[Forge of Nameless Blades.]
Kokutō trudged beside Aarowan, his chains clinking softly, a mournful rhythm echoing his eternal sentence. His thoughts drifted to his first encounters with Ichigo Kurosaki—the betrayal that burned between them, the futile rebellion against the Kushanāda's relentless pursuit through Hell's crimson depths, their guttural roars and clashing chains a haunting refrain, and the crushing weight of his sister's fate that had driven him to this abyss. Those memories, sharp as shattered glass, stirred a dull ache in his chest, a resentment dulled by exhaustion. Under Aarowan's cryptic guidance, marked by the dual cloak of black and white adorned with chains and lotus, his fire had waned, leaving only a cold resolve and a gnawing sense of being a pawn in a larger game, a puppet bound by the education begun with Aarowan's tossed token.
[Name I Am Born With]
The wind surged, its wail sharpening, carrying flecks of ash that stung Kokutō's face like tiny blades. The spires in the distance seemed to shift, their jagged edges blurring as if reality wavered, a visual echo of the instability Aarowan's presence seemed to command. Aarowan strode forward, his lotus-and-binary cloak, woven with intricate zeros and ones from Beruk's shop, glinting faintly under the crimson light, its asymmetrical hood casting shadows across his mismatched eyes—one a void of black, the other a piercing white. The ground trembled faintly, the hum of Hell's pulse growing louder, resonating in Kokutō's bones, a reminder of the unseen forces governing this realm.
"So, Kokutō? Have you figured out what I have given you, donum meum?" Aarowan asked, his voice smooth and deliberate, slicing through the oppressive air, a continuation of his mentorship.
Kokutō's hand tightened around the trinket, its weight unfamiliar yet heavy with intent. "Yeah, somehow this trinket was hanging from your belt as a Zanpakutō," he said, his voice edged with suspicion. "But why give it to me? Doesn't it suppose to be only you who can release it?"
Aarowan's smile sharpened, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "I call it Zanpakutō, arma mea, no idea about you though. Regardless, make it yours and you pass your first trial…" His words trailed off, heavy with expectation, the wind howling in mocking harmony.
"How?" Kokutō pressed, his brow furrowing, the chains clinking as he shifted, the weight of the task pressing down like the sulfurous air.
"Think, cogita bene," Aarowan replied, his tone cryptic, his gaze piercing as if peering into Kokutō's soul. The ground trembled, the hum of Hell's pulse intensifying, as if urging Kokutō to unravel the mystery.
Aarowan's cloak fluttered, the binary patterns flickering like a coded prophecy. "On that topic, can you elaborate what you see, visum tuum?" he asked, gesturing to the desolate expanse.
Kokutō's eyes swept the landscape, the spires looming like sentinels of despair. "A hellish landscape," he said, his voice flat, a shield against the weight of the question.
Aarowan's laugh rang out, sharp and unrestrained. "That certainly explains your imagination and depth of knowledge, paucitas mentis," he said, his tone teasing yet cutting. "Are you mocking me?" Kokutō shot back, his voice a low growl, defiance sparking against his chains.
"What else do you want me to call what can be explained in simply two words?" Aarowan countered, his smile unwavering, the wind surging as if in agreement.
"Now listen to this," Aarowan continued, his voice shifting to a fervent cadence, "what you see is a vista of imagination, some thriving and some condemned. For those who thrive, it's home; for those who don't, it's a land of suffering, terra doloris. And if I am to define my personal favorite one, it's a land where there are tools that can be molded into fantastic weapons, arma mirabilia." His eyes gleamed, a predatory glint that mirrored the spires' jagged edges.
Kokutō's brow furrowed, the words sinking in. "I see this world, this land, and every single beauty and dread as a weapon of torture, instrumentum cruciatus," Aarowan added, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to echo in the void.
"You have problems," Kokutō muttered, his tone dry, cutting through the weight of Aarowan's vision, a spark of resistance against the mentorship's intensity.
Aarowan's grin widened, undeterred. "What is your favorite symphony, carmen tuum?" he asked, his tone light yet probing, the wind softening as if to listen.
"Wh—" Kokutō began, caught off guard, his chains clinking as he shifted.
"What a dull answer, responsum insipidum," Aarowan interrupted, feigning disappointment. "For me, it's the songs of the great, when they are praised and remembered beyond the ages of their own, per saecula." His voice rose, fervent, almost reverent, the ground trembling in response.
"That said," Aarowan added, his gaze locking onto Kokutō, "why don't you try imagining or rather dreaming or defining yourself, define te?" The words hung, a challenge wrapped in enigma, as the crimson sky pulsed, its black veins writhing, as if Hell itself awaited Kokutō's response.
[And the Name That I Discard]
[May God Never Bored Me as a Gift]