Chapter 182: Questioning
"Rukia," Ichigo said as they walked down the street, his voice low and careful, "can you tell me what kind of person Aizen is?"
Rukia had been trailing behind him in uncharacteristic silence, but at his question she immediately lifted her chin, as if a switch had flipped.
"Captain Aizen?" she huffed. "He's not someone a nobody like me can casually judge. You saw how I reacted. You understand why."
Then, as if she had been waiting to show off, she puffed out her chest and began wagging a finger with the familiar arrogance Ichigo knew all too well.
"Aizen Sousuke, the captain of the Fifth Division of the Gotei 13, is one of the most respected captains in history. He never gives up on anyone, not for training, not for opportunity, not for his subordinates. His division is treated better than any other, and it is the most popular placement in the Shinigami Academy."
Ichigo's eyes narrowed. "So he's… a good guy?"
"It's not just that." Rukia's tone turned almost reverent. "He's the most famous calligrapher in all of Seireitei. The most recognized scribe. Even the other divisions have to admit that."
She rattled off details like she was reciting a cherished biography, each line delivered with practiced pride.
And Ichigo could tell she meant it.
Even if their values did not align, Shinigami still acknowledged what Aizen had done over the years, at least on the surface. Especially to someone like Rukia, a lower ranked Shinigami without real authority, Aizen's proposals sounded like common sense.
He had pushed for better salaries for ordinary members. Better education, both basic and advanced. Training that focused on quality, not just survival. Even entertainment and cultural skills, as if morale mattered.
He had even suggested creating channels where members could submit proposals, a way to challenge the authority of Central 46 and even the captains.
That last idea was treated like a joke, or a childish fantasy. But the rest, Rukia said, had gradually been implemented across divisions.
The Fifth Division was the clearest example.
People wanted to intern there because the pay was high, the workload was light, the atmosphere felt close, and the benefits were beyond imagining compared to other divisions. Most importantly, Aizen did not treat his members like dirt.
Rukia's lips twitched in disdain as she named examples.
"Zaraki Kenpachi and Mayuri Kurotsuchi," she said. "If those two acted even slightly human, their reputations wouldn't be so terrible."
So from her perspective, Aizen was good.
The only problem, in her eyes, was that he did not get along with the nobles. It was as if there was a deep hatred there, something rotten and personal.
That part Rukia could not accept.
Seireitei's education had already shaped her, pressed its rules into her bones. To her, the nobles were necessary. Without them, the system collapsed. Rebelling against them was like rebelling against the world itself.
And because she believed that, she spoke with the calm certainty of someone repeating truth.
"Many people think Captain Aizen shouldn't do dangerous things," she said. "Even as a captain, it's hard to accept that he would oppose nobles for the sake of his soldiers. And some of the things he says are exaggerated. A lot of his ideas are unrealistic."
"For example?" Ichigo asked.
Rukia lifted a finger, eager.
"The simplest one is that he believes people from Rukongai should be given proper benefits and treatment. That's impossible. The plan for Rukongai, from the First District to the Eightieth, has existed since Seireitei was founded."
She turned to face Ichigo, walking backward for a few steps, and smiled brightly, the smile of someone proud of surviving hardship.
"For people like me, who climbed up from the bottom of Rukongai, that system is motivation. If everyone is treated the same, why would anyone work hard?"
Her words were cheerful.
Ichigo's stomach twisted.
"It is precisely because I lived in poverty," Rukia continued, "that I learned to draw strength from hardship and go further. Captain Aizen is a good person, but sometimes he's too good. That can make people lose their ambition. Even Captain Ukitake has told me that."
Ukitake.
Ichigo knew that name.
He knew, too, what it implied, what it hid, what it represented. Yet at this moment, those truths were still distant, still buried behind years that had not happened.
Even so, something about the casual certainty in Rukia's voice made Ichigo feel faintly sick.
He did not understand how he had talked so easily with someone whose values could differ so completely from his own.
Maybe it was because he had never been forced to look directly at the contradiction.
Maybe it was because, from the beginning, all he had ever wanted was simple.
Protect his family.
Keep his sisters safe.
Make sure nothing happened to the people he loved.
That was always his truest thought.
His father had hidden many things from him.
Aizen claimed it was love. Aizen claimed his father wanted him to live peacefully, not to blame Seireitei, not to hate the system, not to stare too long into the darkness that held the world together.
And Ichigo hated himself for realizing something else.
He did not blame Aizen as much as he thought he should.
The man did not feel like a pure monster. He did not speak like someone begging forgiveness. He simply laid the world out on the table and let Ichigo bleed over the truth.
If anything, Ichigo found himself hating Seireitei more.
Not the individuals who fought, but the system that pushed people into madness, then called it order.
Aizen was hateful.
But the nobles, their smugness, their cold logic, and the conspiracies beneath it all felt even more vile.
Especially when Ichigo thought about substitute Shinigami, about licenses, about what happened to those who held power outside the system.
A chill crawled up his spine.
If he did not become strong enough, if he did not remain useful enough, would he be eliminated one day, quietly, neatly, by someone he trusted?
Maybe that was why his father had stayed silent.
Isshin had once been a captain. He would have known what Soul Society truly was. He would have known the danger of speaking, the danger of naming things.
He would have known how to smile and pretend ignorance while guiding his son away from the edge.
Rukia kept talking as they walked, switching to descriptions of Soul Society and the captains, things Ichigo had heard before, stories he used to find exciting.
Now they sounded different.
Fifteen year old Ichigo could not find his own feelings.
Rukia had lived in his closet. She looked younger than him, but her life was longer by decades, her thoughts shaped by a world that did not resemble his. The gap between them suddenly felt wide enough to swallow him.
He used to think Rukia was the light that entered his life.
Aizen had ripped that belief apart.
The light that illuminated him had never been accidental. It had been aimed. Aizen had held the flashlight, switched it on, and guided Ichigo down a path without telling him he was walking it.
It felt like Truman's life, like a stage built out of love and ignorance.
Everyone respected his choices, and yet they trapped him inside a world where he ran in circles solving problems that could have been addressed long ago.
Worst of all, there were people who watched that stage and hoped he would eventually break.
And in the story Aizen told, even if Ichigo sacrificed everything for Soul Society, even if he bled himself dry for them, there were still those who would prepare to use his corpse, to offer it up as a replacement Soul King if he failed.
The people who knew that truth included people he would one day call allies.
Friends.
That was the part that froze him the deepest.
And Aizen had not even talked about what his father did back then, what role Isshin played in the decisions that shaped Ichigo's fate.
Ichigo did not dare to chase that thought too far.
He walked faster.
He brought Rukia with him until they reached Kurosaki Hospital.
He wanted answers from the one person who could no longer dodge him.
He wanted to know who he was.
But when they arrived, his father was not there.
Only his two younger sisters sat at the table, happily eating desserts.
Rukia did not waste time. She went straight upstairs, moving like she had a duty clock ticking in her skull. She began writing her report, a routine Shinigami obligation, as if nothing inside Ichigo had just cracked.
Ichigo watched her disappear, then looked at his sisters.
"What are you two eating?" he asked. "Where's Dad?"
One of them looked up, cheeks puffed slightly with sweetness.
"Huh? He said he was having dinner with an old friend, then he left. This is what that person brought us."
"An old friend?"
"Mmm," she nodded. "His name was Aizen or something. Dad looked surprised. And the souvenir is from that famous wagashi shop in Tokyo. It's really good. Want to try some, big brother?"
So Aizen came ahead of time.
And he brought gifts.
Ichigo stared at the sweets, at the way his sisters' eyes sparkled with innocent happiness. He forced a smile and waved a hand.
"Eat it," he said. "All of it."
He would not take anything from them.
Aizen's motives were obvious, and yet his approach was too open to dismiss. He never tried to paint himself clean. He never claimed he was the source of every tragedy. He did not beg.
He simply explained.
And that gave Ichigo a strange, unwanted sense of respect.
Rukia had felt like a friend, like a doorway into a hidden world.
Aizen felt like the man who forced his feet back onto the ground and told him what that world truly cost.
No decoration.
No comforting lies.
Only the cycle.
Only the circle that closed around everyone, living or dead.
As long as he existed in this world, there was no escaping the order the Soul King had laid down.
Ichigo sat in the hall, watching his sisters finish their desserts and climb the stairs. The house grew quieter. The clock ticked, slow and merciless, while the sun sank and moonlight poured through the windows.
He did not move until the dial reached nine.
Then the front door opened with a muted sound.
"I'm back…"
Ichigo lifted his head. "Dad."
Isshin stepped in wearing a suit, looking like a man who had eaten well and drank even better. He blinked at the dark room, then at Ichigo sitting on the sofa.
"Huh? Ichigo, what are you doing down here? Why aren't the lights on?"
Ichigo said nothing.
Isshin's grin twitched, then steadied itself.
"Right. You've got your reasons for not turning them on."
He took one look at Ichigo's posture, at the silence, and something in him shifted. The usual foolishness faded, leaving a sharper awareness behind his eyes.
Years of being a father told him this was not a normal sulk.
This was the kind of quiet that came from injury.
He moved toward the refrigerator, took out a bottle of chilled tea, poured two cups, and set one in front of Ichigo and one in front of himself. Then he sat down like a man preparing for a trial.
"Well," Isshin said, forcing a bright tone that did not quite land, "shall we finally have that long awaited serious conversation between father and son?"
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"Ichigo, you've always been a sensible kid. And me, your father, I act like an idiot. But it looks like you've reached the point where you have to ask questions."
He slapped his palm lightly on the table, trying to sound confident.
"No matter what you ask, Dad will answer seriously. I'll do my best. So don't hold back. Ask."
Ichigo's voice came out dull. "Can I really trust you?"
Isshin's eyes widened. "What kind of nonsense is that, you brat?"
He took a sip of tea, trying to laugh it off.
"I'm your father. Of course you can trust me. Everything I do is so you and your sisters can live better. Masaki would be happy, right?"
Ichigo sank deeper into the sofa, shoulders heavy, as if pain was slowly chewing through him from the inside.
Then, after a long silence, he finally spoke again.
"Then, Dad."
Isshin waited.
Ichigo lifted his head and looked at him, eyes red in a way that did not come from tears, but from something sharper.
"Is Mom really just an ordinary housewife?"
Isshin's expression flickered, then he forced a laugh.
"Of course. Your mother was the most beautiful, gentlest, most adorable woman in the world. She's definitely not ordinary."
He raised a finger, as if delivering a grand revelation.
"If anything, she might even be our creator."
Ichigo's gaze did not move. "You know what I mean."
The air changed.
Isshin's flamboyant energy drained away like water, leaving a heavy seriousness behind. He stared at his son for a long moment.
"What do you know?" he asked quietly.
"Did Ryuken say something to you? Did some Hollow or Quincy put nonsense in your head? Don't overthink it, Ichigo. Your mother loved you. Just knowing that should be enough."
Ichigo's jaw tightened.
"Aizen Sousuke told me everything."
Isshin froze.
Silence stretched.
Then, through clenched teeth, Isshin muttered, "That bastard…"
"He told me about Mom," Ichigo continued, voice steady but trembling underneath. "He told me about you. About Soul Society. About everything that happened to me."
Isshin's hands curled slightly on the cup.
Ichigo watched him, then spoke the question he had been carrying like a blade.
"So I came to ask you, Dad."
His voice dropped.
"Are you really pretending you know nothing, while you know everything, and you just watched me run around for my family?"
He swallowed.
"Like watching a clown."
Isshin's face darkened.
A sharp sound cracked through the room.
Smack.
Ichigo's head snapped slightly to the side. His palm rose to his cheek, fingers pressed against the burning sting.
He looked back at his father.
Isshin stood over him, expression drowned in gloom, breathing heavier than before.
Ichigo did not speak.
He simply stared, silently, and waited for the truth.
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