Bleach: Kishou Arima

If we reach 500 powerstones I'll release a bonus chapter.

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The world was warm.

Arima stirred, blinking slowly as the dim morning light filtered through the wooden walls.

The familiar scent of sex and traces of Yachiru's perfume surrounded him, grounding him in the present.

His body was relaxed, his mind adrift in the peaceful haze of waking—until pain struck like a vice gripping his skull.

A sharp, stabbing sensation.

His breath hitched.

The dull throbbing in his temples escalated rapidly, sending jolts of discomfort down his spine.

Frowning, he carefully untangled himself from Yachiru, mindful of her steady breathing.

Their bare bodies were still entwined under the thick blanket, evidence of last night's intimacy lingering in the air.

But now was not the time to dwell on that.

With slow, measured movements, he pulled himself out of bed, wrapping a loose yukata around himself.

His fingers pressed against his forehead, trying to soothe the growing ache as he stepped out of the room.

The wooden floor was cool beneath his feet as he made his way to the bathroom.

Each step felt heavier, his vision slightly hazy, like a veil had been draped over his senses.

Then—he felt it.

A wetness.

Something warm sliding down from his nose.

Something thick trailing from his ears.

He stopped walking.

Bringing a hand to his face, his fingertips brushed against the unmistakable sensation of liquid.

He pulled them away and saw it.

Black blood.

Arima exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing at the sight.

His reflection in the mirror met his gaze, eerily calm despite the obsidian liquid trailing down his face.

It clung to his skin in sluggish rivulets, stark against his pale complexion.

His expression remained impassive.

"…Oh," he murmured, tilting his head slightly.

The pain throbbed again, a brutal reminder that something was wrong.

"Am I having a brain hemorrhage?"

His voice was quiet, almost amused, as if the notion was nothing more than an idle curiosity.

Pain pulsed behind his eyes like a hammer striking against his skull.

Arima staggered, his left leg giving out beneath him without warning.

His vision blurred, his once-sharp irises turning hollowlike different from the silver he had taken to over the years.

The whites of his eyes vanished entirely, leaving only those eerie golden voids behind.

"Oh, this is bad..."

He murmured the words calmly, detached from the agony spreading through his nerves.

His body was failing, but his mind remained untouched, unwavering.

He forced himself to ignore the warning signs, to push past the limitations of flesh.

Summoning his will, he flexed his reiatsu through his failing limbs, channeling it the way a Quincy would—forcing the energy into his veins, igniting them like molten circuits beneath his skin.

A web of crimson veins pulsed across his body, unnatural and vivid.

His leg steadied.

The blood flow slowed.

The pain, however, did not subside—it worsened, festering like a growing rot.

He could feel his insides twisting, something deep within him unraveling.

Arima wiped the black blood from his face, ignoring the tremor in his hands.

His fingers smeared the dark liquid away, but the streaks of pain remained, clawing at his skull.

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Things are getting worse faster than expected... What could be the reason?"

The empty room did not answer.

But someone else did.

Soft footsteps approached. A presence warm and familiar.

Eto.

She stepped into the dimly lit space, her sharp green eyes darkened with concern.

Without hesitation, she closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him, her embrace firm yet fragile, as if afraid he would slip away.

She didn't ask what was wrong.

She didn't demand explanations. She simply held him, pressing her forehead against his shoulder, feeling the tremors he tried to hide.

In a voice laced with sorrow, she whispered,

"I've told you many times... Fighting or doing anything taxing only makes you stronger. "

"Your talent is borderline conceptual—to the point where even the slightest inconvenience forces your strength to frow, pushing you past limits at the cost of your body."

(Soul body in this case)

Her grip tightened.

"I never wanted you to be strong...."

Her words...

Arima did not have a response to them.

Arima only stared intently at his reflection.

His golden eyes, were now webbed with vivid red veins, mirroring the ones pulsing along his body.

His gaze didn't waver.

He knew the reason.

He had always known.

There was a reason he lent out 10% of his power.

A reason he kept his Zanpakutō in a dormant state.

He exhaled slowly, voice barely above a whisper.

"Well… I need to live at least for a hundred more years. After that, my death is of no concern. I might hurt her,—"

The words died in his throat.

Something in him refused to say it.

Silence settled like a heavy weight in his chest.

With a flex of his hand, the black blood vanished, dissipating into nothingness.

He turned on the tap, letting cold water wash over his hands, before splashing it over his face.

The icy sensation did little to dull the ache in his skull.

Grabbing a towel, he wiped his face clean, his movements methodical —like someone who had done this far too many times before.

A memory surfaced—distant yet vivid, rising like a mirage in the haze of his throbbing mind.

He was, a toddler.

Barely two years old, yet his mind had always been awake, aware—a consequence of reincarnation.

From the moment he was born, he had understood.

He had seen. He had known.

It was Hueco Mundo, the endless desert of white sand stretching into the void of eternity.

He had taken his first step onto the sand, a moment that should have been nothing more than a milestone of infancy.

But then—

A gust of wind blew, lifting the fine grains into the air. Some slipped into his eyes.

Pain.Unimaginable pain.

His body reacted violently, instinctively. His reiatsu flared in self-defense, a raw, unrefined power surging forth.

And in that instant, his eyes burned away, consumed by the awakening of something new.

The Hollow's Sight.

A gift.

A curse.

He had screamed, a child's wail twisting into something far too raw for a mere infant.

The agony was all-consuming, a fire licking through his skull, hollowing him out from the inside.

But through the haze of pain, he remembered one thing.

His father.

The man had been watching. Silent. Still.

His golden eyes, bore into him—not with shock, not with panic, but with an understanding that the mind of a child could not yet grasp.

And then, without a word, he had stepped forward, picking Arima up in his arms.

Strong. Warm. Comforting.

He had held him close, cradling him against his chest, letting him cry until the pain dulled into a throbbing ache.

At that time, Arima hadn't noticed it.

Hadn't seen the flash of sadness in his father's gaze.

Hadn't known that, in that moment, his father had already seen his fate.

Had already known.

It was very late when Arima understood that complicated gaze...

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The air was still.

The vast emptiness of Hueco Mundo stretched endlessly, yet this place stood apart from the hollow wasteland. Hidden, protected—untouched by time.

Arima sat alone.

The ruins of his childhood home lay around him, preserved within a kido so powerful that no Hollow could ever breach it.

Yet even the protective barrier couldn't erase the scars of the past.

The walls were still riddled with damage—marks of a battle long since fought.

A battle that had taken his father.

His eyes drifted over the ruins, tracing the remnants of destruction left behind by that cowardly clash.

He had never been here since that day, never returned to this place where his father had made his final stand.

Even now, after all these years, the echoes of that battle still resonated in the air.

His father had never been like him—not a warrior, not a monster.

A pacifist by nature, strong yet unwilling to dominate.

He had wielded his power as a guardian, never as a conqueror.

But Ichibei…

Arima's lips curled slightly, a shadow of disdain flickering across his face.

That man—that coward—had not come alone.

He had known he could not face his father by himself. So he had brought the other clans with him.

An alliance of fear.

An execution masked as justice.

Arima clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose.

No.

He would not dwell on it.

He had not come here for vengeance.

He jad abandoned it even if temporarily.

He shook his head, dispelling the thoughts that threatened to cloud his mind.

This place held more than war and loss.

It held memories.

It held love.

His gaze softened as he looked down at the object in his hands.

A wooden sword.

A simple thing. Small, unassuming—but precious.

He held it with the utmost care, as if afraid he might break it, his fingers brushing against the worn edges.

A sad smile tugged at his lips.

This had been his first sword. His father had carved it for him by hand.

He could still remember the warmth in those hands, the patient voice that had guided him, the quiet laughter that had filled this very space.

Arima let himself remember.

Not the battle.

Not the loss.

But the love.

His gaze lifted to the sky—the one thing different in this place.

Unlike the rest of Hueco Mundo's eternal night, here, there was light.

A soft glow, subtle but unmistakable, illuminating the ruins.

His voice was barely above a whisper, carried away by the silent wind.

"We'll meet again."

His decision had been made.

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I may not be gege but there's a reason the tag of tragedy is there..

Stones and Reviews please