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In the captain's office of the 10th Division, Moyu sat in silence, eyes resting on the tea before him, a familiar ritual he'd seen too many times to count. If there were a ranking for most frequently summoned captains, he'd probably top the list lately, courtesy of Yamamoto Genryūsai. Not long after, the door slid open and the old man entered, his face unreadable as he refilled both cups and took his usual seat across the table.
"Apologies," Genryūsai said, his voice oddly subdued. "The old man was delayed by trifles." The seriousness in his tone was out of place, almost unsettling. Moyu raised an eyebrow, immediately sensing something off. That soft, measured cadence wasn't like the old man at all. Yamamoto had never been a gentle figure—if anything, his sharpness defined him. This sudden shift reminded Moyu of when strict parents suddenly act kind, smiling in a way that makes your skin crawl. When they start looking at you like that, smart people start writing their suicide notes.
"Have you made any arrangements for Hirako Shinji?" the old man asked.
"Not particularly," Moyu replied without hesitation. "Far as I can tell, Seireitei hasn't changed much in how it handles things these last hundred years. If it's up to me, I'll have Hirako take on part of my division's workload." He sipped his tea and added with dry sincerity, "Rangiku's becoming more trouble than she's worth."
It wasn't exaggeration. Every time he asked Matsumoto Rangiku to handle paperwork, she pulled a little black notebook from her uniform, scribbled something down furiously, and gave him a calculating stare. He was convinced she was recording every injustice—and planning revenge.
Genryūsai choked slightly on his tea. Among all captains, none were quite as audacious as Moyu. Even Shiba Isshin, the notoriously lazy former captain of Squad 10, knew when to put on a serious face. But Moyu, stone-faced, said these things as if they were common sense. If anyone else had dared speak that way in front of Genryūsai, they'd have been reduced to ash.
"So, your reason for bringing Hirako back…" the old man's eyes narrowed, voice harder now. "Was it just to help with desk work?"
"Of course," Moyu answered plainly. "What else? Hirako Shinji's ideal for it."
Combat? Moyu could handle that himself—he was no slouch in a fight. But if Hirako wasn't swinging a sword, he might as well swing a pen. The deeper motive, however—Moyu kept to himself. Aizen's plans had clearly advanced. The creation of the Second Generation's artificial white confirmed as much. If that was possible, then what wasn't? And without hard evidence, Aizen couldn't be condemned. Exposing that truth now would only create more chaos, and by the time the Visoreds became known, Aizen would've already accounted for every possible outcome. Hirako's return was just one piece of a larger contingency.
"You really trust him that much?" Genryūsai asked, finally cutting to the heart of it. If Hirako lost control, the devastation could rival—or even surpass—what Kuchiki Kōga once wrought. His control over Bankai alone made him a dangerous unknown.
"Absolutely," Moyu replied, voice firm and unshaken. "I'll personally guarantee no twisted version of justice ever surfaces in Seireitei again."
Genryūsai's eyes studied him, the steel behind them softening just slightly. "Very well," he said at last. "Come with me."
Moyu blinked. "Where to?"
"The Underground Chamber."
—
Led by the head captain, Moyu followed him deep into Seireitei's core—toward the most guarded structure in Soul Society: the Underground Chamber, seat of the Central 46. Along the corridor, dozens of black-shihakushō Shinigami patrolled with synchronized precision. Even during shift changes, no one dared slack; such was the decree of Central 46, and it fell to Squad 7 to enforce it. As protectors of the Inner Court, they stood as both shield and gatekeeper to the First Division and its judicial overseers.
They passed layer after layer of reinforced Bakudō seals and surveillance spells—woven jointly by the Kido Corps and the Research Bureau—until, finally, they reached the chamber itself.
The architecture resembled a sunken Roman coliseum—monolithic, suffocating, designed to dominate. At the summit sat the members of Central 46: forty sages, six judges, all obscured behind lacquered wooden panels, their faces shrouded in shadow and silence.
"Captain Yamamoto. Captain Moyu." The voice that greeted them was brittle and cold, devoid of warmth or recognition. "Have you come to report?"
Genryūsai met the silence head-on. "There's been a development regarding the Hollowfication incident from a century ago," he began. "Not long ago, Captain Moyu brought Hirako Shinji back to the Soul Society."
A moment passed—and then, without warning, voices surged.
"No discussion necessary. He should be eliminated like any other Hollow."
"A Shinigami tainted by Hollow power is a threat."
"They must be purged before they destabilize everything."
Their judgment fell swift and absolute. Moyu's expression didn't shift, but his thoughts did. To these cloaked judges, the Gotei 13 was just a labor force. They made laws, passed judgment, and treated Shinigami lives like numbers on a ledger. In their eyes, tools didn't deserve rights.
What began as curiosity turned to contempt, then hardened into cold hatred. This system, already rotting, had become obsolete. For a moment, he found himself almost hoping Aizen succeeded—Central 46 needed more than reform. It needed erasure.
"Let the old man finish," Genryūsai interrupted, voice sharp enough to silence the council. "Hirako Shinji has shown no signs of Hollowfication. Even during battle with Captain Moyu, he did not release any Hollow powers. Therefore, I believe he's stable. At the upcoming captains' meeting, most have already agreed to his return. I propose reinstating his Shinigami status under Captain Moyu's supervision."
One of the judges barked, "Out of the question! A Hollow-infected Shinigami cannot be allowed within Seireitei. Captain Yamamoto, your recent behavior borders on defiance!"
Genryūsai remained unmoved, long since desensitized to their theatrics. Moyu, on the other hand, was barely restraining himself. He imagined releasing a barrage of Kidō across the chamber—if that didn't work, a Flying Dragon Strike would suffice. These creatures weren't Shinigami. They wore the robes, yes, but they were hollow inside—far more so than the enemies they condemned.
Moyu knew he wasn't like other Shinigami. But then, neither were they. The difference was principle. And on that front, they were enemies.
"Is Captain Kuchiki Moyu responsible for this decision?" asked a voice from the highest seat.
"Yes," Genryūsai replied calmly. "He is here as my witness."
Dozens of masked gazes turned toward him, sharp and heavy. He felt their weight like steel pressing against his ribs. But after a long pause, those stares began to shift away.
"The old man understands," the judge finally said. "This matter will be discussed further."
Moyu blinked. That tone—it was less hostile. Was it possible that his reputation carried enough weight to make them hesitate?
"Three days from now," the voice continued, "the council will deliver its decision."
Silence reclaimed the chamber. Genryūsai motioned to Moyu, and the two left in unspoken agreement.
Once outside, the head captain finally spoke. "Those six judges are elders from the Four Noble Houses. They've served since the foundation of Central 46. One of them is from the Kuchiki clan. They've grown self-righteous. Like the old man... they've begun to decay."
Adjusting his haori, he continued toward the outer court, cane tapping softly against the stone. Watching him leave, Moyu understood something had changed. Even the most rigid man in Soul Society was beginning to bend.
—
Upon returning to the 10th Division Headquarters, Moyu expected calm. Instead, he found chaos waiting.
Kneeling on the tatami mat was a slim figure with long black braids, a crimson ring around her neck, and a pale, expressionless face that looked sculpted from porcelain. Her modified shihakushō—short skirt, cropped kimono—exposed elegant, fair legs. Nemu Kurotsuchi, acting captain of Squad 12, sat silently. Across from her, Rangiku stared in disbelief—losing the mental war, clearly.
Then, chaos arrived through the ceiling.
"Moyu!" came the shout, just before a blur of motion dropped from above. Instinctively, he raised his Reiatsu.
Boom.
Something struck his chest hard enough to rattle his lungs.
"Nilu missed you so much!" came the delighted voice, arms wrapping around him with uncontainable joy. Her grin was wide and innocent, her proximity absolute.
"Oof... that's some greeting." Moyu rubbed his chest, half-laughing, half-winded. Even suppressed, Nilu's strength as a Vasto Lorde was monstrous. A lesser Shinigami might've died from that hug.
"Ya da ya da…" Shinji lounged nearby, resting his chin on his hand with theatrical weariness. "Captain Moyu's life sure is something. One... two... three. Looks like there are already three stunning women in love with you. Tsk tsk..."
Before Moyu could retort, Rangiku's head snapped toward Shinji, eyes blazing. "Which eye of yours saw that?!"
Shinji grinned. "Both, of course. If you didn't like him, why would you keep staring? And you look just like a tigress guarding her cub."
Rangiku didn't answer. She simply drew her Zanpakutō.
"Dangerous woman!" Shinji shouted, leaping for the door. "Captain! I bought you some time!"
As the two vanished in a blur of pursuit, Moyu stood in place, unmoving. His expression remained unreadable—but deep down, a quiet premonition stirred.
Somehow, he had a very bad feeling.
His future might not be as peaceful as he'd hoped.
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