"Then the question is—why does she keep going back and forth between Hueco Mundo and the human world so frequently? And based on our observations, she seems to be avoiding traces of shinigami presence."
Mazuru's voice cut through the dim air of Las Noches as he posed the question, his tone flat, but his crimson eyes gleamed with a sharp glint of curiosity.
"Who knows? Maybe since Szayelaporro's dead, she's just lost her reason for existing." Gin replied, his ever-present smirk playing on his lips as he leaned lazily against the cold pillar behind him.
Roka, once merely one of Szayelaporro's experiments, had never been anything more than a tool in the pink-haired scientist's eyes. Even as an arrancar, she had been treated like discarded scrap—an unfinished prototype, no more worthy of attention than the dust that gathered on Hueco Mundo's barren dunes.
Yet now, she was acting unpredictably—erratically. And that, more than anything, had caught the attention of Mazuru.
Not because of concern.
But because of boredom.
Even after the Soul Society ceased their incursions into Hueco Mundo over the past year, the eternal twilight realm remained stagnant—still, barren, and devoid of vitality. Time crawled in silence. Even Gin, who was infamous for enduring the dull ache of manipulation and long games, had begun considering personal projects to pass the time.
For instance: Could one grow persimmon trees in Hueco Mundo?
Gin's hypothesis was simple. If Seireitei could support spiritual flora with a lower spiritual particle density than Hueco Mundo, theoretically, the latter could sustain even richer growth. But before any tree could take root, Hueco Mundo's harsh and corrosive environment would need transformation. Another long-term experiment, one that perhaps only Gin could find amusement in.
"Mm." Mazuru murmured, pulling his gaze away from the illusory screen Ulquiorra had projected, showing Roka and Picaro's recent activity.
Without further word, the trio—Mazuru, Gin, and Ulquiorra—dispersed from the throne hall of Las Noches.
Returning to his own domain, Mazuru stood in the middle of the room, the obsidian floor reflecting the shimmer of his flowing white robes. He unsheathed his Returning Blade—the weapon that had once belonged to Beelzebub.
The blade, now fused with his essence, bore a near-identical shape to his original Zanpakutō. Only its length had increased, as though acknowledging the greater power it now housed.
Mazuru held it horizontally before him and closed his eyes. The silence around him thickened.
When his eyes opened again, he was no longer in Hueco Mundo.
He stood within the ocean of blood—a world forged within his soul. Where once there had been rivers coursing crimson through endless plains, now there was an entire ocean, roiling and turbulent. It mirrored the terrain of his Bankai, though to call it that now would be misleading.
After all, his Zanpakutō had been irreversibly destroyed during a previous Bankai state. The blade in his hand now was no longer simply a shinigami's weapon—it was a new vessel, a new medium, forged from necessity and transcending boundaries.
His power had been forced to find another form, and it had chosen this—the Resurrección Blade, shaped from the remnants of his shattered soul and the power of Beelzebub.
Why could he do this?
Because Mazuru's soul was never native to this world.
His power did not originate from the balance maintained by the Soul King, nor was it bound by the limitations of the shinigami, arrancar, or quincy. As he once told Genryūsai Yamamoto, the Zanpakutō was merely a vessel—a tool that adapted his essence to the rules of this world.
If he were born a Shinigami, it would become a Zanpakutō.
If born an Arrancar, a Resurrección blade.
If born a Quincy, it could become a spirit weapon or a Fullbring.
His abilities manifested in a form that aligned with his current identity—but the origin was always the same: Mazuru's true soul, tainted by two fragments of primal law he had unknowingly carried with him through the cosmic chaos that birthed him.
The Law of Soul and the Law of Slaughter.
They had drifted into his essence from beyond the barriers of this universe, and with them came the ability to consume spiritual energy indiscriminately—arrancar, shinigami, or quincy alike.
At first, Mazuru had believed this ability was simply a facet of his Zanpakutō. But now, after merging with Beelzebub's essence and speaking with Chi no Kawa, he understood the truth.
But understanding his origin was not why he was here.
He looked toward the blood ocean's center, where Chi no Kawa stood serenely atop the waves. She gave him a knowing smile and raised her hand.
A figure emerged from the churning tide, as though dredged up from the deepest depths of memory and death itself.
Szayelaporro Granz.
His form was incomplete, a soul half-consumed and eternally shackled. But Mazuru had imprisoned his essence upon the scientist's death and now summoned it forth.
Szayelaporro's glowing red eyes fluttered open.
"Tell me about Roka Paramia." Mazuru demanded, voice like a whisper across still water.
The answer that came stunned him.
Apparently, Roka's recent return to the world of the living hadn't gone unnoticed—not by the shinigami stationed there, and certainly not by those chasing her.
It wasn't the shinigami that had followed her.
It was Picaro, and with him, a swarm of similarly grotesque, monstrous arrancar. Each one carried the ability to open Garganta at will, and each moved with animalistic fury.
Their arrival had triggered a red alert in the Twelfth Division, sending alarms shrieking across the Seireitei.
Roka had hoped to shake them by leading Picaro into the human world.
She had failed.
With Karakura Town's spiritual density depleted—its underground veins long since stolen by Mazuru—the location no longer offered sanctuary. Worse, her very presence had become a beacon, her spiritual energy acting as a lure.
Cornered, Roka had opened another Garganta—but this time, she hadn't returned to Hueco Mundo.
A voice—quiet, mocking, and hauntingly familiar—had whispered to her, redirecting her path.
Now, she traveled a dark corridor between worlds, through a narrow, unstable region avoided by both shinigami and arrancar. Here, spiritual storms surged, distorting time and space.
And still, that voice echoed beside her.
"Picaro, you're really attracting some nasty company." it said with a chuckle.
Roka tensed, looking around the storm-darkened corridor. "Who…?"
"But that's good." the voice said. "They're perfect bait."
"Bait?" she repeated.
"Exactly. Hueco Mundo isn't safe anymore thanks to that guy. Soul Society's off-limits for obvious reasons. So if I'm going to be resurrected, it has to be in the human world."
Roka's eyes widened.
"The problem is, that place is being watched—by Soul Society, and by him. So we stir up some chaos. Give them bigger problems to deal with. Let the shinigami turn their attention away."
The plan was simple—and devious.
An assault on Seireitei. A feint.
Szayelaporro's voice grew cold. "You'll create a disturbance. Half a day. That's all. Then retreat. Once back in the human world, stay hidden. Don't fight. Don't reveal yourself. Just wait."
This was not the old Szayelaporro speaking from beyond the grave.
This was the new Szayelaporro—a personality fragment, reborn from Roka's obsession. Wandering in the shadows Szayelaporro once haunted, tangled in data webs she wove from remnants of his legacy, the empty space in her soul had become fertile ground.
And there, Szayelaporro had bloomed once again.
His resurrection was only a matter of time.
And he knew better than anyone—if he wanted revenge on Mazuru, he would have to be patient.
Because Mazuru… was watching.
*****
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