Within the darkness of the Muken, the light is brought to the surface in hues of emerald green and golden yellow. They clash against each other, sporadically drowning the room in a luminous veil. Silently,
The Nightmare creeps among them. He suddenly shifts his weight against the floor, lifting himself upward against the thin surface of a Reishi platform. His cloak flutters in the draft created by his fluid movements as he dances about. It muddles his Reiryoku, yet remains incapable of concealing his presence completely; it is oppressive, the gaping maw of a hellish beast, looming over those around him. A keen eye would begin to see specters in the shadows, the wails of damned souls howling in the endless void of the underground prison. He is crafty, his exact location concealed beneath the instinctively displaced signatures of his own Reiatsu, littered in a maze within the measureless corridor.
They do not perceive him, they do not address him, something about this is.. Odd.
The Phantom—not unlike Musou himself—was a child of the shadows, a constant dweller of the dark, and a friend to its inhabitants. He, above all, should have been capable of picking apart Musou’s delve into the obscure. The Omnitsukido Commander silently traverses, both everywhere and nowhere at once, however his interest in the fight has seemingly waned. His movements, whenever perceptible, mimic that of a fly buzzing against a cold window—flying into the glass hoping, begging, that the window would be opened. He looks for an escape in the place built, manufactured, and maintained to prevent that exact thing for millennia. It goes without saying that this expedition is without success. Behind the ambient glow of the Commander’s chrystals, the young Mukuro product does not even cast a shadow; formless, shapeless, his path seemingly unpredictable as he circles around the remaining two participants. What is seen as impossible, somehow becomes a reality. The imperceptible Phantom has his movements slowed, steadied as if particularly for the Nightmare. Within his own strides, both Musou and Captain Mukuro’s paths intertwine as if predestined. The moment slows, each of them getting blurred glimpses of each other as their frames breach the same area, no different than two individuals passing each other in traffic while traveling in opposite directions. Even when given this opportunity, the Phantom is only briefly identified by his bright blonde mane, as Musou’s burlap cloak takes the majority of the color dominance in this blur. The Phantom’s blade in tow, the Sloth’s somewhat longer weapon readied as well; Against a ray of verdant light, the Kaleidoscope-like guard of the Zanpakuto is brought to the spotlight, spreading its grandeur along with the purple, wrapped hilt gripped firmly in Musou’s grasp.
VRIIIIP
The sound of tearing fabric is heard, doubly, each rip laying over the other, loud and yet, for those separate from these two, it becomes indistinguishable. The washed and nearly colorless piece of his cloak is the first evidence to hit the cold floor beneath. What follows and falls atop it is a Haori; white, turned pink, turned red, the transformation of its color is only further justified by the sound of two separate thuds. As if someone had rolled a pair of two extremely large dice, both bisected pieces of the Captain fall down in tandem. What would usually be seen as treason, even more so by the man so bound by honor that was Musou Kyoraku, is dusted off haphazardly and uncharacteristically. In the distance, a guttural roar layered with a voice doused in duality. There was a familiar voice, and then a darker, grotesque echo.
“Time and time again, you have almost made a complete fool out of us…”
"Time and time again, you have almost made a complete fool out of us…”
The rest of the words are drowned out, as light dances and flickers in a multitude of colors in the voice’s direction. Evident by the clack of his geta, his strides were long and urgent. A singular Shunpo places him in the middle of an event most would likely avoid. To his right is a blur, an indiscernible blob of nothingness that was only present to participate in the torture of the two Captains as glaringly evident by the words spoken by the man to his left. Tenzen Oda,
The Mad Buddha himself, and a friend of the grandest caliber. The one who had reached nirvana, stood here in the wake of his inner monster, consumed by its power and employing it on a stage such as this.
SWOOO!
SWOOO!
SWOOSH!
A blade he was all too familiar with strikes swiftly, its goal intent on severance—but in the deep abyss that was the eyes of the Vasto Lorde, Musou could no longer see his friend. And as a result, his friend could no longer see him. As he appeared in the middle of such an attack, he had offered himself as its target, as opposed to the Kido-encased blob in which it was intended
CLING!
CLANG!
SHING!
Sparks fly as with every stroke of The Buddha’s Nodachi, Ten’i Muhou is found at its mark. The steel of both weapons collides as Tenzen’s speed, at least in sword strikes, is matched effortlessly. In the final collision, The Sloth’s Zanpakuto does not simply act to deflect but glides seamlessly against the back edge of the Vasto’s sword to follow the trail to one of its many arms.
THUD
It falls, blood splattering as the sword-hand is dismembered, a shower of red rains down upon them all–
THUD
THUD
Two of his remaining arms find themselves on the cold floor, the maneuvering of the Musou’s blade only remotely traceable by the glint of light refracting off of the drenched sword’s edge. A scream, a roar, a deep and brooding cry for help, the Vasto lets out its mightiest while coming to terms with its delimbing. Musou’s stance shifts, the shadow of the hulking frame of his friend turned monster, writhing in pain behind him. In his arm now extended, his blade encapsulated in the golden glow of the spell bound to the indistinguishable figure toward which his blade now pointed. Between Musou’s teeth, a toothpick or at least, something reminiscent of one is fiddled with constantly, ever moving from one side of his mouth to another. As he looks at this figure and attempts to discern and identify its true nature, he finds his thoughts and guesses perturbed by the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Shapeless in its state, there are no lips to read or follow, yet somehow, these words were coming from the entity before him.
“Mukizu was a pile of shavings when I found him. Besides, you got uh…Kokuzu, there.”
It is on the back of these words that Musou’s reality, or lack thereof, shatters. This impossibility, this reforging of a Zanpakuto by this indistinguishable figure, could only be the product of an eerie dream. A world cloaked in fantasy and fallacy–only here could such a thing exist. In a final, fell strike–the catalyst from which these words came was cut in twain. The spell that imprisoned its frame shatters and turns into a fluttering of golden dust as the loud sound of fabric ripping echoes out when the blade severs the visage of the blob that once goaded before him.
VRRIIPPP
As that sound echoes out, repeating over itself again, and again, and then once more. The world around Musou begins to distort and change. His eyes, enter a state which they were perceived–at least by himself–to have always been in: open. The opening of his eyes reveals a Wooden bokken in his sword-hand, while his free hand instinctively rises to wipe drool and prevent it from leaking out of the corner of his mouth. In front of him, lies a massive curtain, a separator on a large track connected to the ceiling to conceal one side of the dojo from another. In its center, a massive rip, assumingly from his training sword–and behind it, a member of 8th Division quivering in fear. The individual sits on his rear end, scooting backward as if trying to create as much distance between himself and Musou as possible while he clutches at his chest area, seemingly struck by.. Something. The Nightmare continues to gather his bearings, turning about-face to scan the rest of the room. In a far corner to the left two of his Ichibantai comrades are hunched over, groaning, mending different parts of their bodies. The thud of their limp figures hitting the training mat would have played the role of Kyomu’s bisection. A bit closer to the 4th seat, and to his right, two additional trainees are flattened onto the floor, one seemingly crying out in anguish, undoubtedly playing the role of the wailing Vasto.
"Gah- I went too far again huh? ..Sorry lads.”
The raspy voice is carried across the training dojo, melancholy in cadence without a shred of empathy wrapped in the words. It was clear this was not a first, but perhaps something that happened quite often here. The Sloth had been—not uncharacteristically—in a deep and peaceful sleep. Those fabrications, the easy and unfettered disposal of the Seiritei’s most elite, such things could only have happened in a dream, after all. Who knows just how long he had been asleep, or if those he had trained while unconscious realized that their 4th seated officer was gallivanting in dreamland all along. In the background, in the room next to one of the many training dojos they had occupied, a broadcast from the Kenpachi games was blasting, yet beneath the sounds of the training session, only bits and pieces bled through. This is what possibly led to the discrepancy between Musou’s injection into these games whilst in his dream, and the actual events that played out in the real bout. Subconsciously, he was ingesting the small amount from the broadcast and filtered it through his ears and brain to fabricate that dream in which he was effortlessly victorious; that dream where a stranger, a blob, an anomalous figure could reforge a Zanpakuto, as well as identify the name of another—let alone Tenzen’s of all people. The Phantom and The Buddha had shape in his dream, and maintained their natural appearances that Musou had seen and ingested before, whilst the third participant was a mystery, the commentators hardly mentioning his build or appearance left Musou unable to paint a picture in his world of sleep.
Independently, each of the individuals that he had defeated found themselves being soon helped up by the kind-hearted man. Despite his normal day-to-day nature, the Nightmare had proven time and time again that he could be just that. A small compliment and specific critiques are given to each of them as they rise to their feet, the time he has spent asleep and his current, awoken state now assimilating to compile their knowledge and experiences into one, remembering every detail of their training session even though he spent its entirety in a mock-up of the Kenpachi games.
VRMM VRMM VRMM
In the pocket of his hakama his Denreishiki–that had been collecting dust–had received a message from the only individual who would ever waste their time communicating with Musou this way. The thorn in his side, ever-present—
Kori.
-Meet me @ the games if u aren’t there already! I know that guy that said he fixed a total loss Zanpakuto! They said they’re arresting him so we gotta make it before they do cuz we need him! Jumping on the first guy with hands on him that ic LMAAAAOOOO!!
-
Arrest? What? It is perhaps at this moment that Musou realizes that although he had every intention of watching the Kenpachi games, he must have fallen asleep waiting for them to start. The match was over? Someone was arrested? That guy? No. All other questions are put to rest when Kori confirms that something that he had presumed to only exist in his dream was actually one of the few parts that were a product of reality. This.. stranger, actually did reforge a Zanpakuto, and even more shockingly, Kori knew who he was. Unbeknownst to Musou, that stranger, that blob, was the
White Death, and while he remained ignorant as of now, it was very likely that he'd soon come to know what exactly that meant. As the message is read over and over again to ensure that he was seeing things correctly, Kori’s plan actually begins to sink in.
She’s gonna do what?!
He thinks to himself while developing an obvious grimace. Meddling in the affairs of Captains wasn’t particularly described as a safe activity. But then again, when has Kori ever cared about safe. She made it her life’s mission to disturb his peace and rest, and quite literally, drive him up a wall. What was her plan, to perform a prisoner break-out in front of all the Captains and the Rukongai masses? If it had nothing to do with gambling, Kori wasn’t one to think things out. He supposed that’s why she had him there to always think for her. He walks over to the dojo’s exit, grabbing both of his Zanpakuto’ from their resting place in one of the sword racks. Grabbing one of the two weapons tightly, while tucking the other within his obi sash. Before vanishing into a Shunpo he locks eyes with one of the many screens toward the main corridor to which the exit let out. He could finally put his eyes onto some of the dramatics, broadcasted for all to see.
“Kori… Don’t do anything stupid, kid.”
