NOVEL NEXT Chapter 17: Chains of the Echoed Void
[Chains of the Echoed Void]
The First Circle of Hell shuddered beneath a sky that was not a sky—an endless expanse of molten shadow streaked with veins of crimson, pulsating like the arteries of some ancient, malevolent beast. The air was thick with a metallic tang, a blend of rust and despair that clung to the lungs with every ragged breath. The ground, a cracked mosaic of Reishi and charred stone, groaned underfoot, releasing faint wisps of sulfurous vapor that coiled upward like the ghosts of the damned. Distant wails rose and fell, a haunting chorus carried on winds sharp enough to slice through flesh, weaving a tapestry of torment that enveloped all who dared tread this forsaken realm.
Ichigo Kurosaki stood amidst his team of Soul Reapers—Suì-Fēng, Renji, Yumichika, Shūhei, and Akon—his grip on Zangetsu unyielding, the blade's edge glinting faintly in the dim, unnatural light. The oppressive weight of Hell pressed against his chest, a sensation he hadn't felt since his descent in Hell Verse, when he'd battled the sinner Shuren and his ilk to save his sister Yuzu from Hell's clutches. That memory flickered in his mind: the Kushanāda's towering forms, the chains that bound the Togabito, and Kokutō's betrayal—a man who'd once aided him, only to reveal his thirst for vengeance. Now, that same Kokutō stood before him again, a puppet in a twisted dance orchestrated by the enigmatic Aarowan.
The air crackled with spiritual pressure, a discordant hum that reverberated through the jagged landscape. Skeletal remains of Kushanāda loomed in the distance, their bones etched with cryptic runes, standing as silent sentinels over this battlefield. The wind howled, carrying with it the faint clatter of chains and the anguished cries of souls lost to eternity. Ichigo's eyes narrowed as he watched Aarowan, the demon whose presence defied all known logic, his glass Zanpakutō shimmering with an eerie luminescence.
[A Ghost of Past - First Cycle]
Aarowan raised his arms, his cloak billowing like a shroud caught in a storm, his midnight-black hair whipping wildly in the gusts. His voice, smooth yet laced with a sinister edge, cut through the cacophony of Hell's ceaseless lament. "A desire of past, mea culpa, a ghost of past—let there be cries and let there be sorrow, lux tenebris. Let my and thine desire be eaten as the flesh of reality we shade." His words hung heavy, each syllable dripping with intent, as he gazed upon the fractured blades scattered across the ground—remnants of his earlier Bankai demonstration, Han'ei no Jigoku. "As we see the desire of reflected self, Reikon Saimin, vox mea."
The fragments of broken Zanpakutō began to hum ominously, a low, mournful sound that vibrated through the cracked stone, as if the blades themselves were alive and in agony. The air shimmered with their resonance, a dissonant wail that grew louder, more desperate. One by one, the shards shattered further, splintering into smaller pieces that screamed and howled, their metallic voices echoing with torment. The sound was unbearable—a symphony of pain that clawed at the ears and burrowed into the mind, as if the blades were pleading to be released from their suffering. Before each Reaper and Kokutō stood a fragment of their own Zanpakutō, but these were not mere reflections. They were contorted, twisted parodies, their forms warped as though dragged through a crimson purgatory, bearing the weight of sins not their own. Zangetsu's fragment pulsed with a dark aura, its edges jagged and dripping with an inky blackness; Zabimaru's writhed like a serpent coiled in torment.
"Let the hours cometh, tempus fugit, as we behold the beauty of the ones defiled, peccatum mundi," Aarowan intoned, his voice rising above the chaos, a conductor reveling in his orchestra of despair. His mismatched eyes—one black, one gleaming white—sparked with a manic glee, reflecting the fractured light of his creation.
Meanwhile, Kokutō was a spectacle of anguish. His body moved inhumanly, forced into battle by Aarowan's unseen command, each twist and lunge a violation of his own will. The chains of Hell that bound him—reminiscent of those Ichigo had seen in Hell Verse, binding the Togabito to their eternal prison—tightened with every motion, cutting into his flesh and drawing rivulets of blood that stained the ground crimson. Bones snapped audibly, a sickening crack punctuating each forced step, yet he continued, driven by the whims of his master. His screams tore through the air, raw and guttural, a counterpoint to the blades' wailing, as his body contorted beyond mortal limits. Ichigo's stomach churned at the sight, memories of Kokutō's past flashing before him—how he'd fought alongside Ichigo to escape Hell, only to turn against him, driven by a vendetta born of centuries of torment.
"Kokutō!" Ichigo shouted, his voice thick with frustration and a buried plea. "Fight back! You don't have to let him do this!" The wind swallowed his words, but the desperation in his eyes burned bright, a beacon amidst the encroaching darkness
[The Legion]
Far from the First Circle, in a shadowed hall vast and eternal, a different scene unfolded. The chamber was a cathedral of darkness, its walls of obsidian glistening with the faint glow of unseen flames that flickered like dying stars. The air was heavy with the scent of ash and ancient power, a suffocating stillness broken only by the soft rustle of silken robes and the distant drip of molten stone. Towering columns rose into an unseen ceiling, their surfaces carved with glyphs that pulsed faintly, as if alive with the memories of countless judgments.
A beautiful maiden stood at the center, her presence radiant yet foreboding, her hair a cascade of silver that shimmered like liquid moonlight. Her voice, melodic yet firm, echoed through the hall with the weight of authority. "That is enough," she declared, her words cutting through the murmurs of the gathered council. "We are not bounded by laws; this legion is for the ones to have semblance of order. What would happen if one is to break the order and yet not cause great distortio?"
"Then it is thy desire, not the legion's," came the response from a figure cloaked in shadow, seated upon a throne of jagged stone that seemed to pulse with a heartbeat of its own. His voice was deep, resonant, carrying the gravitas of eons. He paused, the silence stretching taut, before continuing, "However, if there is royal blood to be in danger, we are allowed to intervenire."
"Yes, milady, but he is not royalty yet," interjected another figure, his voice sharp and tinged with skepticism, his form obscured by the dimness.
The maiden's eyes narrowed, a flicker of resolve igniting within them. "Neither is he below royalty. Unstable, perhaps, but let us not forget he is not told the truth to keep him untouched, to preserve what is left of him."
"Even if unordered, I am heading to stop the child I share blood with," she continued, her tone brooking no argument. "Or do you object and desire a duellum with me? It would be quite a big problem if there was you or I to go toe-to-toe."
The figure on the throne inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his unseen lips. "Fine, Maiden Greed. You may act as you desire, but know he must one day find an answer to his existentia."
The air in the hall thickened with unspoken tension, the faint crackle of embers underscoring the weight of their exchange. The maiden's resolve was a tangible force, a ripple that stirred the shadows as she prepared to act.
[First Cycle]
Back in the First Circle, the battlefield was a maelstrom of chaos and suffering. The ground trembled with each of Kokutō's forced movements, the Reishi beneath cracking and splintering, releasing bursts of acrid smoke that stung the eyes and throat. The wind roared, a relentless gale that carried the scent of blood and the metallic shriek of clashing blades. Ichigo and the Reapers stood poised, weapons drawn, their breaths visible in the frigid, unnatural air, their faces etched with determination and unease.
Kokutō danced his macabre ballet, his screams mingling with the howling wind, his body a marionette in Aarowan's cruel grasp. Each swing of his blade was a testament to his torment, his chains rattling like a death knell, blood pooling at his feet in a grotesque mirror of the crimson sky above. The Reapers hesitated, their blades raised but their hearts conflicted—how could they strike a man so clearly enslaved?
Suddenly, a voice pierced the tumult, resonant and commanding, cutting through the chaos like a blade through silk. "That would be enough," it declared, its tone soft yet unyielding, carrying the weight of a storm held at bay. The wind faltered, as if bowing to its presence, and the air grew still, heavy with anticipation.
From the shadows emerged a figure—a man with canine features, his eyes glowing amber in the dim light, his presence radiating a primal strength. With a single, swift motion, he struck Aarowan, a blow so precise and powerful that it sent the demon sprawling to the ground, unconscious before he could utter a word. The glass Zanpakutō clattered from his grasp, its reflections fading into darkness as it lay inert on the cracked stone.
Behind the canine warrior stepped the maiden from the legion, her silver hair catching the faint light, her eyes sharp and knowing. Her robes flowed like liquid shadow, whispering against the ground as she surveyed the scene. The Reapers froze, their weapons lowering slightly, the air around them thickening with an unspoken dread.
"Who are you?" Suì-Fēng demanded, her voice steady but laced with a wariness she couldn't suppress. Something in the maiden's presence tugged at her instincts, a primal warning that to know her name might bind her fate to this infernal realm.
The maiden tilted her head, her gaze piercing yet serene. "My name is not of consequence," she replied, her voice a melody wrapped in shadow. "The one who invited you is not here, nor does the man you're against have any business with you. You may travel to the planes between this circle and the next. There shall you find the court for the damned—your destination lies there. But be warned: we are neither light nor the dark, so keep your minds closed and your souls intacta."
Ichigo stepped forward, his eyes locked on Kokutō's crumpled form, the chains still clinging to his battered body. "What about Kokutō?" he asked, his voice raw with concern, echoing the memory of their shared struggle in Hell Verse, when Kokutō had been both ally and enemy.
"Kokutō? Ahh, that man," the maiden said, her tone softening slightly, a hint of pity flickering in her eyes. "We will do something about him. He is, after all, a student of Aarowan. And worry not—I shall reprimand your current villanus of his treatment of his students."
As she spoke, a strange enchantment seemed to weave through the air, a subtle charm that ignited a greed for answers within the Reapers. Questions burned on their tongues—Who was she? What was Aarowan's true purpose? Where had Kokutō's torment begun?—but before they could voice them, the maiden, the canine warrior, Aarowan, and Kokutō vanished. The transition was seamless, a blink of shadow and silence, leaving the Reapers standing alone amidst the shattered remnants of the battlefield.
The wind resumed its mournful howl, sweeping across the First Circle, carrying with it the faint scent of blood and the echo of Kokutō's screams. The ground beneath their feet pulsed faintly, as if Hell itself were stirring, watching, waiting. Ichigo's fists clenched, his mind racing with memories of Hell Verse—the chains that had bound Kokutō then, the betrayal that had driven him to madness, and the fleeting hope of redemption that had once glimmered in his eyes. Now, that hope seemed buried beneath layers of torment, manipulated by forces beyond comprehension.
Suì-Fēng sheathed her blade, her expression unreadable. "We move to the planes between the circles," she ordered, her voice cutting through the lingering haze of confusion. "Whatever this court for the damned is, it's our next step."
Renji nodded, his grip on Zabimaru tightening. "Let's hope we find answers—and not more questions."
The team moved forward, their footsteps echoing across the cracked Reishi, the air growing colder as they approached the edge of the First Circle. The skeletal Kushanāda in the distance seemed to shift, their hollow gazes following the Reapers' path, a silent promise of trials yet to come. The wind whispered secrets in forgotten tongues, and the crimson sky pulsed with an ominous rhythm, as if Hell itself were alive, eager to witness the next chapter of their descent.