Through time, a great many people have repeated the same phrase in hopes of bringing out the truth in it and an even larger number of people have proved this to be wrong, regardless of how tightly one may cling to it’s message.
”That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.” Perhaps in some cases, there is some truth to it, humanity seems to grow the longer they stick around, as a whole, at least. But, everything must come to an end there will be a day in which it’s protectors fail, and nothing will be gained. In respects to a singular person? Just as likely. Last physical damage of any sorts would never empower someone, they would only have to recover the lost strength. Mental damage too would end in such a path.
All this phrase had become was a means to justify a failure and nothing more. Failure to some, was inexcusable, be it due to the presence of a higher power overseeing them. Due to the repercussions of failure. Due so much more. To this person in particular, it was their own mental state, it was inexcusable to them, but yet it was a constant in their eyes. Despite the achievements that many could not claim, he simply believed he was inadequate, failing at every turn. Not a shred of confidence in themselves. It had been three months since his last string of failures. Each one perhaps greater than the last in his eyes, if not for everyone else as well. In current day, there was still no Captain in his Division and Nibui still stood as the Lieutenant and essentially a substitute captain for the Eleventh. Yet he felt that the examples he had displayed were all inadequate, making him unfit for his own job. In all honesty, these thoughts had always floated about in his mind, recently they had been stirred, exacerbated beyond previous examples. The personal depths he had fallen to within recent months, these had caused him to begin striving further and further for success, success against his own imposters syndrome, potentially an impossible battle.
Following the events that had nourished the self-doubt he existed in, Nibui was not only infatuated with success, of any kind, he had also become heavily focused on the growth of his strength, on the maturity of his abilities, as a whole. His goals and hobbies remained, but they had been sidelined for the moment. There are times, in which those of his division have noted the disappearance of the despondent Lieutenant, not for a few hours, but days at a time. There were very few words from the Lieutenant on his departure, occasionally he would assert his usual demands of the division,
”Control yourselves, use your aggression and anger as fuel for developing your skills. Do not fight other Shinigami unless you are first attacked.” In previous times, there may have been those that dismissed his words, what would the small boy do? What could he do? He himself believed he could not do anything after all. This thought seemed to have faded however, not due to a change in mentality or personality, but simply, in the tone of his words, there was no doubt that had managed to surface anymore, not beyond a deeply unsettling anger, it’s target unknown to those outside his own head.
His disappearance and change in tones had raised a few questions with some, others claiming to know why and some simply not caring enough to delve into the truth. This had lost its impact on him a few days into his new routine, just what was actually happening?
• • •
Far below, out of sight, out of mind of
most. Underneath Sokyoku Hill, in a training ground unknown to a great majority of the Seireitei, there the Lieutenant spent days in a row, alone, without any form of sustenance. With every extended visit of his, the goal was the same, a deep desire to dominate the spirit which tormented him, to wrangle it’s strengths to function as his own without being used himself. Jubokko was through and through, the embodiment of bloodlust, living and thriving in the loss of life, a euphoric moment for the demented being. In case of Nibui, there were moments in which this bloodthirst could play in his favour, had he been facing a hollow of sorts, there was no mercy to be given to those creatures, something as equally savage as Jubokko held no right to life. The issue for Nibui was in the face of those who did not exude such barbaric mannerisms and natures, in the midst of the Eleventh division, one would think that they would all be fair game for the short Shinigami, yet even those as aggressive and ill-tempered as the Eleventh, they possessed at least some form of humanity that kept them from acts of savagery.
Having been shown this training ground centuries ago by his mentor, friend and recently returned Shinigami, Omoni Hageshi, this had been a place where he could exert a portion of his withheld power without causing any true destruction to the society above, it was useful in some cases, after all, there was always a need to refine and maintain one’s skills. Recently however, there was no such intentions, this was a war of attrition, one that he was unsure of his ability to prevail through. How characteristic. Here, this place is where Omoni Hageshi, the previous Lieutenant of the Eleventh, tutored and attempted to improve Nibui’s unhealthy psyche as well as his physical prowess as a whole. In the past, this location had been a place of comfort, despite the tiring activities, and now, it has been taken in a completely different direction, but with the same cause, self-improvement.
These spells of reclusion in the underground passed to him in what seemed to be minutes, his body not his own for the great majority and his mind solely focused on finding a gap, a chink in the armour, so to speak. To force this crack apart, to make an opening where he could at least facilitate his escape with ease. The process was undeniably stupid and equally as stubborn. With each visit, he would run through his own little checklist in the set order.
First, a session of Jinzen, possibly lasting upwards of an hour. This is the method implemented to allow the Shinigami to carry out a proper conversation with their Zanpakutou. Despite its similarities to forms of meditation, this process is increasingly aggravating for the little Nibui, though this is for the most part, hidden away, attempting to maintain composure. The polarizing souls of Jubokko and Nibui simply could never come to an agreement, regardless of how the Shinigami tried, regardless of how many times, had he not proven himself? It was likely in Nibui’s eyes at least.
Second, and possibly the most integral part of his regiment, preparation. With each and every time he intended to continue on, the stark white hair of the Shinigami seemed to want to stand on its own not of excitement, but of fear. Fear that he would finally be the one to lose, consumed like any other in the face of Jubokko. The preparation was not physical, but mental. Attempting to steel himself with false affirmation, fooling himself into believing that this would be what would clear his doubt of himself, no. This self-doubt, this lack of confidence, it would not fade with a single success, he needed far more, despite the monumental value such a win would bring to him.
Third, the act itself. Sarcraficial of himself, but there was little else that the Lieutenant could fathom that would possibly help, for years he had tried to satiate the bloodlust, with other means, diversion of interests, company, gifts, and much more, yet nothing had succeeded. At this point it seemed unlikely that he would reach his goals without sacrifice, something was required in turn. Or so he thought. A process that had been repeated countless times within the past three months, and was wrapping up at that very moment, beneath Sokyoku Hill. Amidst an artificial landscape of now shattered boulders, fissured earth and cracked walls, knelt a single figure. Unmoving and silent, the only sound to be heard within, was the distinctive splatter of droplets falling from the chin of this Shinigami. Seemingly lifeless eyes staring below into his own reflection. Every few seconds, another drip,
splash, each and every tiny droplet slowly culminating into a larger pool at their point of impact. Completely encircled by his own life's essence, his clothing soaked in that crimson ichor that steadily seeped from his body. A great majority of the male’s body seemed to have been encased in a dark brown bark, or rather, the bark had embedded itself into the flesh of the Shinigami, drawing the blood that profused from his body previously and at the moment had come to a reduced but steady stream. Along the male’s face, this bark was mere millimeters from reaching the eyes. Below the head, this bark had almost entirely been entrenched into the flesh of the Shinigami, the blood finding crevices and cracks to escape through, an uncanny resemblance to that of sap escaping from a tree. It was odd, to be on the other end. Countless times in his centuries of life, Nibui had lead Hollows to a similar fate, their bodies transformed into the wood that currently encased his own, although, perhaps their fate was rather merciful in comparison, there was no lingering pain once the petrification was complete. This was no petrification.
In previous attempts, he had always hated the fact that he had lost control over himself, allowing Jubokko to use his body as a vessel for its own desires, everytime without fail, escaping only from his own Zanpakutou spirit and Bankai when there was that slightest opening to break through and reclaim himself, reverting from his Bankai state completely. Multiple times a day in these sessions of his. From what was displayed in this case, he had been enslaved for far longer than ever, how long had it been? Three days now? Three days in a row without finding his freedom? Throughout those three days, Jubokko had not only taken a hold of the body, but it had begun to make advances, attempting to permanently keep Nibui as it’s own vessel. Each time digging deeper and deeper, what should have been an armour had become a forced layer of skin, piercing and rooting itself.
• • •
A war was only a war if there was ever a chance of either side coming out as the victor. This was no more than a one-sided slaughter. Deep within a prison of wood and flesh alike, the same figure that was kneeling in the training ground, could be found buried in, something. It was ashy, but solid, granulated but brittle, sharp but smooth. There was no light. There was no air. Darkness, and warm, wet. On occasion, a hand of his would manage to grasp one of these shards in his vicinity, the piece of matter shattering and flaking away with any attempt to use it for leverage. Bones and blood, that was what had encased him, contained him. Any attempt that seemed to promise some results, was washed away as a tendril of sorts, solid and rough, wrestled the lad back under. He couldn’t even begin to try to understand how long it had been, minutes? Or hours? Days? He had no clue, it felt like every other time. Just as the expanse around him was dense and endless, he too continued his attempts at escape endlessly. There was no other choice and death would be preferable to surrendering. Again, another sum of time, unknown to him.
Finally, it was there. That same crack, that same escape route that he had found many times before. However, that was when something clicked, something was wrong, different. With every time he strove to escape exactly as he would have any other time, the tendrils, roots, would return. Their frame coiling around limb and torso alike, submerging the Shinigami to depths lower than ever before. There was very little that could usually wrench such primal fear from Nibui as what he had begun exuding at that very moment of realization. Death itself, he had faced its possibility and yet that had not placed him in such a mindset. This was not a fear of death, but of failure. Failure to stop the depraved spirit from doing as it pleased once Nibui himself was nothing more but a memory. Perhaps Jubokko had grown tired of being tested. A final step too far, the tree spirits hunger the being as a whole, that was all it embodied. To tease one of such an essence, it was foolish, something that Nibui had not foreseen, yet when reality showed itself, the dread had set in.
Silent, but unbearably loud, he would scream, hands and feet tirelessly bashing against the roots that threatened to house him permanently within a sea of bone and blood. Success and failure each following each other, over and over. He would escape from the grasping roots once, only to be caught once more. Repeating and repeating until there was finally an end. Fingers clasping at the walls of the crevice that allowed the light to pierce the depths. Pushing past his own limits momentarily, skin tearing along his fingers as it rips into the edges of the rift, forcing it apart. His bones seeming to audibly creak under the pressure he had begun exerting to reclaim himself. Bliss, but dread, they had melded into a perfect unison, an emotion otherwise indescribable as he pushed past the boundary.
His eyes
opened, glaring back at himself as the creaking of wood filled his ears. Soft splashes surrounding him as the bark peeled away as though it was being physically torn from the body, dropping into the puddle of ichor below. With each piece falling away, gouged and torn flesh was revealed, the nature of what Jubokko had been working at, revealed to Nibui. Physically, there was not a hope of him managing to leave the underground. There was a dire need for help, which he could not call out for.
There was however, a way of signaling his location with some possible success. His eyes trailed lazily toward his hands, the right hand, that held Jubokko, now in it’s sealed state. His seals still adorned his fingers. To the left, there too they remained. Truly a shame. Mentally, a soft sigh escaped him, physically he simply couldn’t, there was relief, but distress, all of which he was unable to physically display at the moment. Without warning to any above, a surge of spiritual energy would wash over the Seireitei with a great and sudden force. The density and volume of the Reiryoku, brought along such force that the surrounding area, the training ground, was rendered helpless, what boulders were not already shattered, would not only shatter, but crumble to pieces, the same going for those that had already been subjected to violence. The walls and ground alike would quake and crack, running deep along. As this wave travelled outward, it’s effects became reduced but yet, once reaching the Seireitei above, the ground itself would quake, the structures of buildings threatening to collapse but never quite reaching the critical point, what was not bolted down, was likely to be knocked around and down, furniture and belongings alike. The weaker souls having their consciousness fade for but an instant, those who were sturdier, possibly finding themselves stumbling or toppling over as the floors shook.
Honestly, Nibui maintained a doubt that any would show up. Though there was very little he could do in his state, he was forced to rely solely on faith, hoping that someone would present themselves as his saviour.
