A pure-white haori with a black shihakushō beneath.Long jet-black hair tied into a high ponytail, two thin locks hanging beside his cheeks like whiskers. His pale face showed not a ripple of emotion.
Those obsidian-black eyes were bottomless—an empty depth that made it seem as though nothing in the world could possibly interest him.
That was the first impression Kisaragi Akira had of the "mosaic spirit" who suddenly materialized in their cramped temporary dorm room.
He didn't know the man.But the haori made his identity unmistakable.
Embroidered across the back, in bold brush strokes:
"十一" — Eleven.
Eleventh Division Captain.The Eighth-Generation Kenpachi.
Shijō Sōya.
"Among this year's students at Shinō Spiritual Arts Academy," the man said calmly, his tone flat and indifferent, as if merely stating the weather, "you and he are among the few with acceptable potential."
"Leave the Academy as soon as you can. Staying here will only waste your talent."
"If you want to become real Shinigami, then fulfill your rightful duty—"
"Slay every Hollow in existence."
Akira scratched his head, genuinely confused.
"Uh… but I never said I wanted to become a Shinigami."
He still didn't understand why the Eleventh Division Captain had appeared here out of nowhere.But the instant Sōya arrived, that same murderous danger he sensed earlier in the Shinjōji District surged back, cold and sharp, gripping his spine.
Which was enough for Akira to conclude one thing:
This man was deeply involved in the massacre at the Rukongai district.
So, no—his impression of Shijō Sōya wasn't good.Honestly, it wasn't even as good as when he first met Aizen.
Sōya paused mid-sentence, unable to find the proper words.It was his first time meeting a student who didn't aspire to become a Shinigami.
"What's so good about being a Shinigami?" Akira said with a dismissive click of his tongue. "You're controlled by your superiors, responsible for your subordinates, and half the time you're taking orders from some incompetent fossil who only knows how to wave a title around."
"Unless I get to be a captain, maybe that'd be worth considering."
Sōya fell silent.
So it wasn't that he wasn't interested in being a Shinigami—He simply wasn't interested in being ordinary.
Beside him, Aizen's eyes reflected a faint light, subtle waves of reiatsu swirling around him, eerie and sharp.From the moment Sōya appeared, Aizen had already entered full combat readiness.
Just like Akira, he didn't know why this man came here, but from his entrance alone, it was obviously not for anything good.
Otherwise, why would a captain break into the male dormitory in the middle of the night?
Just as Aizen prepared to act, a calm voice cut through the tension.
"Put away your reiatsu, Aizen Sōsuke."
Sōya didn't even turn around.
"I acknowledge your talent. But you haven't grown into it yet."
"With your current strength, you cannot stop me from doing anything."
Aizen's heart dropped.His brows tightened.
This man… seemed to understand him far too well.
"So, Captain Shijō," Akira said with a frown, "you snuck into the men's dorm just to lecture us about Shinigami duty? If that's all—"
"No."
Sōya cut him off sharply, afraid the conversation would drift into chaos again.
"Everyone has their own path. I have no right to interfere."
"I came because I have a request."
Both Akira and Aizen froze.
A captain… requesting something from academy students?
"And regarding this matter—"
His gaze turned icy.
The room's temperature plummeted instantly.Even the reishi in the air stopped moving, falling into a chilling stillness.
"I require the two of you to keep it secret."
Immediately, Akira's danger instinct shrieked again—piercing, violent, as if screaming that one wrong move would erase them from existence.
"Of course," Akira answered instantly.
Between breaking a rule and staying alive, the choice wasn't even a debate.
Aizen stared at him, unable to comprehend where this was going.He opened his mouth—but Akira was already giving him frantic, desperate winks.
Aizen hesitated, then closed his mouth.
Because he knew Akira well.If there was even the slightest chance of resistance, Akira would've already hit Shijō Sōya with a flying "crow-slap."
For him to fold this quickly…
That said everything.
"Since that's settled, I'll take my leave."
From beginning to end, Sōya's expression barely shifted—like a perfectly calibrated machine.
Only when speaking to Akira did a faint, nearly imperceptible change cross his face.
"Tomorrow.1:00 a.m."
He left his final words behind.
"I'll be waiting at the Academy's north gate."
"Of course… Akira may come alone."
The white silhouette blurred again, dissolving into particles of reishi that scattered into the air until his presence vanished completely.
With Sōya gone, the suppressed reishi in the room revived, drifting freely once more.The frozen chill also slowly retreated.
Akira and Aizen exchanged a long, silent look—both feeling, for the first time, just how powerless they currently were.
"What do you plan to do?"Aizen finally broke the silence.
Akira stretched his numb legs, wincing.
"What else can I do?"
"That old guy kills without blinking. If I don't go, I'm dead."
"Also—you don't need to come."
Aizen frowned.
Akira grinned.
"I don't know what he wants, but if I can't pull it off, I might not come back."
"And if you go with me, that just means one extra corpse under his blade."
"If that happens, neither your dream nor my dream will ever happen."
Aizen fell silent.
After a moment, he whispered:
"Do you not fear death at all?"
"What nonsense is that?"Akira stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
"Do I look like someone who isn't afraid of dying?"
"If I had a choice, the one lying here right now wouldn't be me—it'd be that stupid captain with the whisker-hair."
"Enough with the pointless talk."
"If I don't come back, just help look after Yagane Shrine for me."
"Alright. Good night."
"…Akira…"
The room fell silent again.
Soon, soft rhythmic breathing rose from Akira's bed—he had already fallen asleep.
Under the moonlight,Aizen leaned against the wall beside his bed.
The pale glow poured through the window, washing over his face—and illuminating the deep, wordless contemplation in his eyes.