Hueco Mundo.
A hollow world—
wedged between the Human World and Soul Society, the realm where Hollows and Arrancar exist.
Any spirit that falls in the Human World will drift here, undergo change of world and race, and become a mind-holed, bottom-rung Hollow. To fill that emptiness, lesser Hollows crave human souls—some, more extreme, devour their own kind. When a Hollow grows especially strong and swallows hundreds of others, power aggregates… and a Menos forms. Menos devour Menos to climb higher still.
That is Hueco Mundo: a hell of tearing and devouring.
Even for shinigami, it's a mystery-laden land; few who invade return whole—most are lost beneath tides of countless Menos.
And now, before the two of them, stood a Vasto Lorde—
a being with true upper-class Hollow might, capable of tearing its own Garganta (Black Cavity) that links to Soul Society, coming and going as it pleased.
Soi fong and Rukia traded a look; excitement sparked in both pairs of eyes. Neither had ever set foot in Hueco Mundo.
Just as their curiosity peaked, Senjumaru approached with a smiling curve to her lips. "A jaunt through Hueco Mundo is fine—but not now. No one knows when the Head Captain will fire up the boundary-piercing apparatus."
Both women deflated at once.
Cole frowned at Senjumaru. "Don't kill the mood, Senjumaru. I want to take a look too."
He had no interest in going alone. According to "the original accounts," Hueco Mundo's first stratum was ninety percent endless desert; the second was the Forest of Menos. Without company… he might just die of boredom.
Senjumaru's smile deepened as her golden skeletal arms flickered to life and gave Cole's tattered outfit a once-over. "My bad, then—let me make you a few sets to apologize. Your clothes are in tatters."
Cole glanced down—true enough.
The casual black wear he'd brought from the Human World was full of holes, and the earlier flare of spiritual power during his hollowfied state had vaporized his pant legs. If he hadn't reacted fast, the whole outfit would've been shredded.
He still hesitated. "You're oddly enthusiastic… are you plotting something?"
"How could I?" Senjumaru's eyes laughed. "I'm the Great Weaver. Dressing people is my joy—and I can't stand anyone walking around in rags."
Ah. Compulsion, then.
Cole's mouth twitched—then he scowled at the four golden arms trying to hurry along his undressing. "Hey! Make the clothes if you want, but why are you trying to strip me here?"
"Close, precise measurements," Senjumaru chimed. "Without exact dimensions, how can I tailor something perfect?"
"Not here." Cole clutched his clothes with both hands. This was the First Division's doorstep—people coming and going. Stripping here was basically streaking.
Senjumaru giggled and retracted the arms. "I've been holding back since the first time I saw you. I've wanted to make you a set ever since."
"Because I'm a great coat rack?" Cole asked.
"No—because of your power." A golden finger traced his forearm and chest. "For a top-class clothier, outfitting the strong is a delight. The stronger the fighter, the more easily garments are damaged—that tests the craft. You're the type who breaks things: brute strength plus hollowfication. Making clothes for you is hard. Ordinary fabric would—"
Cole nodded; he knew the pain. Before every fight he had to sheath his outfit in reiryoku (spiritual pressure), or else he'd end up… indecent.
"A truly good garment needs no reiryoku to remain pristine," Senjumaru said, eyes bright. "And since you're about to swing by Hueco Mundo, why not go dressed properly?"
She was eager to see whether her work would survive Cole's violent style. If the cloth endured, her craft—and thus her strength—had climbed again.
"At least find a room," Cole sighed, pushing her golden arms away. He looked to Rukia and Soi fong. "Can we use your place?"
Rukia ground her teeth. "You ate my house. I don't even know where I'm sleeping tonight."
Cole coughed, sheepish, and turned to Soi fong—only to freeze, equally abashed.
Soi fong's cheeks went rosy; she turned aside and shot him a glare. The memory of… enthusiastic nights lingered in every corner of her home. Inviting guests there right now? She'd die of embarrassment.
So a supersized, captain-level fighter… had nowhere to change. Great.
Unohana strolled up with a gentle smile. "Come to my place, then. I wanted a few new pieces anyway—my old ones are full of cuts."
Senjumaru arched a brow. "Unohana, I made you plenty a few centuries ago."
Unohana glanced at Cole and chuckled. "Can't be helped. Met a formidable boy; the clothes collected… openings."
Senjumaru's interest ticked higher; six golden arms twitched with anticipation. "Very well. I'll weave for all of you. Standard shihakusho won't meet your combat needs."
Rukia and Soi fong's eyes lit up despite themselves.
Shinigami they might be, but they were still girls—new, beautiful clothes were always welcome.
Soon they reached Fourth Division. Buildings and walls were mid-rebuild; only the deep-foundation rooms were intact.
Inside, a certain little black cat had slipped in. Cole scooped it up and scratched lazily along its back. "Lady Yoruichi, hiding earlier, and now you pop out?"
"Captain? No thanks," purred the cat. "When things like that come up, a lady runs."
Yoruichi's soul had always loved freedom; that's why she'd ditched titles and fled to the Human World. Become a captain again? Be serious. She hardly cared to be family head.
While they chatted, Senjumaru tugged Cole behind a folding screen. Six golden arms unfurled. "Alright—let me take measurements."
Cole didn't fuss; jacket and pants came off. Precision tailoring with a master who'd lived millennia? Nothing to be shy about.
Golden arms danced. Senjumaru's slender "needle"-blade—her zanpakuto (soul-cutting sword) Shigarami—flickered, threads of reiryoku stitching in the air. Silk-black cloth formed from streaming lines, each strand drinking in ambient reiryoku as it wove.
Seconds later, a pure-black shihakusho settled onto Cole's shoulders.
He cleared his throat, feeling the garment. Surprise touched his face. "Strong—and it absorbs reiryoku."
"The top tier," Senjumaru explained, pleased. "A divine-class shihakusho. It draws in reiryoku, auto-guards, and self-cleans."
Cole tugged at the fabric. Even with his strength, it didn't give. In a scuffle, anyone below vice-captain—shinigami or Hollow—might be unable to tear it.
"Here." She handed him several more—freshly woven shihakusho, faintly humming with power.
Afterward, the others stepped behind the screen in turn.
They emerged with flushed cheeks and starry eyes, hugging their garments like treasures. Great Weaver work—practically artifacts; the fabric exquisite, the construction almost impossibly fine.
Cole sidled up, grinning at the bundle in Soi fong's arms. "A few in there aren't exactly for battle, huh? Little Bee, when are you going to model them for me?"
Soi fong, crimson, shoved him away and hid the bundle under her haori. A few pieces were basically two strips of cloth diving to the navel. Not now. Maybe… later.
"Rukia!" Cole pivoted to peek, but she hugged her clothes to her chest and bolted with Soi fong, heads down, out of Fourth Division.
"…And they're gone." Cole sighed. "Weren't we going to Hueco Mundo after the fittings?"
Unohana glided closer, smiling. "Shall I go with you? I won't be involved in this operation anyway."
"Uh… Hana-nee…" A shiver ran through Cole; he waved both hands. "No, no. If you snap over there, what then?"
Hueco Mundo was a world of Menos—chaos and blood the eternal chorus. If present-day Unohana cut loose there… the thought alone made his scalp prickle. She might be scarier than a Vasto Lorde by several orders.
Danger glinted in Unohana's eyes—then softened into something warm as color gathered in her cheeks. She leaned in close, breath feathering his ear. "Cole… aren't you curious what I just had made?"
"Clothes?" Cole swallowed.
Unohana's blush deepened; she silently cursed her zanpakuto Minazuki for emboldening her, then parted her white haori a fraction.
Cole's mind blanked. "H-Hana-nee…"
For a heartbeat, black silk traced alabaster skin—
a vision like sin.
Then the haori closed, and she asked, lips still pink, "Now… will you take me to Hueco Mundo?"
Cole swallowed again and lifted his right hand, pinching gently at the air.
Space split with a whisper.
Beyond lay the sunless depth of the Forest of Menos—dark, vast, and dangerous.
(End of Chapter)
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