Capítulo 11: Past [2]
Shorter than usual chapter as I'm currently running on fumes.
I Have a test Tomorrow.
Not too worried but i still have less time to write.
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Arima stood before Ichibei silently.
His eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, locked onto the monk with a look that sent an unspoken warning.
"The deal we had will be coming to its natural conclusion in some 100 years," Arima began, his voice calm but layered with a weight that made Ichibei's ever-present smile falter.
"But I need part of it fulfilled now, given a ...change ... in circumstances."
Ichibei's grin faded as he carefully observed the man before him, sensing the shift in his demeanor.
The jovial air around the monk diminished slightly, replaced by something more calculating.
"And what is it that you desire, Arima?" Ichibei asked, his voice quieter but no less commanding.
"Spine," Arima replied simply, his tone unwavering.
Ichibei's eyes narrowed briefly before he nodded. "You will have your payment soon. You know the way to the Soul King Palace, of course. After all, your Zanpakutō rests there."
His words were measured but tinged with a faint condescension, a reminder of the delicate balance of power between them.
But then Ichibei's grin returned, and his voice carried a touch of mockery as he added, "It is curious, though, that you ask this now. Could it be... is this because you finally have a chil—"
Before he could finish, Arima's hand shot forward, transforming mid-motion into a claw using the second sub division Metamorphosis, piercing through Ichibei's chest and crushing his heart in a blur.
The monk's expression turned from smug amusement to silent shock as blood splattered onto the ground.
Ichibei attempted to speak, but before another word could escape, Arima's free hand moved with lethal precision, severing the monk's head from his shoulders in one fluid motion.
Arima's voice was low, simmering with silent fury as he spoke over the monk's decapitated form. "I expect the payment tomorrow. Do not test me again."
The severed head hit the ground with a dull thud, and Arima stepped back, retracting his clawed hand and letting the blood drip onto the floor.
The area seemed to grow colder, his presence suffocating the air with suppressed wrath.
---
Arima's disdain for Ichibei was very personal— foundational even.
He didn't like the man, didn't respect him, and had no love for the Soul Reapers as a whole.
To Arima, the Soul Society was nothing more than a hypocritical institution, cloaking their tyranny in the guise of balance and justice.
Long before Unohana entered his life, Arima had seriously considered siding with Yhwach to tear the entire system apart.
They had taken everything from him.
His father was killed in battle by none other than Ichibei.
Not out of necessity ,since His father was a pacifist in essence, but arrogance—a show of power to keep the Soul Society's grip strong.
His mother was no better off, accused of treachery and sentenced to imprisonment, her pleas ignored by the very people who claimed to uphold justice.
At five years old, Arima's world was destroyed, and in his grief, rage took over.
He destroyed the cell he was being held.
He stormed through the noble districts, his small hands delivering death with terrifying precision.
It was as if his fury gave him strength beyond his years.
He tore through guards and leaders alike, leaving a trail of blood and bodies in his wake.
The five noble clans—pillars of Soul Society's power—were decimated.
The more Arima killed, the more he changed physically.
His rage fed his nature as a hollow.
Without even realizing it, he began consuming the souls of his victims, his body unconsciously drawing on the instincts of a hollow.
The transformation wasn't complete, but it was visible given that he had multiple horns growing out of his head and grotesque wings grew out of his back.
By the time Ichibei arrived to stop him, the boy was drenched in blood, his glowing crimson eyes wild with fury.
Even then, Arima didn't back down.
He attacked with everything he had, his claws breaking through Ichibei's defenses.
The old monk underestimated him, and Arima left him with a jagged scar across his face—a mark of the child's defiance.
But Arima was still a child. His strength, while terrifying, was finite, and Ichibei was a master.
He subdued Arima, binding him in chains of kido strong enough to contain even the most powerful of hollows.
Even as he was restrained, Arima glared at Ichibei, his voice hoarse but unyielding. "You'll regret this," he spat. "One day, I'll come back for all of you."
Instead of killing him, the Soul Society made a calculated decision.
They feared what might happen if Arima's unique power were to grow unchecked in Hell.
So, they struck a deal eventually.
For years, Arima was kept under their watch, a reluctant participant in their system.
His Zanpakuto, a blade unlike any other, was left in the Soul King Palace as collateral, to keep his power in check...
Well more like something to convince themselves that they were still stronger.
Arima never forgave them.
Even now, as he walked away from Ichibei, the man who had once subdued him, the resentment was fresh.
Ichibei, despite his age and experience, was no match for what Arima had become.
---
Arima walked back to his home, the blood that once coated his hands now little more than a distant memory, wiped clean by his reiatsu as though the violence had never happened.
Yet, as his gaze lingered on the clawed shape his hand had taken, the weight of his actions and the deal he had struck felt far from cleansed.
The deal he made late in his life had been one born of circumstances differing from today.
The payment he sought—a piece of the Soul King himself.
At the time, it was meant to free him from his constant state of lingering death, a torturous existence on the edge of annihilation.
Later, his reasons had shifted: he wished to use that fragment to pull the souls of his mother and father from hell, to finally reunite with the family that had been stolen from him even if for a fleeting time.
But now, as he thought of Unohana, her quiet strength and the life growing within her, those desires faded into something far more pressing.
There was no doubt in his mind what his parents would have told him if they could: Ensure your child never shares your fate.
Arima's steps slowed as he reached the edge of the quiet garden surrounding his home.
The animals stirred at his presence, Nokotan lifting her head from her resting spot and gazing at him with serene eyes, as if sensing the storm within him.
His clawed hand flexed before returning to its human form.
Even with the constant toll his body endured, he had calculated that his vessel could hold out for another 130, perhaps 140 years if nothing accelerated the process.
His power would peak in the next 90 or so years— The current him was powerful enough to mute all resistance against him while using merely the passive effect of his Zanpakutō.
The him in the future wouldn't need anything but his strength in fists to triumph against anything at the rate his growth was accelerating alongside his death.
Yet, all of that meant little compared to the duty he now held in his heart.
He would live long enough to raise his child, to shield them from the cruelty of the world and from the legacy of suffering that clung to him like a shadow.
He would be a father who protected, guided, and loved with every ounce of his remaining strength.
Arima stopped in his tracks, his emotionless gaze lifting to the sky.
The moon hung heavy and full, casting its pale glow over the land.
It was a world that had taken so much from him, yet it was also the world his child would inherit.
A part of him wanted to destroy it, to raze the Soul Society and all its lies to the ground.
But another part, a quieter and more fragile part, wanted to see it become a place where his child could laugh freely, unburdened by the weight of its sins.
"I will ensure it," he murmured, his voice as cold and unyielding as steel.
"No matter the things i have to do..."
With that, he continued forward, his steps heavy with purpose.
His child's future would not be dictated by the chains of the past.
And for the first time in centuries, Arima felt that his vengeance could wait.
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