matsumoto Rangiku, kneeling beside him, her beautiful face twisted with anguish. He wanted to say something--something clever, something lighthearted, like always. But his throat was thick with blood, and the words wouldn’t come.
Rangiku’s fingers brushed against his face, hesitant, as if he’d disappear beneath her touch. He could see it in her eyes--the grief, the anger, the things left unsaid between them.
“Gin, you idiot,” her voice cracked, tears streaming down her face, falling on him.
Yeah, guess I am.
He had wanted to kill Aizen. That was all. That was everything.
For her.
For the little girl who once stared at the sky, starving, shivering, and helpless. For the only person he ever truly cared about.
He could feel it now--the weight in his chest that had nothing to do with the wound. Not for what he had done, not for the lives he had stolen, the lies he had spun, or the years he had spent hiding in the darkness. No, for leaving her here, like this. For making her cry.
She was saying something, but her words felt far away, slipping away as the world dimmed. Ichimaru’s vision blurred--
And then, finally, there was nothing.
.
.
.
Ichimaru didn’t expect much when he died.
Maybe some quiet. Maybe some peace. More than anything, he figured there wouldn’t be much left of him to ponder at all. The idea of the void was comforting. Simple.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find himself standing in a landscape of muted silver and gray.
The air was heavy, humming with faint energy, as though the world itself was holding its breath. Vast fields of white reeds swayed in a light breeze, their delicate stalks glinting faintly in the low, ethereal light. The sky above was an endless expanse of twilight, neither day nor night, its gray hues streaked with veins of pale blue, like cracks in a mirror.
For a moment, Ichimaru just stood there, hands tucked into his sleeves, his trademark smile faint but present. He recognized this place—it was the inner world of his Zanpakutō. But he wasn’t supposed to be here.
“Now, ain’t this something,” he murmured.
“You’ve been busy. Dying, it seems.”
The voice came from behind him, smooth and low, carrying the faintest echo. Ichimaru turned slowly, his smile widening as he caught sight of the figure emerging from the reeds.
Shinsō’s spirit was as he remembered—tall and thin, with long, silvery hair that seemed to shimmer like liquid mercury. His face was angular and his eyes were sharp slits of gold. He moved with an unnerving grace, his robes flowing like water around him, their fabric shifting between shades of white and gray.
“Shinsō,” Ichimaru greeted, inclining his head. “Long time no see.”
Shinsō regarded him with a faint, amused smirk. "Feels like it's been a while, don’t it? Can’t quite tell how long, though. Time’s a funny thing in places like this."
“Reckon it is. I’d say my time ran out proper, yeah?”
The Zanpakuto snorted. “Guess that depends on whether you thought the last act was a comedy or a tragedy."
“Oh? And here I thought it ended nice and poetic-like,” he mused. “Revenge, failure, a tragic demise…ain’t that how these things go?”
Shinsō raised a brow. “Is that so?”
“Sure is. Well, can’t say I ever planned on dyin’ graceful. Still, this ain’t quite what I expected.” His gaze flicked back to Shinsō, his grin widening just a fraction. “You wouldn’t happen to know why that is, would ya?”
Shinsō gave an easy shrug, though the movement was too fluid, too measured. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.” His smirk deepened, the sharp angles of his face catching the dim light. "Humor me, Gin—what exactly were you expectin’?"
"Figured I’d get my last laugh in, cut Aizen’s little fairytale short, and that’d be that." His grin didn’t falter, but his tone carried something quieter, something heavier. "Didn’t quite go like that."
"No, it didn’t."
“Came close.”
Shinsō hummed. “Close don’t count for much when your enemy’s still breathin’ and you ain’t.”
"A shame," Ichimaru mused. "But I s’pose that Kurosaki kid’ll handle the rest. He’s got that look about him.”
Shinsō regarded him for a moment, expression unreadable. "You really believe that?"
"Mm." Ichimaru closed his eyes for a beat, his smile never fading. "Aizen might be a monster, but he ain’t invincible. Everyone’s got a weakness, and the kid’s got a good head on his shoulders. He’ll finish the job.” He exhaled, long and slow. "Not my fight anymore, anyway."
“True…but endings are funny things. Some folks think they can rewrite ‘em.” The Zanpakuto took a step closer, his presence as effortless as a shadow stretching across the ground. His tone was smooth, casual even, but the weight in his words was undeniable. “You may not have signed up for this, Gin, but someone else’s pulling the strings now. Your time was up, but they’ve decided you still have a part to play.
Ichimaru stilled, the shift in his expression subtle—a slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his smile didn’t quite reach them. “That so? His tone remained light, but there was a quiet sharpness to it. “Guess I should be flattered.”
A beat of silence stretched between them. His fingers flexed at his sides before he finally exhaled a slow, measured breath. “Well,” he mused, his voice light and relaxed once more, “suppose I oughta see what kinda game they’re playin’, then.”
“Reckon you don’t got much of a choice.”
“Now, now. Don’t go makin’ it sound like I’m trapped. Ain’t my first time wrigglin’ outta a tight spot.”
Shinsō chuckled softly. “Guess we’ll see.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get the words out, the air around them seemed to ripple violently.
Ichimaru looked around, and from a distance in the haze of silver, a shape began to emerge. At first, it was nothing more than a dark blur, but as it drew closer, its form became clearer—and more grotesque. The creature was unlike anything Ichimaru had ever seen. Its body was a twisted amalgamation of shadow and bone, its limbs too long and its joints bending at unnatural angles. Its face—or what passed for one—was a blank, featureless void, save for a jagged maw that stretched across where its mouth should be.
“The hell is that?”
Shinsō’s golden eyes narrowed, his smirk fading. “Don’t know,” he said quietly. “But it don’t belong here.”
The creature let out a guttural screech, its voice a distorted cacophony that seemed to shake the very fabric of the inner world. In a flash, it lunged forward, limbs slicing through the air like scythes. Both Ichimaru and Shinsō moved in sync, leaping to opposite sides as the beast’s arm slammed into the ground where they had stood. The impact shattered the earth, sending shards of black crystal bursting up from beneath the silver reeds.
Ichimaru landed lightly, his feet barely touching the ground as he spun to face the creature. Shinsō was already moving, his silver hair trailing behind him like a comet as he darted in, hands twisting in a flurry of sharp strikes. He struck at the creature’s joint, aiming to shatter it—but the limb barely buckled.
The creature swung down with another limb, aiming to crush Shinsō beneath its weight. Shinsō slid beneath the strike, narrowly avoiding the blow, and slashed upward, a flash of silver light erupting from his fingertips. The strike connected, tearing a gash through the creature’s shadowy hide, but it barely reacted.
“Tough bastard,” Shinsō muttered, leaping back.
Ichimaru was already behind it, sword in hand, eyes gleaming with sharp, cunning intent. He darted forward, aiming a strike at the back of the creature’s knees, but the creature twisted at an unnatural angle, its torso bending around like a snake.
“What the—” Ichimaru grunted as a dark limb shot toward him, the speed almost blinding. He narrowly avoided it, dropping to the ground and rolling to the side. The limb sliced through the air, missing his head by inches.
The ground cracked and shattered beneath the impact, sending shards of dark crystal flying in every direction. Ichimaru shielded his eyes with one arm, teeth bared in a grimace.
“It’s strong,” Shinsō said, landing beside him.
“No kiddin’,” Ichimaru muttered, eyes locked on the creature as it loomed over them. “Guess we gotta be faster.”
They moved together, Ichimaru circling left, Shinsō circling right. The creature’s limbs lashed out in every direction, each strike accompanied by a pulse of dark, suffocating energy. Ichimaru weaved through the strikes, slipping through narrow gaps as the limbs sliced past him. Shinsō leapt high, aiming a kick at the creature’s head, but the thing twisted again, bending backward at an impossible angle to avoid the strike.
Before either of them could react, a third arm burst forth from its chest, a dark, clawed limb that hadn’t been there before. It lashed out toward Shinsō, the movement too fast, too sudden—
“Shinsō!” Ichimaru shouted, surging forward.
The Zanpakuto spirit braced himself, crossing his arms to block, and the limb collided with him in a deafening crash. There was no blood, no scream. Just an impact—a crushing, obliterating strike—and a blinding crack of spiritual energy.
Shinsō’s body shattered into slivers of light, like glass blown apart by a hammer. The shards hung suspended in the air for a brief, breathless moment, then scattered, dissolving into the wind.
“No—” Ichimaru breathed, his eyes wide. The world around him felt like it had been ripped open, everything suddenly too bright, too cold. His fingers-- that was holding a sword not mere moments ago-- closed around empty air.
⋯
Somewhere in Tokyo, a shop is nestled in the depths of a nondescript alley, a forgotten fragment of a bygone era. Lanterns and candles, exquisite glasswork lamps, and charming paper lanterns lined the wooden shelves inside, all etched with swirling, ancient patterns. Above the shop's faded signboard, where the words Akimitsu’s Light Shop hung with peeling letters, a small paper lantern swayed on a rusted hook. Its soft, golden glow never dimmed, even during the darkest storms. On the outside, the shop seemed like any other antique store—a quaint curiosity—but for those who truly saw, it was something far more enigmatic.
The shopkeeper, Shimizu Akimitsu, sat behind the counter, fingers idly tracing the patterns of a polished oil lamp. His black hair brushed his shoulders, framing a face marked by neither youth nor age. His kimono was simple, light forest green underneath a dark haori, and his eyes gleamed like polished obsidian—black pools that reflected everything and revealed nothing.
“The shop is restless,” he murmured.
His assistant, Ibuki Shiori, was halfway through sweeping the main floor when she felt it—Shiori gripped her broom tighter. She had learned to recognize the signs: the flickering lights, the chill that seeped into her bones, the faint hum of energy that made the hair on her arms stand on end. Someone—or something—was being drawn in.
“It’s not just restless,” Shiori said, her voice firm but cautious. “It’s calling someone. I can feel it.”
Akimitsu’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. He brushed a stray strand of his hair behind his ear and stood, the beads around his neck and the long tassel earrings swaying with the motion. Despite his relaxed movements, Shiori could sense the tension running through him.
“I wonder,” he said softly, “who the shop deems worthy of its attention tonight.”
“...Whoever it is, they’re in trouble.” Shiori frowned. “Last time it chose, we spent a week cleaning up the aftermath. Are you sure it’s wise to entertain another spirit?”
“Wise? Likely not.” Akimitsu chuckled dryly. “But necessary, I think. The shop does not summon without purpose.”
Shiori studied the shopkeeper’s expression before letting out a weary sigh. “Fine. But if this ends in another disaster, I’m withholding your tea for a month.”
Akimitsu turned to her, amusement dancing in his deep-set eyes. “Cruelty, thy name is Shiori.”
⋯
Back in the inner world, Ichimaru dodged another strike from the creature, his movements sharp despite the absence of his Zanpakutō. The attacks were relentless, its jagged limbs slicing through the reeds and leaving deep scars in the ground.
“You’re persistent,” Ichimaru drawled, his grin tight as he sidestepped another lunge. “I’ll give ya that.”
The creature lunged again, faster this time, its jagged limbs cutting through the air with unnatural precision. This time Ichimaru moved—not away, but through . He ducked beneath the swing, his movements sharp and clean. The reeds parted around him, and he twisted low, launching a strike with his bare hand, hoping to connect, to disrupt its motion.
It barely flinched. The attack didn’t land.
But Ichimaru saw something: he cut his own output in half, vanishing briefly into shunpo. It jerked its head, scanning the air, claws twitching. Like a bloodhound , he noted, reappearing several feet behind it. It reacted to spiritual pressure. Not just attacks—it read energy, traced it.
It wheeled around unnaturally fast, its back bending almost in reverse as it twisted toward him. Its limbs extended like spears, stabbing forward. He barely avoided them, rolling beneath the strike and leaping backward to regain space.
The creature’s maw opened, and something like a shriek—distorted, glitched—ripped through the inner world. The reeds flattened again. The sky above cracked slightly at the edges, a faint spiderweb fracture in the twilight.
“If you’re tryin’ to scare me, you’ll have to do better than that,” he taunted, his tone light and mocking. But Ichimaru couldn’t ignore the gnawing unease at the back of his mind. Shinsō’s absence wasn’t just inconvenient—it was unnatural. The bond between a Shinigami and their Zanpakutō wasn’t something that could simply be severed.
As the creature pressed its attack, Ichimaru began to shift his approach, using the landscape itself to his advantage. He darted between the swaying reeds, using their density to obscure his movements. The creature’s blank face twitched as it struggled to track him, its guttural growls growing louder with frustration.
Without warning, the creature stopped and planted one grotesque limb into the earth. The ground convulsed, and a shockwave of jagged, obsidian spikes burst from below, tearing through the reeds in a sweeping arc. Ichimaru’s eyes narrowed as he leapt backward, narrowly avoiding the ambush—but not unscathed. One of the shards grazed his shoulder, slicing through his sleeve and leaving a searing line of pain across his skin.
“Well now,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “got a few tricks up your sleeve after all.”
Ichimaru twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the swipe of its claws. He landed lightly on his feet, his smile unwavering despite the beads of sweat trailing down his temple.
“Can’t keep this up forever,” he murmured. As he spoke, he felt a pull— a strange, unseen force tugging at his very core- and glanced toward the horizon.
A glow had appeared in the distance, faint at first but growing steadily brighter. It was unlike anything he’d seen before—a soft, golden light that cut through the muted gray of the inner world.
“Now what’s that supposed to be?”
The creature hissed, its body twisting unnaturally as it prepared for another attack. But Ichimaru’s attention was fixed on the glow, his sharp eyes narrowing as he recalled Shinsō’s words: “You may not have signed up for this, Gin, but someone else’s pulling the strings now.” It didn’t take much for the silver-haired Shinigami to put the two together.
“Well,” he said softly, “guess there’s no point hangin’ ‘round here, is there?”
It lunged, but Ichimaru was already moving. He leapt toward the light, the force of his motion tearing through the reeds as the inner world began to dissolve around him, his connection unraveling like a frayed thread. He felt himself falling—not into darkness, but toward a flickering golden light that seemed to pierce through every fiber of his being.
For a brief moment, he saw his Zanpakutō spirit, his golden eyes filled with an uncharacteristic mix of frustration and something almost like sadness.
“Shinsō!” he called out, his voice echoing into the void.
“Remember, Gin,” Shinsō’s voice echoed faintly. “There’s more blood on your hands than you’ve washed away. The threads of your choices are still tangled.”
And then everything went dark.
⋯
The lantern above the shop flared one last time, then dimmed. Inside, Akimitsu turned toward the doorway, his obsidian eyes gleaming.
“He’s here,” he said quietly.
Shiori frowned. “Who?”
“The soul bound to a blade,” Akimitsu replied, stepping forward as a heavy thud echoed through the alley outside. “And the debts that shadow him still.”