Bleach: Kishou Arima

Sigh the downfall has begun...

Honestly I'm not surprised anymore it happens to all my stpries its fucking frustrating.

Maybe i care too much about the numbers..

---

In the Human World..

Kisuke Urahara sat in silence, the dim candlelight casting flickering shadows across his face.

His usually sharp, calculating features were haggard, weighed down by exhaustion and grief.

Tessai's funeral had been earlier that day.

The scent of burning incense still clung faintly to his clothes, a haunting reminder of yet another loss.

The room was quiet now, save for the occasional murmur of the healed Visored nearby.

Their words were muted, distant, as if spoken from another world.

Kisuke didn't join their conversation; he couldn't.

His mind was elsewhere, trapped in the overwhelming weight of everything that had transpired.

Beside him rested Benihime.

The blade, once radiant and alive with power, now lay dull and lifeless, its spirit nearly erased from existence.

Kisuke's hand hovered over the Zanpakutō's hilt, his fingers trembling slightly.

He knew why this had happened—why Benihime had been so gravely damaged.

It wasn't just Arima , though his monstrous reiatsu had certainly played a role.

No, it was the blade he wielded: IXA, the Blade of Boundary.

IXA's origins were shrouded in mystery, but its nature was something he learned of one time when deep in researching old records of the yoruichi clan.

Once a tool for erecting shielding kido, the artifact had merged with the essence of a Hollow at some unknown point in history.

This unholy fusion had transformed it into something far more sinister.

The blade's very essence was conceptual, embodying the property of "boundary."

It could create divides that were absolute, wounds that were not merely physical but ingrained into the fabric of existence itself.

Kisuke's fingers clenched involuntarily as he remembered the moment IXA struck Benihime.

Even though Arima hadn't intentionally activated any of the blade's abilities, its mere nature had been enough to cause irreparable harm.

The wound it left was not just a cut but a severance, a decree etched into reality: this piece shall forever remain separate.

It was why Benihime was in this state now—why her spirit had retreated so deeply into incoherence that Kisuke could barely sense her.

IXA had not just damaged her; it had nearly erased her, declaring to the world that her connection to Kisuke was no longer whole.

The realization had hit him like a sledgehammer.

He had spent hours, days, trying to stabilize her, pouring every ounce of his intellect and reiatsu into the effort.

But the scars left by IXA were unlike anything he had encountered before.

It was as if his soul itself had been split, fissures running through his inner world.

The corrosive remnants of Arima's reiatsu still lingered there, like acid slowly eating away at the edges of his Zanpakutō's existence.

Kisuke closed his eyes, his head dipping forward.

The exhaustion was more than physical.

It was also filled with unrelenting despair that threatened to consume him.

Nearby, the Visored spoke in hushed tones, their voices tinged with unease.

"How's Benihime?" Shinji finally asked, breaking the oppressive silence.

Kisuke opened his eyes but didn't look up.

His voice was flat, devoid of its usual spark. "She's... alive," he said after a long pause.

The word felt like a bitter lie. "But barely. IXA's nature—it's not something I can undo. Not entirely."

The room fell silent again.

Hiyori muttered something under her breath, cursing Arima, cursing IXA, but Kisuke barely registered it.

His thoughts were elsewhere, trapped in the haunting image of Benihime's spirit, flickering and faint like a candle on the verge of being snuffed out.

"You should rest," Lisa said softly, though even she knew the suggestion was futile.

Kisuke shook his head, his hand tightening around Benihime's hilt.

"Rest?" he echoed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Tessai is dead. Yoruichi is gone. Benihime is... broken."

His voice cracked slightly on the last word, but he quickly swallowed the emotion, his face hardening.

For a moment, no one spoke.

The weight of Kisuke's despair hung heavy in the air, a suffocating presence that none of them knew how to address.

Finally, Kisuke stood, his movements slow and deliberate.

He looked down at Benihime, his expression unreadable. "I'll fix this," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "I don't care how long it takes, or what I have to do. I'll fix her. And then..."

He trailed off, his gaze distant. The others didn't press him.

They didn't need to.

They knew what he meant.

For a man like Kisuke Urahara, hatred was a foreign language, an uncharted land he had never cared to visit.

He was the man who smiled through betrayal, who forgave when others would curse, who sought solutions where others sought vengeance.

But tonight, a new emotion stirred in the depths of his soul—a shadow that crept along the edges of his once-boundless empathy.

It began as a flicker, faint and fleeting, like the first ember in a forest destined to burn.

A single thought—sharp, venomous, and entirely unlike him—pierced the fog of his exhaustion.

He did this.

Arima's face flashed in his mind, cold and indifferent, etched into his memory.

The White Reaper, had not just destroyed Tessai, not just wounded Yoruichi and shattered Benihime; he had torn apart something far deeper, something Kisuke could not articulate.

And for the first time in his long, calculated life, Kisuke felt hatred—not the fleeting irritation of a chess player outmaneuvered, nor the frustration of a scientist thwarted by a problem too complex to solve.

No, this was something raw, and deeply human.

It was as though a seed had been planted in the soil of his grief, watered by his despair and nurtured by his guilt.

He could feel it, small and insidious, taking root in the cracks of his broken heart.

It whispered to him, soft and seductive, weaving its way through his thoughts like smoke.

Why do you let this stand? Why do you accept this? Why do you, who have always sought answers, allow such devastation without retribution?

Kisuke's hand tightened around Benihime's hilt.

His knuckles turned white, his nails biting into his palm.

He stared at the Zanpakutō, dull and lifeless in his grasp, and felt a pang of something unfamiliar—something cruel.

The man who had always prided himself on his restraint, his ability to see beyond the immediate, now found himself imagining a world where Arima's cold, unyielding presence was no more.

A world where the White Reaper's blade was shattered, his reiatsu extinguished.

It was a fleeting thought, a momentary lapse.

But it was enough.

The ember caught, its light flickering in the dark corners of Kisuke's mind.

He could feel it growing, small but steady, a flare of hatered waiting to consume him.

And in that moment, Kisuke knew.

The man who had once forgiven all could not forgive this.

The seed of hatred was planted, and though it was small now, he could already feel its roots digging deep.

It would grow, inevitability, into something vast and terrible.

A tree of vengeance that would cast a long, unshakable shadow over everything he did from this moment forward.

And Kisuke Urahara, who had always been a man of reason, a man of clever schemes and careful plans, found himself thinking of nothing but the moment when that shadow would finally fall on Arima.

---

The warm glow of lanterns cast soft shadows across Jushiro Ukitake's quarters, their gentle flicker a stark contrast to the quiet tension lingering in the air.

The usually serene room was bustling tonight—a rare gathering that felt both celebratory and precarious.

Jushiro had insisted on hosting a dinner, his ever-gracious demeanor unshaken even by the formidable guest seated at the low table.

Arima sat with his usual impenetrable calm, his silver hair catching the light like a blade's edge.

Beside him was Yachiru, her form as serene as ever.

She rested a hand on his ownunder the table, her expression soft, though her sharp eyes never missed the faint unease in the room.

Across from them, Shunsui Kyōraku slouched at the table, sulking like a child denied his favorite toy.

His wide-brimmed hat sat discarded nearby, and his eyes darted to the untouched bottle of sake on a tray, tantalizingly close but utterly out of reach.

"I still can't believe you didn't tell me, Jushiro," Kyōraku grumbled, breaking the silence with a pout. "I could've... prepared myself."

Jushiro chuckled softly, his pale features brightened by the warmth of the moment. "Prepared yourself? For dinner? Come now, Shunsui, you're overreacting."

Kyōraku shot him a pointed glare before glancing at Arima, who sat in perfect silence, his presence as weighty as a mountain. "It's not the dinner I needed preparation for," he muttered under his breath, earning a sharp glance from Yachiru.

Arima, however, seemed oblivious—or perhaps indifferent—to the tension.

He reached for his cup of tea, the soft clink of porcelain the only sound as he took a slow sip.

His movements were measured, precise, exuding an aura of absolute control.

"You sulking like this is unbecoming, Kyōraku chan," Yachiru said finally, her voice gentle but firm."Surely, even you can behave yourself for one evening."

Kyōraku sighed dramatically, waving a hand in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. No sake, no jokes, just... sitting quietly like a good boy."

"Good," Arima said, his voice low and even, carrying a weight that silenced the room instantly. "Alcohol is a waste of tastebuds..."

Kyōraku winced, leaning back with a muttered, "Of course you'd think so."

Jushiro, ever the mediator, smiled warmly and gestured to the spread of food before them. "Let's not argue, shall we? Tonight is a celebration, after all. Captain Unohan, congratulations again. It's wonderful news."

"Thank you, Jushiro," Yachiru replied with a nod, her voice carrying genuine warmth. She glanced at Arima, her expression softening. "It's rare for us to have moments like this. I'm glad we could come."

Arima said nothing, but the faintest flicker of something—gratitude, perhaps—passed through his sharp eyes.

He set down his tea, his gaze sweeping over the table.

Kyōraku watched him warily, finally breaking the silence again. "So, Arima-san," he said cautiously, "what does someone like you do to... relax? Surely even the White Reaper has hobbies."

Arima didn't immediately answer. His sharp, piercing gaze settled on Shunsui, who shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his stare.

In truth, Arima thought, he would rather be struck down where he sat than admit to something so personal as his hobbies.

He had worked tirelessly to cultivate the image he now held—a symbol of unyielding strength and indomitable will.

To admit to the trivial pursuits he occasionally indulged in would be a betrayal of that image.

He kept his silence, letting the question hang in the air.

Shunsui's lips twitched into a nervous smile. "No answer, huh? I figured." He sighed, leaning back.

"You know, Arima-san, if I didn't know better, I'd say you're just avoiding the question."

Yachiru's lips curved ever so slightly, the faintest trace of amusement flickering in her eyes. "Perhaps it's best you don't know, Kyōraku," she said calmly. "Arima isn't exactly one to share unnecessary details."

Jushiro chuckled softly, sensing the tension but choosing to smooth it over with his usual diplomacy. "Now, now, Shunsui. Let's not pry into things Arima-san clearly prefers to keep to himself. Tonight is about celebration, not interrogation."

Shunsui leaned toward his friend, his voice dropping to a mock whisper. "You say that, Ukitake-san, but I'd bet a month's worth of sake that he has some hidden pastime. Maybe knitting? Cooking? Who knows."

Arima's expression didn't change, but inwardly, he felt the faintest flicker of irritation.

He would never dignify such nonsense with a response, not when he had built his reputation brick by unassailable brick.

"It is irrelevant," Arima said finally, his voice low and even, with an edge that silenced further speculation. "Idle pursuits serve no purpose to me."

Shunsui raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning despite himself. "Of course, of course. You're all business, as expected."

"Kyōraku," Yachiru interjected smoothly, her tone polite yet chilling as she jumped to defend her lover. "perhaps we can discuss something more fitting for the occasion?"

Shunsui sighed theatrically. "Fine, fine. I'll behave, Yachiru-san."

=========================

Stones and Reviews please