Chaos
Everything was proceeding according to plan.
Tsunayashiro Takehiko watched Suì-Fēng's petite figure vanish into the distance, lips curling faintly. His next step would take him toward District 26.
Or rather—before even setting foot there, he had already begun quietly tracking the suppliers of a certain contraband.
Hollowfication.
The process of erasing the boundary between Shinigami and Hollow, forcing both extremes into a higher evolution.
In theory, it was possible. In practice, no Shinigami had ever mastered it.
Decades earlier, Urahara Kisuke and several captains had conducted experiments in secret, using forbidden Kidō to trigger Hollowfication. They failed. Their attempt ended with exile from the Seireitei and the collapse of their reputations.
Yet, repeated studies within the shadows of Central 46 revealed an overlooked catalyst: the Bipolar Flower.
This plant—long since banned—continued to circulate in Rukongai despite countless purges.
For the noble houses, its narcotic effect offered pleasures that dulled even aristocratic boredom. For Shinigami obsessed with transcending their limits, it represented a key to power. Both sides ensured its survival.
The trade generated obscene profit. The flower's shadow economy thrived, and with it, a steady supply line that even the Onmitsukidō struggled to root out.
If the Stealth Force ever obtained proof—ledgers, shipments, suppliers—they would have justification to strike openly. Those who resisted would be branded as Hollowfication conspirators, forced to flee, and eventually dragged back to the execution grounds of Bipolar Hill.
Takehiko accepted this risk.
For him, death was no longer failure. His life had been hollow, meaningless—but to die in service of Aizen-sama would give it purpose.
He believed, with an almost religious devotion, that Aizen would one day shatter this false world and build a true one from its ashes.
To that end, Takehiko had already betrayed his own clan, smuggling out documents forbidden even within the Tsunayashiro archives—research on Hollowfication, the Soul King, even Hell itself.
Left to gather dust, they were worthless. Given to Aizen, they became priceless.
Still, something about his plan gnawed at him. He paused, then called softly:
"Musashi."
A tall, muscular man appeared, kneeling on one knee. Dressed in black, face masked, he bore the silent bearing of an assassin.
"Yes, Master Takehiko. Your orders?"
"Take Kōjirō with you," Takehiko said coldly. "Find the supplier codenamed Meow Meow. Kill him before the Onmitsukidō reach him."
"As you command." Musashi bowed low. He did not ask why. His loyalty was measured only in obedience and blood.
Takehiko's lips twitched faintly. He knew the truth: Kōjirō was no loyal blade. He was a spy, planted by the Stealth Force after Takehiko's release from the Maggot's Nest. With him involved, Meow Meow's survival was already doomed. The supplier would break, and in desperation, reveal everything.
Perfect. Everything was in place.
"Only the east wind is missing," Takehiko murmured, his mood lifting. Shiba Kūkaku, Shiraishi, Suì-Fēng—all dancing to the script that Aizen-sama had written.
That was fate.
Smiling faintly at the thought, Takehiko returned to his study on the upper floor. Spreading fresh white paper across his desk, he dipped his brush and, with bold strokes, wrote two large characters:
天下 (The World).
"Ha…" His smile froze like a painted portrait.
Steel flashed.
A golden blade pierced the back of his skull, splitting through his forehead before sliding free. Blood sprayed across the white paper, soaking the fresh ink until the word "天下" bled into ruin.
The body slumped forward.
Shiraishi stood behind him, one hand gripping the severed head. His brows furrowed at the mess. Too bloody to bring back to Kūkaku—it would only stain her hands with filth. With a small shake of his wrist, he let the head fall.
He was no assassin, no schemer. He didn't care for evidence or proof. If the man stood with Aizen, he was an enemy. That was enough.
His spiritual pressure was like a ghost—untraceable. His strike had been simple, direct, and fatal. In Soul Society, ambushes were decisive. Unless you were Aizen, no one survived them.
Takehiko certainly hadn't.
Sheathing his blade, Shiraishi turned and broke through the Kidō barrier encasing the mansion.
"Who's there?!" Four guards maintaining the barrier looked up in alarm. One darted to the upper floor, peered inside, and paled.
"Assassin! Master Takehiko has been slain!"
The bells began to toll in alarm.
But it was already too late. Shiraishi moved with lethal speed, tearing through traps and wards, his figure blurring toward the outskirts of the compound.
Then—his spine went cold. Instinct screamed. Someone else was already striking.
He pivoted, blade flashing.
A shadow darted in, feet kicking across his face, forcing his arm aside. His sword grazed her elbow, blooming a dark butterfly pattern across her sleeve.
Shiraishi retreated to a rooftop, narrowing his eyes. "I never imagined you'd chase me this far, Captain Suì-Fēng."
She landed opposite him, face stern, eyes like sharpened steel.
"Even if you run to the edge of the world, the Onmitsukidō will hunt you down."
"Killing a parasite like Takehiko contributes to social harmony," Shiraishi replied dryly. "Instead of rewarding me, you come swinging your blade. A little unreasonable, don't you think?"
"Save your excuses for Central 46," she said coldly.
"Ah, the old men in their boxes? Not interested." His grin turned mocking. "I'd much rather share tea with you and talk about ideals."
That smile—lazy, mocking—dragged her mind back decades. To another man who had once worn the same expression.
"I'll kill you where you stand."
Her spiritual pressure exploded, a crushing weight that froze even her subordinates in their tracks.
Shiraishi's smirk faded into solemn focus. He couldn't take her lightly. Still, his words came out arrogant:
"Sorry—I let beautiful women steal my heart. But I won't let them steal my life."
Suì-Fēng vanished.
Shiraishi braced—ready to counter.
But the ground erupted first.
BOOM.
A massive surge of spiritual pressure shattered the rooftop. Suì-Fēng twisted aside, landing lightly on a nearby roof. Her gaze dropped to the crater below.
Her eyes narrowed. That reiatsu—feral, corrosive, overwhelming.
Not a Hollow. A Gillians-class Menos Grande.
Takehiko's last contingency.
She clenched her jaw.
"That bastard… even in death, he's still a nuisance."