Bleach: Kishou Arima

Arima's thoughts drifted slowly away from the past as a soft warmth brushed against his hand.

He blinked, pulling himself out of his reverie, and looked to find Unohana holding the hand that had been cupping her face.

Her fingers curled gently around his, the touch so comforting.

Her eyes opened slowly, their sharp yet gentle gaze locking onto his. "You're awake already…" she murmured softly, her voice husky with the remnants of sleep.

Arima didn't reply with words at first. Instead, he leaned in closer, closing the distance between them as he whispered, "Good morning."

Before she could respond, his lips brushed hers—soft, lingering, yet brief enough to leave her breath caught in her throat.

A faint blush rose to Unohana's cheeks, the pink hue contrasting against her pale skin.

Even now—after nearly 900 years of marriage—she found herself caught off guard by him in these quiet moments.

"…You always manage to surprise me," she muttered, turning her face slightly to hide the smile that tugged at her lips.

Arima pulled back just enough to look at her, the faintest shadow of a smile gracing his usually stoic face. "After all this time?"

"Yes," she replied softly, her hand still holding his. "After all this time."

The two remained there for a moment longer, the silence between them comfortable.

It was these moments, unspoken and simple, that neither of them ever took for granted.

Finally, Arima sat up, his movements smooth and as he pushed the blankets off himself.

The early morning light filtered in through the wooden windows, casting a golden glow across their room. He glanced outside, observing the trees swaying gently under the breeze and the sky painted in hues of dawn.

Seeing the clear day ahead, Arima nodded faintly to himself, as if coming to a decision.

"We should get up," he said, his tone calm yet resolute.

Unohana, still resting for a moment longer, watched him with quiet fondness before finally following suit.

She stretched gracefully, her dark hair cascading down her back as she sat up.

"What's on your mind today?" she asked softly, watching as Arima stood and began to dress in his usual pristine manner.

Arima paused for a moment, looking back at her with a faint gleam in his clouded eyes. "It's a clear day," he replied simply. "A good day to keep moving forward."

Unohana smiled gently at his words. "As always."

For all the centuries they had spent together, it was moments like these—peaceful, quiet, and unspoken—that tethered their lives so firmly together.

---

Despite what he had said earlier today was a special day.

He walked across the quiet grounds to a section of land that was fenced off, a place where no one else was allowed.

The field of red spider lilies stretched before him, their vivid red petals swaying softly in the wind.

At the center stood a weathered altar—an eternal marker of his mother's passing.

Arima's mother was no ordinary soul. She had once been the pride of the Shiba clan—not the weakened family it was today, but the powerful house of old.

She was the seventh-generation heir, born long before the time of Zanpakutō.

He remembered the stories she had told him when he was a child.

She had ventured into Hueco Mundo with members of other noble clans, not realizing it was a trap set to weaken the Shiba.

Abandoned, she fought alone against endless waves of Hollows for fifty-seven hours with the same black lance-sqprd he uses today.

Even her strength began to waver.

That was when she met him.

Arima's father—the first Hollow to transcend his nature.

A being so old and powerful that he had even met the Soul King himself and conversed.

He saved her that day, wiping out the hordes of Hollows and healing her wounds with his unique abilities.

She could have returned, but she refused citing her desire to grow stronger for revenge.

Her desire for revenge shifted into something else.

Over time, she fell in love with the being who saved her.

The Hollow, who never had a name, was given one by her—Aijirou, a name meaning "loved."

From their union, Arima was born—a child of two worlds, both Soul Reaper and Hollow.

---

When Arima was born, he was seen as nothing short of a miracle by his parents.

A perfect fusion of Hollow and Shinigami, something unheard of in the history of the world.

His eyes were unlike any other: deep shades of black and yellow that seemed to hold an endless void.

His presence alone was staggering—so immense that even his parents, beings of immense power themselves, could hardly sense him.

It was as though he stood on a plane beyond comprehension, unreachable even by those who created him.

But the cracks began to show within months.

Like a star that grows too large for its own good, only to collapse under its own gravity, Arima's immense power became his greatest enemy.

Unlike other hybrids who would come into existence later—artificially created —Arima was natural, unrestrained.

His body lacked the mechanisms to hold back his spiritual strength, and that strength, nigh limitless, began to crush him from within.

From the moment of his birth, Arima existed in a constant state of near-death.

It was not a life of simply enduring injury or weakness; it was as if his body was always dying.

His power tore him apart, moment by moment.

The Arima of the present, who had lost so much—his vision, his taste, and oth3r things—was, paradoxically, far stronger than he had ever been in his healthier youth.

His losses were a direct result of his body breaking under the crushing weight of his strength, yet that same power continued to grow, unstoppable, consuming him further.

What others would call "weakness" was, in fact, proof of his overwhelming nature—a being never meant to exist.

A fissure in the balance of the world to say the least.

---

Present day..

Arima knelt in front of the cremation altar, his hands moved slowly, clearing away fallen red spider lilies and brushing dust that had gathered over time.

The quiet crackling of the incense filled the air, blending with the heavy stillness of the space.

The faint breeze that swept through felt like it carried whispers—whispers of an old, fading self he could barely recognize anymore.

It's been so long…

The thought echoed in his mind as he looked down at the charred stone altar, the very place where his mother's body had turned to ash all those years ago.

He carefully placed another incense stick, his hands steady despite the weight of time pressing down on him.

There was a time I wasn't… this. I was just a normal teenager.

His gaze fell to his hands—calloused, worn, scarred.

Hands that had long forgotten what it meant to feel fragile, to hold something without breaking it.

It's funny. I used to complain about small things—homework, waking up for school, my friends pestering me to join them in whatever new trend they were obsessed with. That life… it's so distant now that I can hardly believe it was mine.

A faint, bitter smile tugged at his lips as he recalled a faint memory—sitting in a sunlit classroom, a friend pushing a manga across the desk toward him with an eager grin.

"Tokyo Ghoul, huh?"

He'd never really cared for manga or anime back then.

It wasn't his thing.

But his friend had been insistent. "Just try it. It's dark, deep. You'll like it."

And so, one boring weekend, he read it.

He remembered being pulled into its twisted narrative, its themes of identity, loneliness, and tragedy.

And then…

I woke up here.

His gaze darkened slightly as he stared into the flickering flames before him.

This world—Bleach, as he would later recognize—had been forced upon him like a cruel joke.

He remembered realizing it far too late, when the structures, the names, began to click.

He'd never been into Bleach himself, but his friend—, what was his name? Ahh, I don't even remember anymore.—used to ramble endlessly about Bleach and One Piece, waving his arms around and talking about Soul Reapers, Espada, and a guy with orange hair.

Arima had only half-listened back then, never imagining it would matter.

And now? Now those casual conversations were burned into his mind as the only fragments linking his two lives together.

I used to be normal. Just a teenager living a boring, inconsequential life. I had no ambitions, no grand purpose. I didn't care about being strong or changing the world. I just… existed ...And now…

His eyes traced the altar, the carved edges weathered by time.

His mother's memory lingered here, along with the weight of his father's blood and his own fractured existence.

He inhaled deeply, pushing back the bitterness that threatened to rise.

What was the point of holding onto a past that was slipping further and further away? He couldn't even remember what his friends or parents in past life looked like anymore.

What his home smelled like.

The sound of his own name before it became "Arima."

How much longer can I keep pretending that past matters?

Reaching out, he brushed away another petal from the stone.

Maybe it's better to forget.

His fingers trembled slightly as they lingered against the cold altar.

But then he stilled, exhaling slowly.

No. If I forget… then what was it all for? That other life—however small, however meaningless—was mine. I can't let it disappear completely . I'll need to find a way to preserve it..But does it matter my life will be coming to an end soon anyway..

The flames flickered as if in response, casting fleeting shadows across his face.

I don't know how much longer I can hold on to the memories of that boy. Of the one who read Tokyo Ghoul on a whim and rolled his eyes at his friend's Bleach rants.

"I wonder… if that boy would hate what I've chose.... to become."

He didn't wait for an answer. The silence spoke loudly enough.

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Sorry if it felt a bit boring Interesting things are going to happen from next chapter.

Stones and Reviews please