Chapter 12: Shadows of the Hollow Moon
Hueco Mundo
Eternal moonlight bathed the white sands in silver, casting long shadows from crystalline formations that jutted from the desert like broken teeth. The air itself seemed to breathe—a slow, hypnotic pulse that made the very atmosphere shimmer with spiritual pressure. In the distance, Las Noches rose like a monument to emptiness, its pale walls reflecting the hollow moon above.
Through this desolate beauty, Demiurge walked alone.
His footsteps whispered across the sand, each grain catching the light like scattered diamonds. The silence here was absolute, save for the distant echo of his thoughts. This realm spoke to something deep within him—the aesthetic perfection of the void, the mathematical precision of despair.
Such elegant emptiness... Lord Sephiroth's chosen sanctuary reflects his divine nature perfectly.
But it wasn't beauty that drew him here tonight. It was potential.
The Arrancar moved through these sands like living weapons—Hollows perfected, their masks shattered to reveal faces both beautiful and terrible. Unlike crude Menos, these were artists of destruction, each one a masterpiece of controlled power. They could be shaped, directed, and their loyalty carved from the very essence of their rebirth.
An army born from despair itself... with no mortal weaknesses to exploit.
Yet Sephiroth restrained himself. He could flood this world with Arrancar, reshape reality with a gesture—but where was the artistry in overwhelming force? True gods played chess with the universe itself, savoring each move, each sacrifice. Demiurge's lips curved slightly. Such divine patience... truly, a perfect being's approach to conquest.
Tonight, however, his purpose split between reverence and... concern.
Albedo.
She had vanished from her usual haunts, and every instinct told him where she'd gone.
The corridor to Lord Sephiroth's chambers stretched endlessly ahead, white stone polished to mirror perfection. Demiurge's reflection followed him, distorted, fragmented, multiplied into infinity. The silence here pressed against his ears like cotton.
Then he heard it.
A soft gasp, breathy and desperate, floated down from the spiral staircase above. The sound was punctuated by the whisper of silk against stone, rhythmic and intimate. Demiurge paused, his tail twitching once before falling still.
Of course.
Each step upward carried him deeper into territory he'd rather avoid. The air grew warmer, heavy with the scent of jasmine and something darker—obsession made manifest.
At the chamber's threshold, she came into view.
Albedo knelt beside the crystalline dais where Sephiroth lay in suspended animation. Her wings draped around them both like a dark curtain, her golden hair spilling across his silver armor. Her movements were slow, reverent, pressing herself against the cold metal as if her warmth could kindle life within it.
The moonlight streaming through the chamber's windows turned them both ethereal—a tableau of worship frozen in time.
"Mmm..." she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Soon, my beloved... soon you'll wake to find me here..."
Demiurge cleared his throat—a sound like breaking glass in the sacred silence.
Her head turned with feline grace, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded with something between devotion and madness. "Oh... Demiurge." Her tone carried no embarrassment, only mild curiosity. "Have you come to pray as well?"
"I've come to understand what you're doing in Lord Sephiroth's private chambers." His voice remained perfectly neutral, though his grip on his gloves tightened. "In this... particular manner."
"Waiting," she said simply, settling more comfortably against the armored form beneath her. "Aizen told me something wonderful—that the first sensation my beloved experiences upon awakening should be... pleasant."
The blanket she'd draped over them slipped, revealing Sephiroth's face in profile—classical features unmarred by time or doubt, silver hair flowing like liquid starlight across the crystal surface.
"So you decided to... keep him warm?"
"Among other preparations." Her fingers traced the edge of his pauldron with infinite tenderness. "I've been practicing, you see. For when he wakes properly."
Demiurge followed her gaze to the chamber's far corner, where something that defied his comprehension sat propped against the wall.
A body pillow. Life-sized. Bearing Sephiroth's likeness in... generous detail.
"...Albedo."
"I crafted it myself!" Pride radiated from every syllable. "And I've been knitting clothes for our future children—enough for the first decade, regardless of how many wings they inherit."
His eye twitched. "Children."
"Boy, girl, or perhaps something transcendent like their father." Her wings fluttered at the thought. "What if they're born with his power? What if they reshape reality with their first cry?"
Demiurge considered the implications with growing horror. "Given Lord Sephiroth's... unique nature, I suspect adaptation will be the least of your concerns."
Relief painted her features as she curled deeper into her vigil, becoming one with shadow and moonlight.
He turned away, adjusting his cuffs with mechanical precision. Some battles are better left unfought.
The Road Less Traveled
Dust motes danced in the afternoon light, stirred by the steady rhythm of hooves and wheels. The merchant's cart creaked along the worn path, its occupants settled into the comfortable monotony of travel.
Itachi walked ahead of the group, his footsteps silent despite the loose gravel. In his hands, a simple wooden flute caught the light, carved with subtle spirals that seemed to shift when viewed from different angles. He raised it to his lips, and the first notes drifted into the air like smoke.
The melody was haunting, minor-keyed, speaking of loss without words. Each phrase rose and fell like breathing, carrying weight that had nothing to do with technique and everything to do with memory.
Nabe matched his pace, her usually sharp gaze softened by something approaching peace. She didn't snap her fingers to the rhythm—instead, she simply listened, her breathing synchronizing unconsciously with the music's flow.
Behind them, Lukrut stole glances and constructed fantasies where music equaled seduction, completely missing the truth written in Itachi's posture.
This wasn't a performance. This was remembrance.
Sasuke used to fall asleep to this melody, Itachi thought, fingers finding the familiar patterns without conscious direction. Before everything changed. Before I...
The flute's voice wavered for just a moment—a ghost of pain threading through perfect technique. Did his brother remember these quiet evenings? Did he dream of them, or had hate burned away even those gentle moments?
Some sins can't be dissolved by tears, he mused, letting the melody carry his regret into the wind. But perhaps... perhaps music remembers what forgiveness might sound like.
The song ended not with fanfare but with silence—a held breath that stretched until even the cart wheels seemed to quiet.
For a heartbeat, the world held still.
Echoes and Revelations
The final note faded like mist. No one spoke immediately—the music had woven something fragile between them, and words felt too crude to break it.
Then Nabe's hands came together in soft applause, the sound like rain on leaves.
"Beautiful," she murmured, and something in her voice suggested she meant more than technique.
"Incredible, Itachi!" Ninya's enthusiasm bubbled over. "I've never heard anything like that."
Itachi lowered the flute, his expression unchanged. "You're too kind, little one."
Lukrut leaned on his bow, eyebrows raised. "Didn't peg you for the musical type. Too... I don't know, serious?"
"Music transcends such limitations." Itachi secured the flute within his cloak with practiced ease. "In my... homeland, melodies carry stories too dangerous for written words. Memory becomes the only safe repository for truth."
As Nphirea drew Peter aside for hushed conversation, Ninya drifted closer to the enigmatic warrior. "So your people preserve history through song?"
"Among other methods." Itachi's fingertips brushed his temple—a gesture that might have meant headache or might have meant something deeper. "When you cannot trust paper or stone to survive, you trust the mind. Music makes even bitter truths easier to carry."
"How many do you know?"
"Enough." The answer came with a ghost of a smile. "I was... responsible for remembering important things. Names. Faces. Final words." The last phrase fell into shadow, carrying implications Ninya couldn't quite grasp.
"Would you play another?"
Itachi's hand moved to ruffle the young mage's hair—a gesture so unexpectedly gentle that it transformed his entire presence. "Perhaps tonight, little brother."
Peter's voice cut across the moment. "Itachi! We'll rest here—is that acceptable?"
"Of course." The response came with a subtle nod of acknowledgment.
"What story would you tell?" Ninya pressed, curiosity overcoming caution.
Itachi's eyes—those strange, dark eyes that seemed to hold depths no mortal gaze should possess—fixed on the horizon. "Perhaps... the tale of the Crow's Last Dance."
"Crow?"
"A bird that carries messages between the living and the dead." His tone remained conversational, but something cold touched the edges. "They say it's call can drive men to madness... or grant them perfect clarity."
Ninya shivered despite the warm afternoon. "What kind of message?"
Instead of answering directly, Itachi's hand drifted to his side, where fabric concealed the outline of something long and curved. "In my experience, the most important messages are often the most painful to deliver."
The movement was subtle, so brief that Ninya almost missed it. But there, beneath the dark cloth, was the suggestion of a weapon unlike any they'd seen. Not crude steel, but something that hummed with barely contained power.
"What is that?" they whispered.
Itachi's smile held winter. "Pazienza. One half of a matched pair."
"What does it do?"
"Exactly what it was made for." His voice carried the finality of a closed book. "But perhaps that demonstration should wait for more... appropriate circumstances."
Blood in the Dust
The attack came with the subtlety of an avalanche.
Goblins poured from the treeline in a green tide—dozens of them, weapons raised, voices lifted in discordant war cries. Behind them lumbered ogres, each one a mountain of scarred flesh and crude armor.
"Nphirea—cart, now," Peter barked, shield already in hand.
"Understood!"
Itachi's hand moved to his weapon with fluid grace. "Priority is the alchemist. Standard formation."
Too many for conventional tactics, he assessed, eyes cataloging threats with mechanical precision. But their formation is chaotic. Pride makes them sloppy.
"Dyne—control the field," Peter ordered.
"Already on it."
"This should be educational," Itachi murmured, his tone carrying the weight of inevitability. His fingers found the weapon's grip—not drawing, not yet, but establishing a connection. "Peter, shall we demonstrate the difference between strength and technique?"
The first wave hit Dyne's trap perfectly. Earth magic erupted from below, roots thick as a man's waist coiling around ogre legs, yanking the giants down into vulnerable positions.
One ogre broke free, club raised—only to discover that Itachi was no longer where he'd been standing.
The strike meant to crush him met empty air. Itachi materialized behind the creature, his blade singing free of its sheath. The cut was surgical, precise, economical, and final. Steam rose from the heated metal as the ogre's head rolled across the dusty ground.
One, he counted internally, already moving toward the next target.
The weapon in his hand was beautiful in its lethality—curved steel that seemed to drink light, its edge sharp enough to part reality itself. This was Pazienza—Patience—and it had been crafted for moments exactly like this.
Another ogre charged. Itachi stepped into the attack rather than away, his blade tracing a perfect arc that opened the creature from shoulder to hip. The motion was almost dance-like, each movement flowing into the next without wasted energy.
Two.
The goblins hesitated, their simple minds struggling to process what they'd witnessed. In that moment of doubt, arrows began to fall—Lukrut's shots finding throats and hearts with mechanical precision.
But it was what happened next that transformed the skirmish into slaughter.
Itachi's eyes changed.
Red bloomed in his pupils like spilled blood, and suddenly the very air around him seemed to thicken with menace. Several goblins simply... stopped. Their weapons fell from nerveless fingers as they stared into those crimson depths, seeing something that broke their minds before his blade could break their bodies.
Genjutsu, he thought with grim satisfaction. Even crude minds can be turned against themselves.
"Nabe," he said quietly, never taking his focus from the remaining enemies. "Would you be so kind?"
She stepped forward, hands already weaving through spell components. "Gladly, Itachi-san. (Multiple Lightning Strike!)"
The sky answered with fury.
After the Thunder
Silence settled over the battlefield like dust. The scent of ozone and burnt flesh hung in the still air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood. Nabe's lightning had left scorch marks in the earth—precise, artistic destruction that spoke to powers beyond mortal ken.
"(Light Healing)," Dyne intoned, green radiance flowing over Peter and Lukrut's minor wounds. The magic worked quickly, sealing cuts and soothing bruises until only torn fabric remained as evidence of combat.
Near the cart, Itachi performed his post-battle ritual.
The blade called Pazienza rested across his knees as he worked, oil and silk moving over steel with practiced reverence. Each motion was meditation made manifest, cleaning away not just blood but the weight of necessity.
"That was..." Peter began, then stopped, searching for adequate words.
"Disappointing," Itachi supplied quietly, not looking up from his work. The cloth whispered across metal, a sound like secrets being shared.
Nabe's golden eyes fixed on him with sudden intensity. "Was my performance lacking, Itachi-san?"
"Never." The word came with absolute certainty. "You were flawless. I meant them." He nodded toward the scattered corpses. "Goblins, ogres... children playing with weapons they don't understand."
Though I must remember—this world operates by different rules than my own. Death here is absolute. No second chances, no resurrections through technique or sacrifice. Every life I take carries a different weight.
His movements paused for just a moment—a ghost of hesitation that spoke to deeper concerns.
"Where'd you learn to fight like that?" Lukrut called out, genuine awe coloring his voice. "Never seen swordwork that clean. Makes my archery look clumsy."
Itachi's smile was paper-thin. "Necessity teaches harsh lessons. My family... valued precision over power."
"Those moves, that weapon—" Peter gestured vaguely. "—the way you just appeared behind that ogre..."
"Shunshin no Jutsu," Itachi said simply, as if naming something mundane. "Body flicker technique. Useful for positioning."
The words meant nothing to them, but the tone suggested depths they couldn't fathom. Lukrut whistled low.
"And that thing you did to the goblins? They just... stopped."
Itachi's red eyes flickered back to their normal darkness. "Fear can be a weapon like any other. Sometimes showing someone the truth of their situation is more efficient than steel."
Half-truth layered over half-truth, he reflected. They don't need to know about bloodline techniques or the true cost of these eyes. Some knowledge is too heavy for innocent shoulders.
"Don't sell yourselves short," he continued, rising to secure Pazienza at his side. "Technique can be learned. Experience can be gained. What matters is the will to improve."
The Swords of Darkness exchanged glances—part admiration, part unease. There was something about their newest companion that didn't quite fit, like a shadow cast by invisible light.
"Tonight," Itachi added, settling near the cart as they prepared to make camp, "I'll tell you about the Crow's Dance. And perhaps..." His fingers brushed the flute hidden in his cloak. "Perhaps music will help wash away the taste of necessary violence."
The promise hung in the air like incense, carrying weight that none of them could fully understand—but all of them felt.